It takes half a second for me to slam onto the floor and roll under a desk, where I hold my breath and try to fight off the trembling in my hands. I must have been fast enough, because the two men who walk out of the office don’t stop talking.

“I’m telling you, the situation here is under control,” a man’s voice says with a slight wheeze. “My agents are—”

“If things were really under control, Four couldn’t walk in and out of this backwoods town as if it was his own private warship,” the other man bellows, his voice like a bass drum. “I never should have left Paradise to someone who couldn’t handle it. From now on my soldiers will be taking over here.”

I flatten myself on the floor and press my face up against the bottom of the desk, which offers me an inch or two of room to see through.

“That’s not necessary,” the wheezy man says. His face is pink and piggish, with a big, busted nose that looks like he’s been tackled one too many times. I recognize him from the photo GUARD and I had found online: Purdy. At least that means Dad’s office is empty if they leave. If they stay—well, I’m completely screwed. The other man is a behemoth. He’s at least seven feet tall, with jet-black hair pulled back into a ponytail that disappears beneath his black coat. From the back, he’s a wall of a man. A mountain.

“Your usefulness wears thin, Purdy,” he says. “Don’t let it wear out completely.”

The giant of a man takes a step forward, then pauses. He turns his face to the back of the station, towards me, as if he’s heard something. The man’s eyes are almost completely black. They reflect the buzzing fluorescent lights overhead.

I’m looking at a Mogadorian. I’d recognize those terrifying black eyes anywhere. I don’t breathe. If I could stop my heartbeat, I would in order to keep him from discovering me.

But he turns away, barking at Purdy.

“Take me to Number Four,” he says.

He means John, I think. I’ve only got a few minutes before they realize the report is a sham.

As soon as the station door shuts, I roll out from under the desk and tiptoe across the room. Fortunately, the agent at the front desk is trying to make himself look as busy as possible, and he types loudly on the keyboard, giving me at least a tiny bit of noise cover.

Luck stays on my side: my dad’s keys still work.