Vale’s chilly gaze slides over me. “You wouldn’t understand.”
I grit my teeth. “I understand that the feds are surrounding the building right now,” I say. “I understand that you’re outnumbered and outmaneuvered.”
“I’m outnumbered but certainly not outmaneuvered,” she says. She pulls the gun from her holster. It’s got asilencer, so the sound won’t blow out her eardrums in this tiny room.
My heartbeat picks up.
Oh no. No, no, no.
I can’t die like this. I’m not done.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, squirming against the zip ties. Their plastic edges bite painfully into my wrists. There are ways to break them, but not when I’m tied to a chair. “I’m tied up. I’m not a threat to you or your plans.”
She shrugs, utterly unrepentant. “Perhaps not. But I find you rather irritating.”
At least she’s willing to admit it.
“Goodbye, little wraith,” she says, and brings up the gun.
17
I’ve died before.
I know what it feels like to see your death coming. There’s a sickening twist in the stomach, the slow inevitability, the realization that nothing, nothing you do will matter. You can’t escape it; you can’t outrun it.
This time, I don’t greet it with my eyes open. Instead, I squeeze them shut and think of my family. I think of Nonna, four stories up. I think of my sisters and parents, thousands of miles away. And—all right, call me a little sentimental, I think of Prefect, who is probably outside in the courtyard surrounded by SWAT and grumbling into a cup of instant coffee.
I think of them all.
It’s not so bad, as long as I’m thinking about my family.
I wait for it—the bark of the gun.
But instead, a cheerful voice booms through the room’s speakers.
“Hello, hello, hello!” says the voice. It is a male voice that sounds like it belongs on a 1940s film reel. “Good afternoon, terrorists!” The voice pauses. “This is interesting. I’ve never been hooked into such a large speaker system before.”
I crack one eye open.
Hannah Vale is frozen with her finger on the trigger. Her face is a picture of utter confusion. She glances around the room, as though trying to find an invisible man. But the room remains the same as ever. “What the,” she mutters.
“Oh, this is a bit disconcerting, actually,” says the voice. “I can see everything. Hello, child in 507. I can see you picking your nose and wiping it on your couch. Also I would request that the man in 213 please stop crying so loudly.”
I can’t believe it.
Edgar.
That is Edgar’s voice roaring from every speaker in the building.
I exhale a noise that is half laugh and half horror. My sociopathic little spybot has taken control of an entire building’s communications.
“One small step for man,” I say, “one giant leap for the robot uprising.”
“What now,” snarls Vale. She seizes the radio at her hip and brings it to her mouth. “Carla? What the hell happened to the jammers? Who hacked the building’s comm?”
There is a crackle, a moment of static, and then Carla’s voice comes through the radio. “Jammers are still up and running,” she says, anxiety bleeding through her words. “There’s no communication from the outside. It’s—it’s got to be coming from in the building.”
“That’s impossible,” says Vale. “The only way to hack the building is through the mainframe—you restricted its access to this room. And we’re the only ones in here.”
