Chapter 18
“Nine in all,” Phillip Holt said. “He neutralized nine ultimate generation operatives. Plus your bodyguard. A former Special Forces soldier, no less.”
“Unfortunately, that’s correct.” Despite his humiliation, Rand stayed calm, following Holt’s progress constantly with his eyes as he paced around the conference table.
He didn’t dare turn his back on the man.
“Jordan, take note,” Holt said to his son. “This is the downside of delegating. Letting supposedly competent people make decisions with no oversight is asking for trouble. That’s exactly what we have now. Big trouble.”
Rand bristled at the man’s lecturing tone. “Nine operatives seemed like more than enough to take down one man,” he said defensively. “After what happened at Fayette’s, I decided—”
“You misjudged catastrophically. This has to be fixed, fast. And as quietly as possible. Or there will be unpleasant consequences for all of us.”
Rand was cowed into silence, which allowed the audio from the video clip of the recent disaster at Simone’s house to be heard. Holt had set the recording to loop. Shouts, shrieks, howls, and grunts of pain were the backdrop of this conversation.
Holt let out a sharp sigh of annoyance and paused the clip. By some evil chance, it froze on Rand as he rushed through the frame. Eyes wide with alarm, mouth slack. It was an extremely unflattering angle for his chin.
“The DNA from the dart tips didn’t match anything in the database,” Jordan said. “And the facial recog bots haven’t matched him to any missing rogue operatives, either. Though I suppose he could’ve had plastic surgery.”
“The database won’t help us if he’s a Midlands escapee,” Holt said. “We have all their control codes on file, but still no way of matching the codes to the respective test subjects. Those paranoid idiot researchers kept all their data on-site back then. It was lost in the fire. All of it.”
Rand jumped in. “So there’s no telling even how many of them got away.”
Holt shot him a quelling look. Rand took the hint and shut up. Baby boy Jordan had his father’s full attention.
“His age fits, for Midlands,” Jordan said, tapping his pencil against his lip. “They used mostly teenage runaways back then. The lab facilities in Asia and Eastern Europe are starting them much younger now.” He looked around. “They die young anyway, right?”
“His resistance to Corbatrix suggests that he’s from one of the extreme lines of experimentation,” Holt mused. “One dose of Corbatrix would kill an unmod. It killed your security man, correct?”
“Yes,” Rand said. “Kruger was dead in minutes.”
Holt grunted absently, his gaze faraway as he drummed his fingertips on the conference table. “Hmm. The drug knocked out all the modified operatives that took a dart, even though the doses were almost exhausted. But our mystery man was still on his feet after six fully loaded Corbatrix darts. That narrows the field quite a bit. I’m thinking he’s from the early days, and I’m betting heavily on Midlands. He could be one of Braxton’s test subjects. Braxton always pushed the mods to the absolute limit. No regard for safety whatsoever.”
“Braxton? You mean the swamp troll?” Jordan looked pained. “I refuse to deal with him.”
“He survived the Midlands massacre,” Holt said pointedly. “There are no other researchers from that facility still alive who had contact with those rebels. If this man is from the Midlands facility, Braxton might recognize him.”
Rand agreed with him, but he knew better than to open his mouth.
“Which would help us how?” Jordan asked. “He’s obsessed with disgusting gene mutation research. He’s off breeding mice with two heads, or something perverted like that. He’s certifiably insane. Plus, he creeps the shit out of me.”
“That’s beside the point,” Holt said impatiently. “Braxton would remember the control codes, if this rogue is one of his.”
Rand looked from one to the other of them. “But you said you had all the verbal control codes in the database. Why don’t we just try the word combinations until we find the right one to take him down?”
Holt shot him a look. “Pay attention. We’re talking Midlands, remember? The rebels firebombed the place. The data was lost. All of it. The research, the subjects’ previous identities, everything. Unless Braxton recognizes this man and drags useful data out of his own decaying brain. Do you want to recite a long, long list of possible control codes while this operative is running toward you with a knife?”
“Ah, no. I just meant—”
“I don’t give a shit. Do me a favor and be quiet until you have something useful to share. In fact, why don’t you just leave? You’ve done enough damage today. Take a break.”
