Thirteen sat on the passenger seat as Jocasta manned the wheel. How she learned to operate this complex slab of metal was beyond him. They piled up in the only car whose driver seat was unlocked, and off they went, taking the main route towards the nearest city. He provided the directions the best he could with his current language skills. Jocasta has been gracious enough to never point out what grammar rules he missed. If they didn't want to miss any turn and get to the RTC on time, she wouldn't.

He held the phone in his nondominant hand, with a fresh roll of bandage from the local pharmacy wrapped around the other. The ones on the backseat—all five of them squished together—had similar injuries. They dug their chips before they hopped into the car and stomped on them. Should Primeva track where the chips' signals were last detected, they'd end up in the parking lot. From there, a million combinations of routes and possible destinations would be open to interpretation. If Primeva wasn't as fast at predicting Thirteen's logic, they would lose their assets quicker.

His only hope rested on the fact that Primeva wouldn't guess where and who they aimed to go. It would be hard to understand one's enemy if one knew nothing about them. How did it feel like—using Primeva's card against them?

"Eight minutes, we will arrive," Thirteen said, switching to his elementary English. Through the tinted windows, large grasslands, residential complexes, and thin groves zipped by. After a quick roundabout, they even passed a bridge crossing a river. The trees had thinned and the buildings had grown, showing them their entry to the city.

Thirteen spotted the familiar triangular intersection. "Turn right here," he said. Jocasta yanked the wheel and steered the car to the eastern route. It was an avenue. Cars and trucks joined them in their journey. "Turn left at that crossing," he instructed.

As much as he hated using the GPS and satellite maps, they would be lost before they could even leave Geneva. He had to risk it. Maybe Primeva hadn't yet narrowed the signal from the phone they used. They would be safe, at least until they reach Rue de la Croix.

He had Jocasta pull up under the shade of a huge, gnarly tree. "We go by foot," he said before pushing the door out. It had taken him a number of tries back in the parking lot, as much as his nondominant hand could handle. Practice made the force acceptable. He jumped out of the car and craned his neck to the sky.

If the platoon recovered from whatever shock Slate put them through, they would have no problem following him and his companions out here. They would fan out. Maybe ask the locals where a certain car had been. Hence, they'd ditch the ride. They couldn't exactly slot a car into a train.

With a nod, they peeled off the sleek black car and stalked across the street. Ornate buildings flanked them on all possible sides. People dressed the same way as the countryside passed by, each one lost in the thought of their destination or some other preoccupation. Thirteen tucked his bandaged hand into the pocket of his stolen jacket. He had to hide his torn sleeve in case that was part of his identifying marks. They needed a change of clothes too. Maybe in another city. How much money did they have left?

They crossed the road, with Thirteen noting the blatant train rails embedded on the ground. No trains docked anywhere else, so it should be good. Their boots slapped the pavement on the other side, their gazes flicking into various places. Priorities. What were their goals in the city?

"Gather supplies." Thirteen pointed to Slate, Alon, Kevan and Ji-yeon. Then, to Jocasta, he said, "With me. We search for information."

They split up without argument. This wasn't the best place for one, after all. If push came to shove, Slate could protect Kevan, and Alon could sneak around to get help. They have more success in pulling off the same trick they used in the ATM in Veyrier. Ji-yeon could spirit them out of the place if need be, or take out their enemies' heads in one swoop. Jocasta has a good head on her shoulders, so if there was anyone else who could arrive at a reasonable action plan along with Thirteen, it was her.

Thirteen dug the phone from his jacket pocket and turned it off. They turned a corner and came upon a series of dumpster cans. He chucked the phone into the yawning chute, scrunching his nose at the smell. He jerked his chin towards the open pavement and scanned the place. More restaurants, clothing shops, and luxury brands. He couldn't pronounce most of the names, but a familiar word caught his attention.

"Say, Jocasta." Thirteen turned to her with a lazy smile. "What do you feel about a little stealing?"

Within minutes of picking out their target (a middle-aged woman sipping coffee off a carton cup), distracting them for a wee minute (Jocasta striking a conversation about finding the nearest fashion boutique), and acquiring their prize (Thirteen sliding the shiny slab of metal across the table), they walked out of the cafe with a fresh gadget. Now, to understand how it worked...

A chorus of yells and uniformed men tearing through the street encouraged them to pick up the pace and duck into the nearest dark alley, one that led deeper into the complex. Crowds flitted in and out, providing their well-needed cover.

