With no other choice, I closed my mouth. When I tried to open it again, I couldn’t. My eyes widened. Shit!

“Just a spot of dermal adhesive.” The Gilly pulled Carl toward him. “Wears off after two or three hours. We’re not taking any chances, seeing as all you syndies know each other.”

“But I’m not—” Carl started.

“Shut up.”

And at last, Carl was forced to shut up.

“XIX-49-30 isn’t glued. Look at her for orders,” the Gilly said. “Otherwise, stick to your objectives.”

I pushed my tongue against my lips, but they wouldn’t budge. This Gilly must love having one over on ex-syndicate members.

Having sealed our mouths, the Gilly saluted Warden before he returned to the stern gray building he’d emerged from. There was a plaque outside: THE SCION CITADEL OF LONDON—NVD COMMAND POST—I COHORT SECTION 4, with a map of the area covered by that post. I could make out a marker for the shopping center in Covent Garden, the pot under which the black market bubbled. If only I could get there. Maybe I still could.

Carl swallowed. Even though we had been seeing these plaques for years, they were still daunting. I looked up at Warden. “Situla and her humans will approach the square from the western side,” he said. “Are you ready?”

I don’t know how he expected us to answer. Carl nodded. Warden reached into his jacket and procured two masks.

“Here,” he said, handing one to each of us. “These will disguise your identities.”

These were no ordinary masks. They had blank, uniform features, with small eyeholes and slots for air below the nose. When I fitted mine to my face, it bonded to my skin. It wouldn’t earn a second glance from busy Scion denizens, but it would also stop the gang from recognizing me, and with my lips sealed, I couldn’t call for help.

How clever it all was.

Warden looked at me for a moment before he put his own mask on. Eerie light burned in the eyeholes. For the first time, I was glad I was fighting on his side.