Cassian rubbed his jaw, his palm scratching against several days’ worth of stubble. “He knows how to protect himself better than most. Your parents are smart. They’re going to be okay.”

  He couldn’t know that.

  Yet he spoke with such steady certainty, her tangled nerves loosened a bit.

  “And even if Amir doesn’t know anything, we still had to get out of Chicago.” He folded his hands in his lap. Eden studied them. Cassian had great hands. The kind that were equipped to handle a great many things. Her skin tingled as she recalled the feel of them in her hair. On her hips. Sliding up her ribcage. Heat swirled in her chest. Maybe Cleo was right. She was the pernicious third wheel. For if she were not snoring a few feet away, Eden felt sure that she and Cassian would repeat what had transpired inside Lou’s boxing ring.

  As much as they would have liked to ride this train all the way to their destination, they had to hop off when they reached Maryland. Their final ride was brutal—a train pulling trailer cars. The trailers were too small to share, which meant they rode isolated from one another, exposed to the wind, with no way of getting comfortable. Whenever they rolled through a yard, they had to wedge themselves on top of the axles to avoid being seen. On the whole, it was a miserable, ear-piercing experience that made Eden curse Jeb. But then they would zoom through a mountain pass and a view would open up—so breathtakingly beautiful—she would forgive him a little.

  On the fifth day, as they rumbled over a bridge with a highway beneath them, Eden saw the first sign for Washington, DC. An exit overlaid with a blood-red X and NO ENTRY in bold, capital letters. The next time the train slowed to a stop, Cassian got their attention and motioned for them to hop off board. Eden did so happily, eager to feel solid ground beneath her feet.

  Cleo looked bone-weary.

  Eden gave her elbow a squeeze.

  They were close now, almost to their destination.

  This would be the most dangerous leg of the journey.

  After five days of isolation, headlights made her unease hurl into tumult. The barking of dogs had her suppressing squeaks like Violet. Beneath a moonless sky, they scuttled through the shadows with their hoods up and their heads down, propelled by a sense of urgency. None of them spoke until they wound their way past a string of dives that made up Bethesda’s downtown.

  “Why would he want to live here?” Cleo whispered.

  Eden didn’t have an answer.

  Neither did Cassian.

  Amir was a cybersecurity analyst, an occupation that brought in an annual income substantially higher than the national average. He could absolutely afford a home in Baltimore, and yet he lived here, in this dump of a town that seemed almost inhospitable.

  At half-past nine, they reached the address Mona had given them. A two-story home in a derelict neighborhood, the only house on the block that didn’t look on the verge of collapse. Several wind chimes hung on the front porch, their bamboo reeds tapping together in the breeze. After twenty-four hours inside the belly of a freight, the tinkling peal felt like balm to Eden’s ears.

  Smoke curled from the chimney.

  A yellow glow peeked through the cracks in the blinds.

  The residents were home and awake.

  They were here, feet away from this safe house that belonged to an elderly couple named Elmer and Eloise Miller. But what if it wasn’t safe? They decided Cleo should go first, as she was the least conspicuous. She crept through the yard and onto the front porch while Eden’s heart bruised her sternum.

  Cleo knocked three times. Waited. Then knocked three more.

  A few moments later, the door opened. Its hinges released a loud groan.

  An old woman stood framed in the half-opened doorway—tiny and frail. She took one look at Cleo, dusty and travel-worn, and opened the door wider. Eden blocked out the chimes and focused on the conversation as the woman peered out into the night.

  Cleo waved at them to come.

  And suddenly, the three of them were standing inside the foyer of a warm house that smelled like chili. The elderly woman had thin, white hair, a face full of winkles, and veiny hands covered in age spots. As she shut the door behind them, Eden held her breath, waiting for the moment when her wizened eyes would go wide with recognition.

  “Who is it?” a deep voice said from the next room.

  A man appeared in the foyer entryway. Much closer in age to Dr. Norton, at least twenty years younger than the woman. Which meant this wasn’t the woman’s husband. Eden’s stomach clenched as the man took them in and the recognition she’d been bracing for slid into place.

