Marcus drives the truck like the world is breaking off behind us and we're seconds away from falling off its edge. It's a rough ride. He takes sharp corners that knock us around the cab of the truck and makes my aching head feel like it's splitting right down the middle. We've been on the road for five minutes now, and every mile, every yard, takes us farther away from the compound. But there's no outrunning the danger.

"Shit," Marcus mutters. "They're right on us. Who the hell is driving the other truck?"

I try to think straight, but my thoughts are playing on a loop. Alec shot Sam. Alec shot Sam. Alec. Killed. Sam.

"April!"

I squeeze my eyes shut. "Uh—the guy with the long dark hair. Your friend."

"Pablo?"

Sam's dead.

"Y-yes."

Marcus shifts gears. How does he even know how to drive? I can't imagine they took him and the other five out for driving lessons when they were staying at the research facility. But here he is, maneuvering this huge vehicle through the woods like he'd been doing it for years.

"He's not keeping up."

Shots fire behind us. I duck instinctively and almost bang my head on the dashboard when he swerves around another sharp bend. Branches give way under the force of the massive truck, and the crackle of snapping twigs and the roar of the engine is almost deafening. It's not enough to drown out the turbulence in my own head.

"Why did he do it?" Willow asks softly. "Why did he kill Sam?"

"Keep your shit together, Will," Marcus says. Any other time I would've called him out on his insensitivity, but I'm too far gone. "We don't have time for this."

She laughs, a thin sound that seems to tear out of her throat. She smacks her forehead. "What am I saying? I know why he did it. It's because of me. I lied to him for years. I used him because Sam asked me to."

"Sam has a talent for screwing with people," Marcus says, gentler this time.

"Had."

That lone word rips a fist-sized hole through my chest. The cab of the truck feels smaller than it already is, and the air is so thin I can barely catch enough of it.

Sam is dead. I'm discovering this all over again, and each time is as startling as the first. Sam has been there for most of my life. His existence overshadows the oblivious childhood I had before him. And after he came into my life . . . every moment with him was a pure hell of disdain and punishments. I should be happy to be free of him, but all I feel is raw hurt.

"Alec was always such a good shot," Willow continues in a choked voice. "He hardly ever missed the target at the shooting range. It made me feel good to watch him. I cheered him on. Encouraged him to keep practicing. If I hadn't done that . . ."

"Parker would still be alive?" Marcus finishes. "Maybe. But he wouldn't have lasted for much longer. Blaine had it in for him. Sam acted like he was in charge when he was just our prison warden. He had it coming."

"You think he deserved to die?"

"He sure as hell didn't deserve a medal." He jerks on the steering wheel and swerves around a corner, barely dodging a thick tree that stands out from the rest. "He abused us. If that's not bad enough, he went and messed with my head. He was nothing but a selfish bastard."

"Don't talk about him like that," Willow snaps. "He was the closest thing we had to a father."

"Speak for yourself."

Her grief hardens to fury. The volume of her voice rises over the roar of the engine. "That's right. You had Blaine. How did that work out for you by the way? You're still his loyal lapdog after he beat you in front of everyone?"

"At least he's honest about what he is. All you and Sam know is how to lie."

"And all you know is how to get people hurt."

The gunfire behind us has come to an end. For a long moment, there's just the dark road snaking before us, the roar of the truck, and my deafening thoughts. "I was trying to save them," he says in a measured tone. "Maybe a month ago, I wouldn't have cared, but now . . . I don't know if that's enough anymore."

I expect another scathing retort from Willow, but she only lets out a choked sob. Marcus glances at me like he expects me to tell him that it means there's some good in him. But I can't think about that right now. There's so much wrong with this moment that it's impossible to find anything positive to hold on to.

"Say something," he tells me thickly.

My throat is too tight. The dark box inside me is full of the festering emotions I'm trying to keep contained. I'm scared of what sort of monster will come out of it when it blows wide open. I swallow, my gaze stuck on the rocky path revealed by the truck's headlights. I wish Sam were here. I've spent a lifetime wishing I could be free of him, but now that he's gone I feel lost and unanchored. I don't know what I'm supposed to do now.

"April—"

Marcus cuts off just as I see the jeep in our path. There's no time to call out a warning, to brace for impact. We barrel into it, and the force rattles through my bones, jarring me out of my grief. Our truck rams the jeep off the road and careens wildly, its tires squealing and shuddering under us. Marcus fights to get the vehicle back under control, but there isn't enough room for correction. We crash into a tree at breakneck speed.

