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from a Number Ten into his mouth. I raise the weapon, aim it at the back of his head, and thumb the safety off. At the muted click, the kid freezes.
    â€œTell me who you are, or I’m going to ruin your meal permanently,” I say.
    The meal falls from his grasp, sending soup and dried fruit and nuts spattering across the floor. “D-don’t, please,” the kid whispers, raising his hands in the air. “I’m just looking for Uncle George.”
    I frown. “Who the hell are you?”
    The kid looks over his shoulder at me. He’s a few inches shorter than I am, wearing wire-framed glasses over bright green eyes now glazed with anxiety. His blond hair flops over his forehead. “Leo Thomas. Can I turn around?”
    I step back. “Go ahead, but keep those hands up.”
    He obeys. His Adam’s apple bobs as he stares into the barrel of my weapon. “If you’re not Tate Archer, I’m going to be very disappointed.”
    I step forward and press the weapon to his forehead. “I’m not playing, Leo. How did you know how to get in here?”
    His eyes are round and slightly crossed as he peers up at the black snout of the gun. “Um. Having trouble thinking straight. Imminent death on the brain.”
    I roll my eyes and move away, but only a little. And I wait.
    He draws in a shaky breath. “I’m looking for my uncle George. He was supposed to be here if something ever went wrong.”
    I arch an eyebrow.
    Leo’s fingers twitch nervously. “I think something went wrong.”
    â€œAnd if I told you my name was Tate?”
    He smiles. “I’d be really relieved.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause it means I’m in good hands.”
    â€œHow would you know?”
    â€œBecause your dad told me so. And it didn’t take much to know he’d use your mom’s middle name as his password.”
    I grit my teeth and take a few more steps back. “Dude. I need you to tell me your story. Now.”
    â€œDo I have to stand here with my hands in the air while I do it? I mean, I could, but—”
    I flick the safety on and lower the weapon. “How did you know my dad?”
    He grins. “I
knew
you were Tate. I’ve always wanted to meet you. I’ve known your dad for as long as I can remember.” His smile falters when I don’t return his enthusiasm. “He’d come for Fifty board meetings, and he’d visit me whenever he was in town.”
    â€œHow do you know about The Fifty?” This kid can’t be older than fourteen, and my mom told me that members of The Fifty didn’t tell their kids about the H2 or anything until they were at least sixteen. It was certainly a shock when I found out, though the circumstances had something to do with it.
    â€œMy parents were members. The Thomases. But . . .” His glasses slip a little on the bridge of his nose. “They died. About eight years ago. Car accident. My dad was the only Thomas left, except for me. So The Fifty raised me at the headquarters in Chicago, and I’ve been allowed to sit in on board meetings. I can’t vote, though. Not until I’m sixteen.”
    So this kid can probably tell me a lot. And he looks fairly harmless. I relax a bit. “You said you thought something went wrong. What have you heard?”
    â€œWhat happened to your dad, for one.” He shakes his head. “I want you to know I don’t believe anything they’re saying about him on the news. I know it’s a big lie made up by the Core.”
    My stomach feels hollow. “He’s really dead, Leo. I was there when it happened.”
    â€œI know. I mean . . . the rest of it.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œHow he’s a terrorist, how he was going to blow up that school in Manhattan.”
    â€œWhat?” I say with a laugh, though it comes out strangled.
    He looks over my shoulder