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  I’m under the water again. Two strong hands are pushing me down. I claw at them. Dig my nails in, but it’s no use. I kick. I whip myself around, and my chin makes contact with Colton’s arm. I open my mouth and sink my teeth in. I feel the skin break and taste blood. And then I’m released.

  I come up for air.

  “You bitch!” Colton screams. He’s treading water and holding his arm. And then he propels himself at me again.

  I dive under him and start kicking. I need to get to shore. I need to get Colton to shore. I kick and kick until I can’t breathe anymore. I come up gasping. Colton’s behind me, swimming quickly. I don’t have time to process anything. I launch into a freestyle stroke and sprint toward the shore.

  1810, I think. I set the watch for 1810. Because I am a complete moron. I knew the Back Bay wasn’t filled until the middle of the nineteenth century. I knew this. And still I went and projected myself right into the middle of the damned Charles River.

  I’m close to shore. Twenty yards maybe. Colton grabs my ankle and twists, but I take my other foot and smash it into his chest. I feel his grip release, and I swim like hell again. I launch myself onto the shore and, not a second later, Colton is on me.

  He grabs my hair and yanks it. I scream, then slam my elbow into his temple. He lets go and staggers back.

  “Who pulls hair?” I yell. “What are you, twelve?”

  He flies at me again, and I duck, then raise another elbow. It catches him square in the chest, and he falls to the ground. I pounce on top of him. Both of us are yelling and cursing and panting. He tries to push me off, but I take hold of his head, lift it, and ram it into the ground. Once. Twice. Three times. His eyes roll back and he’s out.

  I check Colton to make sure he’s breathing. Then I look up. A crowd is gaping at us in horror. I smile weakly. I don’t know where I am. I turn my head and see Beacon Hill and the State House in the distance.

  “Alert the authorities at once!” a man shouts. He pushes his way to the front and points at me. “Ma’am, raise your hands and step away from the young man.”

  I can’t imagine what these people must think. A woman dressed in clothing that won’t be popular for another hundred and fifty years, pummeling a man dressed all in black. Well, it’s time to confuse them even more.

  I open the watch face and for a moment I’m afraid that it won’t work. But just for a moment. I assume that if the government is going to invest twenty million bucks in time-traveling technology, they’d make sure the damned thing is waterproof. Which they did. My watch is still ticking.

  I spin the year dial forward one click, adjust the time so I’ll land in the middle of the night, then grab on to Colton. We fly forward and I’m taking it for both of us, but the trip lasts only a few seconds. Then we’re in the same spot.

  Colton is still unconscious. I check him again. He’s breathing. I grunt and roll off of him, then grab his wrist and take off his watch. I hold it up. In many ways, it’s similar to my own. There are Y, M, and D dials, but there’s no fancy script with the word Annum on the face. Instead there are two boxy letters: X and P.

  Whoa. Joe Caldwell bought his own version of Annum Guard. When did he do this? And why?

  I have no idea what to do. I have an unconscious Colton on the ground and it’s 1811. I have no money. I have no Abe.

  “I hate you,” I whisper to Colton.

  Wait. I’m looking at this the wrong way. I have a bargaining chip, right here passed out on the ground. I have the key to getting back Abe, and Zeta, Indigo, and Orange, too. Assuming they’re still alive. Assuming all of them are still alive.

  Answers, that’s what I need.

  I glance around. A full moon is high in the sky and the streets are deserted. So I hook my hands under Colton’s arms and hoist him up. He’s heavy. Maybe a hundred and sixty pounds. But I’m strong. It’s been a few weeks since I actually got to the gym, but I can do this. I squat low, hoist Colton’s torso over my shoulder, loop the handle of the duffel through my arm, then stand very slowly. I take a few steps to test my balance, then walk, carefully.

  Yeah, I’m strong, but we’re not going to make it very far, that’s for sure. I need to get back to the gym.

