"You do know the 'enhancement, not alteration' thing is total BS, right?"

"But it doesn't have to be. Look, we've all decided we're going to dig."

"I'm pretty sure the first rule of going undercover isn't to tell your superior what you're doing."

"Help us, Red. We're getting back to the old Annum Guard. The one that existed before any of us were even born. The one with a purpose. The one that you thought you joined."

Red's quiet for a moment. Then he squeezes the bridge of his nose. "What exactly are you hoping I'll do?"

My heart lifts. "You have access to information we don't."

"I don't know what any of the XP missions are. That's in the realm of the Defense Department." But the way he says it-in a rushed voice just a smidge higher than his normal tone-tells me that this too is a half-truth. I don't know what he's hiding, but Red's never given me even the smallest indication that he can't be trusted. He's come through for me every time I've ever needed him.

"Only the DoD has seen Alpha's notebook," Red continues. "Or what's left of it." Most of the notebook was destroyed in an explosion back at Peel. That notebook detailed every mission Alpha ever sold, to whom, and for how much.

"The notebook! Red, what if I project back to that day at Peel? To before the notebook was burned and its remnants turned over to the DoD?"

Red draws himself up to his full height. "Are you joking? You are not asking me to authorize a mission where you'd go back in time and steal something from yourself. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? What would you do if another version of you walked through the door right now and tried to take something from you?"

Fair point. "Well, then, another Guardian could do it. Like Green or-Oh! Abe! I mean Blue. I promise, I wouldn't have found it weird if he asked me for the notebook that day. And I would have given it to him."

Red shakes his head. "Nope. All of you were there that day at Peel. That would mean a double version of one of you. No, Iris. The notebook is off the table. What else do you have?"

Is that an invitation? He's staring at me. I can't tell if he's thinking about how he can help-about telling me what he knows-or whether he's going to make sure I get fired tomorrow.

"Okay, then, we start small," I say. "We'll look for any little trail we can find that might lead us to XP, and that's the direction we'll take." I tap the base of my neck, where my new tracker is. "You also control these, right?"

Red doesn't answer.

"And what's the third thing?" he says.

"The what?"

"You said there were three things."

"Oh. Right. Our interns. It's a pretty big coincidence that Orange went missing right after they started."

"You think we have a mole."

"I think we should try to find out."

He's quiet again.

"So now it's your turn, Red. Am I on the right track with any of this? What was Orange really doing when he disappeared?"

Red kicks a chair out from behind the table, and I sit quickly.

"What I've told you is the truth. I don't know who XP is, and I don't know what any of the XP missions are. But believe me that I share your frustrations with our current administration. Bonner is leading us on one wild goose chase after another, and don't for one second think I haven't asked myself why."

He opens the top drawer of the file cabinet in the corner and pulls out a plain tan folder. He slaps it onto the table in front of me, and I flip it open. A picture of Orange is clipped to the left side. This is Orange's personal file.

I scan it. Orange's real name is Jeremy Greer. He's twenty-seven. His mother-my breath catches-his mother is Epsilon. I think back to my very first day at Annum Guard. To the woman in the wheelchair with the broken, mangled body. A warning against the havoc that time travel can wreak on humans.

I look over the rest of the page. Orange grew up in Arlington, just across the river. Both of his parents still live there. There's a handwritten note at the bottom of the page, and I immediately recognize Alpha's handwriting. The note is dated nine years ago. It must have been written right after Orange joined. The note says that, at Orange's request, 30 percent of his salary is to be withheld and put in a special needs trust for Epsilon.

And with that, I flip the file shut. This is too much. Too personal.

"He's my friend," Red says quietly. "He's been my friend for a very long time. Yellow, Green, and Blue-Old Blue-didn't join the Guard until two years ago, and Indigo and Violet the year after that. For seven years, third generation was only me and Orange. He's my friend."

"What happened to him?" My voice is soft, too.

"I found something buried in a file. A note about how Eta referred to the election mission as 'The Cannonball Mission.' That's not how we name missions, and she was talking about a Ma.s.sachusetts governor's election. Why would she call it that? It had nothing to do with a cannonball. So I dug and I searched and I dug and I searched. For weeks. And then I found a tree native to Central and South American rainforests nicknamed the cannonball tree."

I nod politely. What in the world is he talking about?