  But he was familiar, too.

  Cleo dropped her bag.

  It fell to the floor with a heavy clunk.

  The man smiled at her reaction.

  An invisible valve in Eden’s chest opened wide and all the pressure whooshed away.

  They were safe.

  The Elmers would not turn them in.

  For the man standing in the entryway was a fugitive, too. Had been for the past twenty-one years. Cleo had a picture of him hanging in the top corner of her dorm room mirror. Dayne Johnson, one of America’s most infamous media moguls. A controversial figure before The Attack. A wanted criminal after. With a bounty on his head every bit as enticing as the bounty on theirs.

  34

  Eden awoke with a start, sitting upright on the bedroll Eloise Miller had given her.

  Cassian and Cleo’s bedrolls were empty.

  Sunlight poured through the basement windows. Above the drone of a television, Cleo’s voice filtered down the stairs. Dayne Johnson’s, too. Along with a voice she didn’t recognize. The elderly man of the house—Elmer Miller.

  When they arrived last night, he was already asleep. Cleo’s knock had interrupted a game of chess between Dayne and Eloise. She said it kept her mind sharp and it would do her husband good to learn how to play. The game was abandoned in lieu of their new guests. Eloise served them heaping bowls of chili she’d reheated in the microwave as they took turns taking hot showers. Then she gave them each a bedroll, a pillow, a blanket, and asked Dayne to show them downstairs for an uninterrupted night’s rest.

  Eden hurried to her feet, then let herself into the unfinished basement bathroom, the cement floor cold as she rinsed her face and gargled mouthwash, then spit it down the rust-stained drain, all while listening for the voice she had yet to hear.

  Cassian’s.

  When she finished, she made her way up the creaky staircase and found Cleo, Dayne, and the elderly couple sitting together at the kitchen table, drinking from steaming mugs of coffee. Dayne’s elbow rested atop a copy of America Underground. Elmer selected a bagel from the assortment arranged on a plate in the center of the table. He had more hair in his large ears than he had on his bald head. He wore bifocals and a tan cardigan and blinked at her from soupy eyes as Eden stood in the kitchen entryway.

  “Where’s Cassian?” she asked, scolding her thumping heart. There was no reason for this edge of panic. He was probably in the next room. Never mind that she couldn’t hear his heartbeat. Or his breathing.

  “He left,” Cleo said.

  “What do you mean, he left?”

  “He went to Baltimore.” Cleo gave her a meaningful look. It was Friday. Amir Kashif would be in Baltimore for work. “To get us phones. And take care of … some other things.”

  “How did he get there?” Eden asked, the growing sense of panic now ringing in her ears.

  “We let him use our car, dear,” Eloise answered, taking the bagel from her husband as if he were a small child who’d just taken an extra cookie without permission. “We don’t drive it much anymore.”

  The ringing intensified.

  Cassian left.

  Without so much as a goodbye.

  He was driving to Baltimore in a car in broad daylight. With drones and police officers and a hefty reward on their heads. What if he got pulled over? What if he was recognized?

  “Don’t worry, Six,” Cleo said calmly. Reassuringly. “It’s Cass. He knows what he’s doing.”

  Eden was far from reassured.

  She felt frightened.

  And angry.

  How could he have left without telling her first?

  “I’d like to introduce you to my husband,” Eloise said. “I’m afraid it won’t be the first time I will have to do so. Elmer, this is Eden. Eden, this is Elmer.”

  Elmer started to stand.

  Dayne helped him to his feet.

  He shuffled across the kitchen on slippers with argyle socks showing beneath his slacks, followed closely by his wife. When they reached Eden, Elmer took her hand between his, his thin skin like paper.

  Eloise patted him on the back. “He’s going to have a rest. And I’m going to watch my show in the sewing room so you can watch television in the living room. Please help yourself to coffee and bagels. There’s fresh fruit in the refrigerator.”

