“We don’t know for sure that it’s Mark,” I say, frowning.

I look over at Adam. He’s been quiet since we started exploring the They Walk Among Us website, listening to us with a hand on his chin, thoughtful.

“Could this be some kind of trap?” I ask him, figuring it’s best to consult the expert.

“Of course,” he says without hesitation. “Although if it is, it’s an elaborate one. And, even for the sake of trapping you, I find it hard to believe Setrákus Ra would admit to being driven off from Dulce Base.”

“Is it true?” Malcolm asks. “What he’s written about the secretary of defense?”

“I don’t know,” Adam replies. “It very well could be.”

“I’m going to email him,” Sarah announces, opening up a new browser tab.

“Hold on,” Adam says quickly, a bit more polite than when he slammed my idea to try rescuing the others. “If this Mark person really does have access to all this highly secret intel—”

Sam chuckles.

“—my people will almost certainly be monitoring his communications,” Adam concludes, raising an eyebrow at Sam. He turns back to Sarah. “They’ll also definitely be monitoring your email.”

Sarah slowly lifts her hands away from the keyboard. “Can’t you do anything about that?”

“I know how their cyber-tracking systems work. It was something I . . . excelled at during my training. I could write an encryption code, reroute our IP address through servers in different cities.” Adam turns to me, like he wants permission. “They’d unravel it eventually. We’d have to leave this place within twenty-four hours to be safe.”

“Do it,” I tell him. “Better that we keep moving, anyway.”

Adam immediately begins typing commands into his laptop. Sam rubs his hands together and leans over Adam’s shoulder. “You should reroute them to as many crazy places as possible. Make them think Sarah’s in Russia or something.”

Adam smirks. “Consider it done.”

It takes Adam about twenty minutes to write some code that will reroute our IP address through a dozen far-flung locations. I think back to the elaborate computer system Henri always had set up and the even more complicated grid that Sandor built in Chicago. Then, I imagine a hundred Mogadorians, just like Adam, hunched over keyboards, stalking us. I never doubted our Cêpans were justified in their paranoia, but seeing Adam work I finally realize just how necessary it was.

“Whoa,” Sarah says when she’s finally able to open her email. The list of boldfaced unread mail consists entirely of messages from Mark James. “It really is him.”

“Or the Mogs hacked his email,” Sam suggests.

“Doubtful,” Adam replies. “My people are thorough, sure, but this seems kind of . . . roundabout.”

I glance over the email headings—lots of exclamation points and capital letters. A few months ago the idea of Mark James spamming my girlfriend would’ve gotten under my skin, but now it seems like our rivalry was something that happened to someone else, something from another life.