Ultraxenopia (Project W. A. R. Book 1)

by M. A. Phipps

  The frustration that takes hold of me is overwhelming. I feel powerless—as if I’ve reached a dead end, despite arriving exactly where I need to be.

  Wrapping my hand around the glass, I slowly lift it to my lips, taking a sip of the liquid as I stare off into space, lost in thought. The taste that hits my tongue is unexpected. I sputter and choke, coughing on the vile remnants of it lingering in my throat. I cover my mouth in an effort to muffle the sound as my fingers shove the glass away from me.

  “It’s an acquired taste.”

  I jump when I hear his voice. I cast a cautious glance in his direction, and when our eyes meet, he motions toward my glass with a single jerk of his head. I look at it, embarrassed, but I can’t find the means to speak.

  It abruptly dawns on me that I’m not doing a very good job of blending in.

  He pivots on his stool, and I can feel his eyes on me like a fire against my skin. His gaze washes over me, seeming to penetrate my very soul.

  “You’re not from around here,” he says. It’s not a question, but a statement. A statement I feel I should dodge, at least for now.

  “I’m here on business,” I answer as casually as possible.

  His eyes are piercing, and the skepticism on his face is nearly as sharp in the musty silence. “Business?” he asks. “There isn’t much business going down in Zone 7.”

  I attempt to swallow the lump growing in my throat. “Not even with PHOENIX?” I whisper.

  His eyes enlarge, and I can sense his alarm, even though he’s trying hard to suppress it. In all fairness, his reaction could simply be shock at my bluntness toward a subject considered by many to be taboo. I might even think that was the case if I didn’t already know who he was.

  Without warning, he leans toward me, hovering over the stool sitting between us.

  “I don’t know who you are,” he mutters in a low voice. “But you won’t find anything involved with PHOENIX here if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  Our eyes remain locked, but neither of us blink. I take a breath to brace myself, certain this is my only chance.

  The opportunity has presented itself, and all I have to do is reach out and take it. “Then why are you here?”

  I pause for a few seconds to gauge his reaction. He shifts ever so slightly, clearly taken aback by the implication behind my words.

  When he doesn’t speak, I say the one thing that I know will force his hand. “Ezra Laramie,” I whisper.

  He gapes at me, and I can see the fear in his expression, as well as the confusion building behind it. His eyes take me in, trying to make sense of who I am.

  In one swift movement, he’s on his feet, but oddly enough, he’s no longer looking at me. I follow his gaze, and when my eyes land on his point of focus, I realize the unfortunate position I’ve managed to put myself in. He’s staring at the white coat wrapped loosely around me. Or to be more precise, at the insignia embroidered into the breast.

  The insignia that represents the DSD.

  I hear a soft click, and before I can even blink, I find a gun pointed at my face.

  “Who are you?” he growls.

  I slide off the stool, landing unsteadily on my feet. I keep eye contact with him, careful not to make any sudden movements. His anger visibly intensifies with each moment that passes in silence, but I still don’t say anything. I can’t, even though I know the clock is ticking. The time I have left to defend myself is running out, and if the countdown reaches zero, I’ll be dead.

  “Who are you?” he asks again, shouting this time.

  Now I notice the other people in the bar. They’re all on their feet, watching our altercation, and it doesn’t escape my notice that they all have guns. All of which are aimed at me. Even the bartender produces a large weapon from beneath the counter.

  It occurs to me that this place must be a hot spot for PHOENIX members. Everyone in this room is either a part of the group or a supporter of it.

  “This isn’t how it looks,” I stammer.

  A sarcastic laugh explodes from his lungs, echoing through the otherwise soundless bar.

  “Really?” he asks. “Because, from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re one of them.”

  “I’m not,” I mutter weakly.

  He pushes the barrel of the gun against my temple, and our faces are so close now that I can feel his heated breath against my lips.

  “Why should I believe you?”

  I tense my jaw, spitting my next words through clenched teeth. “If I was one of them, they would already be here,” I hiss back.

  The State doesn’t play games. He must know that better than anyone else. They wouldn’t waste time sending in a single person when they could more efficiently get the job done by sending a whole team. If I was one of them, the Enforcers would already be here. The State wouldn’t bother with this game of charades.

  His expression doesn’t change, but I can see his true reaction in his gaze—the doubt that appears there. He seems to grasp that what I’ve said makes sense, but at the same time, he can’t wrap his head around any other reason why I’d be here.

  He wavers, and I can feel the point of his gun wobble uncertainly against my skin. His eyes remain fixed on mine, making my heart race even faster. I only glance away when I notice a movement to my right. I look up to see another man standing beside us.

  “We can’t take any chances,” the man grumbles before spitting on the floor in front of me. “We should kill her to be sure.”

  A deep-rooted panic washes over me, the fear like a smoldering and inextinguishable ember. Despite everything I’ve seen, I still have my doubts as to what’s really happening, and I can’t help but worry that this won’t end well. How can it? I won’t even be given the chance to defend myself.

  He presses the gun even harder against my forehead, causing me to suck in a sharp breath. Our eyes lock once again.