  Eden watched them go—Eloise and Elmer. An adorable couple who reminded her of the retirement facility she and Erik used to visit in San Diego. It felt like a different life. Like a movie she’d watched a long time ago, featuring a naive girl who had swallowed all the rhetoric. People living off the grid were criminals. Illegal newspapers were dangerous. Surveillance was a necessary part of a safe and secure life. In that alternate universe, her biggest concern had been how the world treated people like Eloise and Elmer, as though they were a bother. An inconvenience. Sometimes, like they didn’t even exist.

  It was the way Eden had treated them just now.

  She hadn’t even smiled.

  But how could she smile when her stomach was in knots?

  Cassian was gone.

  On his way to Baltimore.

  “You know,” Dayne said, his chair creaking as he returned to his seat. “That show she watches? It’s a little scandalous.”

  Cleo smirked. “Scandalous, huh?”

  “Let’s just say it’s not Wheel of Fortune.” He smiled fondly, then took a sip of his coffee. “They are wonderful people. Truly wonderful. I owe them everything.”

  “Have you been living here this whole time?” Cleo asked, spreading cream cheese on her bagel.

  Dayne nodded. “My house is across the street, but I haven’t set foot inside it for twenty-one years. Before The Attack, the Millers were no more than neighbors I saw occasionally, whenever we took our trash out at the same time.”

  Eden bypassed the coffee. She didn’t think it would help calm her racing heart. She served herself a glass of orange juice instead and sat across from Dayne.

  “I was in L.A. during The Attack. Otherwise, I would have been in the heart of D.C. By the time I found my way home, the witch hunts had begun. Everyone who was anyone in the media had to go underground.”

  A story was spun; the media was to blame.

  Reporters and journalists and their dangerous agendas were held responsible for the country’s rapid decline. Because of them and the proliferation of fake news on social media, America was in a state of chaos. National security was so preoccupied with the internal fighting, they didn’t see The Attack coming.

  Media moguls were labeled enemies and insurrectionists.

  Dayne Johnson, chief among them.

  They were rounded up and arrested in droves. But not Dayne, who had vanished into thin air. All this time, he’d been hiding across the street.

  “Little did I know, the Millers had a secret room in their basement. A hidden room. When authorities raided the neighborhood, that’s where I was. Right under their noses.”

  “Two decades is a long time to hide.” Cleo licked a dollop of cream cheese from her thumb. “How does a guy like you not go mad with boredom?

  “I haven’t been bored. I’ve been busy.”

  “With what?”

  He tapped yesterday’s edition of America Underground. “Who do you think publishes this?”

  Cleo gaped.

  Dayne chuckled.

  Then humored her by answering each one of her rapid-fire questions. How did he start it? How did he run it? Who were his writers? Eden’s mind flitted to Cassian’s mother. She’d been one of his writers, once upon a time—in the small apartment she’d rented for her and her son. Would Dayne Johnson remember her ten years later? Eden might have asked if not for Cleo and her inquisitive assault. Apparently, the community in Alexandria wasn’t just your standard, run-of-the-mill, off-the-grid community. It was the hub of America Underground.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if you lived there?” Cleo asked.

  “Eloise needs help caring for Elmer. And I prefer a quieter space. I’m able to communicate with my team just fine via the Amber Highway.”

  At this, Cleo’s eyes took on an orb-like glow. “Are you Gollum?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know his identity?”

  Dayne winked good-naturedly. “If I did, it’s not something I would share now, is it?”

  Cleo pressed him for a short while, but the man remained stalwart. Eventually, she moved on to different questions. What was it like before Concordia? Were the networks really spreading false information for the sake of ratings?

  “There were a few bad eggs,” Dayne said. “But you’ll find that in any industry. On the whole, we cared deeply about the truth. America simply needed a scapegoat.”

  Eden was too distracted to pay attention.

  She excused herself into the living room, where she remained glued to Concordia, waiting with bated breath, bracing for the late-breaking news that would surely announce the capture of Cassian Ransom.