They only stopped when they reached a white-washed shop with lights so bright it fought the sunlight streaming past the complex's atrium. He and Jocasta strolled inside and dropped the gadget on the counter. "I want to return," he said. "This broken. Aunt said."

The guy on the counter took the gadget and flipped it open. Oh, so that was how it was used. The screen lit up and showed the picture of their unfortunate target. Thirteen reached past the counter and clapped the gadget shut. "Sorry. Wrong alarm," he said with an apologetic smile.

He ushered Jocasta out of the shop and pulled her into another restaurant. "Remove your coat," he said. "We shake a bit until we get on the train."

Jocasta looked as if she wanted to complain, but she was no fool. The platoon had marked their clothes because it was easier to describe them. They strode to an unattended table and sat on the chairs. Thirteen spotted a black cap resting on the table, next to another phone. "Grow your hair," he said to Jocasta. "Hide it under this."

She took the cap from him, and they slid out of the table. Her fingers combed through her white strands, twisting them into a hurried bun before tucking it into the cap. The brim fit snugly around her forehead as she yanked it down to shade her face further. Good. She started understanding how to stay hidden.

They ducked out of the cafe and walked a few more steps. A glass facade filled with stacked books came up next. Without doubting it, Thirteen pulled Jocasta in. They ducked behind the bookshelves at the end of the shop and sank to a crouch. Thirteen opened the gadget and the screen lit up again. He touched the rectangle below the keyboard, and a pointer zipped across the screen. So, was that small, white arrow his "finger" inside this new interface?

The woman had a browser open. He did a quick sweep and cleared her files and anything that might implicate him and his companions. His fingers tapped across the letters, typing what he needed to find. Jacqueline Shaw reports.

Unlike the compact world of the phone, he arrived at a similar yet foreign field. The articles were more precise and had more hits. He scrolled to the very end, recalling every link he had devoured the past week. At the bottom of the page, something caught his eye.

Missing French heiress sighted multiple times all over the world. Thirteen clicked it and passed the gadget to Jocasta. "Cannot read that." He circled a finger on the blocks of text in English. "Read for me."

Jocasta scrolled through the article, her eyes flitting here and there. "There are several instances of people seeing someone who looked like Jacqueline in different places," she reported. "One in Vancouver, in Barcelona, in Vienna, in Warsaw, in Sydney, and in Taipei. Several states in America, too. Wherever those were."

"When did this go out?" Thirteen turned the screen back to him, blinking against the light sifting through the shop's window. It stung. A year sat below the headlines in thick, black letters. Oh, only two years ago. That was a good lead. Who wrote this...?

Declan Conway. He opened a new tab and ran the name. A link about a journalist popped first. Aha. He skimmed the article to find it wasn't an article at all. This man, whatever went on to his narrow thinking, betrayed all of his secrets into a neat website. From where he went to school to where he was currently employed—everything was there. Including a familiar arrangement of letters: his name, plus an A inside a circle and an address he normally saw in the search bars.

He ran a quick search of the site, and it dropped him into a website with a logo resembling an app icon on the phone. What was a mail? Did people receive letters here? A phone slid into his periphery, and he whirled to see Jocasta offering it to him. Where...?

"I took it, in case we still need one," she reasoned. "This thing seemed handy."

"It is," he replied, taking it from her hands and tapping on the screen. Of course, a password was required. He unlocked it after quick guesswork based on the trails of oil across the screen. The sun helped in the end. As expected, the same logo resembling an envelope sat on the screen. That's it.

Running a quick search, he learned how to make his own "address" and how to contact someone on it. He memorized Declan Conway's address, cleared the laptop and the phone, and staggered up. He tossed his coat in the dusty space at the bottom of the book pile. The cold hit him immediately. "Let's go," he said through gritted teeth. He strode towards the book shop's door, Jocasta on his heels.

He entered his details into the mail app, and typed in Declan Conway's address. "How do I say I want to see this man?" he asked Jocasta as they wove in and out of foot traffic. "He might know something about Shaw."

Jocasta snatched the phone and started clacking away at the keyboard. What was that noise? Could they turn it off? It was annoying. She handed it back to him after a while. An entire paragraph of nonsense glared back at him. He tapped the forward arrow at the edge of the screen. The interface said it was "loading" as it sent the mail. Then, it spat him back to the empty list of something called "conversations".