The impact sends me flying into the dashboard. The world comes to a stop. Everything is muted at first, before it builds up into a ferocious tidal wave. Pain hits me first. My nose is gushing blood with renewed vengeance. Moaning, I crane my aching neck and look to my left. Marcus is unconscious. A streak of blood runs onto the steering wheel beneath his forehead. I don't breathe until I've confirmed he's still breathing.

My relief is short-lived. Willow's gone. I gasp when I see blood on the edges of the broken windshield. "Willow," I moan, looking around the darkened woods to find her.

I catch her in the truck's headlights. She's lying in a bed of moss ten feet away, splayed out like a lifeless doll. I shove open the passenger door and spill out of the truck. My legs give under me, and I land on my knees. Undaunted, I crawl over to Willow. There's blood all over her neck and arms, seeping from superficial and deeper cuts, but she's also alive.

The crackle of gunfire jerks my gaze back to the truck. Two dark figures approach us from the right, rifles drawn. One of them fires a gun, and the startled cries from the back of the truck send chills down my back.

Someone shoots back, and the guards scramble for cover. Keeping low, I race back to the truck and yank Marcus's door open. He's impossible to lift, so I yank on his upper body and let gravity do the rest.

He lands on top of me and knocks the breath out of me. Groaning, I wriggle out from under him. It's surprising that I have the strength to drag him over to Willow. I practically pull his arm out of its socket when I tug him over some knotted roots. I'm running on pure adrenaline, fueled by a single thought: if I don't get him to safety, he's as good as dead.

A bullet whizzes past us and lodges into the trunk of a tree. My first instinct is to throw myself to the ground—which brings me less than two feet away from the shooter. Before he can swing the weapon in my direction, I reach out and jerk on his leg, taking him down.

His rifle lands close by. I lunge for it, but I'm clumsy with fear and fatigue. By the time I'm scrambling to get a good grip on the heavy weapon, the guard has recovered from his fall. His punch makes my head explode in a shower of lights. I reach out in the dark and sink my fingernails into the flesh beneath his eye. He yelps and loosens his hold on the rifle. I follow up with a kick to his gut, but I might as well be trying to kick down a concrete wall.

I hug the rifle to my chest as he straddles me, my chest alight with terror. The night is filled with our heavy breathing and grunts. It takes one hard jab to my definitely-broken nose to get my arms to go slack. I let out a scream of pain as he snatches the rifle away.

He fumbles with the weapon in a way that tells me he's not as level-headed as I'd expect. The excruciating pain in my nose is making me see double. My body burns fever-hot, quaking with uncontrollable emotions. This is it. There's no Marcus around to save me this time. Everything I've been through today, the past couple of weeks—it all ends here and now.

I can barely make out the guard's stocky silhouette in the truck's distant headlights: my vision's narrowing to a fine point. The last thing I see before everything turns pitch-black is the guard taking aim at me with his rifle.

I'm back in what feels like the blink of an eye, kneeling next to the prone guard. There's something in my hands. Something rough, grainy, and heavy.

I regain my senses just as I bring it down on his head. The muffled thunk of the object striking his skull and the strangled sound he makes freeze the searing hot blood in my veins. I drop the large rock onto the grass and scramble backward, away from the guard's twitching body. His body convulses one last time before it goes still.





I watch the unmoving body of the guard, pleading with him to get up so I don't end up being crushed by the enormity of what I just did. It was easy to pretend I didn't kill Weasel because I wasn't there for any of it. This is different. I felt the splatter of warm blood on my arms. I heard him struggle to inhale his last breath. I crushed his head.

Not the Blank. Me.

"April?"

The familiar voice brings me back to reality. Marcus staggers toward me, favoring his right leg. There are streaks of blood on half of his face and a darkening bruise around his eye. His hand is tight around his gun. I'm not sure why it's pointed at the ground and not at me. After what he just witnessed, there can be no doubt in his mind about what I am.

He stops a few feet away and goes completely still. The night hides the depth of his emotions. I'm stupidly relieved he's still alive, but I can't forget we're not on the same team. We never were. The reason he's here now is because Blaine wants us all dead, him included. I'm not sure it's enough to make him forget I'm the monster he's been trained to kill.

Marcus opens his mouth, but whatever he means to say is lost to the renewed gunfire that blows up the night. I freeze when more than a dozen figures dart away from the truck and race straight toward us. The truck's headlights light up white t-shirts and panicked expressions. Adam is bringing up the rear, his hands ready to throw up a barrier at any sign of danger. Janie is beside him, a rifle in her hands. Her dark hair hangs in wild locks around her face. She's wearing a makeshift bandage around her head that makes her look more badass.

