There was a metallic clank as the door closed and locked. He tapped a series of commands, then smashed his fist into the control panel just as Ariana was reaching for his neck.

“Zahra! You have to contact SPEC. The security web is off. They can come get you. Do you understand?” He ducked away from Ariana again, reaching for the shock weapon still clenched in Dag’s hand.

“I—yes!” I answered, but I was shaking my head. “The radio— is it—”

“They’ll be trying to contact us,” he said. “The ship is yours now.”

“But they won’t—”

“Make them listen,” he said. He fired the suppression weapon at Ariana, but once again it had no effect. She grabbed his free arm and pulled him toward her, not even flinching as he kicked her solidly in the abdomen. “You have to tell them about what’s here.”

“I know,” I said. A single silver thread had emerged from the bloody wreck of Panya’s face. It twisted and curved, dancing through the clumps of blood.

“No, listen to me, you can’t let them . . . You. Bhattacharya.” Malachi thumped his hand on the glass wall. “Don’t let them cover this up. Any of it. Tell your aunt everything. Do you understand?”

Bhattacharya nodded shortly. “Yes.”

“Don’t let them make you lie like they did before,” Malachi said.

Bhattacharya nodded again.

“Zahra.”

I swallowed. I was still holding the gun, and my hand was sweaty, my fingers aching with tension. I could fire at the glass. I could get him out. Maybe it wasn’t too late. A bigger shock, help from doctors, from somebody, maybe—

“Zahra, I’m so sorry. Make sure they know the truth. You deserve that. I never meant—”

He stopped suddenly. One hand clutched instinctively at his neck. His lips moved, but there was no sound emerging except a hoarse rasp. His eyes went wide and he looked around quickly, one arm still anchored by Ariana’s unbreakable grip. He kicked the wall to give himself momentum, reaching with one hand for the gun at Dag’s belt. In the blink of an eye, he turned it on Ariana and fired. Her chest ruptured in a ragged wet burst.

Then, just as quickly, Malachi turned the weapon on himself. One second the muzzle was pressed to the bottom of his chin. The next his head was gone.

After the crack of the shot, the only sound that came from the glass room was the gurgling, wheezing rasp from what was left of Panya’s ruined face. All around them, in a slow, elegant dance, silver worms twisted and twisted in clouds of blood.

The hostages were silent, stunned. Nassar had his uninjured hand clamped over his mouth. Xiomara was at the wall, hands pressed to the surface, mist surrounding her fingers where warm skin met cold glass.

“She’s gone,” Bhattacharya said quietly.

“I know.”

“It’s only the—”