Prototype

by M. D. Waters

  I step around the plant into the view of the casino. One glance into the teeming room reveals new trouble. White-and-gold-uniformed men stand near tables, their attention seemingly somewhere else, but I know this tactic. The red coats in Declan’s labs used to trail me too. They are not as unassuming as they would like me to believe.

  Two of the security men throw something that zips through the air so fast I am clueless about its purpose until my arms, elbows to shoulders, are strapped tight to my rib cage. My legs are restrained from knees to hips. They have used some sort of wire to snare me. I lose my balance and drop to my butt like a stone.

  One man, the head of security according to the extra flair on his uniform, raises an arm. “We got her. Someone call the hotline.”

  They will not send me back to Declan. I twist my ankles around and pull up my pant leg. I finger my knife free, then run it up between my thighs, cutting the wire.

  Patrons at tables scramble out of their seats, crowding the aisles. Others take to using the tabletops for their escape, toppling hundreds of chips on the way. Security fights to get through the mob while I work my way into a standing position.

  I am unable to free my arms before someone barrels into me and we skid across the marble floor. My back hits a clay pot so hard the pot cracks open and potting soil spills all over me. I thrust the knife into my attacker’s thigh. He yells and his weight disappears, taking my blade with him.

  On my way back into a standing position, I shoulder another man in the stomach. After that, any route out I may have had closes like the lid of my recent coffin. I allow those buried fighting instincts to take over and ignore the alarmed warnings in my head, because I will get out of this. I have to.

  Someone snatches my ponytail and yanks my head back. My back hits his chest and I slam my heel down on his instep. He cries out and pushes me right into another man, who catches me by the shoulders. The man looks nothing like Declan—none of them do—but he may as well be a perfect representation. The determined set of his jaw. The tight grip of his hands. Letting this man, or any other, take me so easily cannot happen. Not like this. I will die first.

  I bring my knee up between his legs and he releases me with a grunt. I strike him in the chin with a solid kick, then immediately aim another to my right, connecting with a chest. I whirl around with a jumping roundhouse to the front again, then tilt forward to balance a kick back into the man coming in behind me.

  Finally, the way is clear to run. Free of the main casino, I face a full hotel lobby. The men and few women disperse, willing to leave my capture to the multiple security guys behind me. The front doors have only begun to slide open on my approach when a heavy body slams into me. We crash through the window. I roll into the semicircular driveway with a scattering of glass shards. The fast-approaching whir of an electric car engine warns me to keep rolling across the drive. I am clear by only seconds when the squeal of tires rends the air, followed by a thunk as the vehicle hits the man.

  My head spins and I feel as if I have been running for miles. I cannot remember which way to the nearest public teleporter, but I have to move. Shouts warn everyone to get out of the way. They are too close.

  I roll to my knees and clamber to my feet, then take off down the street, refusing to look back. Something hot and wet oozes down the side of my face and tickles my cheek.

  I duck into the first public teleporter I find. Through the glass, I can see the mass of white-and-gold-clad casino security continue to pursue me. I use my nose to type in an untraceable code followed by the port number I no longer have a choice but to use. The security draws too close, with guns raised. Spearmint floods the booth. My body numbs and the Las Vegas Strip disappears.

  The resistance command center looks no different as I appear inside one of the ten teleporters lining the wall. Stations arranged in a semicircular pattern fill several rows of wide steps and face a cavernous room of monitors. Each station is in the shape of an elongated number three and manned by two resistance members. They stare at four video relay monitors apiece. The eight monitors per station are hooded by a shelf that gives off enough soft light to illuminate a single keyboard inlaid in a pale wooden desktop.

  I find myself frozen inside the teleporter, unable to stop the port number to downtown Polson, Montana, from filtering into my thoughts. It is not yet too late to make the choice to return where I know I am welcome. Except Peter is too old to fight for me and I bring nothing but trouble. Especially now.

  Swallowing my fear, I step out of the teleporter. People stand from their stations to face me, some speechless, others whispering to a close neighbor. Nobody welcomes me, the impostor who looks like Emma Wade.

  I approach the nearest young man who does not look as hostile as a few of the others. “Can you tell me where I can find”—asking for Noah feels like too much. I am not ready—“Foster Birmingham?”

  A man of average height steps forward and brushes the younger one aside. His hair is flaming red, cut short and spiky. His freckled face is rectangular and hard-edged. He is almost attractive, but not kind, according to the set of his jaw. Fierce green eyes take my measure, scanning me from scuffed boot to bound arms. I know I must look a sight—I can feel the tickle of hair sticking to the sides of my face and neck, not to mention the blood now dripping off my chin all over my leather jacket—but I wish he did not have to be so thorough in his assessment of my state.

  “You made a mistake coming here,” he says, squaring his shoulders and tucking his hands behind his back.

  I balk for only a moment. “Who are you?”

  “Major Clint Reid.”

  My thoughts trip on the word “major”—Emma’s old position inside the ranks of this group. There is a pulse of indignation toward this man who takes Her place.

