And now he’s hearing his father’s voice, tone shaking with anger the way it always did when he had to tell Richard something the boy needed to hear. Telling him he should have listened to his instincts when he first laid eyes on her—too young, too arrogant. Too much like pretty Stephanie of the Seattle Leather Company. And now he’s feeling strangely shamed and small and—

Jesus Christ. I gotta go wake this bitch up or this is gonna be no fun at all.

“So, girlie,” he says as soon as his boots hit the earth. “Let me explain something to you about how this works. There’s no escape, really. I mean, I might have fun letting you try, but you won’t, so why not try listening for once?”

He raises the Weatherby Mark V so the rifle acts like a boat’s prow as he pushes through the branches. He’s cut back most of the really low foliage, but there are still a few branches at eye level and he doesn’t want them slapping the night vision goggles and amplifying their screwy effect on his depth perception.

“If you just go on and accept what this is gonna be, then maybe you’ll learn a few things about—”

What he sees next he assumes is a trick of the night vision’s green flare. For starters, the bear trap’s not only empty, it’s broken. His mind has trouble wrapping around the word, but there’s no other word for it. The thing must have misfired and come apart. But if that’s the case, why is one entire jaw missing?

“Hey, fuckhead.”

He spins so fast the goggles jostle. His vision’s gone hazy, crooked. Is he hallucinating? If so, there’s no time to process it, because the woman says, “Catch!”

There’s no sound, but the force that explodes in his left shoulder feels as powerful as a rifle blast. For a second, he thinks he shot himself. But that’s impossible. He’s still holding the rifle aimed straight in front of him.

Fiery pain shoots up the left side of his neck and coats his chest. He’s been hurled backward several feet. Whatever projectile the woman just threw at him pierced him with enough force to pin him to the tree trunk behind him. And there was only one thing out here the bitch could have hit him with—the bear trap’s missing jaw. But that’s impossible. The whole thing’s fucking impossible.

He tries to move. He can’t. He’s pinned to the tree.

Through me, he realizes. Straight fucking through me. Whatever she just threw, it went straight through me and pinned me to the goddamn tree.

Too late, he realizes he’s completely forgotten about the rifle in his grip, that he’s even raising his left hand to reach for whatever’s torn through his left shoulder. That’s when there’s a deafening explosion followed by a burst of pain in his right foot so intense piss warms his underwear. And that’s when Richard Davies realizes he literally just shot himself in the foot.

The next thing he feels is the gentle tug of the woman pulling off his night vision googles, followed by a soft thud when she tosses them to the ground.

14

If any of the techs doubted the momentousness of tonight’s test, those doubts probably evaporated as soon as Charlotte Rowe used a single overhand throw to send one jaw of the bear trap shooting through the air with the speed and precision of a tennis ball fired out of a practice machine.

Cole feels as gratified by the stunned expressions on their faces as he is by Charlotte’s sudden transformation.

Shannon Tran says, “Ground team would like to know if—”

“Not yet,” Cole answers. “Let her play.”

15

Charlotte sinks to a crouch several feet from Davies as he tries to suck breath through snotty nostrils.

She’s waiting patiently for him to look up from the shattered stump of gore that used to be his right foot. If she has to, she’ll wait all night.

Zypraxon doesn’t trigger mood changes. It doesn’t remove remorse or accountability. Anything she feels in this moment comes from her true self, so her delight in his condition is her responsibility, and if she leans too far into the feeling, whatever she does next will be her responsibility as well.

“I’m disappointed in you, Richard.”

“Wh-whut are you, you fuck . . . you fucking bit—”

“I guess I’d hoped for more. I guess I thought you’d learn something about yourself when I took your toys away. Discover who you really are inside the sack of flesh, or whatever bullshit you just shouted at me while you were safe in your little hunting blind and I was out here freezing to death.”

She has his full attention now. He looks doped up suddenly, like he’s going numb from blood loss.

“Oh, wait,” she says, “silly me. This is who you really are. A whiny crybaby who can’t fight for shit the minute he loses his weapons.”

He’s shivering, so maybe the stony expression is a ruse. She can’t see much blood where the bear trap’s pinned him to the trunk, but the foot’s another story. If she had to guess, the blood’s flowing fast and free enough that he might not survive the cleanup operation Cole’s planned.

“How many?” she asks.

“I’m dead.”

“Excuse me?”

“I died, didn’t I? Been dead all day. Everything’s . . . wrong. Everything about you was wrong. Shoulda never picked you up. But you found me, didn’t you? ’Cause I’m d-dead and that’s how you found me, ’cause you think you some kinda angel but really you’re just a demon bitch.”