Tom felt a strange, odd calm despite his certainty of doom. He knew what would happen. If they resisted, they died. If they surrendered, well, Joseph Vengerov had manufactured the processors, and he’d manufactured the census device. When he caught them, he’d demand far more than their excuses—he’d stick them under the census device and cull them for every last secret in their heads. He’d tear the truth out of them, and he’d learn what Tom could do.

Who would stop him? They weren’t in the United States. They were on a distant continent. No one knew they were here, and there was nothing stopping Vengerov from doing whatever he wanted. Vengerov would find out Tom had been in his head, seen through his eyes. He’d realize Tom was the ghost in the machine he’d been tracking, and when he culled Tom even more, he’d learn that there were two ghosts and Medusa was the other one. Tom would give her away and he knew he couldn’t stop that from happening.

Tom closed his eyes. He couldn’t let that happen. Vik and Wyatt didn’t know about Medusa, so they could surrender. They should surrender.

“Wyatt’s right. We don’t have a choice,” Tom said to them. “Our only way to survive this is to hope Vengerov shows mercy. I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would go this way. Just lie on the floor.”

Tom made a show of lying down, to be sure Wyatt and Vik would do it, too. When they were both down, gazing at the floor, breathing so hard he could see it, Tom eased himself back up to his feet again.

There were a million things he wished he could say to Vik and Wyatt, but he knew even if he tried, he wouldn’t get the words out. They’d all get tangled up in his throat, and his friends would both realize what he was about to do and maybe talk him out of it—and he’d let them persuade him because he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t. It killed him to think he’d gotten them into this; he’d give anything to see them escape. But the only one he could help now was Medusa. He could still send her a message. He could warn her Vengerov was onto her.

But not from within Obsidian Corp.’s walls.

Tom moved softly so his friends wouldn’t notice him creeping backward, his legs shaking as he inched toward the door leading outside. It felt like moving through quicksand. And then he was there, his hand on the chilled doorknob, and Tom knew the clock was running out. He shoved open the door, the wall of overpowering cold like a massive fist striking him. But Tom forced himself outward despite every instinct screaming at him to turn around.