"Marcus," she says with a sigh. "We'll talk about that stupid thing you did later, but right now I'm going to assume you're with us. Am I right?"

"Yes," Marcus answers curtly.

She frowns, but nods. I need more than a one-word affirmation from him, but now is not the time. A loud engine is grumbling in the distance toward us. "Where's Willow?" Buzzcut asks, glancing around.

"She's over there," Marcus says. "Hard to tell how she's doing, but we'll worry about that later. Jones, carry her."

"Why me?" says the guy named Jones, looking upset.

"Because I say so. You want to stick with us? You pull your weight." Marcus grabs him by the back of his t-shirt and shoves him forward. "Help her. Now."

The thick-necked guy mutters something about how he can't pull his weight with Willow slowing him down, but he does what he's told. It's safe to say none of them would dare defy Marcus. Not after witnessing what he did to Eli. And to us. He's reckless and unpredictable, and it doesn't hurt that he looks like he fought demons and came out the clear winner.

"What about her?" some guy I don't recognize says.

My companions look at me with fear and distrust. I brought them this far, but none of that matters. At this very moment, I'm the most dangerous thing they have to deal with.

Marcus's declaration fills the stifling silence. "She's coming with us."

"You're kidding," Janie groans amidst similar protests. "She's a Blank! Or is your horny brain forgetting that fact?"

The muscles in his jaw ripple with anger. "She's not a Blank. I've seen enough of them to know that. Since when do you believe everything Eli tells you?"

I stare at him, my lips parted in surprise. Marcus saw what I did to the guard, and yet he's covering for me. I shouldn't be this grateful to him. I shouldn't even be relieved. I should be volunteering to stay behind, just like Carson did so valiantly back at the facility, but I'm too scared, too selfish, to sacrifice myself.

"I—I'm going to turn myself in," I bargain, my voice cracking. "I promise."

Marcus reads the raw fear in my eyes. His hard features slacken with concern. He takes a step in my direction, and it makes me wish I could forget our differences, walk right into his arms, and let his strength support me. But he stops himself and faces our audience, putting on his best I'm-in-charge expression.

"You want to stand here and argue with me?" he growls. "Because I don't mind going at it all night. I've got nothing to lose. Meanwhile we've got a bunch of people with big guns headed this way to make sure you never set foot off this base. So what's it going to be? Do you want to live, or do you want to drag this out longer than we need to?"

The roaring engine of the enemy vehicle is almost on top of us now. "Fine, she can stay!" a petite girl says in a panicked voice, looking like she's ready to bolt in the nearest direction. "I don't care about trying to save the world from her kind or whatever the heck you people want. Can we please just get out of here?"

Marcus ignores the girl and waits for Janie's response. Shaking her head, she says snidely, "Whatever. I'm not getting myself killed for her."

Marcus starts walking, his gait uneven. I watch the others start to move, my stomach tense until the last person has followed him. I hurry to keep pace with Jones, who is carrying Willow and muttering about how he's already done more than half of the people here.

The wind carries the voices of our pursuers as they search for us, pushing us to go faster. Without the truck's headlights illuminating our way, it's almost impossible to make out anything beyond a ten-foot radius around us. There's just enough pale moonlight to show me glimpses of the bushes and fallen tree limbs in our path.

"What happened to the other truck?" someone asks.

"It got away," Buzzcut answers.

That makes sense. We slammed so hard into the jeep that we knocked it off the road, clearing the path for our friends in Pablo's truck. I hope they made it out alive. After everything we've done to make it this far, I can't bear to think we're all going to die in here.

My hope blooms when we reach the edge of the woods and come upon a dark and empty stretch of road. Out here in the clear, the near-full moon is huge, dominating the ink-black sky. There's nothing on the other side of the road except for a graveled lot and what looks like a rundown warehouse with windows painted over and rusty old cars out front.

"Let's not go into the abandoned building, agreed?" Janie says.

Marcus points down the road to our left. "See that? That's a gas station. Our ticket out of here."

I follow his gaze and see a glimmer of a red sign just beyond the steep hill in front of us. "How do you know your way around?" I ask, unable to ignore him any longer.

"Blaine," he simply says like it answers everything.

I guess in a way that it does.

