“Okay, I see you, Code Cog.”

I can’t see his face underneath the bandana of flames, but his voice tells me he’s impressed.

Did we just have our first bonding moment?

Who knew that all it took to gain friends was to get yourself caught up in a rebellion?

Halfway to the line of cars—I spot several inferior models from rival automotive factories—Rayla stops. Is she in pain? Does she have to catch her breath? No way the veteran leader of the rebellion would want to show any sign of weakness in front of her troops. I should be out there with her, but she told me to stay put.

Sorry, not going to happen.

The instant I step down the rickety wooden staircase to run to her aid, I abort, realizing my services are not required after all. A muscular middle-aged man emerges from the winged door of a white luxury sports car, a gun holstered at his waist. He’s the most Herculean person I’ve ever laid eyes on—it’s like Rayla ordered him straight out of my favorite childhood virtual game, Warrior King. A hologram lieutenant, just for show.

“Xavier,” Rayla says, her arms open wide in greeting.

The man smiles and strides over to her, his hulking arms outstretched, and they embrace. To be more specific, he picks her up into a bear hug, thankfully avoiding her wounded arm, and doesn’t let go for an entire fifteen seconds.

Nope, he’s very much real.

He places Rayla back on her feet. “You had us all worried, my old friend, going dark after the Kismet raid,” Xavier says. “Are you well and whole? I was relieved when your message came through.”

“How’s your son?” Rayla asks, skirting his concerns.

“Troublesome as ever,” Xavier says with a grin.

“Your raid was successful, then?” Rayla inquires, back to business. “We got what we needed?”

A teenager who looks like a mini version of Xavier exits the passenger seat of the sports car, carrying two huge black duffel bags on his shoulders. He stands beside his father. “Hello again, Rayla.”

Rayla nods in greeting. “It’s good to have you here with us, Malik.” She moves to unzip one of the bags. Even from the porch steps, I can see what’s inside.

Guns. Lots of them.

The winged doors of the remaining twenty-nine other cars now swing open, each passenger with their own black duffel bag in tow.

“We’ve all been busy, I see,” Rayla says, pleased. “Very good.” She beckons to the freshly arrived Common members—there must be at least fifty in total—and turns to face the ranch house.

“Come inside. There’s much to discuss.”

Blaise and I are in luck.

Malik, Xavier’s son, is a prodigy in the underground art of tattooing. How he came to discover such an illicit ability, let alone foster those skills, I don’t ask. I’m too busy trying to overhear the conversation in the living room.

“Have you thought of what you want inked yet?” Malik questions me again, pausing from his work on Blaise’s inner right wrist. One guess what Blaise chose. Yep, flames. I have to hand it to him—the guy really knows how to stay on brand.

Malik recognized me right off from all the news outlets transmitting my wanted photo. He called me Rayla’s sidekick. He also immediately called me out on my virgin-skinned wrist.

You’re one of the most famous Common members now; you have to be marked, Malik insisted. So he has set up shop on a fold-out table in the corner, while Rayla and his father and the other leaders discuss the plan for flipping Colorado’s senator to the Common’s side. Seeing their heads together, whispering in hushed voices without me, I feel like I’m stuck at the kids’ table.

I used to be in the passenger’s seat, right next to Rayla.

“Come on,” Blaise presses. “Or are you scared it will hurt?” He turns his flaming smile in my direction. Even in a safe house, surrounded by friends, his bandana remains on.

I’m supposed to choose something meaningful for my tattoo, an image or a word that’s a symbol of my own resistance. But I don’t have anything like that. I haven’t earned the mark of the Common yet.

I’ve spent most of my life coasting, not caring about anything—fighting for no one and nothing. What is an emblem for someone who just goes where the wind blows him?

A low, constant rumbling sound suddenly reaches me, saving me from having to answer. It gets louder and louder. This can’t be good.

I rise from my folding chair and look to Rayla across the room.

“Rayla, do you hear that?” I shout.

Everybody stops, listens, then scrambles outside to the porch, necks craned up to the bright night sky. “Oh shit,” Blaise breathes beside me.

Oh shit is right. The dark outlines of massive airplanes—military cargo aircraft—cover the sky as far as the eye can see, all flying toward Denver.

Night vision binoculars. I hotfoot it to the house. Vaulting over the couch, I dive for the trunk I was snooping around in earlier and snatch a pair of beat-up field glasses. Stumbling back out into the yard, I slam the eyepiece to my face and focus.

My jaw drops when every plane’s cargo bed unleashes paratroopers, military jeeps, tanks, and boxes of equipment—no doubt stuffed with weapons—into the air.

It’s a full-on invasion.

No one says a word. It feels unreal, like we’re in a virtual game.

Who in the world could this be? Russia, Canada?

The planes thunder past our safe house, and I spot my worst fear on the right side of each tail wing. Even without binoculars I can see the unmistakable flag: blocks of red, white, and blue with a five-pointed Lone Star.

This is an inside job.

“It’s the Texas State Guard!” I shout over the whirlwind.

“Impossible,” Xavier says, still refusing to believe what he sees. “How does Governor Roth have enough biofuel to power such a fleet?”

If Roth’s goal was to display Texas’s military might against the Common, he’s succeeded.

We don’t have a chance in hell.

“Is Governor Roth trying to occupy Colorado?” Blaise asks me, confused.

“He’s already done it!” Rayla yells.

I can’t stop zooming in on the paratroopers. A cluster of them are level with the high-rises now. Another few seconds and their feet will touch the ground.

They’ll take Denver in no time. What does this mean? How can a governor get away with this?

I bet the Texas Guard has already sealed the borders.

“We’re trapped, aren’t we?” I ask, ripping my focus off the sky, looking once again to Rayla.

Everyone is.

In answer, she shoves a gun into my hands. It’s the Kismet Security Guard’s, the same one she took from me the night we made each other’s violent acquaintance.

“We’re going to have to fight our way out.”

AVA

I look like a lady, but I’m not.

I’ve played this game before. Dress up for fancy parties—this time I have on a white silk one-piece suit with a matching headscarf—and act the part of the child of someone important. Smile, and be agreeable. I don’t know that girl anymore.

The makeup on my face is irritating. I know it’s necessary for my disguise to blend in, but I keep scratching at it. I reach up once more—did I really have to wear false eyelashes?—but Pawel grabs my hand, tucking my arm into his elbow.