They were landing—the sound of the aircraft shifting gears tipped off the humans on board. Everyone rushed to the windows to take in their surroundings. From what Sloane had gathered, the humans on board came from different places. The list was short: Alaska, California, Utah, Montana. Which meant it was entirely possible they weren’t in Washington anymore. The ship has been hopping around from state to state—maybe even country to country–picking up as many humans as they could. It appeared to be a rescue mission, but what did she know. Sloane figured that if these aliens wanted to kill them, they would have done so by now.

  The ship touched down in the middle of a quiet cul-de-sac surrounded by behemoth-sized homes that had to be worth well over a million dollars each. Too bad no one would ever get to bask in their beauty again. If the aliens don’t destroy them, the anarchy that follows surely will.

  From the looks of it, they were out in the open, leaving the ship completely exposed. Others began to notice the same thing, which only fueled more chaos and panic. Sloane was beyond tired of the noise. This wasn’t the time or place, she knew that—but the urge to tell everyone to shut the hell up burned in her throat. What a waste of energy. She hadn’t known a moment of silence since the attack.

  The alien soldiers all lined up at the tail of the ship, armed and ready. Their position showed strength and determination—enough to almost settle Sloane’s nerves. Almost. In some deep part of her mind, she felt oddly protected, like she might actually be able to trust them.

  Trust might be a strong word.

  When the door slid open, the soldiers filed out in perfect order, leaving the humans behind with only a handful of aliens standing guard. Now all they could do was wait and see who or what they brought back with them.

  Sloane’s foot—leg—was in excruciating pain. It throbbed inside her boot, the ache shooting up into her thigh with every pulse. She assessed the damage one more time and, to her dismay, both her foot and calf were already starting to swell. Her breath hitched in her chest as she shifted, wincing at the movement. She needed to get her mind off it—there was nothing she could do from here. And maybe, just maybe, someone would actually come around to check on her wounds.

  Sloane stood up from the hard floor that she had been occupying for quite some time. Her body reacting to the sudden movement. She hurt in places she didn’t even know existed. But she pushed through the pain, wincing with every step she took. Sloane hobbled over to the door to get a look at what was going on outside, maybe get an idea of where they could possibly be.

  Yet again, she felt eyes bearing down on her. She glanced over to find the man and woman she’d come with watching her, scrutinizing her every move. How long had they been staring? Unfortunately for her, she made eye contact with the man, and that seemed to give him permission to speak.

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  “Where are you going? Are you leaving?”

  So many questions. There was always a question.

  Sloane shot him a look of pure annoyance, like he was gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe and she now had to figure out how to scrape him off. She had no intention of answering him, driving home the point that she was alone in this—and not here to help them.

  With no one stopping her, Sloane moved close enough to the edge of the aircraft to hear the shooting—and the screaming. Lots of screaming. The tail of the ship was positioned away from the chaos, so she couldn’t see who—or what—was causing it. From what she could deduce, they were under attack by something. And that “something” possibly included the Greys, the Rolling aliens, the Tanks and God knows what else.

  A metallic crunch echoed between the mansions. Sloane had a sinking feeling—those were cars, being crushed by something big. Really big. Then came the thumping, like a herd of horses stampeding—but it wasn’t horses. It was humans. And by the looks of it, at least a hundred of them. Flanking the crowd were the monstrosities that had hunted her in the woods.

  Sparks of blue light shot from the armed humanoid aliens— Sloane’s “good guys,” if she dared call them that. She spotted the leader in black moving like a storm among them, holding the Greys back to give the humans a chance to escape. He wielded something that looked like a sword, but thicker, shorter, and not made of metal at all—just white-blue light pulsing like pure power.

  The leader in black cut down the Greys one by one. Green blood splattered across everything, coating the beings in black or green gore by the time they made it back to the ramp. The remaining enemies—Rolling aliens and Tanks—were shredded by gunners stationed on a higher level of the ship. The sky itself seemed to bleed black.

  And then they were off, whisked back into the blue skies above. The feeling of being airborne was something Sloane would never get used to. Something astronauts spent years preparing for.

  A hundred and fifty people, give or take, now crowded the space. What she had thought was a spacious UFO was starting to feel claustrophobic. From snippets of conversations she had eavesdropped on, the “good guys” had saved who ever they could in the area. And cue the dramatics—as soon as they were on the ship, paranoia and fear set in. Too many questions went unanswered. Anger simmered and confusion ran rampant. Some were carried in, screaming from wounds that made her stomach turn. Missing limbs, shredded flesh—she couldn’t be sure, but the sight and smell were enough. Blood coated the floors mixing with the stench of body odor so thick it made the air almost unbreathable. The ship felt like it could explode from the sheer tension and panic pressing in on them.

  The leader made his way through the crowd—always assessing, always watching. He seemed to find her with ease. Their eyes met yet again, their energy colliding like a brick wall. Sloane straightened her stance. She wasn’t about to reveal her weakness; how broken she truly was—both physically and emotionally. She put on her best poker face: cold, unreadable, void of any emotion. A mask hiding every fracture.

  He continued his survey of the humans aboard the ship. Just before he passed her, he paused, tilting his head ever so slightly.

  “There will be someone on the mothership to tend to your leg,” he said, his voice muffled by the helmet.

  And then he moved on, leaving Sloane to wonder who he really was, what they wanted—and what their endgame, all of it, truly meant.