The door opened.

Dim, watery light spilled into the stairwell. Mandy shoved herself closer to the wall, hauling me with her, and the door blocked us from the view of whoever was there.

“Clear,” snapped a voice. My nameless agent friend. “Keep moving.”

The door slammed shut. Mandy didn’t move. Five seconds later, the door slid more slowly open, and someone stepped into the stairwell. I closed my eyes against the dark, waiting for the bullet, waiting for the blow, and smelled chicory and moss, a sharp, vegetable combination that reminded me of sleeping forests and green places.

I opened my eyes.

“Rampion,” said a soft voice.

“Fiddleferns,” Mandy replied.

The door closed again, this time with the newcomer on our side. Still soft, the voice asked, “Is she awake?”

“I am,” I said. “Who is this?”

“Not important.”

I swallowed a flood of irritation. It damn well was important. If I was being asked to trust somebody, I wanted to know who they were. This spy bullshit was a waste of time, and it was going to get us all killed.

It had also gotten me out of the room where I’d been held for the last however long, and gotten me closer to freedom than I’d ever expected to be again. I glanced uneasily in Mandy’s direction, even though she couldn’t see me any more than I could see her, and asked, “So what is important?”

“Getting out of here.” There was a click as our guest turned on their flashlight. The beam was aimed at the floor, but there was enough backlight for me to recognize—

“Lucas! What are you doing here?”

“The usual. Saving your ass. Trying not to get thrown into a dark hole by NASA.” He grimaced. “That last one is a little more important than usual at the moment. Can we move? We should move.”

“You’re the one with the flashlight,” said Mandy. “You lead.”

Lucas nodded, angling the beam onto the steps, and we began to move, leaving the roar of the alarm and the sound of running feet behind.

Chapter 10

Tucson, Arizona: July 28, 2031

Ten days pre-invasion

1.

NASA’s alien-containment facility had definitely been designed by the lowest bidder. We continued down the stairs for what felt like a year, until we reached an imposing door. It was banded with metal and had a bulky keypad next to it, the sort of thing that belonged in a 1980s movie about nuclear bunkers and the Cold War.

Lucas pushed the door with his foot. He didn’t even touch the knob. It swung open easily. I stared, first at it and then at him.

“They never got around to installing locks in the sub-basement,” he said flatly. “I guess they figured a bunch of guards drawn from a non-military clerical pool and a team of scientists who thought aggression was something to safely observe from a distance would never let a prisoner get this deep.”