She knew Penelope knew this. Winter would have to die soon. The sound of the waves crashing against the hull of the ship echoed through Sydney’s body.

  “Still no answer?” Penelope said, and this time Sydney looked up from the ground. The girl looked mournful, as if they were forcing her to be cruel. “Please, Winter. I could have sworn you cared for her more than this.”

  Sydney’s eyes darted to Winter. He was still lying on the table, his head turned toward her as far as he could manage, and his eyes were wide, glossy with fear. Gone was the flirt, the graceful swagger and the mischievous grin. He looked at her as if pleading with her to do something, as if something from her training with Panacea might kick in at any moment to save them.

  He looked at her in the way he had when she’d been poisoned.

  Before she could say anything, one of the guards seized a fistful of her hair and forced her head up. She winced as he pulled hard enough to bring her momentarily off the ground.

  “Hold her mouth open,” Penelope said.

  Sydney saw the girl approach her, then hold up the cube. Everything in her seemed to narrow into a blade. Her fear funneled her concentration into a needle.

  “Stop! Stop!”

  Winter’s voice, hoarse and anguished, cut through the moment.

  Sydney met his eyes and saw resignation there. No, she wanted to yell at him. No, do not let them break you now.

  Winter tore his eyes away from her and back toward Penelope. “I had it. Back at the house. It’s in my luggage—I never gave it to her.”

  Sydney couldn’t believe her ears.

  The lie slipped from his lips like water, so devoid of hesitation and so crystal clear in its desperation that for an instant she forgot Panacea existed. And here she’d thought Winter was too terrified to know what to do or say. A memory came back to her of Winter from his first performance—the way he’d transformed in a second from a tied-up boy against the floor to a dark-eyed heartbreaker. The way he’d broken free from his bonds.

  Only now did she see his hands twisting subtly against the restraints, moving so quietly that it might as well be a magic act. He was working on freeing himself, and no one even noticed.

  Sauda would be proud.

  Penelope narrowed her eyes at him. The beat of hesitation before she answered told Sydney everything she needed to know. Winter’s words had taken the young woman by surprise, and now she was considering the truth of it.

  “That’s a relief,” she said to Winter.

  Then she took the cube and shoved it in Winter’s mouth.

  Winter froze, paralyzed, too afraid to move.

  Penelope took a length of duct tape from one of the guards and sealed the cube tightly inside Winter’s mouth.

  Sydney shivered at the cold efficiency of her movements contrasted with her wide, doe-like eyes.

  “Thank you for your help,” she said. “I’ll have someone check for it.”

  On the table, Winter closed his eyes and shivered against his gag. His hands continued to work.

  Sydney laid her head down on the ground, as if exhausted by the truth coming out—but instead, she used the opportunity to study Winter. Don’t move, she pleaded silently. Don’t move.

  He stared back at her. The look he gave her now wasn’t desperate or pleading—but meaningful. He swallowed behind the gag.

  Sydney saw his hands twist again.

  And in a flash, she understood.

  Her eyes went to the nearest guard, then to the knife at his belt.

  Penelope leaned back in her chair and shook her head in disappointment at Winter. “A perfect life,” she mused. She looked at Sydney. “And here you are, wasting it all for Panacea.”

  Sydney tensed, prepared to make her move. Everything in her focused on Winter.

  Then he suddenly lunged to one side. In the blink of an eye, his hand slipped through one of the bonds, and his arm came fully free. In the next instant, he’d ripped the tape from his mouth and spat the cube out into his hand.

  At the same time, Sydney jumped to her feet. The guard beside her only had time to put his hand on the holster of his gun before she spun toward him and turned her back—her tied hands closed around the knife’s handle and yanked it out from his belt.

  She sensed more than saw the man swing his gun toward her. She threw her entire weight at him—he lost his balance and toppled backward. As he did, she wedged the knife into the knot of the rope tying her hands and shoved it in as hard as she could. She felt the blade cut into the strands. Just enough.

  She pulled against it with all her might.

  The rope protested a second, then tugged free.

  Then she glanced at Winter. At the same time that he tossed the cube toward her, she threw the knife toward him.

  He caught the knife. She caught the cube through the rope.

  Sydney could feel the burn of the cube in her hand. She put it on the ground and positioned her boot over it. “No one move,” she said.

  Penelope stiffened. Two guards stepped forward, their bodies shielding her. Connor froze, eyeing them warily.

  She looked at Winter.

  There was only one place they could head to right now, their only potential link with the outside world. The bridge.

  “Go,” she said quietly to Winter.

  He met her gaze once, then darted out of the room. Somehow, she could tell that he knew exactly where she wanted him to head.

  The bridge was at the opposite end of the ship—and they had a dozen armed men after them. She could feel the coming strain in her lungs already. Knew that she couldn’t make that kind of run.

  And Winter had been shot in the shoulder.

  Sydney shifted so that her back faced the door. Penelope glared at her as she went.

  Then her eyes flickered slightly to the corner behind Sydney.

  Sydney’s eyes followed her stare instinctively.

  It only took a second—

  And then Connor lunged at her, reaching down for the cube under her foot.