"Its scientific name is couroupita guianensis, so by a stroke of luck, I decided to do a search for that, and when I did, I discovered something called morphnus guianensis. The scientific name for the crested eagle. Eta probably thought she was being smart, that no one would ever be able to reverse engineer the scientific name of the bird back to a cannonball."

I sit up straight. Crested Eagle was the code name of my Peel headmaster-Vaughn-who was working for XP.

"So you thought the election mission might have something to do with XP?"

"It was a strong hunch, one that proved to be correct. Orange knew what he was doing. I told him about Cannonball not five minutes after I found it. He knew the real mission was to look for any signs of George Vaughn or XP. But neither of us were expecting that they'd be waiting. It was an ambush."

"We're going to find him, Red." I meet his gaze. "We are. But the only way we're going to do it is to keep digging."

Red looks past me to the clock. It's nearly eight thirty.

"Hope you're not very hungry," he says. "We need to plan."

CHAPTER 11.

Phase One of our plan is to sniff out the interns.

Okay, actually, phase one of the plan is to put Yellow in charge of sniffing out the interns. Yellow may look like a helpless gazelle grazing in the savanna, but that's part of her charm. The truth is that girl is a cheetah through and through.

"Here's what we're doing," Yellow says as she pushes next to me on the stairs after the six thirty a.m. Monday briefing. She glances at the door to make sure Bonner isn't right behind us. "Tonight, you, me, and our potential moles are going out."

"Going out where?"

"Someplace fun. You're going to love it."

But she can't fool me. I can see the stress lines creeping across her forehead, the dark circles under her eyes from sleepless nights. She holds the door open for me, and I squeeze her shoulder as I walk into the common room.

"Why are you being intentionally vague?" I ask.

The interns are already in the library. Paige and Mike are sitting at desks, going through doc.u.ments. Colton has plopped himself in an armchair and is scrolling through his phone.

"Bring socks."

"Socks? You're . . . you're not talking about bowling are you? Please tell me you're not talking about bowling."

Yellow's face lights up with a huge, exaggerated smile, and she turns toward the library. "I need to get out. I feel like I'm just constantly stuck here." She's talking loudly, and Colton directs his attention from his phone. Yellow grabs my arm. "Hey, we should do something fun tonight."

"Like . . . bowling?" I say in a flat voice.

Yellow gasps. "Yes, like bowling! Who's up for Lucky Strike tonight?"

Paige and Mike exchange a confused glance, as if they're not sure whether Yellow is talking to them. Colton looks at Yellow in a way that makes my stomach turn. He sees her as a conquest, which I know is playing right into her plan, but it makes me want to kick him in the nuts.

"I'm game," Colton says.

"Sweet." Yellow looks to the others. "And what about you guys?"

"Are you going, Iris?" Mike asks. His tone is casual, and I can't tell if he's being friendly or if there's something more there.

Yellow jostles my shoulder, and I say, "Of course."

"Then count me in," Mike says.

"Excellent," Yellow says. "And Paige?"

Paige brushes a strand of curly red hair behind her ear. "I don't know. I'm in the lottery for a fall semester Gov 94 seminar, and I'm really hoping I get my first choice-political economy. I want to get a leg up, so I think I should just stay home and read some more Iversen and Soskice tonight."

"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard," Yellow says, which makes Colton snort. "I won't take no for an answer."

There's a shuffle of footsteps behind us as Violet and Indigo walk into the library, making small talk about some MTV show I'll probably never watch. Abe's right behind them, looking down at his scrambler.

"Hey, Vi, you up for Lucky Strike tonight?" Yellow asks. "We're doing a night with the interns. You, me, and Iris."

Violet stops talking midsentence and says something to Yellow, but I don't hear. Because I'm looking right at Abe. He looks from Colton to Mike to me and back to Mike. It's subtle, but his expression sours.

Later, I mouth to him, and he nods and looks down.

Yellow links her arm with Violet's and pulls her over to the stacks of banker's boxes lining the far wall. "It's a date then."

But as soon as her back is to the interns, Yellow's facade crumbles. Her shoulders slump and her head drops to her chest.

There's a knock on my door a little after eight thirty that night. I hop off the bed to open it, but then Yellow barges in, Violet right behind her. Yellow hugs her makeup bag to her chest.

"Your turn," she announces. "I just finished Violet."

