Then the sound of gunshots echoes across the maze of skyscrapers. That can’t be good.

Rayla turns a hard left, and next thing I know, we’re cutting through a heavy, shadowy fog that stings my eyes and throat.

Smoke grenades.

“We’re close, right?!” I can’t help asking when I hear more bullets fire off. “Wait, should I be holding my gun?”

That’s way past a fledgling rebel’s skillset.

Instead I hold on for my dear life and look out for the addresses above the doors.

Is the building actually called the Last Stage, or is it more of a metaphorical kind of thing?

“The doors!” I yell. They’re all yellow. Street after street pops with the Common’s mark, the paint thick and clumpy like the government keeps trying to cover it up but the color just won’t go away.

Rayla crushes the throttle, and we streak across an alleyway, straight into an empty parking garage.

Lo and behold, on the back wall above the double doors, there it is, the sign for the Last Stage.

Rayla skids us to a halt under the illuminated words, then cuts the motor. I kick out the side stand, and we rip off our helmets, bolting for the safe house entrance.

We don’t even have to knock. The yellow steel doors open wide for Rayla Cadwell, who promptly sticks out her tatted wrist in salute. “Resist much.”

Hell yeah we just did!

The gawking sentry answers “obey little,” moves aside, and we’re in.

“We’re in!” I shout, wiping the sweat from my temples. I try for a high five, but Rayla stands completely still, hands shaking at her sides.

She looks like she’s seen a ghost.

ZEE

The Last Stage

6:11 p.m.

I will remember that time for the rest of my life.

Rayla. My mother. I don’t know what to call her. She’s ten feet from me. The woman who gave me life. Gave me away.

The Rule of One made her do that. The doctors too. The Guards. The governor. But did she want me? Was her choice easy? After forty-plus years, does she remember?

She walks to me, slow. Her eyes are full of tears. I’ve never looked somebody in the eyes before. I look straight into hers.

“My child?” she asks. “Haven?”

Haven? She named me.

The safe house goes quiet. All attention on us.

“Give them some privacy, people,” the young man she came in with says.

My heart feels swollen. Two times too big for my broken body.

She stops in front of me. Reaches out her hand. Moves her fingers in the air over my cheeks, mouth. Doesn’t touch. “Is it really you?” She falls down to her knees.

I get to my knees too. Words fail me. I don’t know how to say what I feel. I let my smile speak for me. Tears fall from my eyes.

“Forgive me,” she says. Asks. She looks like she’s in pain. Inside and out.

“You must understand,” she says. “Family Planning took you right after I gave birth to you. But I never truly let you go. Ever.” She holds my hand and puts it over her chest. Her heart. It beats fast, like footsteps running to me. “You lived within me. You lived within your sister.”

Lynn.

There’s so much to say. So many questions.

I just ask one.

“Can I call you Mother?”

She nods. Gives a small laugh.

“May I call you Haven?” Mother asks. I also nod. Place her hand over my own heart. I feel safe. Complete. Loved.

We help each other to our feet. The young man now stands next to Mother. “Owen. It’s an honor to meet you,” he says. Holds out his hand.

Second time I’ve heard those words. The first was from Cleo. She’s in Guardian Tower. With the Common. And the other prisoners.

“Hello, Owen,” I say. I touch his fingers with mine. Is that the correct way to greet?

“I have something to show you . . . Mother,” I say. I take her hand. It’s rough. Callused. Did she have a hard life too?

We walk to a dark corner in an empty hall. The First Lady steps into the light. Arms wrapped around her thin body. Dressed in civilian clothes. A long cloth covers her head. Hiding who she is.

“Show your face,” I say. The First Lady does.

“Holy hell,” Owen says.

The First Lady’s eyes go wide. “Rayla Cadwell! Lynn, what is this?”

“Not Lynn,” I say. “My name is Haven. I was an Inmate in the Camps.”

The First Lady seems to understand. She starts to shake again. Backs away.

“Camps?” Mother shouts. The First Lady tries to run, but Mother catches her. Makes her face me. “You cannot hide from your crimes,” Mother says to her. “Your husband taught us that.”

“You’re the prisoner now,” I say to the First Lady. The Warden of Texas. “How does it feel?”

I feel power for the first time in my long, hard life.

I look at Mother. Smile. She smiles back. Proud.

She makes me strong. A hundred percent ready to take on the Guards. Governors.

All our family’s enemies.

MIRA

Half of me always knew if I ever returned to Dallas, it would be in handcuffs.

At least my other half is still out there. Ava. She can still be the fuel, the oxygen that keeps the rebellion’s flame burning.

At least I have that. Whatever happens to me, I can carry that hope with me wherever I go.

I teeter, then fall into carefree oblivion.

The sharp jab of a baton between my shoulder blades rouses me. My eyes snap open.

“No sleeping, Glut!” a Guard shouts down at me. “Don’t you want to be awake for your final hours?” With a grisly smile, she stomps back to her post beside our rail compartment’s door.

I rub out the sting of sleeplessness from my eyes with my shoulder. How much time do I have left? My hands are cuffed to the metal pole behind my seat. I twist my arms, but I can’t read my watch.

It’s dark out now. The high-speed train streaks past the lighted buildings, their shining bulbs of electricity multiplying with every passing second. We’re in the Dallas city limits.

Only five more minutes, ten at the most, before we reach Guardian Station. I dip my head and try to spot Guardian Tower, the soaring, luminous ball, the brightest star in the sky. The glass tower of the Texas Guard. I can’t see it through the dense fog of pollution. Or is that smoke?

I wonder if Roth will be on the station’s platform to greet me. Will he bother secretly hauling me to the Tower, or will he just shoot me where I sit, point-blank between the eyes like he did to my father. Shoving the grainy prison footage from my mind, I strain my neck to the left.

Through the compartment’s inner doors, I check up on Ciro and Kano. What will the governor do with them? They’re both on the floor, tied to the center handrail, two Guards looming over them. A gag ripped from his own shirt covers Ciro’s mouth. Blood cakes his soiled locks and drips down his forehead into his eyes. There’s nothing he can do to stop it.

Barend urged Ciro not to come.

Maybe Barend’s the traitor. The thought won’t leave my mind. Maybe he’s the turncoat, the mole, the one who told Roth of our mission to unite the States. He could have been warning Ciro we were doomed players in a rigged game.