“Nothing I didn’t ask for,” Sanderson replies, sadly. “I wish you boys would have found me sooner. Now it’s too late.”

“Like hell,” Nine says.

“Even if you kill me, it won’t make any difference,” Sanderson rasps, resignedly.

“We’re not here to kill you,” I reply. “I don’t know what they’ve told you, what they’ve filled your mind and body with, but we’re not done fighting.”

“Oh, but I am,” Sanderson replies, and pulls a small handgun out of his robe’s front pocket. Before I can stop him, he holds the pistol next to his temple and pulls the trigger.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

IF I’D HAD TIME TO THINK ABOUT IT, I PROBABLY wouldn’t have been able to do it.

There’s about a millimeter of space between Bud Sanderson’s temple and the barrel of his gun. It’s in that space that I manage to stop the bullet, holding it there with my telekinesis. The precision required makes me grunt from exertion. Every muscle in my body is tensed, my fists clenched and toes curled. It’s like I flung my entire body into stopping that bullet.

I can’t believe I just did that. I’ve never done anything so precise before.

A ring-shaped burn from the pistol’s barrel forms on Sanderson’s temple, but otherwise his head is totally intact.

It takes until the pistol’s report stops echoing for the secretary of defense to realize his suicide attempt didn’t work. He blinks his watery eyes at me, not quite understanding why he’s still alive.

“How—?”

Before Sanderson can pull the trigger again, Nine lunges forward and slaps the gun out of his hand. I exhale very slowly and allow my body to uncoil.

“That’s not right,” Sanderson says to me accusingly, his lower lip shaking as he rubs his wrist where Nine struck him. “Just let me die.”

“Seriously,” Walker interjects, her hands tightening around her own gun. “Why’d you stop him? Could’ve solved all our problems right there.”

“It wouldn’t have solved anything,” I say, shooting her a look as I let the bullet drop harmlessly onto Sanderson’s unmade bed.

“He’s right,” Sanderson says to Walker, his shoulders slumping. “Killing me won’t change anything. But keeping me alive is simply cruel.”

“You don’t get to decide when you check out, old man,” I tell Sanderson. “When we win this war, we’ll let the people of Earth decide how they deal with traitors.”

Sanderson chuckles dryly. “The optimism of youth.”

I crouch down to look him in the face. “There’s still time to redeem yourself,” I say. “To do something of value.”

Sanderson raises an eyebrow, and his eyes seem to focus up a bit. But then the right side of his mouth droops and he has to wipe away a blob of drool with the cuff of his robe. Looking utterly defeated, Sanderson averts his eyes.

“No,” he says quietly. “I think not.”

Nine sighs from boredom and picks up the kit of syringes laid out next to Sanderson. He studies the tar-colored sludge inside the injector for a moment, then waves it in Sanderson’s face.