  “How do you know my name?” he asks me.

  I stare at him, trying to figure out the best way to answer his question. His hazel eyes are probing, but I find myself losing focus on his equally intense expression. His face has gone hazy, the bar even darker. The nausea from before returns with a vengeance, consuming my entire body and pressing down on me with a force that threatens to pin me to the floor.

  I sway, lightheaded.

  A strange trickling resonates around us, the sound unusually loud in the dangerously hushed bar. At first, I think I’m imagining it, but then I see the alarming change in his face.

  His eyebrows pull together as he looks down, and suddenly, he’s taking a reflexive step back. I follow his gaze, my own vision doubling as I take in the tremendous pool of red that seems to surround me.

  I watch the blood as it drips ominously from my open wrist, the bandage now entirely soaked and useless.

  His eyes snap back to mine, and my every movement feels delayed as I glance up to meet them. The moment I do, the images from my vision flash through my thoughts, reminding me why I’m here.

  I see his face. His hazel eyes.

  I see his tears.

  “I’m sorry, Wynter.”

  Any and all light that the bar possessed is instantly gone, and the pain I had managed to forget hits me all at once. I gaze at him, concentrating on his face as much as my increasing blood loss will allow. Focusing on his eyes, which continue to stare back at me.

  My lips pull into a smile as the darkness rushes to overcome me. “I saw you,” I breathe.

  THE DARKNESS GRADUALLY BEGINS TO recede, but the light doesn’t seem ready to welcome me just yet. Everything is faint. Everything is blurred. I slowly open and close my eyes, trying to climb my way out of unconsciousness. But it’s hard.

  The pain is overwhelming, centralized in the form of a horrible burning at my wrist. I can’t move. I can barely think. My body is cold and covered in damp sweat. My entire head feels as if it’s on fire. It pounds violently, keeping in time with every beat of my racing heart.

  I try to lo
ok around, but all I can make out is a silhouette sitting beside me. I want to reach out to it, but my arm feels heavy.

  “Where am I?” I croak. My voice sounds distant.

  The silhouette leans toward me, and I feel a gentle hand brush a strand of hair from my clammy cheek.

  “Shh . . . you’re safe.” A woman’s voice.

  “Mother,” I whimper. “Mother, is that you?”

  I feel a stray tear dash from my eye. I’m afraid, and despite everything that’s happened and everything my mother has done, I want nothing more than to be in her arms. To feel her reassuring embrace. To feel protected from everything that still threatens to consume me.

  Safe. This woman, whoever she is, says that I’m safe. But how can I be? The State is after me, along with the DSD, and now I have the added problem of PHOENIX thinking I’m their enemy.

  How can I ever possibly be safe?

  I’m suddenly reminded of the events that transpired at The Vega. It’s all a bit unclear, shrouded in the pain-filled fog of blood loss. But through it all, I remember one thing.

  I see it now as if it’s still happening before me.

  His hazel eyes—the way they bore into me.

  The hatred there.

  The distrust.

  My eyes squeeze shut, but more tears break through. I feel so alone—so separated from everything and everyone around me.

  “Mother,” I whimper again. “Mother . . .”

  I take comfort in the feel of the stranger’s hand against my skin. Regardless of who she is, she’s offering me the reassurance I need right now—even if I can’t fully comprehend it in my current state. I don’t need to know why she’s doing this or even where I am.

  I just need not to feel so alone.

  All too quickly, that hand is gone.

  “What are you doing in here?” A different voice now. A male voice.

  “She needed medical attention,” the woman answers.

  Footsteps fall against what sounds like concrete, bringing him closer to me.

  “What she needs is to wake up and answer our questions.”

  “She’s not our enemy, Ezra,” the woman mutters under her breath.

  Silence for a moment. I can sense a strange tension as it floods the room, even though I’m not conscious enough to see it.

  “How can you be so sure?” he asks her.

  Silence again. Then a heavy sigh. “She cut the tracking chip out of her own wrist. Why would she do that? Why would she risk her life if she was one of them?”

  I’m not one of them, I try to say. My voice fails me.

  “Maybe that’s what they want us to think,” he grumbles. “Some elaborate ploy to gain our trust.”

  No, that’s not true!

  “Believe what you want,” the woman growls back at him. “But I think she came to us because she needs our help.”

  He laughs—not in humor, but in disbelief.

  “What makes you think that?” His voice is full of doubt.

  “Look at her,” she begs.

  An ominous hush fills the room, and I feel her warm hand once again press against my face.

  “I know I’m not a doctor, but I know enough to see when something isn’t right. Look, she has track marks up and down her arms. Someone’s done something to her. Trouble is . . . I can’t figure out what.”

  For another long moment, neither of them say anything. I don’t try to speak either, knowing full well that my voice won’t allow me to anyway. I wait, listening as intently as my ears will allow.

  “When will she wake up?” I hear him say.

  “Don’t know. She’s delirious at the moment, running a high fever, and on top of all that, she’s severely dehydrated. Not to mention, malnourished. Plus, there’s the risk of infection.”

  She pauses, and I can hear the rustle of movement as she shifts in her chair.

