I imagine Nine’s weapon working like it did back at the cabin—the beads hovering in a perfect circle, spinning slowly forward, sucking up anything in their path. I can hear the whoosh of air, followed by Mogadorian screams, and a lot of futile shooting. Glass breaks as framed pictures are torn from the hallway walls, the pieces sucked into the miniature vacuum.

Nine snaps his fingers and everything the vacuum collected explodes outward. Violently expelled from the suction, one Mogadorian comes flying into the elevator. His head smashes hard against the back wall, his neck broken. Outside, everything is quiet.

When it’s over, I stick my head outside the doors. The air is filled with swirling dust particles that might be Mogadorian remains. A blaster that somehow became wedged against the ceiling clatters to the floor. Aside from that, the only thing in the hallway is a room-service cart that looks like it’s gone through a grinder, its legs bent and twisted. There’s only one door at the end of the short hallway, the one for the penthouse, and it’s now half broken off its hinges.

“What the hell was that thing?” Walker asks, incredulous.

“The Mogs aren’t the only ones with kick-ass weaponry,” Nine says, picking up the harmless-looking stone strand from where it landed on the floor.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I say to Walker when I catch her craning her neck to get a look at the stones. “Our technology isn’t for sale.”

Walker frowns at me. “Yeah, well, judging by that bullshit with the gloves, you don’t know how to work it anyway.”

From the broken doorway up ahead, I hear the droning of a television. It’s turned to cable news, I think, some talking head rambling on about stock prices. Other than that, the hallway is totally quiet. There isn’t any sign of more Mogadorians. Even so, we advance cautiously towards the penthouse door.

Wary of an ambush, I nudge the door with my telekinesis before we get too close. It comes off the hinges easily and falls into the penthouse with a thud. The living room inside is dark, all the curtains drawn, and lit only by the blue glow of the television.

“Come on in,” a gravelly voice calls from inside. “There’s no one in here who can hurt you.”

“That’s Sanderson,” Walker whispers.

I exchange a quick look with Nine. He shrugs and waves towards the door. I go first, Nine right behind me and Walker bringing up the rear.

The first thing I notice is a damp, moldy smell in the hotel room. It smells like rot with an undercurrent of minty, old-man joint cream. A map of New York City is spread across the table in the suite’s dining area, notes in Mogadorian scribbled at various locations. Next to the table is a knocked-over chair, as if someone got up in a hurry. There are also Mogadorian cannons propped up against one wall along with some dark canvas backpacks of gear—I notice a laptop, a few cell phones and a thick leather-bound book.