Z7976?

16M!

The second line I understood: I had 16 minutes to do, get to, or accomplish whatever it was the Mice wanted accomplished. The first was a mystery. Part of a phone number? A location somehow coded into numbers? GPS coordinates, latitude/longitude? Was I officially in the Blind Mice now, or did I still have to solve this puzzle? And if I did, how many more would there be?

I stood in the middle of this deserted strip mall, wracking my brain, dizzy from the whirlwind of the last hour—and possibly the fumes of Hatch's truck exhaust too. The asphalt under my feet felt suddenly harder, the lot farther off the street. The sun had set while I was inside getting inked, and none of the overhead parking lights worked.

Focus, Moll.

It took me thirty seconds to realize Hatch couldn't see me anymore. I was free to call Durwood. I dug into my purse for my phone.

Durwood answered, "What's it say?"

Apparently he'd intuited everything from my earing audio.

"It has two lines: Z7976 and 16M. The second part means 16 minutes—and we've already lost two. What do you think about the Z number?"

The line was silent. In my nose, frigid night had replaced truck exhaust.

"The way those 7s repeat," I said, "and with the 6 being an upside-down 9, I thought it could be in code. Should I try asking Google? Do you have anything in the Vanagon for—"

"Zip code."

"Huh?"

"Z for zero," Durwood said. "07976. Northern New Jersey."

My lower jaw dangled. How had he figured that out? And did he possess a photographic recall of New Jersey zip codes?

I ran to the Prius and punched the zip into my navigation. Durwood said to call if I needed him—he was heading that way himself now, wouldn't be far if things turned hairy. I zoomed from the parking lot, racing north by my phone's precisely-enunciated directions. The defensive driving I practiced with the kids in tow vanished; I honked and gunned yellows and changed lanes without signaling. My stomach bottomed with each move, then recovered once nothing calamitous occurred, little roller-coasters of exhilaration keeping my foot on the gas.

I merged onto the turnpike, accelerating up the entry ramp. The Prius' electric motor vre-eee-ed as I slipstreamed past a Mercedes. Over the soundproofing banks I could see neighborhoods changing, homes becoming larger, yards luxurious, boats in front of three- and four-car garages.

Where were the Mice leading me? Was I going to be hazed? Blindfolded and dumped in the Hackensack River? Forced to perform an initiatory computer hack?

I reached the 07976 zip code just in time. An upscale mall constituted its western border. Frantically I looked around the Bloomingdale's sign for some arrow, or heavily-pierced ambassador, or button I could push to register my arrival.

My phone vibrated. I fumbled it to the passenger floorboard, had to crawl across the center console to retrieve it.

mAYHeM @ 23rd & Pinecrest

With trembling fingers, I pecked the intersection into my navigation. On the way I called Durwood, who said he would set up four or five blocks away. Soon I found myself in an ultra-wealthy subdivision. Pavement yielded to smooth cobblestone roads, wood and chain-link fences to marble and brass.

What business could the Mice have here? I thought of that scrap Hatch had thrown back into his cab, the one for Pups. "Private email addresses for for every CEO in the Despicable Dozen." Maybe they had other kinds of addresses.

At 21st Street, I passed through a towering wrought-iron gate that set off an even more exclusive geography—an enclave within an enclave. At 22nd, a bicycle was kick-standed crookedly in the street. Which was off: the residents here didn't seem to leave much out, no driveway basketballs or rakes leaned against trees. I peered down a cul-de-sac and saw three more bikes, plus a ratty Toyota Corolla sporting a slew of bumper stickers.

I slowed and tried to guess something about the vehicles' owners. Teenagers who actually lived here? Or Blind Mice up to ... well, nothing good. It reminded me ruefully of high school, my friends and I cruising in somebody's mom's minivan for the cool party, knowing only the general neighborhood and maybe what color house.

Now I reached a property with ascending boulders flanking its drive. Behind the lowest boulders, tucked between azalea bushes, two pairs of jeans and sneaker heels were poking out. I saw—or thought I saw—more body parts closer to the drive. A stocking cap. The untucked tail of a flannel shirt.

The Prius drifted to a stop. I peered through the darkness at letters chiseled into the top boulder.

BLACKSTONE.

I palmed the back of my neck, which felt bare and weird after the bob-cut. Blackstone. Where did I know that name?

"Not here," a voice hissed through my passenger-side window. "Around the corner."

My toes twitched the accelerator, causing the Prius to rev. I plugged the brake, lurching back to electric mode, then glided noiselessly to the dark bend ahead. A utility pole rose above the tree canopy here. Every few seconds, high overhead, a blue light blipped. Two other cars were parked on this road, wheels at jutting angles to the curb.

I nosed in behind the last.

I debated bringing only my cell but finally decided to take my whole purse. Treading carefully over cobblestone, attuned to every rustle of the towering Aspens overhead, I approached the Blackstone property. The streetlights—burnished brass, nouveau antique—gave almost zero light, and on foot I noticed vehicles I had missed from the car: more bicycles, a Vespa scooter.

I had almost reached the boulders when a hooded figure stepped from the shadows. A penlight shined in my face.

"Show your Mark."