  35

  The directions Dayne had given Cass led to a shady neighborhood in Baltimore. Nondescript shops lined the streets, their windows boarded. He followed the directions on the paper precisely—parking two blocks away, then knocking seven times slowly when he reached the correct door, which was marked with the faded amber outline of a lotus leaf—a trademark of The Amber Highway, one that branded every black-market shop operating within its realm.

  Cass pulled his hat low and counted down from thirty. When he reached zero, he would knock seven more times. The sun behind him glinted off the glass door front, giving him a good view of his reflection. He’d opted not to shave completely but had used Dayne’s clippers to clean up his neck. Now he was a guy with a close-cut, neatly trimmed beard. As good of a disguise as he was going to get.

  As he reached fifteen, he tried not to think about Eden, who would be furious with him. He left without telling her. But what good would have come from waking her when she’d been sleeping so soundly? Cass needed to do something. He needed to move. To act. And so he had. And now here he was, taking a substantial, but necessary risk. If they were going to get answers from Amir, they would need the right equipment.

  He lifted his fist and knocked seven times more.

  There was a moment—an extended pause—then the turning of a bolt.

  A man with a body like Lou’s opened the door halfway. He wore a mask and sunglasses, obscuring most of his face. “Yeah?”

  Cass handed him the slip of paper on which Dayne had written, with an outline of a yellow lotus leaf that matched the outline on the door, identifying him as friend, not foe. The guy looked at it, then back up. Cass couldn’t see his eyes. Couldn’t read his face. He had no idea what the man was thinking. Finally, he opened the door the rest of the way—an invitation inside. Cass was patted down in an empty front room. Checked for wires and bugs. The man took Cass’s gun. Then he took the crisp, clean bills folded inside a money clip in Cass’s back pocket. He thumbed through them while Cass ground his teeth. When the guy finished counting, he returned the money but kept the gun.

  “Just for now,” he said.

  Cass followed the man through a sliding panel that disguised itself as a wall, into a storage room that wasn’t empty at all, but lined with occupied shelves.

  “What are you looking for?” the man asked.

  “Two phones. A couple of trackers. Ghost glasses, if you have any.”

  Phones and trackers were sold legally, with the right permits. Ghost glasses, however, weren’t sold legally at all. They existed solely in the black-market, as they obscured facial recognition software. Any citizen caught wearing them once would pay a hefty fine. Twice and off to jail they would go.

  “You’re in luck,” the man said. “I had a pair come in last week.” He unlocked a large safe and removed a pair of the coveted glasses stowed on the top shelf. He set them on the counter and motioned toward a row of nearby shelves stocked with phones. “Cheapest on the left, most expensive on the right.” Then he nodded across the room to another shelf. “Trackers are over there.”

  Over a thousand dollars later, he was reunited with his gun and back in the car sporting his newly acquired glasses, heading to Under Armour headquarters in a much nicer part of the city. Employees parked in a garage that required retinal scans. Cass found an empty side street and made several calls, trying to confirm that Amir Kashif was in the office today. He couldn’t find his extension in any of the directories and reaching a human operator who could help him was proving impossible. He booted up his laptop and spent two frustrating hours trying to access one of the many available networks. When he was finally in, he confirmed Amir’s place of employment but found no extension. All the while, Concordia played on the radio. The footnote of a story that was a local Chicago break-in had become a national, flashing headline. His name and Eden’s name were mentioned every other sentence, making Cass’s train-traveled muscles all the sorer.

  With a terse exhale, he dialed the number again.

  This time—miraculously—a bored-sounding woman answered.

  “I’m trying to reach Amir Kashif,” Cass said, working hard to keep the frustrated bite from his tone.

  “Who?” the lady responded.

  “Amir Kashif,” he repeated.

  “How do you spell that?”

  Cass spelled the name.

  The typing of computer keys sounded on the other end. And then, “I’m sorry, but nobody by that name works here.”

  He blinked several times.

 

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