Things were looking good. Striker had covered their tracks, his team was shoving the kids toward the curb, and he could see the Charger’s headlights bouncing down the street half a block away. A wash of satisfaction swept through him. He could admire these kids for their tenacity and resourcefulness, but it would take far more than that to get out of this one. In four hours, he’d be settled into a comfy chair at HQ, telling C.D. they were ready for rendezvous, and if it wasn’t too much trouble, could he bump that pay back up, seeing as he’d almost lost a team member.

Striker let out a pleased sigh and dangled two of the kids’ backpacks over one shoulder, and hung the remaining backpack over the other. The Charger reached them and parked. After a few, hectic moments of rustling cloth, shuffling feet, and grunts of disapproval, they wrestled the kids into the back. Phantom was waiting in the driver’s seat, pensive, one wrist draped over the steering wheel.

Striker hovered by the passenger door. “Careful with that one,” he said, motioning at the middle child. “He’s tagged.”

Yellowjacket restrained himself from grappling him like the other two. The two siblings scooted over to make room for him, then seemed to glower at Yellowjacket through their head coverings as he slammed the door. Striker locked them in.

The sirens grew louder.

“Let’s go,” Striker said.

He slipped into the passenger side door and shut it as he reached for his seat belt. Phantom took off. The tires squealed on the pavement and sent up a little smoke, but in a matter of seconds they were halfway down the street. They wove around some pedestrians and night peddlers before Phantom diverted their path. A few quick turns, a few dodges onto side streets, and the scanners showed the police vehicles far behind them, searching in all the wrong places. Phantom eased off the gas and slowed for a yellow light. He coasted to a stop.

The kids were silent. Every once in a while, one of them would shift, knocking the handcuffs against something, or creaking a seatbelt. Other than that, and the middle child’s restrained breathing, they made no sound. Striker could almost smell the fear rolling off them. Back in the alleyway, they had seemed a little stunned—they always did, right after the moment of capture—but here, squashed together and bound and blinded with no idea of where they were headed, they would begin to realize they were at his total mercy.

It made him grin.

While they sat at the red light, Striker pulled out a backpack and began rifling through it. The first one he grabbed was dull pink with purple trim. The girl’s. At first glance, it was full of useless junk—rumpled-up clothes, some beaded jewelry, and a stack of crushed papers that looked like some kind of homework. There was even a cell phone charger, but no phone. He’d have to search them for phones when they got to HQ—for now, with their hands cuffed, they wouldn’t be able to try anything.

As he was thinking about this, his fingers brushed against something hard. He pulled out a small book. It, too, was pink and swirly and covered in glitter. Made him want to puke. When he flipped it open, he found line after line of scribbled sentences in large letters.

“You write, little girl?” Striker asked.

The girl stiffened. “H-hey, is that my diary?”

“Hm,” Striker said, flipping through it. He wrinkled his nose. “You draw a lot.”

“I like drawing.”

“Striker,” Phantom muttered as he went through the green light. “Come on, it’s a little girl’s diary.”

“I know,” Striker said. “But you should never underestimate the use of a kid who doesn’t know how to keep a secret. That’s what diaries are for, remember? Aha.”

A slip of paper fell from between two pages. Striker picked it up, rubbing it between his gloved fingers, and unfolded it.

“A letter from ‘Dad,’” Striker read aloud.

“That’s private,” Abel snapped.

Striker laughed. “I’m not sure you’re in any position to be making… demands…” He trailed off.

“What is it?” Phantom asked.

“A name,” Striker said.

“And…?”

The girl whimpered in the back.

“Don’t worry, Evie,” Abel said. “Dad’s letter didn’t give anything away. Just our names, and he can’t do anything with those.”

“I’m afraid you’re wrong about that,” Striker murmured. “Very wrong.”

“What’s he talking about?” the middle child, Wes, asked, sounding weak.

“I think I just found out who we’re working for,” Striker said.

“Who?” Phantom asked.

Striker held up the letter. “The people who are after Lance Martell.”

Phantom glanced at him, eyes wide. In the back, the children snapped to attention.

“What?” Abel asked. “Who’s after my father? What are you talking about?”

“Abel, shh,” Wes said.

“He knows something about Dad!” Abel yelled. “Who’s after him? Talk!”

“Follow your brother’s advice, kid,” Phantom said over his shoulder. “You’re our prisoners, not the other way around.” He lowered his voice and spoke to Striker. “Well, this complicates things a little. We’ll have to discuss this back at base.”

Striker grunted. “We’ll have more than a discussion, that’s for sure.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Evie said, verging on a snarl. “He’s coming to save us.”

“What?” Striker looked back.

“Shh!” Wesley hissed.

“Don’t let them know anything,” Abel added.

“What are you talking about, girl?” Striker asked.

Silence.

Striker growled and turned back in his seat, pressing his earpiece. “Venom, Yellowjacket, and Klick, when you’re done picking up Zealot, head to rendezvous spot B and don’t go to HQ. Repeat, do not go to HQ.”

“What’s up, boss?” Venom’s voice asked.

“Possible ambush,” Striker said. “Be on the alert for any suspicious activity unconnected to the cops, and don’t—”

“Holy-!” Phantom shouted. He jerked the wheel to the left.

Striker looked through the windshield in time to see three sleek, black cars zoom out of nowhere to block their way. Phantom spun the wheel again and skidded the Charger a full one-hundred-eighty degrees back the way they’d come. He stomped on the gas and spun out, sending another cloud of smoke into the black cars’ windshields.

“Go!” Striker barked.

The Charger leaped forward—but got no farther than ten feet. A fourth black car loomed in Striker’s peripheral. Before he could turn his head, the window smashed inward, glass flew everywhere, and they were rolling. Everything went black.