Not one, but two bald eagles swoop down to land at the base of Lincoln’s memorial, like they’re standing guard for the president and Madam Secretary, who pace mid argument between the columns at the top of the steps. Let me tell you, those birds are huge in person. It’s unnerving walking past the glorified raptors, but Rayla hustles up the staircase, unfazed.

Nothing seems to faze her—extinct animals, the million steps we have to climb to get to our target, the five-minute time clock we’re up against before our hideout location will be traced . . .

To be honest, though, it’s embarrassing a recently shot person three times my age can absolutely crush me at climbing up this staircase. Back in the basement, it’s all high knees and dripping sweat just to keep up with her. I bet Rayla isn’t even breathing hard beside me. Well, you’re used to sitting in front of a computer all day, and she’s basically a war vet. Get over it.

“Mr. President, you will pardon Ava and Mira Goodwin and immediately facilitate their release back into the Common’s custody.” Rayla comes in hot. “You will put an end to Roth’s fanatical governorship before his influence spreads even further and a war between the people of the United States and their government is unavoidable.”

“No, you can’t be here!” The president holds up his hand, barring Rayla from taking the final step onto the pink marble floor. “Martha, lock the room down!” he shouts angrily into the sky. “Martha!”

But Martha back in New Washington can’t help him—any attempt to boot us out will be automatically overwritten. I made sure of that. To show Rayla I can follow orders, I hang back the aforementioned five steps and wave to the prez, silently mouthing, Still here.

The president looks at Madam Secretary, totally horrified. “Governor Roth will be furious if he finds out we spoke with a leader of the rebellion!” He also looks exhausted, a defeated man with no fight left in him—his digital self can’t even fake it.

I knew our prez was an ornamental weakling, but even I thought he’d have more courage than this.

“Ms. Cadwell, it appears you’re behind the times,” Madam Secretary says in an icy tone, ignoring the president and approaching Rayla directly. “Your granddaughters escaped Canadian custody a few hours ago. They were broken out by a rebellion member masquerading as a Mountie, and while we do not know their current location, we presume they are already back with your Common.”

The woman wears a pair of cowboy boots so audacious they’re cool, but other than that the read on her is “approach at your own risk.” Do we trust her? Surely not. Then something passes between the women—something even smaller than a look—and I realize I don’t know nearly as much as I thought I did.

Rayla blows past the secretary to stand dwarfed at the feet of President Lincoln. She draws back her head to stare at the giant statue before her words echo throughout the chamber.

“You don’t deserve to be in Lincoln’s presence, Mr. President,” Rayla says, her voice low and solemn. “Your legacy will have no memorials, not even the smallest plaque, because you’ve done nothing to deserve one. You waste your time in this fantasyland while any chance at democracy our country still has is being destroyed by Roth.”

The president’s calmer now—all emotion seems to be sucked out of him, like he’s resigned to his uselessness. He doesn’t face Rayla and her accusations; instead he stares across America’s front yard.

“It’s true I will never be a great man like Lincoln.” The guy makes the understatement of the century. “But Roth will be. He’s uniting the states. It’s miraculous. Northern wall to Southern wall, from sea to flooded sea.”

Rayla turns to face the president, the look in her eyes more ferocious than ever. And that’s saying something.

“Don’t let your girls cross the wall,” the president warns. “The northern governors will be waiting.”

I expect a zinger from Rayla that doesn’t come. Not good. That means the situation is as terrifying as it seems. But before I can think of a comeback on her behalf, the VR world cuts to black.

Back in the basement, Rayla collapses into my arms. I rip off my headset and drape her arm around my shoulder to support her weight. “A little help here, Blaise?”

Rayla’s all clammy, and she struggles to cover the wound on her upper arm. Blood seeps through her jumpsuit. Double not good.

Blaise hurries over, and we place Rayla into a chair. “Should we call the doctor again?” I ask. “What if it’s infected?”

Rayla overrules my concerned questioning with a guttural grunt. “Connect me with the Common’s headquarters,” she orders.

“Already on it,” Blaise answers. He jumps to a computer screen with a secure and anonymous ghost call all set and ready. He turns the camera mounted on the screen toward Rayla. Wow. Old-school communication. “I just need the headquarters entrance code.”

“Nine, six, eight, five,” Rayla says, shooing me out of the way. “Blaise, give me your jacket.”

Blaise unzips his junk-food-stained hoodie, and I’m positive Rayla got more than she bargained for, because he’s wearing nothing underneath it. I don’t think his chest has ever seen the sun—it’s like a nightlight in the dark room.

“Behave, or you go back upstairs,” Rayla snaps at me. She knows me too well. It’s difficult, but I swallow the seven wisecracks that easily spring to mind.

Rayla pulls the hoodie on, wipes down the sweat on her face with its sleeve, and sits up straight, transformed into a woman who looks like she just finished a jog, not someone who should be in a hospital bed.

The video call rings and rings. Is she contacting Ava and Mira? My nerves wimp out, and I feel nervous. Why am I still in my stupid Kismet uniform!

Nobody answers.

“Keep trying,” Rayla says. “Please.”

Blaise lets it ring and ring. No answer.

This could go on all night. From the way Rayla’s parked on the seat staring at the screen like my parents stare at my online bank account every other Friday, we’re not going anywhere anytime soon.

“Rayla made some tea if you want it,” Blaise says the exact second my lids crack open.

“Uh . . . were you watching me sleep?” I ask, full-on creeped out. “Your demon-fire face is not the best image to see first thing in the morning.”

Blaise shrugs. “What? I happened to look at you right when you woke up.” He nods to Rayla hunkered down on her office chair. “She’s been at this for three hours.”

The video call keeps chiming away, waiting for someone to answer.

“Still nothing about the twins’ escape on the Dark Web?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Blaise confirms.

Good, I slept through the boring bits, then. I yawn, rocketing from the couch to claim my tea. Sniffing myself, I confirm that yes, I smell like whatever funk I zonked out on. I’m going to have to break down and ask if Blaise has any spare shirts.

“This is some potent tea!” I choke out after taking a gulp of the searing-hot liquid. That’ll wake you up in the morning.

Rayla doesn’t move. Her lids aren’t closed, but it’s possible she sleeps with both eyes open like Gandalf.