“Or maybe they’re just for keeping your hands warm,” Sam suggests.

“Just don’t do anything stupid,” I tell Nine, and he stares at me, his expression getting deathly serious.

“John, I won’t,” he says. “For real. You can trust me out there.”

I can tell Nine is still carrying around what happened down in Florida and is eager to prove himself. I just nod at him, knowing he wouldn’t want me to make a big deal out of it. I’m glad he’s got my back.

Walker turns around to look at Sam. “These guys shoot fireballs and have magic gloves, apparently. But what do you do?”

Sam looks momentarily taken aback, and I notice him reach down to touch the scars burned into his wrists. After a moment’s consideration, he looks Walker in the eye.

“I’ve probably killed more Mogs than you have, lady,” Sam replies.

Nine elbows me, and I can’t help but grin. To her credit, that actually looks like the answer Walker was hoping for. She opens the glove compartment, pulls out a holstered handgun and holds it out to Sam.

“Well, I’m officially arming a minor,” she says. “Do your country proud, Samuel.”

A minute later, our driver pulls over to the side of one of Manhattan’s quieter blocks, double-parking. The other SUV rolls up behind us. Across the street and down the block a bit is the entrance to a posh hotel. There’s a wide awning out front and a red carpet, a place for guests to turn over their car keys to a valet and drop their bags onto one of the waiting luggage carts.

Except there’s no activity outside the hotel. No tourists strolling the sidewalk, no valets waiting for tips. Nothing. Everything’s been cleared away or scared off by the trio of Mogadorians standing guard at the door, their coats brazenly open to reveal the blasters hanging from their belts.

It’s like they’re not even bothering to hide anymore.

“We want to do this quick and clean,” Walker says to us, hunching low in her seat so she can look at the Mogs in her side-view mirror. “Take down the Mogs and get to Sanderson before they can send up an alarm, radio for backup, or whatever they do.”

“Yeah, got it,” I reply quickly. I pull up the hood on my sweatshirt so that it hides my face. “We’ve done this before.”

“Let my people lead,” Walker says. “We’ll flash some badges, maybe confuse them. Then you hit them hard.”

“Sure, you distract ’em,” Nine says. “But then get the hell out of our way.”

Walker picks up a walkie-talkie and radios to the agents in the second car. “You guys ready?”

“Affirmative,” a male voice answers. “Let’s do this.”

“Here we go,” says an excited Nine, and claps his gloved hands together.

The concussion of sound that detonates from Nine’s hands when he claps isn’t quite sonic-boom loud, but it’s definitely close. It’s like a thunderclap in the backseat; all of the SUV’s windows explode outward, and the car even bounces a few inches into the air. The SUV behind us doesn’t fare much better—its windows also shatter, but inward, spraying the agents huddled inside. The windows of nearby storefronts break, too, and a pedestrian walking by is knocked clear off her feet. Next to me, Sam is squeezing the sides of his head, looking dazed. For the first few seconds, I can’t hear much except a low chirping that I soon realize is car alarms going off up and down the block.