Rand gathered his courage. “I don’t need to. But … fine, then. I’ll just get started coordinating the search for—”
“No. You will coordinate nothing.”
Rand’s mouth worked helplessly. “Someone has to.”
“Not you.” Holt’s voice was crystal sharp. “You screwed up, Rand. She doesn’t trust you now and she never will. Her obedience to your voice patterns and the command chime sequence is gone. Reconditioning her is impossible.”
Cold fear coalesced in him like a knot pulled tight. “Just let me try,” Rand pleaded. “Give me a chance.”
“You’re done here. Just go.”
“What? Go where?”
“I don’t care as long as you don’t leave town,” Holt said. “Keep your phone on and charged while I decide what to do about you.”
“But—”
“Get out. Now. Jordan and I have actual work to do.”
There was no arguing, not with their pitiless eyes boring holes into him. He rose and stumbled to the door, his face hot with shame.
Outside, he looked around for Kruger’s familiar shadow, before he remembered that Kruger was lying in a long steel drawer at the morgue.
He shuffled out into the parking lot, jumping at shadows while he second-guessed himself, thinking of what he should have said to that arrogant bastard Holt and his nitwit son. Picking apart his failure to do so. Reminding himself that he was still on the chain. Don’t leave town. Stick around for more punishment.
Rand put his car in gear and picked up speed on the long drive down the avenue of trees out of the Mayburg grounds. It was getting dark very early. Drizzling again. Then the windshield was dotted with rain, swept away by the wipers he turned on. The rhythm was soothing. Almost hypnotic.
What the fuck—
He braked and swerved wildly, tires screeching, to avoid hitting the—
The airbag burst open in his face. He was crushed back into his seat by the enormous, suffocating pillow. It slowly deflated but he kept his eyes screwed shut. He didn’t dare open them again.
She could not possibly be there. Barefoot and scrawny in her skimpy flowered hospital gown. Stringy hair. Wild, staring eyes. A wide, screaming mouth.
Anne. Simone’s mother. Dead thirteen years. Violently angry with him.
Everyone was angry with him right now. But it wasn’t his fault. None of it was his fault, and it was all so fucking unfair. He lifted his head. Opened his eyes.
Saw the shattered trunk of the tree he’d hit. Its dripping branches tangled with the wipers, which were still on. The road was empty now. No ghostly figure. He could have wept in relief.
He twisted around to unbuckle the seat belt—
“Hello, Rand,” Anne whispered from the seat next to him. “How’s my little girl?”
Rand screamed. The seat was empty again. But the damage was done.
He couldn’t stop screaming.
* * * *
A fresh storm of clashing, roaring noise raged inside Simone’s head. She hunkered down in the center of it. It hurt, but she was beyond panic now.
That moment in her kitchen when she’d accepted death had been the turning point. One thing shone in her mind: that dying was better than this. The pain would be over. The torture would stop.
There was something to be said for that.
At some point, she was conscious that the SUV had slowed down, and that they were on a smaller, winding road, climbing higher. And higher. She felt her ears pop. The light was nearly gone. Evening gloom shadowed the mountains. Clouds hung heavy in the sky.
Zade slowed to a stop and killed the engine. Silence settled in.
She focused her eyes. They were in a car shelter attached to a cabin on a mountainside, surrounded by towering trees that were barely visible.
Zade sat staring at her. “We’re here. Let’s go in.” It wasn’t a question, but his voice still sounded uncertain.
“It would be a long, cold, dark walk back down that mountain,” she said.
“I’m not holding you captive,” he said wearily. “I just want to keep you safe. I would never do anything to hurt you. Please come inside.”
“Okay.”
When she got out, the air outside the car was cold, sweet, and fresh. She breathed it in hungrily as she stretched her legs. It seemed to clear her head.
The cabin was small but comfortable. One big room with dark, heavy log beams and wood paneling. A niche in the back held a bed with what was probably a bathroom opening off to the side of it. A kitchen on the other end. A couch and some chairs were grouped around a glass fronted wood stove.
“I’ll get a fire going,” Zade said. “Then we can eat something.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
He looked her over briefly. “Yes, you are.”
“You’re doing it again, right?”