  “I’m doing everything I can,” she whispers. “But I’ll make sure you’re the first to know when she does.”

  It’s only now that I notice the uncertainty in her voice.

  She doesn’t think I’ll survive.

  Maybe it would be better if I don’t, I tell myself.

  A door slams shut, and my eyes flutter open. However, the darkness has returned, pulling me under the incoming wave of unconsciousness. I succumb to it, too tired and weak to fight any longer.

  I fall into its depths, knowing full well that the feel of the woman’s hand is the one thing holding me to this world.

  “HELLO?”

  A distant voice calls to me. It’s faint and muted to the point where I can barely hear it. I strain my ears, desperate to be closer to the woman trying to bring me back from what I’m almost certain is near death.

  “Can you hear me?” she asks.

  I reach for her.

  I don’t want this.

  I don’t want to die.

  I want to wake up.

  My eyelids twitch open. Everything is clouded, and I wince against the bright light dangling overhead. All at once, a feeling of panic rushes through me. It’s too similar, too reminiscent of the DSD.

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  I don’t want this.

  I want to wake up.

  I want to go home.

  Do I, though? I ask myself.

  I think of my mother. I think of her betrayal.

  No. Home is no longer an option.

  I have nowhere else to go.

  “She’s awake.”

  I hesitate before opening my eyes again. The light isn’t as harsh this time, but it still takes several moments for the fog hindering my eyesight to clear enough to see. When it does, I find the woman responsible for saving my life leaning over me. She’s beautiful, with tanned skin and long brown hair that falls neatly down her back. Large chocolate eyes gaze into mine with a kindness shining behind them that seems alien to me.

  She exhales when our eyes meet—a sigh that, strangely enough, seems like one of relief.

  The sound of footsteps distracts me, coming from the other side of what appears to be a storeroom. I look around, blinking against the blinding glare of the light. Another person steps into my limited range of vision, but all I can make out is a black silhouette.

  As everything comes into focus, and my eyes fully adjust, I’m able to see the face of the person staring down at me.

  I’m able to see the face of Ezra Laramie.

  “It’s time to talk,” he says.

  I try to sit up, to move into a less vulnerable position than the one I’m in now. The woman rushes forward, wrapping her hands around my shoulders in an effort to help me.

  “Careful,” she murmurs. “You’re still weak.”

  My head spins as I straighten up. I press the heel of my hand against my right temple, hoping to ease the dizziness attempting to drag me back down.

  “What happened?” I ask. “Where am I?” I shake my head once before glancing between them.

  A soft laugh rumbles in Ezra's throat. “Someplace where no one will find you,” he answers.

  The woman flashes him an annoyed look. “You lost a lot of blood and blacked out,” she explains, keeping her voice level and calm. “Do you remember?”

  My wrist aches at the mere mention of everything I’ve been through, and all too quickly, I remember what I’ve done. I glance down at my arm, trying to piece together the fragmented memory of what happened at The Vega. I remember finding Ezra, but the extent of our conversation after that is one big blur.

  I recall enough to know how it ended, though. After all, it’s obvious by the way he looks at me.

  My lips part, and I’m about to answer her when the door bangs open, and a third person bounds into the room. Ezra and the woman both turn away from me at the same moment, clearly as taken aback by this interruption as I am. My heart begins to race, but curiosity gets the best of me. I lean to the side, peering around them to get a better look at the newcomer.

  Messy black hair frames the face of the man stand
ing in front of us. Wide, childlike eyes stare back into mine, and I notice his lips twist with the slightest trace of a smile. His expression is startling—mainly because it’s the complete opposite of what I expected to find here.

  “Is that her?” he asks, nodding toward me.

  Ezra scowls at him, and grunts, “Hey, I thought I told you to stay out of this.”

  “And miss all the excitement?” A mischievous grin flashes across the man’s face.

  I watch their exchange with both fascination and bewilderment. Are these people really members of PHOENIX? Of the renowned terrorist group that has taken countless lives?

  The very idea of it seems questionable.

  The man ignores Ezra and takes a few steps until he’s standing in front of me. I reel back when he bends forward, our faces now only a few inches apart. He looks me over, rubbing his chin as he tilts his head.

  “Hmm . . . she’s pretty cute for a spy.”

  “I’m not a spy,” I blurt out in response.

  My heart rate nearly doubles as I take in the single skeptical expression worn by the three people before me. For some reason, I look over at Ezra. He’s staring back at me with that same remote distance in his eyes, except now he’s holding Richter’s coat.

  “Then why did you have this?” he asks.

  I breathe in, silently berating myself for stealing the damn thing in the first place. “It’s complicated,” I whisper.

  He places the coat on the table beside me. “Okay . . . then how do you know my name?”

  I swallow. I can’t tell him the truth. Not now.

  They’ll never believe me.

  Not without seeing it.

  “Also complicated,” I breathe.

  Ezra takes a heated step forward, and I can see his hand reaching for what I assume must be his gun. The woman steps between us, seemingly eager to defuse the situation.

  “Look,” she says to me. “We want to believe you, but you need to help us out a little. Just tell us something.”