  Still, I will try to be civil, though this man already sets my teeth on edge. “My name is—”

  “I know exactly who you are, Mrs. Burke.”

  Heat blossoms in my cheeks. No one has called me this in well over a year, and I do not like it. “That is not my name.”

  He ignores me and uses two fingers to motion for someone to come over. “Lock her up.”

  CHAPTER 4

  I expected several reactions when I arrived, but locking me up was not one of them. “What?”

  Two men reach for me. I strike out with plenty of kicks, my only defense at this point, but am in the wrong place to fight back. These men are thoroughly trained to handle a threat, so one woman with her arms tied down is nothing. There will be no escaping this problem. They have me pinned to the ground in a matter of seconds, pressing my throbbing, bruised cheek to cold concrete.

  “Get her out of here,” Reid tells the men.

  They haul me up so fast the room spins. My feet barely touch the ground as they lead me into the hallway. Sonya is there, and she stands as if made of stone, watching them drag me in the opposite direction. She has grown her hair out since I last saw her, and the tight black curls brush her narrow shoulders. A small child rests on her hip. A beautiful little girl with blond ringlets. The girl’s pale skin is a sharp contrast to Sonya’s darker brown. Despite the year and few months that have passed, I would know this child’s face anywhere. I see it in my memory every day.

  Adrienne.

  I cannot take my eyes off her. That is, until Noah approaches Sonya with a soft smile that lights his eyes. His hair is cut short, his blond a shade darker than Adrienne’s. He kisses Sonya’s cheek and brushes a hand down Adrienne’s back.

  “Noah!” I do not know if I yell because I am in need of rescue or because I am witnessing a living nightmare. There is no mistaking the close relationship that has formed between Noah and Sonya. There is also no mistaking the fact that I hate it.

  Noah spins in my direction. His complexion pales.

  I drag my feet to slow the progress of my imprisonment, but the men tug me with littl
e effort.

  “Stop!” Noah darts around Sonya. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Major Reid ordered her locked up,” a man tells him.

  Our progression comes to a standstill, giving Noah a chance to catch up. “Let her go.”

  There are more than a few “buts” going around, and nobody moves to set me free.

  Noah stares down the two holding me until they release my arms. “If Reid has an issue, he can take it up with me, his commanding officer, and yours,” he finishes in a tone that makes me shrink back. I remember this dangerous tone of his all too well. He once used it to threaten my life.

  The men retreat, leaving me alone with Noah. He runs a hand over his cropped hair and gives me a half smile. Laugh lines fan away from his eyes. There is color in his face, and his amber eyes are the brightest I have seen them outside a memory of my past. He looks a million times better since I last saw him. He looks happy.

  “I did not know where else to go,” I say. “After the broadcast—”

  “I wondered if you’d come.”

  My heart trips over itself, and my feelings for him clamber to get free and act. I want to run my nails over his new tightly trimmed beard and along his sideburns. I want his arms around me so bad I ache. I want to bury my face in his warm, musk-scented neck and just release.

  But I cannot let this need overtake me. I made my choice and, apparently, so has he. “I could use a place to stay for a couple of days. I need to—”

  “Emma,” he breathes, my name a sigh wrapping around me. His eyes close and he takes a deep breath. “Of course you can stay.” His voice is firm again and he opens his eyes. “As long as you need.”

  I look away from the mask of indifference he gives me. The place where Sonya stood is empty now, Adrienne gone from my sight.

  Rustling from him draws my attention back. He pulls a knife free from a pocket in his black uniform pants and nods at my bound arms. “I take it these aren’t a fashion statement.”

  I force a chuckle as he swipes the knife through the tight wire. “No.”

  He looks at my bleeding forehead. “My guys didn’t do this, did they?”

  “A whole other group of men, actually.” I massage my throbbing arms. “My luck has sort of run out since the broadcast.”

  “I saw the satellite feeds from Mexico. Close call, huh?”

  “You saw what happened?”

  He reaches into another pocket and frees a dark blue bandanna. “The entire world has by now. The networks are eating it up. Burke has successfully turned it into a botched attempt to escape your captors.”

  My stomach sinks as he carefully places the cloth over the wound on my forehead. The pressure sends a jolt of stinging pain down my face and I wince.

  “You should let Sonya look at this,” he whispers.

  I replace his hand with mine and step away. The last thing I want is to set foot in their hospital wing. I plan to avoid doctors and their tests for the rest of my life. “I will heal.”

  “It looks ba—”

  “She’s beautiful,” I say, cutting him off and motioning to the now empty corridor. I already regret coming here. He smells too good. Looks too good. And the mention of Sonya wrings my heart with fresh pain. “Adrienne,” I clarify when he looks confused.

  “Just like her mother.”

  The reverence in his tone snags my attention and I find his gaze seeping into me, though his expression gives nothing away. I cannot help but wonder if the adoration in his voice is for Adrienne or me. Maybe it is too much to hope for a little bit of both.