His eyes narrowed. “Doing what?”
“Using your … whatever it is you have. Looking at me and telling me how I feel. I’m not okay with that. Back the fuck off.”
He looked hunted. “Uh … that’s just my ASP. Short for augmented sensory processing. It helps me to—”
“I don’t care what it is or what you do with it. Just don’t use it on me.” Her voice shook with vehemence. “It’s creepy. How I feel inside my own body is my own goddamn private business.”
“Got it,” he said. “Won’t happen again. I’ll just go heat some food anyway. For myself. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”
Simone wandered around the room instead, staring out the windows. There was little to see, with night coming on. Zade clattered around in the kitchen and then came to crouch down in front of the stove, poking a long lighter into the dry kindling stacked inside.
He clicked the lighter. A small fire whooshed to life and crackled as he added split wood, piece by piece, his dark eyes reflecting the flames.
Simone drifted closer to it in spite of herself, shivering. “Nice place,” she said. “I assume you own it.”
“I do.”
“Any other homes besides this one and the warehouse place?”
“A few, yes.”
“Huh. Must be profitable being a fugitive ex-supersoldier.”
He shrugged. “We do what we can.”
He put a few slightly larger pieces of wood onto the fire and shut the glass doors. Then he headed back to the kitchen, rummaging through the freezer.
He held up some plastic microwavable containers. “Lasagna or chicken enchilada bake?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Both it is.” He stuck four of them into a microwave. Hit some buttons.
He came back to the stove and gave the fire a poke. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No alcohol for me, thank you. Things are weird enough as it is.”
“Okay. So, ah … where are you, with that stuff I told you?” He was careful not to look at her as he asked the question. “Are you ready to talk about it now? Or should I just shut up again?”
She stared down into the flames, her arms wrapped tightly across her chest.
“We can talk, I guess,” she said.
Zade let out a slow sigh. “Good,” he murmured.
“But assuming that I was going to entertain your insane world view for even one second, there are too many things about this that just don’t make sense.”
“Tell me what they are,” he said. “Maybe I can help you.”
“Right,” she said. “Like you’ve helped me so far.”
“Yes.” His voice had a harder note. “I have. You’re safe here, Simone. I didn’t let your stepdad’s thug throw you into their getaway van. If I had, you’d be in a windowless box right now, fucked up to your ears on their evil junk. And that’s where you’d stay. Until they incinerated you.”
She shook her head, holding up her hand. “I just don’t understand,” she said. “It doesn’t make sense. I never bothered anyone, except for ordering that genetic test. All I did was work, night and day. For years. Isn’t that what they wanted?”
“Ultimately, no. Things changed when you started bucking the compulsion programming. You refused direct orders. They can’t allow that. You’re potentially very powerful and they need to feel like they’re in control of you.”
“So, if what you say is true … then I’ll feel this pain and noise forever?”
“Not necessarily,” Zade said. “It’s been over thirteen years for me and by now it’s just a zap, now and then. Some wicked fucking headaches, but I survive and I’m doing fine.” He gazed at her intently. “You know I’m telling the truth.”
It wasn’t a question. She couldn’t deny his words, but even silent acknowledgment made her feel like another pillar had been knocked out from under the foundation of her world. More crumbling dust, more rubble. It never stopped.
Simone sat down heavily on the couch. “I don’t want to believe you,” she whispered. “God. That fucking noise. Driving me nuts.”
“I’m sorry about that. But look on the bright side. You don’t have Frey-Moller.”
She let out a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, which means my mother didn’t have it either. And I was raised by a man who let them kill her and cover it up.”
“That worthless piece of shit did not raise you.” Zade’s voice was hard. “You raised yourself.”
She waved that away. “Whatever. Maybe I won’t die in screaming agony from Frey-Moller, but this feeling still sucks, and it’s gotten worse ever since I broke up with Jordan.”
“Worth it,” he said. “It was the right thing to do. No matter what price they made you pay. That guy’s a self-satisfied prick.”
“Wait,” she said slowly. “You mean … you know Jordan?”
“Not personally,” Zade said. “I’ve surveilled him along with all the other Mayburg types. Jordan and his dad are with Obsidian. And so is Rand.”