No more Guards scanning our wrists, no more tracking, no more population control. No more Rule of One.

A blind world, Rayla promised Roth. We can rebuild it in the dark.

Ava makes for the right-hand instrument tray, and I head for the left, where Ciro waits for me. He wears a plain short-sleeved undershirt, and I see his tattoo for the first time. It’s small, but it’s there, a skeleton key with the top shaped like a yellow diamond.

“Putting your Strake education to good use,” Ciro says with a wink, draping his lower arm over the stand.

“I’m surprised you would have implanted yourself with a microchip,” I say, stretching the gloves over my fingers. “Being born in Canada and all . . .”

“One must be prepared for any situation,” he states with his customary charm, if a touch more restrained than usual.

I select the nearest scalpel and medical tweezers and set my concentration. Ciro turns his head away, as if he’s scared of sharp objects or blood. He better get used to them.

I make quick work of it—six seconds and it’s done. A thin incision that will leave only a trace of a scar. I seal the wound with cutting-edge surgical glue I’ve only read about in e-textbooks and toss the microchip into an empty bowl.

With a formal nod Ciro takes his leave, and Skye walks forward, holding out her bare wrist. Faded, indistinct lines and dots are all that remains of her tattoo. The Guard must have removed the mark in prison.

What made Skye go after the Directors? Did the Division take someone close from her? I’d never ask such personal questions for fear she’d ask me some in return. It’s an old fear, rules from my old life. It will take years to share and let people in.

I feel her studying me as I make the cut. She doesn’t flinch or say a thing. Neither do I.

Kano comes next, then an Elder, until I’m the only one left in my group. I lift the final scalpel over my right inner wrist and make the incision along the inked curve of a black-eyed Susan petal shaped like a falling tear from a watchful green eye. With the angled tip of the tweezers, I remove the chip smaller than my fingernail out of my body and add it to the pile. It’s amazing how such a small thing can hold so much power.

I look up and find Ava observing me. How different this feels from the night I watched helplessly as Ava cut out her own microchip inside the kitchen of our childhood home.

That night the act was done in defeat. This time, it’s for control.

The elevator opens to a narrow antechamber. I see no door, only four sheet-metal walls, lustrous and sturdy like plate armor.

“Tower Two, Level Zero. I didn’t even know this room existed,” Pawel whispers to Ava, his enthusiasm uncomplicated and pure like a child’s. After all he’s been through and lost, he’s still able to feel joy. I admire him, but that will never be me.

From his chest pocket, Ciro produces a single key and approaches the far wall. Pausing a few breaths to heighten the anticipation, Ciro twists the lock, sending the entire steel sheet shooting upward.

“Welcome to the Offering Room,” he says, watching our faces with a nervous hesitancy. I can see how badly he wants to dazzle. “Please, take whatever you can carry.”

Emery flicks on the lights and steps into the climate-controlled stockroom. But calling it a room is inaccurate. It’s a warehouse. Twenty-plus rows of bulk storage racks brimming with wooden packing cases and metal containers, each aisle an endless procession of supplies safeguarded for a moment like this.

Kano releases a drawn-out whistle. “A beauteous sight.”

“Everything you will need for your mission is here,” Emery says, pointing to the various aisles. “Disguises, foodstuffs, and general field provisions to the left. Weaponry and defense to the right.”

The company parts and disperses, intent on their mission. Ava and I stay behind, reviewing the various rows, determining where to explore first. Heads together, Emery and the other Elders move for a shelf labeled “Navigation,” Emery scribbling down notes on a pad of paper. Skye and Kano march for the last row on the right. I can’t read the sign from here, but I’d bet it’s labeled “Firearms.”

I still have my gun. Ava still has hers. Concealed beneath her jacket, she carries Halton’s handgun in a holster tucked inside her waistband. I keep mine, the pistol that once belonged to Halton’s agent, buried at the bottom of my rucksack. I haven’t touched it since the day we found the Common.

“I’ll get us more ammunition,” Ava says, reading my mind. I nod, my gaze following Pawel roaming the camouflage section.

“I’ll find us some disguises,” I say, turning back to her shock of bright-red hair. Like always, we will need to shield our faces and conceal our identities. The public doesn’t know the Goodwin twins have broken out and are once again at large. As of now, both presidents have kept our newfound freedom a secret, a secret we intend to use to our advantage. Fewer eyes will be on the lookout for us. The easier to move around.

“Meet by the food supplies in five,” Ava says. I nod again and watch her as she marches away, her carriage straight and sure.

With a glance at my watch, I set off to find Pawel. Five rows over, three columns deep, I stumble upon Ciro and Barend instead. They’re quarreling, sequestered behind a stack of crates. There’s a secretiveness in their manner that makes me stop and listen.

“What?” Ciro whispers hotly. “You didn’t like my impromptu decision in there?”

“You know I didn’t. It puts a machine gun to our plans.”

“You can’t always be the one who gets to leave,” Ciro snaps, spinning on his heel to walk away. Barend catches him by the arm and pulls him close. “It’s not too late,” he urges.

Emery calls out Ciro’s name somewhere across the warehouse, and the two immediately jerk back from each other. Lowering my head, I move before they spot me, and continue my way toward the camouflage aisle.

What’s “not too late”? And what “plans” is Ciro ruining by leaving headquarters?

I wish I knew their full history. Emery told us Barend was once Ciro’s personal bodyguard. Is he merely scared for Ciro’s safety, or are they plotting something? I’m glad they’re going on separate missions. Ava and I can keep a watchful eye on them.

I finally locate Pawel picking through a box of Goodwin masks. He shoves four into his already-stuffed backpack, a bashful smile tugging his bow-shaped lips. “It must be weird having others hide behind your face.”

“They said we’d be the face of the rebellion,” I mumble with a shrug, distracted by the urgency of what I’ve come to say.

Free from the crippling censorship of the US’s Internet Defense Act, it was easy enough to find the forgotten son. Pawel and the Intelligence Room located Alexander in less than half an hour.

Turns out Governor Roth’s skipped heir is here in Canada.

I was prepared to cross the border with Ava, then continue on with my team to search for Alexander somewhere within the States. My mission now will diverge from Ava’s much sooner than we expected.

But we were right. He’s hiding. Why else would he flee to a foreign land?

Dwell on this later. We embark on our missions in a matter of hours. Time is precious.

Between his thick rows of lashes, Pawel’s eyes pop like a bright sapphire sky. There’s a clarity there, like he knows what I’ve come seeking.