One of the Mogs keels over from a well-placed bullet to the forehead. Outnumbered, the remaining Mog ducks into the hotel doorway for cover. I reach out with my telekinesis, grab a luggage cart parked behind the Mog and jerk it forward so that it takes out the back of his legs. As he stumbles out of the doorway, Walker’s agents light him up.

Nine glances back to me and I nod. Together, we rush towards the entrance. I look over my shoulder to check on Sam and see him still talking to that bystander, gesturing emphatically at her cell phone. No time to worry about that now.

Inside, the posh hotel lobby is completely deserted except for a frightened clerk cowering behind the front desk. Beyond the marble columns and leather couches of the waiting area is the elevator bank. Oddly, two of the three elevators are out of service, and the third is stuck up at the penthouse level. The Mogs might not have expected an assault, but they definitely took precautions.

With a moment to catch my breath, I press my hands to the sides of my head and let some of that healing energy flow into my ears. They pop and crackle, but sound slowly returns, like a volume dial in my head being gradually turned up. From outside, I can hear sirens, screeching tires, and Walker’s people yelling at local cops to stay back. Our plan to do this covertly is already shot; now we just have to be quick.

I grab Nine before he can make it to the elevators and clap my hands to the side of his head, healing him as well. When I’m done, he shakes his head back and forth, like he’s trying to dislodge water from his inner ear.

“You’re an idiot,” I tell him.

Nine shakes the sonic gloves at me before stuffing them in his back pocket. “At least now we know what they do.”

Seeing that we aren’t gun-toting Mogadorians, the guy at the front desk slowly comes out of hiding. He’s skinny and middle-aged, and from the bags under his eyes, he looks as if he’s having one terrible day.

“What—what is going on?” the clerk asks us.

Before we can answer, Walker strides through the door. She flashes the clerk her badge and then shouts, “What floor is Sanderson on?”

The wide-eyed clerk glances from Walker to us and then back. “Pent-penthouse,” he stammers. “Those-those things you killed are with him. They cleared out the entire hotel this morning except for me and some of the staff. And I’m not even a manager.”

Nine stares at the clerk, trying to make sense of him. “Why would they keep you around?”

“They’ve been ordering room service,” he responds incredulously, his voice squeaky. “Acting like they own the place and we’re their servants.”

“That’s some ballsy shit,” Nine says, shaking his head. “Like they’ve already taken over or something.”

Walker squints at the clerk like she could strangle him, then turns to me, her voice still incredibly loud. “Goddamn it. I can’t hear this guy.”