Then his last memory pushed its way forward again. He’d heard the phone ring and was walking down the short hallway when something launched him like a human cannonball.

His legs, flailing wildly behind him, struck the side of the reception desk, but he was moving too fast for the pain to catch up. Then there was glass everywhere, stinging his face and neck like snow.

And then the parking lot was in the sky, and it came down to meet him—hard.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, and realized he couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears.

Zach flopped over. The stabbing in his chest subsided.

Less than a dozen yards away, the building was a smoking wreck. Rubble was scattered all over the lot. Car alarms shrieked as if in pain from their broken windshields.

A bomb. Someone had tried to blow them up. And Cade had saved him.

Blinking, Zach sat up, and felt the poker in his side again. It hurt like hell. His face stung. He wiped at it, found tiny bits of glass stuck in his fingers.

Cade was a couple feet away, facedown, like something left for the trash.

Zach blinked again, feeling sleepy and slow. He looked up at the sun.

The sun.

“Shit,” Zach said, and suddenly his head cleared. He scrambled over to Cade.

Cade’s arm was a mess, a sleeve of ground beef up to the shoulder. Blood pooled under him.

Zach had never seen much blood before, but it looked wrong—black and thick. But what was worse, Cade’s face, where it was turned to the sun was—well, it was dying. There was no other way to say it. It was shriveling and cracking, veins and furrows growing more pronounced every second.

Zach had to get him out of here. As the ringing in his ears faded, another sound was rising. Sirens.

Zach rifled through Cade’s pockets, found the keys and hit the remote to unlock the sedan’s doors.

Nothing. Then he remembered—the car was in the garage, which was nothing but a pile of crumbled cinder blocks now.

“Shit shit shit,” Zach said. He wasn’t a spy. Maybe Griff would know what to do now, but Zach didn’t have a clue.

He looked down at Cade again. He’d aged even more in a few seconds. His skin had pulled back from his teeth, revealing his fangs.

People started to emerge from their cars, from other nearby buildings, gawking. Any minute now, they’d see him and Cade, and Zach didn’t think that was the way you kept a 140-year-old national secret.

He saw a Honda Accord parked in the last row, well away from the blast. There was a piece of concrete from the rubble, about as big as his fist.

Five seconds later, he was sweeping safety glass out of the driver’s seat and hoping like hell he could remember how to do this.

He twisted wires together, his fingers shaking. Nothing. He pulled them apart and tried another pair. The engine turned over.

He sighed with relief and thought of how hard he’d worked to hide his one youthful indiscretion. Now his juvenile record was the best thing on his resume.

Cade was a lot heavier than he looked, but Zach had adrenaline going. He flung Cade into the backseat, covered him as best he could with his suit jacket.

A crowd was milling about now, getting closer. Someone was watching Zach with interest. “Hey,” the guy called. “You all right?”

Zach didn’t reply. He hopped behind the wheel and jammed the Honda into gear.

The crowd was between him and the exit from the lot.

Another man had joined the first guy in staring at Zach. He looked surprised, then angry.

“Hey . . . hey . . . that’s my car!”

Zach floored the pedal, and the Honda leaped over the sidewalk, landing heavily in the street.

He heard horns and a screech of tires. The sirens were almost on top of him now.

Zach took the first right turn he could and lost a hubcap as he skinned the curb. He wiped sweat from his face, came away with a few more glass fragments.

He sucked down deep breaths, trying to stay calm. He had to get away. Someone was trying to kill them.

He chanced a look into the back. The sharp turn had caused his jacket to slide off Cade, exposing his face again.

Cade groaned in pain. The sound was nearly as frightening to Zach as the explosion. He hadn’t heard anything like that from anyone. Ever.

Zach fumbled in his jacket, found his phone. He scrolled through the numbers, looking for the entry for Griff.

Griff would know what to do. Zach pressed a button, which made a loud beep.

Cade’s hand reached over the seat and grabbed Zach’s wrist.

Zach nearly turned into the oncoming lane of traffic.

He managed to pull his hand away. Cade remained sitting up. Barely. He looked twenty years older already. “Don’t call anyone. Compromised.”

Zach’s brain began working again. Cade meant that someone had found them, had just blown up a top secret safe house. He could use his phone, call Griff, but if they were supposed to be safe in there, then whoever was after them could get them anywhere.

They were alone.

“We’ve got to hide,” Cade said.

First things first. They needed cash.

From the backseat, Cade assessed their situation: Zach’s wallet had less than a hundred dollars inside. Anything Cade had was smoldering in the wreckage of the safe house.

Following Cade’s instructions, Zach pulled their stolen car up to an ATM on the sidewalk.

It was early enough that the sun had not yet burned completely through the L.A. haze of smog and cloud. But Cade still looked like someone was pouring acid over him.

“Stay here,” he grunted, and popped the door.

Zach didn’t think he’d be able to get out of the car, but Cade stood, one arm hanging like meat from a hook.

Zach checked around nervously. No pedestrians. Cars flew past on the street.

Cade paid no attention. He walked up to the ATM set in the bank’s concrete wall. Using his undamaged hand, he punched the ATM. First, smashing the camera above the keypad. Then he punched it again, driving his fist into the steel.

He pulled it back like foil, and a stack of twenties spilled out.

Cade took the pile still in the machine and turned back to the car.

Cade dumped the money into the front seat and then collapsed inside.

“What are you doing?” Zach screeched.

“Drive.” Skin fell from Cade’s face in long strips where the sun touched him. There was no blood, just a red-brown dust.

An alarm began to ring. Zach slammed on the gas, leaping into traffic, forcing another car to swerve.

“Slowly,” Cade said, curling up on the seat, getting as low as he could.

Zach forced himself to drop to the speed limit. The twenties were scattered all over the front seat.

“You might want to put those in your pockets,” Cade said.

Zach grabbed a wad of the cash. “What the hell was that?”

“Operating capital.”

“Jesus Christ . . . Someone tried to kill us, and you make us bank robbers now, too?”

“The mission takes priority. Above all else.”

“What do we say to the cops if they catch us? Huh? You think of that? Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Jesus Fucking Christ—”

“Enough, ”Cade barked. The word was as sharp as a slap across Zach’s face. Zach shut up.

Cade’s face was dark with anger and pain. His eyes bored into Zach.

“Enough,” Cade said again. His voice sounded like it was coming from another place. “This is for the mission. That’s all that matters. Best you remember that, boy.”

Zach’s panic was gone, replaced by fear. As freaked as he was by the bomb, Cade was still scarier.

Fortunately, that outburst seemed to sap the last of Cade’s energy. He slid down in the seat. His eyes fluttered closed.

There was no question about it now: the sun was cooking him, killing him every second it shone through the windows. The haze was peeling back, revealing another beautiful day.

Zach considered parking the car on the side of the street, and calling a cab for the airport. He almost believed he could fly back to his old life.

But how long before they came looking for him? Whoever did this, they knew him now.

And Cade . . . Despite everything, Zach would be a wet spot under the rubble if it weren’t for Cade.

Zach only knew two things for certain now: He was a target. And the only one who could get him out of this alive was dying, right next to him in the car.