  Sydney thought of Eli’s horrified expression as the object broke in his mouth.

  This was their only chance to survive.

  Sydney gritted her teeth. She tugged her shirt up over her nose and mouth.

  Then she flipped the cube up onto her boot and kicked it hard at the wall—where it shattered.

  31

  Not Over Yet

  Pain radiated from the wound in Winter’s chest. He winced as he darted between two narrow rows of shipping containers, suspending himself over them by pressing his hands and feet hard against either wall, and melted into the long shadows. The movement sent spasms of agony through him—he grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut. His breaths came in shallow bursts. Cold ocean wind streamed through his hair and stung his cheeks. The sun was starting to set.

  Behind him came commotion from the room he had just escaped. Strangled shouts, the sounds of choking. Connor’s strangled scream.

  Then he saw Sydney sprinting out first, her eyes squeezed shut, her shirt pulled over her mouth.

  The Paramecium cube must have shattered.

  She caught sight of him and hurried in his direction. He gestured for her to follow him through the shadows.

  There were other guards on board the ship. He could see flickers of movement in the distance between the towers of containers, muffled commands being shouted. Maybe Penelope had already alerted the rest of the ship that they were loose.

  As Sydney caught up with him, he heard the telltale sound of the slight wheeze at the end of her breaths. It was how he got whenever he pushed himself too hard during tour. Her lungs must be aching.

  At his expression, Sydney scowled and shook her head, waving it away. “I’m fine,” she snapped, glancing instead in the direction of the setting sun. “Bridge.”

  Strands of Winter’s hair caught against his face as he looked toward the bridge. “We can’t go straight,” he said, nodding to where he saw multiple guards running. The pain from his chest made him light-headed.

  Sydney nodded, scanning the deck. “We need to separate, too,” she replied. “Gives us two chances to get there.”

  The sun had descended halfway into the ocean by now. Their silhouettes, along with the towering outlines of stacks and skeletons of cell grids were lit by brilliant orange and gold. Seeing them moving against this was too easy—although it also meant they could vanish into the long, stretching shadows.

  He clutched his chest and looked up the steel pillars of the grids. At least four stories high.

  Sydney caught his expression. “I’ll go up,” she said, nodding at the top of the grid towers. “You go down.” She gestured at the hatches leading belowdecks.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Your breathing.”

  “You’ve been shot.”

  “I can scale it faster,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ll be safer up there. It’s too high up for them to get a clear shot, so they’ll have to follow me up. You’ll get there sooner than me.”

  He could see worry flickering in Sydney’s eyes. When she spoke, though, her voice was steady. “Fine,” she said, pulling out a gun.

  He hadn’t even seen her take it off one of the guards. Thief hands, he thought admiringly.

  “Don’t wait for me if you get there first.”

  She met his gaze solemnly. “Same to you. Just send the call for help.”

  They lingered near each other for a second, as if reluctant to part. For an instant, Winter realized that this could be the last time they ever saw each other. He found himself taking in the tangle of her hair, the bloody scrape on her cheek. The stormy blue of her eyes.

  “See you there,” she murmured to him, her eyes upturned to his.

  He nodded. “See you there.”

  She nodded back. Then she sprinted for the hatch, and he tore his stare away to speed toward the nearest steel pillar.

  His wound screamed as he began hauling himself up the scaffolding’s ladder. Just like one of your moves during the last tour. Just like rehearsals. His muscle memory kicked in, and he let it guide him through the pain. The world around him seemed to flash as the pillar blocked part of the setting sun’s glare—and if he let himself, he could fall into believing that this was another one of his stage acts, that the whistle of the wind around him was the cheers from the audience, the light blinding him came from the spotlights pointing down at his moving figure. Everything in him trembled. His strength was faltering already.

  Down below, he heard the first sounds from arriving guards. Then, the unmistakable ping of a bullet against the steel grid. Up he continued.

  He could feel blood leaking from his wound, and when he looked, he could see the bandage underneath his torn shirt turning a deeper crimson.

  How had Artie felt when he was shot? Had he been afraid to die, regretted joining these types of missions? Had he felt sadness that he would never see his family again?

  Winter looked up, yearning for the top of the grid. Two more stories. His body shook.

  Another bullet pinged near him. He heard it in a daze—somehow, the shouts from down below seemed to come from some other timeline, like everything happening around him was merely a movie playing. Maybe nothing that had ever happened to him had been real. His entire life was a stage.

  Keep going. He chanced a glimpse down to see two of the men now attempting to follow him, and a third waving in the direction of the crane that loomed between him and the bridge.

  His heart sank as he saw a fourth open the hatch below and head down with two more men.

  He’d seen how fast Sydney could move. With the halls as narrow as they probably were down there, she at least had a chance of staving them off.

  One more story.

  He clenched his teeth as his next pull sent pain jolting through him. Sweat drenched his skin and dripped down the sides of his face. His hands trembled, his grip barely steady. He could feel the wind beneath him, could sense how easily he could plummet right now to his death.

  Keep going.