We keep to our side of the road to avoid the warehouse and race up the slope to reach civilization. I should feel better, but I don't. Maybe Janie is right in her own way. I don't belong out there in the real world. I killed two people tonight, and it wasn't in self-defense. Not exactly. There was no fear for my life when I ended theirs. There was just . . . nothingness.

No. There was something. There was an encompassing obedience, according to Weasel. Is that what happened to me? Was I under someone else's control when I killed Weasel and the guard? And could it be that the beings who did this to us are out there somewhere, manipulating our bodies and free will every time we're vulnerable enough to let them in?

If so, I can almost understand Blaine's horrible extermination policy.

Almost.

Some of the kids are racing up the slope while others limp after them. The rest are carrying the people they've called friends for the past few weeks, their hope and determination greater than the sum of their trauma. They look like victims of war: torn and dirty clothing, blood all over them, disheveled hair. Broken bones and bullet holes aren't enough to stop them. But something else is.

There's a quarter of a mile between us and the gas station when the Gardiner vehicles descend upon us in a storm of noise. An engine revs behind me before a huge truck overtakes us and cuts in front of the kids at the front of the pack. Another one screeches to a stop next to me before a group of burly men in uniform pour out of the back.

Marcus reaches for the gun at his waistband, and guards level their weapons at him in answer. "Drop your guns! Do it now, or we'll shoot!" a rough voice shouts as the men crowd around us, corralling us into a tight circle in the middle of the deserted road.

Amid the cries and protests are the sounds of dozens of weapons clattering to the asphalt. Someone steps on my foot. Another nudges me in my aching ribs with an elbow, but I hardly feel any of it. I'm busy scanning our surroundings for a way out. There's nothing out here but us, the armed men, and the shroud of the merciless night.

"Get in the truck," someone else commands us.

He indicates his rifle in the direction of the nearest vehicle, expecting us to comply without any more prodding, but his buddies aren't so courteous: they handle us roughly, nudging and pushing and jabbing us with the butts and muzzles of their rifles.

I'm breathing hard, trying to process everything that's happening at once. Marcus is in a scuffle with at least three of them. One of his buddies makes a break for freedom and is immediately wrangled back into the circle. Even Lisa doesn't make it out with her invisibility: like the rest of those with abilities, she's too inexperienced to use it when she needs it.

They're not killing us. That discovery shocks me for all of two seconds before I understand why. This isn't an act of mercy. They're not sparing us because they've had a change of heart. It's because they don't want to kill us out here. It would be messy, bloody, not the kind of exit a secretive organization like Gardiner wants to make. They're going to herd us into their trucks like cattle for slaughter and dispose of us quietly.

If I wasn't already freaking out, the thought is enough to drive me over the edge. We gave up our guns easily because we hoped for leniency, but we were always better off resisting. "Don't let them take you!" I shout, fighting through the huddle of bodies around me.

Only about a handful of people listen to me. The rest are either too scared or don't know what's at stake. Their collective mass pushes me toward the vehicle, and it feels like I'm walking straight into a dark and steely tomb, one bullet away from sure death.

I feel a familiar darkness pulse around my vision, coaxing me into that place of nothingness. I consider giving in and hoping to turn the tide, but one thought stops me cold: I will be a Blank in a truck full of helpless teenagers. So I fight the claw that's reaching for me, even as it wedges itself into my brain and sinks deeper the more I try to push it away.

"April!"

Marcus's voice reaches me as I'm being pushed into the truck. I crane my neck and see him behind me, his arms restrained by guards, his gaze wide-eyed and full of frustration. Hopelessness. He says something else I can't quite make out, but it sounds like I'm sorry.

Strong hands grab my waist and try to hoist me onto the truck bed. I try to grab the edge and almost lose a fingernail when my hand is ripped away. As though realizing what's at stake, the others closest to me come alive in an explosion of desperation. We manage to shove our way out of the truck—only to meet with resistance as a dozen guards rush us.

I make one last desperate lunge for my freedom, my head filled with Sam and his propensity for finding the wrinkles that are my imperfections and ironing them flat, and how, despite everything he ever said to me about putting my survival above everything else, there's no way I could have been prepared for this.

"Quiet!" the one with the rough and authoritative voice suddenly shouts.

The guard shoving me into the truck lets me go. He lifts his head and stares at the distance. I struggle to hear over my own harsh breathing and pick up on a familiar, unexpected sound. The distant wail of sirens, getting closer with each quick second.

The guards fidget with agitation and murmur to one another. The burly and mustachioed one that I'm guessing is their leader gives a signal I don't recognize. I'm shocked when they retreat toward their vehicles, piling into them like they have to be somewhere fast. They take off in the direction away from the sirens.

