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dead. Noa clenched her hands into fists to hide the fact that they were shaking.
    “How did he know all that?” Turk asked, a tremor in his voice. “How do they know who we are?”
    “Some of you were rescued,” Noa reminded him.
    “Not me,” Danny said in a low voice. “I found you online, remember?”
    Noa chewed her lip. He was right. Some of these kids had already been part of the organization when she joined up; others like Teo had been rescued. Yet this guy claimed to know personal details about all of them.
    “Someone’s been talking.” Turk marched back over to the chair. “I bet he knows who, too.”
    “Leave him,” Noa said. “I’ll deal with him myself.”
    “How?” Turk snorted. “You didn’t seem to scare him much.”
    “I know,” Noa said thoughtfully. “But I’ve got another idea.”
    “Fingernails?” Turk asked hopefully.
    “No,” Noa said. “PEMA.”
     
    Peter frowned at the monitor. After Amanda left, he’d started sifting through the initial data spewed out by his sniffer. Unfortunately, he quickly became overwhelmed. Thousands of emails, research reports, interoffice memos . . . It would probably take a team of people weeks to go through it all, and this was only a single day’s worth of data. He’d have to come up with specific search parameters to narrow the field, maybe zero in on PEMA, Project Persephone, and other likely code words. If he skipped his afternoon classes, he could have the program ready by tomorrow night.
    Still, there’d probably be a ton of stuff to go through. He mulled it over. There were a few other hackers he trusted, all of whom had been part of the /ALLIANCE/ when it was up and running. One in particular, Loki, was as good as Noa when it came to hacking skills. But he’d also made it pretty clear that Peter had pushed his luck last time by bricking the servers. He might not be willing to step up again.
    Peter sighed. Better to tackle this on his own. He’d take his usual route over the firewall tonight, pushing the sniffer data to the back burner.
    It was late, nearly two a.m. He had to be up for school in a few hours, but this was the only time of day he could be totally certain that he wasn’t being monitored. Not that he’d seen any sign that the Project Persephone bastards were still following him, but better safe than sorry. So Peter was parked in the driveway of a house a block away from his own. The owners were a retired couple who wintered in Turks and Caicos. The driveway was long and sweeping, and didn’t have a gate. It had been his spot of choice for the past month: not visible from the street, and far enough from his house that no one could tap into his computer activity.
    It was hardly comfortable, though. He didn’t dare run the engine for fear of attracting attention, which meant the interior of the car was freezing. Snow was forecasted for tomorrow, and he offered a silent prayer that the meteorologists would be right for a change. A snow day would give him a chance to catch up on sleep.
    Suppressing a yawn, Peter sifted through recent emails. He’d homed in on a few accounts that seemed directly affiliated with Project Persephone. The messages were encoded, but pretty easy to figure out: lots of references to “new R&D products” being moved to the Phoenix facility. He’d spent the evening tracking the company’s shipping manifests. Pike & Dolan had warehouses worldwide, most of which stored their legitimate products: shampoo, pharmaceuticals, even pet toys. But he’d become adept at figuring out which locations were being used as ad hoc operating facilities: primarily buildings where trucks drove shipments in, but rarely drove anything back out.
    And there was one near the Phoenix airport.
    He pulled up a satellite image of the property; it fit the profile of the other secret labs. Relatively isolated, and surrounded by half-finished buildings; probably all casualties of the economic crash. The warehouse itself