“You definitely didn’t make it easy on us. It was bad enough she could hardly walk a straight line,” Thom explained from the driver’s seat, lifting his chin to indicate the way back, behind where Simon and I were. I twisted in my seat and Willow was there, sprawled in the third row, arms and legs spread wide as she snored away, sleeping off whatever Agent Truman and his Daylighters had used to sedate her. I envied that—her ability to sleep—even if it was drug-induced. “Good thing you’re not heavy,” Thom added.

Jett, who was in the passenger seat now, stopped working on his computer. “All I saw was a rush of guys getting the hell outta the building, like it was about to explode or something. And then a few seconds later, Willow came out . . . carrying you.”

I frowned, turning a skeptical eye on the snoring beast draped on the seat behind me. “This Willow? Bu—I thought you said she couldn’t walk a straight line.”

From the other side of Simon, Natty leaned forward and shook her head. She wore a huge knowing grin as she, too, surveyed the slumbering giant. “Didn’t stop her. She wouldn’t let anyone else touch you.” Her smile widened. “I think you have a new admirer.”

I turned to glance at Willow again. Her spiky brown hair, which had seemed prickly whenever she’d snarled at me, now swayed gently, giving the impression of downy feathers. It was her mouth, which dangled open while the most horrendous sounds poured out of her, that ruined the effect.

It was as if she’d swallowed a bear and it was fighting to get out.

A satisfied smile touched my lips, and I couldn’t help the swell of pride over my decision to go back for her.

Still serious, Simon’s jaw flexed. “How’s your leg?”

I prodded it, running my fingers over the skin, which had already closed around whatever wound had been there. There were sticky bits of debris that didn’t belong, and my stomach churned when I realized what they were: pieces of my own flesh that had been blown away in the blast of the gunshot. Gross.

But there was no pain. Shocking, considering the way my jeans looked and the patches of blood smeared on my leg. There were flecks of dry skin and flesh that hadn’t been incorporated into the healing process. Seriously, I looked like some kind of war refugee.

Except, I’d survived intact.

“Fine,” I answered truthfully, because I did feel okay, all things considered. “I must’ve slept through the healing part.”

“It was crazy . . . how fast it was,” Jett said. “We knew you could do that, but watching it—seeing it with our own eyes . . .” He looked around, finally landing on Natty. “Am I right?”

“It was,” she agreed, “crazy.”

I was glad I hadn’t been awake to see the looks on their faces, or to hear whatever they might’ve had to say about the whole thing. I didn’t need to be reminded I was the freak of the bunch.

“Do you think anyone got hurt? Like, infected, when I did it?” Maybe I’d be better off not knowing—the whole ignorance-is-bliss thing—but I couldn’t stop myself from asking.

“As far as I could tell, you cleared the entire lab with just the threat of the Code Red.” Simon reached over and patted my leg.

“Yeah. Even the guy whose suit got ripped when that . . . thing, that glass, broke . . . he took off in time.” Natty’s face screwed up. “What was that all about anyway? What do you think happened?”

I flashed Simon a pleading look, but he just shrugged. “Who knows. They’re just beggin’ for trouble with all that techno-crap they have. I doubt they even know what half that stuff is. They’re lucky they haven’t blown themselves up yet,” he told Natty, ignoring me altogether. “But whatever it was, it sure had them scrambling.” And then I felt it, the slight squeeze of his fingers on my thigh.

He’d known all along it was me.

“What about Agent Truman?” I asked. The last thing I remembered was his face as he stood in front of me when I pulled the trigger. I’d probably see that face every day for the rest of my life. It was forever branded in my mind.

It was Natty who answered. “Yeah, so that was weird. He was the one person who didn’t run when the rest of ’em did. He just stood there, while you were bleeding and”—she frowned—“he just let us get away.” She turned to Thom and sighed. “For a minute there, we thought we’d lost Thom too. He was the last one out.” Tears welled in her eyes. “He stayed behind to fend off those last two guys in hazmat suits so we could get away.”

Thom just smiled at her, his hand crossing back to squeeze hers. “You could never lose me.”

My eyes widened, but I couldn’t get past what Natty had said about Agent Truman. “So Truman didn’t shoot at us?”

Thom answered, “No. It was the weirdest thing. It was like he was frozen or something.” He shrugged. “Maybe he was shocked that you really did it. Think about it: the guy just got himself exposed. He was probably freaking out a little.”

Freaking out. Hard to imagine Agent Truman would be worried about anything except whatever mission was at hand: namely, getting his hands—or hand, as the case may be—on us.

“At least we don’t have to worry about him anymore,” Natty said. “Did you see those dead eyes of his? Gave me the creeps.”

I wasn’t as convinced as Natty. “I don’t know about that,” I said, hating that I felt even the smallest twinge of guilt over what I’d done to him. I mean, seriously, the guy had pretty much backed me into a corner—he’d strapped Willow to a gurney and was probably going to dissect her—and here I was actually feeling bad that I’d gone to such extreme measures to rescue her. I’d warned him. It wasn’t my fault he hadn’t been smart enough to run.