“Just like Ella,” Sam says, furrowing his brow.

“The warship must be returning to orbit,” Adam says. “Which means . . .”

“Ella is already aboard one of those things,” I finish the thought. “They brought her up to the fleet.”

“How are we going to get up there?” Sam asks.

“We won’t have to,” Adam responds. “The fleet will come to us.”

“Oh, right,” Sam says. “Worldwide invasion. So we’re planning to just wait for that?”

I tap my finger on the tablet, pointing out the three dots still in Florida. “The plan is to get the others. They’re still there. We just have to—” I stop myself when I look back at the screen. The runway is starting to move. “I thought you disabled the ship. Why are they moving?”

With a hurried series of keystrokes, Adam cranes the camera down. From this angle, we can see the crew of Mogadorians grimacing as they push the scout vessel manually towards the hangar.

“I guess they gave up on getting it started,” Sam observes.

One of the Mogs runs ahead to slide open the metal doors and there, caught out in the middle of the empty hangar, are Nine, Marina and Six. Sam lets loose an excited shout that he cuts off quickly, the harsh math sinking in, that there are three Garde where there should be four, and that Nine is carrying in his arms what is obviously a body bag.

“Eight,” Sam says, swallowing. “Shit.”

I turn to Adam, not ready to grieve yet.

“Does this ship you’ve hacked have any guns?”

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

AFTER A BARRAGE OF NEAR-DEAFENING BLASTER fire in the wide-open space of the hangar, the scout ship goes eerily silent. Marina and I crouch next to each other, both of us huddled behind the flipped-over metal table. We exchange a look—the table didn’t sustain even a single shot of blaster fire. In fact, it doesn’t seem like the ship’s turret came even close to hitting us.

“Nice aim, dipshit!” Nine shouts, laughing. He’s off to the side of the table, flat on the ground, half shielding Eight’s body with his own.

I poke my head out from behind the table. Between us and the scout vessel are a dozen piles of ash, formerly the Mogadorian mechanics. The ship’s gun turret is still smoking but hangs dormant now, not the least bit interested in us. Cautiously, I stand up. Marina joins me.

“What the hell is going on?” I ask.

“Who cares?” Nine says, hefting Eight’s body. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Perhaps some kind of malfunction?” Marina proposes, inching closer to the ship, which still blocks our way out. The three of us spread out, making sure not to stand directly in the path of the blaster.

“It only shot the Mogs,” I say. “That’s one convenient malfunction.”

All three of us jump when the ship’s cockpit opens up with a hydraulic hiss. There’s a burst of static from a speaker in the cockpit, and then a familiar voice rings out.