  A block or so later, there’s a small shopping district. I pass a milliner’s shop, a shoemaker, a tailor, a stationer. All of the shops are closed, obviously, and from the stink of the street and the grime on the windows, I can tell I’m not in a very wealthy area of Boston. I pass an empty storefront. “HUDSON’S DRAPERY” is written on the front in gold paint that’s past its prime. I stop and peer in. There’s a wooden mannequin in the middle of the room, which is creepy as hell, and the walls are lined with shelves, all empty save a few crumpled sheets of paper. I squint and stare into the back, where I can see a storeroom and a set of stairs leading to a second floor.

  Perfect.

  I squat again and let Colton slip off my shoulder onto the ground. My legs are going to kill me tomorrow. I look down the street one more time to make sure we’re alone. Then I jiggle the handle. Locked. Of course.

  I step back and eye the glass. I could easily toss a rock through, but that could wake the entire block, and at best would only buy us a couple of hours until morning dawns and the damage is discovered. I go to the door and drop to my knees.

  This is an easy lock. I could get this open in a second with a credit card, if only I had one of those. Or a business card or anything useful. I look around on the stoop. There’s dirt and crushed leaves and . . . some old, bent nails. I use my foot as leverage to bend one of the nails into a hook. I slide another nail into the lock, then use the hook-shaped one to catch the release.

  It takes four tries, but then I’m in. I open the door gently, grab Colton’s shoulders, and drag him past the mannequin, into the back room, and up the stairs.

  The top floor is empty, too. I was hoping for a few abandoned bolts of fabric, something that would help me tie up Colton. But there’s nothing like that. Colton is still out. He’s not even beginning to stir.

  It’s damp in here. We’re past the point of a small chill. My teeth are chattering. I now understand the expression “cold, wet, and miserable.” I am all of these things.

  I need to secure Colton. I can tie him to some of the spindles on the staircase railing, no problem, but I need something to tie him with. My dress is the only thing I can think of, and that’s not happening, so instead I yank on Colton’s sleeves until they give way. Then I tie both of his arms to the railing and yank to test the bindings. Colton isn’t going anywhere. I rip off his vest, twist out the water, and use it as a gag.

  I sink onto the floor. My arms are howling in pain. My legs are in agony. But it’s my heart that hurts the most. I lost Abe. I look at Colton. He stole Abe.

  And just as soon as Colton wakes up, he’s going to give me some answers. I don’t care what I have to do to get them.

  CHAPTER 26

  Colton stirs in the early dawn hours. His eyelids flutter and his shoulders drop back. His head rolls to one side, and I wait. Wait for the moment he remembers that he tried to drown me. And the moment he realizes I’ve got him.

  It comes.

  His eyes pop open, and his head whips down, then up, then to the side as he tries to look behind him. He thrashes against the railing, his wrists pulling at the bindings, but they don’t budge. I know how to tie a knot—thank you, Peel. He tries to open his mouth, but the only sound that comes out is a muffled choke. Then he looks at me with wide, frightened eyes.

  I smile at him. “Hello, Colton. I think it’s time you and I had a little chat, don’t you?”

  Another muffled choke.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say. “Would you like me to get that for you?” I bend down, slip my hands behind his neck, and loosen the gag so that it slides down his chin.

  “You have no idea what you’re playing with,” he spits.

  I take a step back. “I know exactly what I’m playing with, Colton. Or should I say, who.
And I also know that you’ve stolen three members of my team and one of its leaders, and I would like them back.” I swallow the lump in my throat. I need to keep my voice flat and distant. Colton has to know how much losing Abe is affecting me—but I can’t let him see it.

  “I’ve stolen more than that,” he says with a coy smile.

  I clench my fists. “Start talking, Colton. Where are they? What did you do with them?”

  “You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”

  I squat down in front of him so that we’re eye level. “Colton,” I say in the calmest voice I can muster, “we can either do this the easy way or the hard way.” And then there’s a jolt to my system as I realize Alpha said almost these exact words to me the first time I met him, when he had me knocked out, strapped down, and implanted with a tracker. I push Alpha from my mind. “I think you and I would both prefer the former.”

