Page 117 of Aviatrix

“But those ships weren't extraterrestrial. The aliens have been searching for you all along, Nova,” Gary says quietly, confirming what I already knew.

But why? Is it because Dad was involved? Was he their leader? The liaison between alien and human? The reason we stole alien tech?

Is it even possible?

The aliens were looking for me. We know that now. But someone else—the Legion perhaps—was targeting the president while there was a credible distraction.

They used Langdon as an excuse to take out Wingard. I know it.

This isn’t coincidence. This is deliberate. Strategic. Targeted.

The ship that chased me…

And the two ships that chased Eli…

That wasn’t about him. It was either about me or it was about them covering their asses.

The realization lands like a punch to the chest.

I want to scream. Or cry. Or go back in time and slam the cockpit door shut before he could take off.

A knock jars the room. Sasha’s head peeks in.

“I heard this is where the resistance is meeting,” she says with a faint smirk.

“The what?” Gary snaps.

She steps inside like she owns the place, shuts the door behind her, and snatches Walker’s photo off the table, staring at it a moment too long.

Her eyes flick to mine. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I’m not sure we should trust her.

“Who is this?” she asks, then pauses. “And why does Kinley look like she’s about to throw up again?”

Because I am.

Because no matter what Sasha’s intentions are, I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with her.

I think I got the only man who ever came back for me killed.

And if I’m right—if this is just the beginning—then more of us are going to pay the price.

TWENTY-SIX

YOUR SOLUTION IS TO GIVE ME A FIREARM?

There’s an ever-growing list of problems on my plate, and I have a feeling everything is about to explode like a grenade.

Sasha stands at the front of the room during the Alien Warfare briefing. She’s traded her usual dressy clothes for something simpler: a fitted white tee, green cargo pants, and white high heels. Her signature blonde ponytail is still secured at the base of her neck. She looks more like a cheerleading coach than someone briefing us on extraterrestrial warfare. Even back at the Academy, Sasha was always polished. It’s who she is.

Me? Not so much.

My stomach’s been in a constant state of nausea since I forced down half a waffle. My hair hangs loose around my shoulders. I didn’t have the energy to braid it or pin it back into a bun. I’m spent. Too much has happened. Too many secrets unearthed. My mind is a battlefield. Dad, Eli, Lark, Mom, Amber… they’re all fighting for territory.

“Let’s begin, shall we?” Sasha says from the front.

Lark leans back in his chair, but his eyes never leave my face. I shift uncomfortably as he watches me closely. A little too closely.

Sasha clicks through a series of photos. All of them show the alien ship over D.C. At first, the surface appears smooth. But in the next image—taken from a different angle—it’s jagged and rough, jutting out in some places, concaving in others. It looks like it was carved from rock. Then, in another photo, it’s smooth again.