  At the horizon, the sun was sinking rapidly into the ocean, and the colors of the sky shifted, the oranges more brilliant, the pinks so exaggerated they looked fake.

  He thought of the pier, and Artie at his side, and the way he’d laughed as he kicked at one of the wooden support beams. Winter’s arms moved numbly, pulling him up. His head swam with nausea and fog. The world around him seemed to tilt.

  And then—

  The steel pillar stopped abruptly, and he felt his hands land on a flat surface, and he was up, up at the top of the grid, the wind blasting in his face. Somehow, he managed to pull himself over the top, and then crouched there, dizzy with life, one hand pressed against his wound.

  Down below, one of the men was halfway up the grid. He would be here soon.

  Move.

  The command rang in Winter’s head, and he turned his gaze in the direction of the bridge. He dragged himself to his feet. And he ran for his life.

  The grids were wider than he could have hoped for—even with his unsteady balance and loss of blood, he found himself able to navigate them. Ahead of him, the blinding sun sank further into the ocean, and the colors of the sky shifted yet again, pinks to purples.

  He looked over his shoulder to see that the guard chasing him down had now reached the top of the grid and was racing toward him faster than Winter could run.

  The pain in his chest now seemed to reach every part of his body, and he felt his head swim from the loss of blood. He tried to force his muscles to move as he’d always been able to, to make the show go on. But he couldn’t this time.

  I can’t do this.

  The thought seared through his mind with a dreadful finality. He lay where he was, the bridge still out of reach, the sun finally sinking into the sea. Through his blurring vision, he saw the gunman step up to him and stand over his prone figure.

  “Artie,” he found himself whispering, the name slipping out as if from somewhere deep in his subconscious. He wondered what his brother’s final thoughts were, and whether he’d felt any fear.

  Sydney. Sydney would never let him give up like this. But she wasn’t here, and he was alone.

  So all Winter could do was watch the gunman stand overhead and point the barrel of his gun down directly at him.

  All he could do was watch him press against the trigger.

  Then his hand brushed against the lining of his pants pocket. Sydney’s hotel crest pin. He’d completely forgotten about it.

  No time to think. He grabbed it—the blade shot out of the pin, a needle gleaming in the setting sun.

  He stabbed upward at the same time the man fired the gun.

  32

  The Final Flight

  There was something about this flight, her sprint down these narrow, fluorescent-lit halls directly below the freight ship’s deck, that reminded Sydney of her hallway back home.

  As she went, she kept trying in vain to latch her phone to the ship’s signal board. Was Winter still climbing up there? Had he made it yet to the bridge? She heard footsteps echoing behind her and darted down an intersection into a dimly lit portion of the hall. Her own steps clanked loudly, but she had no time to stop in her tracks now. All she knew was that there would be more steps chasing her if Winter had not climbed up the grid.

  She wondered if he was still on his way. She wondered if he was still alive.

  Several portholes appeared on the side of the wall, and she slowed momentarily to look outside, noting the side of the ship that she could see. She was nearing the bridge now.

  Without warning, she turned another corner and ran right into two guards.

  They stared at her for a split second. In that moment, Sydney crouched and rammed into the first guard. He grunted, seemingly surprised by her force, and slammed hard into the wall. The second guard pulled out his gun—but she was on him before he could use it, bringing her elbow up to knock him viciously in the jaw. His head hit the wall hard—his body crumpled.

  The first guard seized her wrist and twisted it—

  Go with the motion, Niall had taught her.

  So she did. In the instant the guard tried twisting her wrist, she twisted with it, flipping against the wall before turning her momentum back toward him. In one move, she kicked out at him and connected with his chest.

  He flew backward against the wall. She seized the second guard’s gun from its holster and whipped it hard against the first guard’s face.

  His head jerked to one side. The light blinked out in his eyes, and he slumped against the wall.

  Sydney pocketed the second gun and kept running, not bothering to look back at the unconscious bodies. Her lungs squeezed in protest, and she felt the familiar ache rippling through her chest. She saw her mother lying on her deathbed, wheezing in a slow rhythm, muttering at Sydney to stay.

  It morphed into the memory of her wheezing alone in her room after one of her more intense training sessions, refusing to call Niall or Sauda for help for fear of revealing the truth to them.

  Can you go early tomorrow? Niall had texted her that night in regard to a new mission.

  Yes, she’d responded immediately.

  Are you sure you can do it?

  She’d gritted her teeth as she typed, I can do it.

  She could do anything. She was going to become the best damn agent they ever had, worthy of staying, worthy of doing something meaningful, even if it killed her.

  Run, she told herself now. She ignored her lungs and forced herself onward.

  At last she saw a ladder at the end of the corridor that led back up to the surface. The bridge should be up ahead—and with any luck, Winter should have arrived there long before she did.

  She climbed up the ladder and threw her strength into opening the hatch. Evening light greeted her, along with a rush of cool, breezy air and the sight of the bridge window above a flight of stairs.

  Sydney didn’t even allow herself a moment to feel relief. She just darted up onto the deck and toward the bridge. Already she could see men sprinting toward her from the other end of the deck. Winter was nowhere to be seen.