“Six,” Marina says, her voice suddenly fragile, not so distant and cold. “Look at this.”

The TV over the bar has started coming in, a rolling band of static disrupting the picture now and then, but a news broadcast is otherwise clearly visible. On it, a windblown reporter stands in front of a line of police tape, the John Hancock Center looming in the background.

“What the hell?” I say under my breath. The roof shakes from a sudden peal of thunder outside. That was me, letting some of that rage slip.

The newscast switches over from the reporter to taped footage of the top floors of the John Hancock Center in flames.

“This can’t be happening,” Marina says, her eyes wide, looking to me for confirmation that this is just some sick joke. I’ve been trying to be the stable one, but I can’t find anything reassuring to say.

The bartender clicks his tongue, watching the TV, too. “Crazy, right? Freakin’ terrorists.”

I lunge across the bar and grab him by the front of his apron before he can even think of reaching for his hidden shotgun. “When did this happen?” I snap.

“Damn, girl,” the bartender says, sensing something in my eyes that makes him decide not to struggle. “I dunno. Like, two days ago? It’s been all over the news. Where the hell you been?”

“Getting our asses handed to us,” I mutter, and shove him away. I try to pull myself together, to beat back the panic. Nine’s been completely silent since the report came on. When I look over at him, his expression is completely blank. He stares at the television, watching footage of our penthouse headquarters and his former home burning, his mouth open just a little, his body completely still, almost rigid. He looks like he’s shutting down, as if his brain isn’t capable of processing this latest blow.

“Nine . . . ,” I start, and my voice breaks his trance. Without a word to me or Marina, without so much as a look, he spins around and heads for the door. One of the pool players isn’t quick enough to get out of Nine’s way and gets shouldered to the floor.

Trusting that Marina won’t freeze anyone to death in my absence, I chase after Nine. By the time I’m out on Trapper’s porch, Nine has already made it into the parking lot, stalking intently towards the gravel road.

“Where are you going?” I shout after him, hopping the porch railing and jogging to catch up.

“Chicago,” he answers bluntly.

“You’re going to walk to Chicago?” I ask him. “That’s your plan?”

“Good point,” he replies, not slowing down. “I’ll steal a car. You guys coming or what?”

“Stop being an idiot,” I snap, and when that doesn’t slow him down, I reach out with my telekinesis and grab him. I turn him around so he’s facing me, his heels digging divots in the gravel as he tries to fight.

“Let me go, Six,” Nine growls. “Let me go right now.”