"Is it over?" someone says, gaping after them.

Someone starts sobbing. Her legs give out underneath her as she lands on her knees and cries into her hands. The reactions around me are a rainbow of emotions and expressions: some cry or laugh hysterically, others clutch their heads in disbelief, and even others stare in dazed silence at one another, like it hasn't sunk in yet that we're finally free.

"Why did they leave?" Pablo asks as he picks up his gun and brandishes it with a menacing scowl, as though he's still expecting trouble.

"Use your head." Janie rolls her eyes, her flushed cheeks belying the breezy attitude. "Gardiner isn't a big on publicity. They'd rather let us go than step out of their shadows."

The flashing blue lights are rushing our way. My companions race toward the police cars, hollering and waving their arms like crazy. I follow them at a distance. Their parents are waiting for them somewhere out there. Their lives might never be the same once the world finds out what was done to us, but they have something I don't. A home. Without Sam, I have no home.

I can't return to my so-called mother. Even if she wants to take me back, which I highly doubt, I can't live with the unbearable fear that every person I encounter on the street might be my next victim. There is no normal for me out in the real world anymore. I'll settle for being alive and sane, but what if those aren't options for me? Our saviors aren't going to care about my existence once they think I'm a threat to theirs.

I'm contemplating how to convince them I'm not when I see something in the woods between two tall pine trees. The form of a slender boy, illuminated by a soft column of moonlight. I know that brown hair, the shape of those shoulders.

"Carson," I breathe.

In the blink of an eye, he's gone. I search the woods frantically. He must have followed us somehow, but if I lose him now, there's no guarantee I'll ever see him again.

"Carson!"

Marcus materializes next to me and grabs my arm tightly. "Whatever you're thinking of doing, don't. There's too much at stake here."

"I know that," I say, my head throbbing. "But I saw him! I saw Carson."

"So? You want to convince him to come along for a ride? Ask a Blank to hop into the back of an ambulance with all those kids?"

"A Blank? Is that all he is to you? Is that all I am?"

"If you were just a Blank to me," Marcus says, his eyes flashing with anger, "I wouldn't have done what I did for you."

I jerk my arm free and almost lose my balance. Marcus makes a move to help me, but I lift a hand to ward him off. My knees are shaky. I can't catch my breath, and I'm so angry that I can't think straight.

"Turning us in to Blaine wasn't for my sake," I force through clenched teeth. "Leaving those kids trapped back there with Eli wasn't for my sake. It was for Blaine. You're still pretending to be on our side, but all along you've been working against us."

He growls. "Dammit, April. It's not that black and white."

"What a convenient thing to say now!"

"Director Blaine would've killed you all! He was going to use Eli and me to do it. All he had to do was take care of your buddy in the security room, and no one would've known until it was too late. I changed the game the second I agreed to help you escape. By taking those kids straight to him in front of all those guards and security cameras, I made sure he couldn't hurt anyone if he wanted to keep the board off his ass."

He flings an arm in the direction of our rescuers. "This isn't going to keep them safe. Gardiner will never let us go. We're not just runaways to them. We're dangerous. They're going to keep coming after us until we're all dead. That's why I went to Blaine—why I didn't give you guys a choice. Because there is no other choice."

"That's not up to you to decide!" I shout. The police lights are flickering over his harsh features. I should keep walking, but I don't move from my spot. He needs to hear what he has done. What he has ruined. "I trusted you. I don't do that with a lot of people, but against all reason, I trusted you. I opened my heart up to you."

That's what hurts about this. The pain of letting someone get close enough to do real damage. I laugh and run the back of my hand over my clammy forehead, upset to the point of hysteria. "I have no right to be mad at you. You've made it clear from the beginning that you have no plans to change. I was the one who—the one who wanted—"

I lose my train of thought. The heat is everywhere, and even with the t-shirt and sweatpants I have on, I feel like I'm wearing too many layers. When I sway on my feet, Marcus moves to catch me. He swears. "You're burning up."

I don't fight him when he swoops me into his arms. He's strong and steady, everything I'm not, and I let myself sink into him, my feverish forehead against his collarbone. Despite everything I've said to him, he's still here, still supporting me, and I wish that were enough to make up for everything.

"You can yell at me all you want," he murmurs, "but it'll have to wait. And for the record, sweetheart, you have changed me. More than you realize."

The low rumble of his voice is the last thing I hear.