I balked, unsettled by the sinewy fist around the penlight's shaft.

You got this. They already took you.

I twisted around for him to see my tattoo, which still tingled. Night air whistled over my back. It occurred to me that if this thing was going to be used like a badge, I would've been better off getting it on my wrist.

As I tucked my shirt in, the sentry bent to retrieve some kind of wand.

"Raise your arms," he said.

"I'm getting checking for weapons?"

"Nope. Frequencies."

He dropped to one knee and moved his wand around my shoes, up my ankles. An indicator-meter flickered in the green range.

The earring! If they detected Durwood's mic, I was toast.

The sentry was scanning my pockets now, his wand emitting soft blips. With painstaking slowness I moved my hand to my left earlobe, flicked off the earring back with my thumbnail, and in a single swift motion, palmed the turquoise stud and flung it to the street. It clattered off cobblestone.

The sentry glanced over. But only for a second.

He finished his scan, then set down the wand and twisted off his penlight. "Walk inside the curb to the intercom box. Then crawl. Otherwise the security cam sees you."

I nodded, saliva flooding the back of my mouth.

The sentry stood aside.

"Nibble forth."

"Nibble forth," I returned, feeling it was somehow called for.

I inched toward the BLACKSTONE boulder on all fours. Through a crevice, I saw a group of 18 or 20 congregated on the lawn. Faces faintly illuminated by cellphone screens. Messenger bags. Ripped jeans, unlaced shoes. They formed a cockeyed wedge, the sides of which were marked by electrical tape.

The unmistakable form of Hatch stood near the head of the group. Thick-shouldered, taller than everybody else by a foot.

Taking care to stay inside the electrical tape—which, I would notice later, marked the outer sweep of two black-box cameras—I joined one of the smaller conversation circles.

A guy to my left and girl to my right looked very young. 16? 17? They up-nodded at me and I up-nodded back, doing my best with the gesture's familiar-but-aloof tone. It wasn't too cold for September but of course being teenagers these two had dressed for July in T-shirts, their skinny elbows chattering. (Zach never consented to wear a jacket before signs of mild hypothermia appeared.)

Nobody in my circle spoke. To me or to each other. Every last person had one eye on the mansion and one on their phone, most thumbing the screen. To fit in I took mine out.

Six new messages from Durwood. The latest, one minute ago: Check in when possible. At mall awaiting your location.

The other five were similar. I tapped off a quick reply, describing my location and surroundings. A moment later, he asked whether I had received any operational details.

I typed, No.

Ninety seconds.

Roger. Hold position, keep gathering intel. Am two minutes away in case extraction necessary.

I snapped the phone shut and scanned the lawn. I didn't know exactly what "intel" I was looking for. Not much was happening in my circle; the action seemed to be in the lead group, where Hatch and others were talking in stern whispers, making foreboding gestures at the mansion.

An attack.

What kind, though? It seemed odd the Blind Mice would risk assembling, the possibility of exposure, for simple theft. Cars, jewelry, cash. Every mission I had ever read about had involved computers. Could there be some ultra-secret safe inside with router passwords or network keys or ... well, whatever else you needed to wreak havoc online?

I spotted a black girl pecking on a laptop in that lead group, short, wearing a knit beanie. The legendary Piper Jackson? I hadn't come across mention of her age, but she had to be under twenty. She worked with lips curled tight to her teeth, the others turning often to check her screen.

I was just thinking how I could move closer when Hatch saw me.

His inked head—which rose above the scene like some wild, decorated periscope—froze. The others in my circle noticed him noticing me, and shuffled a step away. The enormous Libertarian grinned, but there was a heat in the grin I didn't like.

Had I messed up somehow? Had he meant for the scrap of paper in the parking lot to burn through without my reading it? What if they had intercepted my texts with Durwood? Maybe that's what Piper Jackson was doing, clicking through Verizon's database and reading all my messages.

Would they kidnap me? Torture me? I told myself that no matter how overheated their rhetoric, the Mice cared about social justice. Surely people who campaigned for a living wage weren't capable of pulling out fingernails with pliers.

At height of my fears, Hatch stood aside to reveal a pale, gangly figure in frayed cargo shorts. His bones didn't seem quite to fit, elbows and knees jangling liquidly as though the upper and lower parts operated independently. Ghost-white hair flowed back from a high forehead like exotic Asian noodles. His eyes—pinkish, Albino?—pulsed with unhinged intensity, and they aimed straight at me.

Josiah.

He began walking toward me. I stashed my phone in my purse, then thought no, that would look guilty. I clutched it, remembering the rumor about him making teethmarks in gorilla glass.

Everyone in the yard was watching Josiah, who kept coming. It was impossible to look away. His gait was hypnotic, those kaleidoscopic limbs devouring the space between us. I felt my head swirling up, up, out of this wealthy New Jersey suburb.

Two hours ago, I was boiling pasta water. Now I was inches away from the most wanted criminal in the United States.

With a last erratic stride, he brought his face close to mine. He smelled of mint—not any familiar kind like spear- or peppermint, but aggressive. The scent of a street drug.

"Now, Molly," he said in a reedy voice. "You shall be baptized in mayhem."