  The way he looks at me is a trap I easily slide into. I shake myself free of his thrall and say, “You are with Sonya now?”

  Noah’s expression shifts to surprise, then embarrassment, and finally, determination. “Yes. She’s been a good mother to Adrienne.” His gaze lowers to the floor. “It just sort of happened.”

  I wonder why he feels the need to explain while conversely feeling I deserve an explanation. But a much stronger emotion clouds this: a sudden need to end Sonya’s rights to my child. Not Emma-of-my-past’s child. Mine. This is the first I have felt such a solid claim to her since living through her birth.

  He opens his mouth to say something else, only to be interrupted by the bellow of a man who, in all of minutes, has made me despise him. We turn as one to face Clint Reid.

  “You put us all at risk by harboring this fugitive,” Reid says.

  Noah sweeps an arm between us as if on instinct and glares at Reid. I stare at the appendage meant to stave me off, wondering why on earth he thinks the separation necessary. I may have a few choice words for this man, but I would never attack first.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Noah says. “She came here for help.”

  Reid glances calmly between us, a muscle ticking in his square jaw. “Or she came here to spy on us.”

  “I am no spy,” I tell him.

  The man’s mouth twitches with amusement and derision all at once. He speaks to me now as if Noah no longer matters in this conversation. “Declan Burke returns from the dead with a story about his kidnapped wife, and you conveniently stroll into our headquarters a day later? I don’t buy it. You’ve been planning this with your husband—”

  “He is not my husband.” The more this stranger goes there, the more I hate it. I want no further association with Declan than absolutely necessary.

  “Funny. You sure played the wife role to”—his gaze slides over me in a salacious manner—“perfection.”

  I narrow my eyes, biting back the fighting words worming their way to the surface. I cannot let him bait me.

  Noah shifts to stand in front of me. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Emma thought Burke was dead, same as us.”

  Reid’s attention shifts slowly from me to Noah. “You can’t prove she didn’t meet him after she disappeared last year. They could have staged that little event in Mexico yesterday to throw us off.”

  “You’re right,” Noah says. “I can’t prove it, but I know Emma better than anyone, and she would never turn on us.”

  “With all due respect, this clone is not Emma Wade. You’ll be much better off once you accept the fact that your wife is dead. In fact, we’ll all be much better off.”

  Noah strikes him in the jaw and Reid’s head snaps to the side. Clearly Reid did not see that coming any more than I did. I doubt the major feels the same warm charge I do, though. It was a good hit, and well deserved.

  Noah prepares to swing again and I come to my senses. One time is enough, so I take him by the arm. “Stop it, Noah. Let it go.”

  Reid wipes the blood coating his lip with the back of his hand, glancing askance between Noah and me. “That’s the problem, Mrs. Burke. He can’t let it go. Do us all a favor and open his eyes, will you? Remind him who and what you really are so we can finally move past the loss of a woman you will never be.”

  The fire zips through me so fast it burns out all rational thought. While proactive before, Noah is not quick enough to halt the stinging slap I lay across Reid’s face.

  Reid merely smiles and snorts a single laugh while rubbing the area. “Did I say something to offend?”

  “I do not know you but am already sure every word out of your mouth is offensive.”

  Reid raises an eyebrow at Noah. “She doesn’t know me. You hear that? How much more proof do you need?”

  The words sink in and I realize Emma Wade knew this man. Because my memories are lost in some dark abyss, I have only proven his point. Noah cannot even look at me.

  “This was a mistake,” I tell them. “I will leave.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere,” Noah snaps, and gives me a look that dares me to argue. To Reid, he says, “There will be no further discussion on the matter.” He then takes me by the elbow. “Come on. Let�
�s get you settled.”

  CHAPTER 5

  How do you feel today, Emma?

  Any nightmares?

  The internal voice comes in the curious resonance that can only belong to Dr. Travista. Why, I do not know. Maybe because I am living a new nightmare, trapped underground with Noah and Sonya, forced to wear Her clothes from a cardboard box marked EMMA’S in bold black letters. A box I refuse to look into too deeply. My past haunts me around every turn.

  I stare in the full-length mirror at a version of Emma Wade that I, along with everyone else, would love to deny exists. She wears black pants with zippered pockets everywhere. Military issue. They are fitted but loose enough to move comfortably. The basic tee is white and fitted as well. With my dark hair hanging long and loose over my shoulders, I could easily be the version of Noah’s wife who died more than a year ago. For half a second I am tempted to find scissors and cut it back to chin length.

  I sigh at my reflection and run warm palms down the front of my thighs. “Pull it together.”

  A knock on the door startles me and I twist to face the steel surface. “Come in.”

  A whisper-soft shiff fills the space as the door slides into the wall. Sonya peeks her head in and gives me a belated, tight smile. “May we come in?”

  “We?”

  Another head, male, bald, and shiny, ducks in nearly a foot below Sonya’s. The man’s smile beams from one unusually tiny ear to the other. He must be older by twenty years, but he looks far more youthful than I feel at the moment.

  “Hello, