That dark, grating sound that reached into my core and made me cringe.

My nemesis.

Alive, despite the Code Red.

I tried to imagine how that was possible, when I noticed the way Griffin’s face had gone all gray, like the color of old ash, and it dawned on me: I wasn’t the only one who’d recognized Agent Truman’s voice.

When we turned to face him, I wanted to fall to my knees and cry. We’d gotten so close to escaping, Tyler and me. To running away, no matter where we were headed, and maybe being able to start a new life. Away from this place. Away from Agent Truman and the Daylight Division that was hunting us.

But it was Griffin’s whispered plea that made me choke on a mouthful of bile.

“Dad?” she practically wheezed while everywhere the sounds of weapons firing pealed through the air. “But . . . how?”

Dad?

“Are you . . . Griffin . . . Truman?” I could hardly get my voice out, pairing her name with his, because surely he couldn’t—no way, no how—be her dad. “Is that your name?”

But Agent Truman wasn’t half as shocked to see Griffin as she was to see him, when he revealed himself, stepping out from where the tent had kept him hidden. His face was pinched in a weasel-like expression that couldn’t mean anything good. Not for us anyway. “Of course it’s not. You didn’t think Truman was my real name, did you? And Griffin here, she didn’t keep hers either.” He bit back a cruel smile.

I searched the both of them for some sign of resemblance, something that said they were father and daughter, but I couldn’t find it. No matter my opinion of her, Griffin had flawless skin and hair that gleamed and bee-stung lips. Agent Truman’s skin was rawhide tough, his eyes dead and ice cold. He was a cowboy in a suit.

“Bennett,” Truman explained, taking in Griffin. “That was our last name. Dr. Arlo Bennett and my daughter, Griffin. Funny how little names matter when you become a pariah. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” He watched—we both did—while she scrubbed her hands over her face as his voice took on a sweet-talking quality. “Do you need a minute? You seem surprised to see me. Don’t tell me you thought you were the only one of us who’d get to live forever?” He sneered at her. “I have to admit, I wasn’t sure they’d take me. Back at the Meeting, when we struck our little deal with those alien buggers, they made it clear they did not want us adults. We were too risky. Our bodies were too old and damaged.

“But when I went to them . . . told them I was sick and had no other option on account of what you’d done to me, they gave me a chance anyway.”

My eyes lowered to his hand—his cast-free right hand, which was holding his gun perfectly. Precisely. “You weren’t hurt,” I accused. “Up at Devil’s Hole.” But it felt so lame to add lying to his list of offenses when there were so many more horrible things he’d done.

He shook his head. “No, I was hurt,” he corrected. “Just not as bad as you thought. I was mostly good as new by then, but I had to put on a good show.” He grinned, a shark-toothed grin. “One of my finer acts, if I do say so myself. Plus, it hurt like a . . .” His gaze narrowed on me as his words trailed off. “I don’t forgive you, by the way.” He grimaced. “Like I said, my body is older. One of the side effects is that I heal slower. And more painfully, so it seems.”

Suddenly so many things made sense. The way Natty and Jett and the others had told me he hadn’t fled when everyone else had, after I’d shot myself.

Why would he? He wasn’t afraid of the dreaded Code Red because he was one of us. His blood was just as lethal as ours. And what about that other thing, the way he’d disappeared that night at Devil’s Hole? Had he been taken at all, or had they let him get away, the way they had Simon and me?

“But you . . .” His dark expression grew even darker as he leveled his gaze on Griffin. I wondered if he could really go through with it, killing his own daughter. “You thought you got the best of me with that stunt of yours, but look who’s laughing now, daughter dearest?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, and I had mine the instant he pulled the trigger.

Pulled it for real, and a bullet, the actual kind and not the beanbag kind—the ones that could most definitely kill us if fired into exactly the right place—ripped through Griffin’s right shoulder.

The sound blended into the backdrop of all the other shots being fired, and I gasped because I seriously hadn’t believed he’d go through with it.

I still couldn’t.

Griffin must have felt that same disbelief, because her eyes flew wide. She fell against the canvas wall behind her and then she slid to the ground, leaving a smear of blood on the dusty field of army green. He raised his weapon again, only this time, instead of pointing it at Griffin, he aimed it at me, training it right at the center of my forehead, and all I could think was that if he’d shot his daughter, he would definitely-absolutely-unequivocally shoot me.

I shook my head. I couldn’t help myself. Even as I stood there facing the barrel of his gun, I heard myself asking, “If you’re one of us, how can you work with them?”

He looked at me like the answer was obvious. “What else was I supposed to do? Go with Griffin? Be part of her army?” He pointed the gun at her again, to where she was struggling to get up. And then he fired, this time at her left shoulder, sending her flying against the tent all over again. He ignored her yelp as if it made no difference to him—and maybe it didn’t—as he continued, “I hardly think so. The Division gave me a chance to continue with my experiments. Most of those guys don’t even know who—or what—I am. That information’s on a need-to-know basis. Classified shit.” The gun shifted, so it was pointing at my head again. “You wanna know what else is classified?” His finger stroked the trigger.