Page 30 of Silver Elite

“Anyway,”I say, eager to change the subject.“We can talk about that later. Right now I need you to contact someone from the network. Someone high on the food chain. They need to get me out of here.”

There’s a long beat.

“Tana?”

“Nobody’s coming to get you.”

I swallow my resentment. Nice. Good to know where I stand.

“They said you had your chance at a safe house and a new identity, and you chose to run. Polly told me to check in when we know what they’re going to do with you.”

“I have to go.”

“Wren—”

“I need to think. I’ll talk to you later.”

I sever the link and ignore her subsequent pokes. The only voice in my head I can concentrate on right now is my own. I need to consider my options.

Arethere any?

The network isn’t interested in rescuing me, but even if they were, then what? I’ll be shuttled from one safe house to another for the rest of my life? Live in hiding? Locate a surgeon who will alter myappearance so that I can return to society and live in plain sight of the Command? The amount of Luxury credits required for even a few paltry cosmetic injections is astronomical—I can’t imagine how much a full-blown facial reconstruction would cost.

And anyway, fuck that. I like my face.

I suppose I could try to track down a Faithful camp, but I don’t find that option at all appealing, and not only because they’d likely kill me on sight. Those people don’t take kindly to strangers. I remember a few years back, when two teenage boys from Hamlett went missing after they decided to search for a Faithful camp rumored to have sprung up in the woods outside of town. Controller Fletcher’s men found the boys’ skeletons a year later in the remnants of an abandoned campsite.

But more than the fear of my skeleton turning up in a forest a year from now, I’m not a believer that the Old Era was any better than this new one. Or at least, I’m not sure how it could be, given that it led to global destruction.

I clasp my fingers over my knees and think about how limited my options are. How utterly hellfucked I am. The sun is setting, and the cell is losing the meager light the tiny window allows in. Although there’s a strip of fluorescent lighting across the ceiling, it doesn’t give off any light. Maybe it’s on a timer.

Another hour passes. Now the room is bathed in shadows. But only for a few minutes. As I’d guessed, the ceiling lights flicker on as if on cue. They proceed to make a crackling noise that I’m forced to listen to for another hour before it softens to a barely audible hum.

Footsteps echo in the hallway. I instantly tense, waiting. So far, every set of steps has passed right by.

This one stops at my cell.

I hear the sharp beep of a keypad, and then the door opens.

My pulse quickens when Mr. Silent walks in. He’s no longer in his Command uniform. Now he wears black pants and a black shirt made of a stretchy material, its long sleeves hugging the defined muscles of his arms.

He steps inside, silhouetted by the overhead light. Anyone else standing in that harsh glare would look pinched and severe—theseunforgiving shadows aren’t your friend. Yet his face remains nothing less than stunning. Someone this pretty shouldn’t be a soldier. He’d probably be raking in the credits if he worked in Human Services. He’d make an excellent whore. The elites in the Point would pay up the nose for a couple of hours in a bedroom with him.

He gives me an appraising once-over.

I wonder what he’s seeing. I can’t even imagine what I look like right now. I feel tired and grimy, and my hair is loose and messy from my fingers running through it all evening. I hop off the mattress so we’re both standing. He still towers over me, but it’s better than giving him the upper hand by remaining subserviently seated.

“My name is Cross.”

I hide my surprise. I didn’t expect a proper introduction. I raise my brow. “What kind of name is Cross? Is that your surname?”

He lifts an answering brow. “Funny that someone named after a bird feels like she’s in any position to critique mine. Why Wren and not Sparrow? Or Dove?”

I narrow my eyes.

“I’m the captain of Silver Block,” he continues.

Iknewthey were Silver Block. Their ironclad shields. Their interrogation methods. The smug confidence.

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