“Dad?” someone shouts from the path behind us. I whirl around and nearly stumble backward.

Halton.

Impossible.

I steady my legs and shake my head, clearing my vision. No, not Halton. The mouth is the same, but everything else is the exact opposite: his golden-brown hair to Halton’s blue black; his soft countenance to Halton’s sharp, arrogant features; his round, inquisitive eyes to Halton’s dark, beady stare.

The sky opens, letting loose sheets of rain. It feels like I’m under water. I can’t hear. I can’t see. Alexander scarcely breathes. The fine hairs on my arms stand on end, and a deep shiver runs through me. Everything feels wrong.

No one moves.

“Dad, who are these people?” the boy shouts. The umbrella slips from his hand and drops to the puddled ground, exposing his school letterman jacket to the downpour.

He looks to be my age, eighteen. A year younger than Halton . . .

Then it all clicks. I don’t know whether to laugh or scream.

I turn to Alexander, my words so heated they could boil the rain. “He’s a Multiple. He’s Halton’s brother.”

That’s why Alexander fled the US.

Alexander had an illegal second child. Alexander is a traitor. Like me, like my father. The only difference is he got away with it.

Bitterness and outrage hit me like a physical blow. I’m left in a daze, my anger radiating with such intensity I can almost hear it. A dull roar. I lift my knife and aim it at Alexander’s throat.

“Theo, run!” Alexander yells to his son, but his pleas are drowned in the violent torrent.

Kano lunges and grabs Halton’s brother, twisting his arms behind his back in a matter of seconds. Ciro snatches the fallen umbrella, throwing the canopy over his head to block the rain.

“Shall we all head inside?” Ciro asks, absurdly cordial.

With one last desperate search of the empty walkway, Alexander closes his eyes. “Have you come to finish us off, then?”

“No,” I say, locking eyes with Theo. “We’ve just begun.”

AVA

The Nighthawk Border Crossing is the least-used passage in Washington State.

That’s why Emery chose it.

The area west of Nighthawk boasts the most remote patch of land along the entire northern International Boundary Wall. And with only five inhabitants living in the area, the crossing is both isolated and unpopulated. Exactly what we need.

The entrance point is also midway between the state’s two largest metropolises, Seattle and Spokane. The senator will be in one of those cities, the honoree at some charity benefit or ribbon-cutting ceremony; we won’t know which until we cross over.

If we cross over. Concealed behind a patch of trees with Emery, Barend, and Pawel about half a mile out from the twenty-five-foot galvanized steel border wall, I count five circling thermal-imaging drones.

They weren’t part of the plan.

“Where’s your man, Emery?” Barend asks, losing patience.

Binoculars pressed against her face, Emery searches the empty, pitted one-lane road. We’ve all been staring at the door of the Border Inspection Station—little more than a run-down trailer—for over an hour. But it looks like no one’s home.

A narrow gate, big enough for a single car, stands wide open, taunting us to run freely through it.

My return into the United States won’t come as easy as that. Something’s wrong.

One of Emery’s operatives from the Canadian Border Services Agency was supposed to meet us outside the station to safely smuggle us over the border. Was he caught? Or did he back out?

Emery pulls the binoculars away from her face and shoulders her bag. “We need to abort and move on to the backup plan. It’s too dangerous to linger here.”

Barend shakes his head, standing his ground. “No, what’s too dangerous is the backup plan. I can shoot the drones down.”

“This location has already been compromised. Taking down its drones would just cause further attention,” Emery says firmly. “We move on to the backup plan.”

“Certain situations require firepower to achieve the tactical objective,” Barend continues to push. “This is one of them.”

I wonder if Barend will battle every decision Emery makes—it’s clear his allegiance lies with Ciro as the rebellion’s leader, not with her. There’s more to his motives in joining my mission than being my protection. What exactly those motives may be aren’t clear to me yet.

“I agree with Emery. We should move on to the backup plan,” Pawel says way too close beside me. He’s been watching over me like a hawk since our drop-off point, and I know exactly what he’s doing—I did it to Mira the whole way to Canada. But I don’t need him standing guard over me. I can take care of myself.

“Any choice we make will have an element of uncertainty,” Barend contends. He draws the exaggerated hood of his uniform tight over his head. “We have our antidrone camouflage—the Border Guard won’t know anyone is even crossing.”

The Offering Room had an entire fashion line of countersurveillance wear at our disposal. Ciro spared no expense—and sacrificed no sense of style. Any one of the field uniforms looked like it could be featured in some alt underground runway show. Our team chose Blackout Wear, garments that are constructed out of a silver-plated fabric that reflects thermal radiation, enabling the wearer to thwart overhead surveillance. Essentially, we’re drone-proof.

Still, that open gate screams trap to me.

I look down at the map in my hands, my trusted anchor. It feels so good to have one in my possession again; that’s all I had when I found the way through the wall the first time.

My finger traces the path to the second starred location on the crisp paper. Plan B is a three-mile hike west through wild territory and involves crossing a minefield in order to get to the border wall.

Dangerous, yes, but all plans have been thoroughly vetted and prepared—this wouldn’t be our backup plan if Emery didn’t think it was possible.

I fold the map and place the neat square in the inside pocket of my uniform, where it’s safe and always close by.

“Plan B is the best shot we have to make it through the wall,” I say to the group. “Turning back isn’t an option. You all can stand here and squabble if you want, but I’m moving forward.”

With that, I set off west, and if the others follow, they follow. If not, I’m still crossing over.

An hour into our trek—the team had no choice but to follow, really—we run into the Similkameen River.

“The river’s only ten yards wide,” Barend says after lowering his binoculars, seeming satisfied that he adequately scanned our surroundings for any sign of trouble. All clear. “Looks shallow enough to wade through too—maybe only waist high.”

“We’ll take a short ten-minute rest and then continue on,” Emery says. It’s odd seeing her jacketless, covered instead in a loose, full-length bodysuit, silver from top to bottom. There’s not a hint of yellow on her. On any of us. I wonder if she has her signature coat stashed inside her bag, ready to slip back on when the Common unveils itself in Dallas.

“Can I borrow a pen?” I ask Emery. She’s always scribbling inside a small red notebook, her hand moving so quick it’s like her mind is bursting with thoughts. A part of me wants to know what she’s writing—it’s such a rare thing to see someone use pen and paper—but I respect her privacy too much to ask.