The thing about nine-year-olds is they don't understand "impossible."Marcus Jr. stood in front of his father with his arms crossed, chin jutted out in that stubborn way that reminded Grayson way too much of himself at that age. Except Grayson had never planned rescue missions when he was nine. He'd been worried about baseball and homework, not kidnapped friends and armed mercenaries."I'm going after Emma.""No. Absolutely not.""She's my friend.""I know she's your friend. That's exactly why this is a trap. Miranda took her to get to you."Marcus Jr.'s jaw tightened. "So what? I'm supposed to just leave her there? Let them hurt her?"Grayson knelt down, trying to meet his son's eyes. The kid wouldn't look at him. "Marcus, listen to me. You're nine years old. Nine. You can't—""I can shoot. You taught me.""That doesn't mean—""I can fight. I've done it before.""Against other kids! Not trained killers!""Emma's scared right now." Marcus Jr.'s voice cracked. "She doesn't understand wh

Six weeks later, Marcus Jr. still couldn't quite believe the food.Real meals. Three times a day. Hot. Prepared by an actual chef. Steak. Pasta. Vegetables that didn't come from cans. Dessert. The first week he'd eaten until he was sick because his body wasn't used to having enough.Miranda watched him eat breakfast—eggs, bacon, fresh fruit—and smiled. "Better than what your parents gave you?"Marcus Jr. didn't answer. But yeah. It was better. The past year he'd been eating whatever they could scrounge. Dumpster food sometimes. Donated meals from shelters. Nothing like this."You've gained seven pounds," Miranda said. "Healthy weight. Growing boy needs nutrition."The apartment—he refused to call it a room—had everything. Big TV with every streaming service. Video games. Books. A computer with internet access (monitored, obviously, but still). A bathroom that was bigger than most places they'd stayed.His parents had made him live in abandoned buildings. Sleep in cars. Wear secondhand

Grayson stumbled through the door at three in the morning looking like he'd been through a war. Which, technically, he had.Ava was still awake. She'd been awake since he left, sitting in that damn wheelchair by the window, watching the street below like somehow she'd see him coming back. When the door opened she spun around so fast the wheels squeaked."He didn't know me." Grayson's voice came out flat. Dead. "Marcus Jr. looked right at me and didn't know who I was.""Maybe he was—""He turned me in, Ava. Pulled the alarm. Called the guards. My own son sold me out without hesitating."Ava's face did something complicated. Like she was trying to process information her brain refused to accept. "But he's ten. He has to remember—""He doesn't. Or he does and just doesn't care anymore. Either way, our son's gone. Miranda won."They sat there in silence for a while. What else was there to say? They'd tried everything. Lost everything. Ava was paralyzed. Marcus Jr. was brainwashed. The whol

Ava didn't believe it at first.She was sitting in that condemned apartment when Grayson walked in with Marcus Jr., and her face went through about six different expressions in two seconds. Shock. Confusion. Disbelief. Hope. Fear that she was hallucinating."Marcus?"The kid ran to her. Ten years old and still small enough to throw himself into his mom's lap, wheelchair and all. They both started crying. Just holding each other. Making sounds that weren't quite words.Grayson stood back. Watching. Feeling something crack open in his chest that had been locked tight for months."You remembered me?" Ava kept asking. "You remembered?""I never forgot." Marcus Jr.'s voice was muffled against her shoulder. "Just pretended. Had to pretend or Miranda would've known.""How did you—""She's smart but not perfect." The kid pulled back. Wiped his eyes. Trying to be tough even though he was still shaking. "I studied her. Learned what she wanted to see. Acted like I was brainwashed. Said her name

Turns out starting a civil war is easier than you'd think.Morrison had fifty thousand troops. Blackwell had twice that. The news wouldn't call it a war though. Too scary. "Domestic conflict" sounded better. Made it seem like something that could be fixed with a strongly worded letter.But it was war. Anyone with eyes could see that.Cities turned into war zones overnight. Atlanta. Chicago. Los Angeles. Places where people lived normal lives suddenly had tanks rolling down Main Street. Civilians packed whatever they could carry and just started walking. Anywhere that wasn't here. Anywhere that wasn't a battlefield.Morrison's people evacuated Grayson's family to her base. Some military facility in Colorado. Mountains. Concrete. The kind of place built to survive the end of the world.Ava hated it immediately. "Too many stairs," she said, looking at her wheelchair.They'd installed ramps. But yeah. The whole place was designed for soldiers who could run and jump and do all the things Av