“Arya, stay low.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, rectangular black device.

It was no larger than a matchbox, with a single recessed button on the side.

He grabbed my hand, forcing the cold plastic into my palm.

“What is this?” I whispered, my voice trembling.

“A beacon,” he said, wrapping my fingers tightly around it. “It bypasses standard cell jammers.”

“Damiano, no—”

“If they separate us, keep it on you,” he commanded. “Do not let them find it.”

I shoved the small device deep into the inner pocket of my heavy coat.

I pulled the zipper of the inner pocket shut, hiding it completely.

Before I could move, a heavy impact shook the front windshield.

A man in a tactical mask stood on the hood of our SUV.

He fired three heavy-caliber rounds directly into the center of the driver’s side glass.

The webbed glass finally gave way, collapsing inward in a heavy spray of glittering cubes.

Victor slumped forward over the steering wheel, his horn blaring a single, continuous note.

“Victor!” I screamed.