A body. A young woman. Clothed only in her underwear. She hangs impaled from one of the gleaming tips.

The teen screams, loud enough for the entire block to feel his hurt. “Rosa!”

The name incites a domino reaction down our fifteen-person column. Two women directly behind Matías set off in a sprint, stumbling into the press of silent spectators.

“Rosa!” they cry in unison.

Lucía crosses herself, her head snapping to Matías. Tears track his cheeks, pooling in the hard lines of his mouth.

They knew this girl.

“She was Andrés’s girlfriend,” Lucía reveals, my ear cuff picking up her hushed words muffled beneath her scarf.

“Is this the work of your cousin?” Skye whispers sharply, moving to Lucía’s side. Is that concern in her piercing look, or judgment?

“The lieutenant will have tortured them, yes,” she answers. “But this is savage, even for him.”

The work of the Heartless Butcher, then?

The capo must be here.

And that means Roth must be here.

Lucía sighs either a curse or a prayer, keeping her steady stare fixed on Matías.

Quick and covert, Matías directs three from his militia to protect the gardening bags, then gives Lucía an imperceptible nod. They detach from the group and move to the entrance in tandem.

“Stay,” Haven whispers to me, gripping the back of my coveralls.

The teen and two women have reached the gate’s entrance by now. They throw themselves onto Rosa’s body, desperately trying to lift her up off the golden spike. In the struggle, the girl’s neck tilts back, displaying the terrorizing sight of her slit throat.

One of the women wails “Rosa!” again and again until she faints, falling against the metal bars.

I didn’t notice before. The mice. Stuffed into the girl’s stiff hands. Strewn about on the pavement below her dangling feet.

“Militia mice!” a cartel gunman taunts from behind the gate.

“Savage cons,” Skye spits.

She’s the first of our group to step out and follow after Lucía. Then Ava.

I jerk forward to move after them, but Haven’s grip is strong. And Alexander appears on my left side.

“Don’t,” he warns. Orders. He locks his hand around my arm.

“Let. Go.” I can’t wrestle away. I can’t cause attention. A scene.

“Do you not see?” Alexander breathes hot in my ear. “The perimeter is chock-full of armed cartel men.”

“Did you think those guarding the capo and your father would be holding flowers?” I hiss. “I’m not scared.”

“Oh, I forgot,” Alexander throws at me patronizingly. “You’re not scared of anything.”

“I am,” I admit, the truth catching painfully in my throat. “I’m terrified Theo’s next to be strung up on that gate.”

Alexander unleashes my arm. He tears away from me like he wants to get as far as possible from the image I just conjured, and moves to hover near the steel platform carts. Near the concealed explosives.

I make a second attempt to go for Ava, but Haven holds me tight. “This is a message,” she whispers. “The lords will not let the message be taken down.”

Matías and Lucía make it to the front. With gentle hands, they pull their friends away from the girl and move back toward our line.

Barend huddles close to Alexander, muttering something that makes Theo’s father shake his head in protest. Under his oversized hood, I see Barend’s jaw tighten as his commanding eyes bore into mine: We’re leaving; stand down.

“No, we must go through with the plan,” I say, reckless, way too loud, needing Haven to listen and let me loose.

The time is now. We have to strike; we can’t let Roth and the water lords just get away with this. With everything.

If Matías calls this off, I need to figure out a way to get that gate open myself.

A wild idea flashes into my mind, dangerous as lightning.

I could rip off my scarf, tell the cartel gunmen who I am. They would arrest me. Take me into the stronghold—straight to Roth.

And then what?

You’re going to get yourself killed, I argue with myself.

No, you’re just scared.

What happened to doing whatever it takes?

More gunmen emerge from the stronghold. They swarm the lawn. The roofs.

Matías hoists his staff into the air, the signal to return to the vans.

“No,” I protest. I will not retreat.

I yank myself free from Haven’s grip and march for the arsenal of mortars and M-1000s waiting inside the gardening bags.

My aunt’s hot on my heels, and Alexander sees me coming, but neither makes another move to stop me. They won’t retreat either.

Alexander shields the cart from the cartel cons with his body while I peel open the top bag with one hand and flick the switch of an e-lighter with my other.

As I reach for the first explosive, I look to the front gate to calculate where best to strike.

I let the flame die when I see Ava halt in the center of the crowd. Her head turns toward a figure dressed in all black. My eyes rake over the dark cap and checkered bandana. The dusty combat uniform.

It’s Owen.

Speeding right for her.

Haven darts forward with me, and side by side we push into the crowd’s center.

We get to Owen at the same time as Ava and Skye. Alexander comes up a few paces behind, a Roman candle and his gun both stashed in the folds of his long linen jacket.

The five of us form a protective circle around Owen as he throws his hands over his head, fighting to breathe.

His words come out in sputters. “He’s . . . not . . . here . . .”

I think he might faint before he gets the rest out.

Ava takes the cooling strip I gave her off her neck and places it onto his.

“Where is he?” she asks, more patient than I’ve ever seen her.

“Roth’s in . . . the capital.”

Mexico City.

“There’s . . . a trade meeting . . .”

“When?” I press, the baking sun melting away the last of my composure.

“Tonight . . .”

My hope shrivels and disappears. Sweat drips into my eyes, stinging me to tears.

We’ll never make it.

PART III

THE FIGHT

AVA

He did it.

Somehow, Owen uncovered where Roth is hiding. The location’s been verified—his team found the hard evidence.

No more guessing, no more failures, no lives wasted, he promised in the Whiz’s hospital room.

And he came through.

I felt a sudden flare of joy when I saw Owen running toward me, safe and whole. Despite his dark hat and bandana, he stood out like a strip of radiant sunlight in the crowd.

Owen found his way back to me. To our mission.

He had my paper map clutched in his hand. A love letter, not a goodbye note.

The kind I learned how to write from my father.

We’ve got six hours before Roth’s meeting with the capo, he told us as we hurried back to our vehicles. And the high rollers will no doubt be dealing big.

Is Roth trading Project Albatross? From my time in President Moore’s prison, I know Canada was attempting to exchange Mira and me for the “twin gene” editing therapy.