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his shaving kit when he packed it. He went to the bathroom to look.
    “You have no hope left,” Five said. “I respect that. You’re realistic, for one of your kind.”
    He stared into the mirror. Was that true? Did he have no hope?
    It was almost true. Not 100 percent true, but it wasn’t a lie.
    Oliver looked into his own tired, watery eyes and realized he was letting this creature beat him. If he had no hope, if he’d given up in his heart, he was useless. He was betraying President Wood, his country, his kind, who were trusting him with a crucial task. Maybe he was here primarily because all of the men and women more capable of doing this job were dead. Maybe that was true.
    It is true.
    “Shut up!” he shouted.
    Even if it was true, he had assets and abilities those people lacked. He needed to better utilize his assets.
    Maybe he could turn Five’s humiliating insights around to his advantage. Five was good at exposing his weaknesses. Fine, now he knew what his weaknesses were. As any decent psychologist knew, if you’re not aware of your weaknesses, they control you; if you’re aware of them, if you face up to them, you control them.
    Based on Five’s attacks, his weaknesses were Vanessa, and his lack of confidence in himself.
    They’re just the tip of the iceberg.
    “Shut up.”
    As Five had so aptly observed, he was waiting for superheroes to show up and save him. Since all the superheroes—all of the CIA’s action people—were dead, he needed to get himself a cape. Even if, inside, he didn’t feel it, even if he felt like a fraud, it was time to play the part of the big, strong CIA agent. It was time to lock out his doubts and fears, put his head down, and take bullets until he couldn’t get up anymore.
    “You’re wrong,” he said aloud, because to humans speaking something aloud held a certain power, made the words real in a way thinking them did not. “I’m realistic; I recognize that we’re losing. Badly. But I still have hope. We haven’t lost yet. We’re headed somewhere, and I’m pretty sure we’re not going there to surrender.”
    The little speech sounded canned even to his ears; they were the sort of words Batman might speak in a comic book. But Oliver had to admit, it still felt good to say them.

5
Kai Zhou
July 1, 2029 (eight months earlier). Washington, D.C.
    Kai pried the flagstone loose from the walk that meandered through the church’s walled garden. The small, square key was underneath, just as the Luyten said it would be. He plucked it from its hiding spot, headed for the back door of the church.
    Not there. Back the other way. Walk along the wall.
    Kai did as he was told, his mouth watering with anticipation despite the wild guilt he felt. A
church
.
    There was a small graveyard set inside a low, ornamental fence. Ivy covered the fence and crawled along the ground.
    There. Behind the statue.
    Behind a mold-stricken statue of an angel with spread wings was a raised concrete circle with a steel cover. Looking around first, though it was probably unnecessary, Kai approached the cover, inserted the key into the hole, and pulled the hatch open.
    The cover lifted fairly easily, revealing a dark hole, a ladder leading down. Kai climbed to the bottom, a dozen or so feet below the ground. He was surrounded by shelves of food—dried, packaged meals, like the ones soldiers ate.
    Whose are these?
he thought. It was confusing, to speak to it without speaking. There was no line dividing what he wanted to say and what he just wanted to think.
    The pastor. Speak out loud if you prefer, but quietly.
    “Why is this food down here?” Kai whispered, relieved.
    Because he doesn’t want to share it. Take six.
    Hands shaking with anticipation, Kai grabbed the meals, struggled up the ladder one-handed, and headed for the gate.
    Not yet. Go toward the church.
    “I don’t want to get caught,” Kai whispered.
    I know where everyone is. Go.
    Kai went. The voice directed him along the back