  He winks at me. “Is this the part when you tell me you studied enhanced interrogation techniques or some other crap that’s meant to scare me?”

  I did, in fact, study such interrogation techniques. But I don’t need to use them. Because I have something more effective.

  I stand. “I’ll tell you what I do have. This.” I finger the Annum watch hanging from my neck. “And I’ll tell you what you don’t have.” I pull his watch from my pocket and dangle it in front of his face.

  His smug look is still there, but for the first time I see a hint of fear behind it.

  “I’d like that back, please,” he says.

  “I bet you would. But we’re not bargaining over that right now. No, first you’re going to answer some of my questions.”

  “I don’t know where they took your boyfriend.”

  “Really now?”

  “Nope,” he says.

  “That’s disappointing.” I shake my head. “Let’s try another then. How long has your dad been running Eagle Industries?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Okay, Colton. Hard way it is.” I put the gag back in his mouth and tie it so tightly it’s straining at the corners. Then I turn the day knob of my Annum watch forward one click. “Why don’t you think about things for a little while?” I shut the face.

  I lurch toward the ceiling but only for a moment. Then I’m standing in the same spot. Colton is right where I left him, but he’s slumped over, still tied to the railing. The gag is in place, but I can see the frayed edges where he tried to chew it away. There’s a strong odor of urine, and I wrinkle my nose. He’s asleep. I nudge him awake with my toe.

  It takes him a second to stir. Then he looks right at me, and he pulls and strains against the bindings. I hold my breath as I get close enough to untie the gag.

  “I could kill you,” Colton gasps. His voice is raspy.

  “I did offer you the easy way, and you turned me down.”

  “Water,” he says. Then he says it again, louder. Like he’s trying to shout but can’t.

  “It’s still early, Colton. No one is around to hear you. And I will get you some water. But first you have to answer one of my questions. So either tell me where my team is or tell me about your father’s connection to Eagle. One simple answer, Colton, and I’ll get you what you want.”

  Colton’s eyes roll back and he shuts them. I’m feeling more than a twinge of guilt. I’m feeling full-on regret and revulsion by causing such anguish. But I don’t have any real choices here.

  “Come on, Colton,” I nudge.

  He opens his eyes. “They’re being detained.”

  “Who is? My team?”

  He nods.

  They’re not dead. Abe is alive! “Where?”

  “I answered your question.”

  “No, you didn’t. Where is my team being held?”

  Colton’s head drops forward. He snaps it back up. “Dorchester. A private house.”

  “And when are they being held? What year?”

  “No, I answered your question. Your question was where, not when. Give me some water.”

  I stare at him. He’s totally defeated. And I do know that I am playing with fire. Colton is connected to highly important people. And there’s also the fact that he’s a human being, and he’s suffering.

  I tie the gag back in his mouth, and he whimpers and thrashes. “I’ll be right back,” I say. “I promised you water.”

  I slip out into the early Boston morning. The sun is just starting to think about rising. Water. Where am I going to find water? Then I see a wooden bucket sitting on a stoop a few doors down, outside the milliner’s shop, and I grab it and walk toward the river.

  I know you’d be stupid to drink from the Charles River in the present day. It’s filthy and polluted, but I don’t know when that started. It had to be okay at one point, right? And it’s not like there’s a 7-Eleven down the block where I can pick up a bottle. I dunk the bucket under the water, then carry it back to Colton. I slip the gag down once more.

  “Open up,” I say. He does. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask where I got it. The water spills over his face and into his mouth. He gasps for it, but after a second, I right the bucket.

  “You want another sip, you give me another answer. When are they being held?”

  “1832.”

  I do some quick math and realize that every hour they’re there equals a day and a half in the present. A day and a half. Orange has been gone for more than a week. I close my eyes. That’s . . . No. That can’t be right.

  I calculate it again and come to the same conclusion.