The comms crackled, jarring Thirteen back to reality. Alon's frantic voice filtered through. "Mayday! They found us. We boarded a getaway vehicle though. We'll be coming to get you. Location?"

Thirteen whirled around, spotting a streetlight with plants growing around it. It resembled the waiting platform back in the railway in the eastern region. "By the waiting shed. There was a shop for bags opposite it," he answered. "Hurry. We might have stepped on somebody's toes here."

Alon huffed as if to say when have you never? Thirteen pretended that wasn't what the boy meant.

Jocasta cleared her throat and braced her hips. "What now?"

Thirteen opened his mouth only to have a blustering horn tear out across the street. They turned to find a truck with Kevan on the passenger seat rushing through the road as if the train tracks weren't there. "Get in!" Alon's voice should have been terrifying, coming from thin air, somewhere at the back of the truck, but it only spurred him and Jocasta into action. With fluid motion, Jocasta flipped onto the cargo bed, extending her hand towards Thirteen.

A blast of blue sparked against the side of the truck. "I can't keep going at this pace for long! Not without 'em gunning from behind like that!" A voice grouched from the wheel. True enough, a series of sleek, black cars swerved around pedestrians and bicycles. Two or three batons pointed towards the rickety truck, each one poised to shoot. The wheels turned faster, increasing the truck's speed. His boots stabbed pain up his leg with every thump against the pavement. He gritted his teeth. And jumped.

His hand slapped against Jocasta's, and with a grunt, she pulled him up. He flopped onto the cargo bed's bumpy floor, heaving. "Does he know how to lose a tail?" he asked Kevan who watched the whole thing from a small, oval window. "Ask him to do that."

Kevan nodded and activated his ability against the man. The wonders of having a telepath. The truck throttled into maximum gear, tearing through the street. Blue sparks clattered against the metal panels, chucking sharp embers in the air. Thirteen threw his arms over his head, almost missing the lump of shadow zipping through the sky. He craned his neck to the sky to find Ji-yeon swerving past street lights and road signs while deflecting most of the batons' ammunition.

"Get in here!" he yelled through the haze of honking horns, screaming civilians, and engines whirring.

The driver swerved around a bend at the last minute. Beyond the windshield, only an expanse of turquoise awaited them. Thirteen's body slammed against the side panel, his shoulder digging into the wheel cutout. Something vibrated in his pocket, startling him. He rummaged around to find the phone. He drew it out and unlocked it. A single notification sat on the top bar. He opened it, and it was a reply from Declan Conway.

I'm pleased to hear you write to me, it read. What about Ms. Shaw do you wish to know? I can provide you with relevant details provided you are not from a rival company and looking to one up mine. That is a conflict of interest, you see. Regards, Declan Conway.

"W-what does this mean?!" He shoved the phone to Jocasta who fumbled with it. He looked up again. "Ji-yeon! Now!"

If they lassoed the girl from the sky, it would be another loss. They already left Dishari, wherever she was. If she wasn't dead, perhaps, Primeva already had her. That was how they tracked him and his companions to the last street.

"I replied. Here!" Jocasta slapped his chest with the phone. I am not affiliated with any mass media company. I merely wish to know more about Ms. Shaw for a task.

"What task?" Thirteen demanded. A bolt of blue sparks thumped against the wheel guards. That was close. Too close. Would the rubber explode if one bullet made it?

Jocasta removed her hat and let her hair fall. She drew a dagger from her boot and snipped it off. As the beginnings of a shell formed from the substances of her hair, she waved a hand in front of Thirteen's face. "A bluff," she said. "I'm bluffing."

The shell finished rendering, and she pulled the pin out. Without any inhibition, she chucked it over the cargo hold. They watched the bomb arc across the languid, Geneva air, before it exploded into a plume of smoke and fire. Inside the first car.

That was one. About five more to go. They sure came prepared this time.

Another vibration, and Thirteen opened the notification. Then I am happy to help, Declan Conway replied. My general location is Venice, Italy. If you are in the country, let me know. I will forward you my exact address.

"Kevan." Thirteen rolled to his stomach and braced his arms on the cargo hold's floor. "Tell him to find the fastest route to Venice. We have a lead."

He turned to Jocasta after Kevan rushed off to coach their designated driver. "Continue making the bombs," he said. "If we cannot shake them, we get rid of them."

Jocasta grinned, a bomb already resting on her hand. "Thought you'd never ask."

The resulting explosion seconds later had never felt so satisfying in Thirteen's ears.