Chapter 20.
The survivors drift closer to the stage in small clusters and chat among themselves for the next few minutes, wondering if they’re finally going to see who The Host really is; if that’s going to be the next big reveal.
Mostly what they all feel is relief, at least for now.
They’ve just found out that they hadn’t come all this way for nothing.
But relief is dangerous. It makes you sloppy.
Rupert Chadwick stays close to Jack McHenry. Even in this short a time, it’s obvious Rupert feels safer when Jack is around. He’s learned something already: In a place with no rules, you pick a person you trust and you don’t let them disappear.
Alek watches the crowd the way she used to watch streets back home. She watches who helps. Who laughs when someone flinches. Who scans the perimeter like they’re looking for exits.
Hannah has been squeezing Alek’s hand since the final announcement, without realizing that she had been doing it. It felt completely natural, part of the sisterhood they already share.
“We made it,” Hannah whispers, breathing a sigh of relief.
“For now,” Alek says.
Hannah lets out a breath she’s been holding for hours. “In that tent . . . I thought every word was a trap.”
Alek nods. “It was. I kept thinking there might be right answers. And the next thing I said might be the wrong answer.”
“Same!” Hannah says. “But we still don’t know what the numbers mean.”
“Could just make us easy to count,” Alek says.
Jack and Rupert are in front of them, next to Elena Torres, a prominent TV reporter for Television Espanola—sharp-eyed and camera-ready even when there are no cameras.
“What did you tell them?” Jack asks her.
“I told them the truth,” she says. “That I’m not here to be a spectator. Someday I plan to lead my country. I intend to be prime minister.”
She smiles at Jack and watches his reaction closely. “Does that sound ridiculous?”
“I don’t know you very well,” Jack says. “But, not to me.”
Elena turns it back on him. “What about you, what did you tell them?”
“I tried to tell them my own truth as best I could.” Jack doesn’t puff himself up.
He’s past that. “I was an Army Ranger but haven’t been much more than a hard-living knockaround guy since.
I’ve been drifting. And I’m done drifting.
I’m back in the driver’s seat and on my way to being The One, of course. ”
A voice cuts in from behind them. “Oh, please,” Ant Tipton says, strolling up like he owns the place. “You two sound like high school children at prom.”
Elena gives him a look that could peel paint. “Did your mother not teach you it’s rude to eavesdrop?”
Jack studies him. Tipton’s eyes have the flatness of a man who’s never felt bad about what he’s done. Tipton smiles because he knows Jack is trying to figure him out.
“I’m proud to tell you both that I basically lied my ass off in there,” he says. “Up and down and all the way to Berkeley Square and back. But here I am, anyway. Same as the two of you. Fancy that.”
“Fancy that,” Elena says. “Thrilled, practically.”
Jack watches Tipton’s face to see if there’s any reaction to the obvious sarcasm in Elena’s voice. Watches his eyes, mostly.
“That should tell you something,” Tipton says.
“It tells me you’re dangerous,” Jack says quietly.
Tipton’s grin fades for half a second—just long enough to show there’s a temper under it.
Most guys Jack had served with, he knew they’d have his back if it ever came to that, no hesitation even if it meant putting his life ahead of theirs. Tipton is different, Jack is sure of it somehow, barely even knowing the man. With him, you were better off watching your own back.
You didn’t have to know Tipton to know his type.
Tipton looks past Jack, bored again, and moves off.
Hannah watches him go. “That English man . . .”
“A problem. The kind you don’t turn your back on,” Alek says quietly, afraid Tipton might still be in earshot.
“So, I’m #222. Wyatt’s #77. You’re #9. What the hell do the numbers mean?” Hannah gets back on her new mystery.
Alek nods decisively. “I’ll tell you. Nothing at all.”
Then Wyatt directs her attention back to the stage.
Jimmy Donaldson has reappeared and is walking to the microphone.