  Orange has lost at least 250 days. More than eight months.

  And Zeta.

  He’s been gone for two months. That’s . . . almost six years. They’re trapped in their tunnels, and we can meet them only at the end. I choke. “You’re killing them! You’re making sure they can never return to the present.”

  “Water. I answered you.”

  I raise the bucket to his lips and allow him another sip. He slurps it down like a dying man. Which I suppose is a fairly accurate description.

  Six years. Yellow and Indigo won’t have their dad back for six years, and that’s assuming I find him now. And it’s going to take Orange eight months to travel through the wormhole back to the present. It’s June now. I won’t see him until next February at the earliest. Indigo has been gone for only three days, but that’s three and a half months. I’ve lost Abe only for a day and a half so far, but every second is ticking. Dual projection only works when you’re traveling back in time; you can’t do it to get to the present.

  I need Abe back. I need them all back.

  Ariel was right. He was so freaking right. Time is a dangerous and deadly game. It is not something to be messed with.

  “Give me an exact date and an exact address, Colton.”

  And now Colton hesitates. He knows we’ve reached our first stalemate. I desperately need this information. He desperately needs to withhold it. But I have the upper hand.

  I tap the bucket. “Tell me the exact date and address, and I’ll let you have a three-second sip.”

  Colton looks at me with exhausted, red eyes. I don’t have time to dwell on the ethics of this right now. Every second counts. Every click of the second hand on my watch damns four people I care about.

  “The date and address,” I repeat.

  “May 2, 1832. Three hundred forty Seaver.”

  I memorize this before tipping the bucket over Colton’s lips. I count to three, then lower it. And then Colton and I continue our dance. He tells me my teammates aren’t being mistreated, which I want to believe, but there’s a feeling deep inside telling me that it’s probably not the whole truth. He claims he doesn’t know how much Eagle has made off the scheme, which I believe. Colton doesn’t strike me as a guy who’d have any idea what to do with a balance sheet. Then he tells me he has no idea what his father has to do with the Lincoln assassination, which I’m sure is a flat-out lie, but we can circle back to that one.

  “Who is D. Callaway?”

&n
bsp; His nose scrunches. “What?”

  “D. Callaway. Back on Marlborough Street. Your dad saved her from the Strangler.” I pause. This makes me uncomfortable. Somehow, acknowledging that act out loud is making Joe seem human. Like a normal person with a complex set of emotions, not the single-focused mastermind behind Eagle that I want him to be. “Who is she? Your dad’s mother?”

  Colton shakes his head. “His mother’s sister. My great aunt Dorothy.” Colton’s voice catches, and he turns away.

  I try a different approach.

  “Tell me why, Colton. Why did your dad start Eagle?”

  “My father is not a bad guy, Iris.” He says my name with pure derision.

  “Really? Because I’m pretty sure that murdering two presidents guarantees you a seat at the table in hell reserved for the VIPs.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You literally have no idea how far off base you are.”

  “So tell me. Why did your dad start Eagle?”

  The grin disappears off his face, like he’s just realized he’s saying too much. “No clue.”

  “You’re such a bad liar.” I take a moment to think. There’s only one reason that’s popping into my mind—the most obvious answer there is. I pick up the bucket and hold it in front of Colton’s face. “Money. It’s that simple, isn’t it? That’s where all that oil money came from, right?”

  Colton stares at the bucket, and his lips part in anticipation. I tip the bucket and let the smallest splash touch his tongue before I yank it away, to remind him we’re still talking.

  Colton pulls his head back. “If that’s what you want to think.” A half-laugh escapes his lips. “But it’s true that political aspirations aren’t cheap.”

  I drop the bucket to my side. “Wait—your mom knows?”

  He stops laughing. He yanks his hands forward, but the bindings hold. “No, she doesn’t know. And she can’t ever know. That’s rule number one.”

  “But she’s spearheading the entire drive to bring down Eagle.”

  Colton clucks his tongue. “Life can be pretty ironic sometimes, huh?”