Samm thought about the Badlands: the swirling pools of poison water, the endless miles of bone-white trees. He and Heron were more resilient than any human, but neither of them were scouts; someone with targeted survival training would be useful. He rubbed his acid scars and frowned. “Shooting you might be kinder.” Calix started to protest, but Samm stopped her with a gesture. “We leave tomorrow morning. If you’re prepared to die for this, be ready to go at dawn.”

Part 2

PART 2

Chapter Twenty-two

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“General.”

Shon looked up from his maps, trying to plan the next wave of their hunt for the human terrorists. The resistance had ramped up their attacks over the last few weeks, striking harder and in more places than ever before, only to fade away like ghosts into the forests and ruins. They were getting bolder, too: His camp had spent the night and morning pinned down by sniper fire. He looked at the messenger with weary eyes. “What news?”

“We found the sniper’s nest, but no one was there—just a rifle rigged up to an alarm clock.”

Shon raised his eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

The messenger’s link was completely sincere, blended with disbelief. “I saw it myself, sir. The trigger had been removed and connected to the gears of an alarm clock—one of the old wind-up ones, sir, completely handmade. We think it was set to fire into the camp at regular intervals, and the tripod was loosened just enough that the recoil adjusted the aim with each shot, so it wasn’t hitting the same spot over and over. The scouts think no one’s been up there since the first shot last night.”

Shon clenched his fist, linking his rage so fiercely that the messenger staggered back.

“That explains why no one was actually hit, sir,” said the messenger. “We thought it was just because humans are bad shots, but . . . now we know, I guess. It wasn’t even aiming, just firing every half hour or so. Maybe they just set it up and hoped they got lucky.”

“All they were hoping to do was slow us down,” said Shon, “which they’ve done brilliantly. Just when I thought we’d figured out these White Rhinos’ tactics, they switch them up completely.”

“That’s the other thing, sir,” said the messenger. “We don’t think this was the Rhinos—or if it was, it was some kind of splinter group. There was a note.” He stepped forward and handed it to the general.

Shon frowned, taking the wrinkled piece of paper. “They’ve never left a note before.”

“Exactly, sir. Everything about this strike is different from what we’ve seen before.”

Shon read the note: “‘Sorry we couldn’t wait around. We have some more surprises to set up. Love and kisses, Owen Tovar.’ What on earth?”

“We don’t know who Owen Tovar is yet,” said the messenger, “but we’re working on it.”