Violet holds her hands to her face, framing it. "I'm stripped-down, nineties Naomi Campbell."

"I have no idea what that means." I'm underdressed in jeans and a Yoda T-shirt. Violet has on white cropped pants and a flowy, lavender tank top. Her short hair has deep-purple lowlights at the nape of her neck. Yellow's paired a denim blazer with a black-and-white striped dress that's so short, I'm not sure how she's supposed to sit in it. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a high bun, and she has on thick black eyeliner, light-pink blush, and mauve lipstick. Her eyebrows somehow look darker and thicker.

"And I went with Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's," she announces. "Sit. We're all going vintage tonight, and you're finally going to let me do Liz Taylor. A cat eye would look absolutely amazing on you."

"I'm already wearing makeup."

Yellow squints and leans in so she's about two inches from my face. "Where? I know you're not talking about that nude eye shadow and"-she sniffs-"cherry lip balm."

"Yellow," I say softly. "You can drop the act around us. I know this investigation is really hard on you."

Violet doesn't say anything. She picks at a chip in her nail polish.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Yellow says. She won't look at me.

"It's really hard to watch you put on this show day after day when-"

"When the only thing I can think about is whether I'll ever see my dad again? Yeah, I know." She hugs her makeup bag tighter, like someone's trying to steal it. "Because you're right. It is all I can think about. It's on my mind as soon as I wake up in the morning, and it's with me the entire day. All day, every day, Iris. And especially at night. When the sun goes down, all I can think is that my dad's not just being held somewhere. He's being tortured in a dark, dank cell, or he's already decomposing in a shallow grave with a bullet in his head.

"And the only thing that's keeping me from having a complete mental breakdown is this act, or whatever you called it. Makeup, clothes, stupid gossip. It's all meaningless c.r.a.p, and it's what I need right now. Okay?"

"I'm so sorry, Yellow. I . . . yes. Okay."

"Now sit down and let me do a d.a.m.n cat eye."

Everyone's silent for a moment, but then Violet breaks the tension. She lets out a giggle that's completely inappropriate but also so perfect.

I sidestep Yellow and grab my favorite khaki messenger bag, then sling it over my head. "Sorry. Put your liquid liner away for another day. We're going to be late."

It's a few minutes after nine when we walk into Lucky Strike. The place is packed for a Monday night, but Colton is easy to spot. There's a tall Secret Service agent hovering by the bar, and a gaggle of college-age girls a few feet away. Sure enough, we find Colton standing in the middle of them, dressed in designer jeans, leather loafers, and a shirt that I a.s.sume cost more than an average mortgage payment.

"Oh, hey," he says, his eyes trained on Yellow. The music is so loud that he has to yell. He pushes away from his groupies and sidles up next to her. It's like he doesn't even see me or Violet.

"Where's everyone else?" Violet yells.

Colton jerks his head toward the bowling lanes and grabs ahold of Yellow's wrist. "Come on, I have a table." He leads her toward a curved leather booth, and she lets herself be led. She looks back at me and winks. I know that going undercover involves playing along, which sometimes means making yourself seem weak and submissive. But d.a.m.n if I don't have a hard time with that. Especially when Colton Caldwell is involved.

Mike catches my eye and waves. He and Paige are set up on the far left lane. Perfect. Away from the crowd a bit. There are red paper lanterns and blue lights hanging over the lanes, and thankfully the music is a little lower over in this corner.

"Hey!" Mike calls. He's changed into jeans and a T-shirt and already has on red-and-blue bowling shoes.

"I'll get us shoes," Violet says. "Eight, right?"

"Yep." I pull my bag over my head and set it next to Paige, who hasn't changed since this morning. Her white dress shirt is perfectly unwrinkled, as if she ran home after work to iron it. She nods a polite h.e.l.lo at me.

"How's it going?" Mike asks, and that's when I notice his shirt. It's dark gray with white lettering that reads "Whenever You're Having a Bad Day, Just Imagine a T. rex Making a Bed" and has a picture in the middle of a T. rex facedown on a mattress.

"So what's with you and T. rexes?" I ask.

He looks down at his shirt and smiles. "I just think it's hilarious. They're supposed to be these ferocious killers, right? But then they have these tiny little baby arms that make them seem as adorable as kittens. I mean, try to imagine a T. rex using a fork and knife." He pulls his arms close to his chest and mimics it. "Hilarious."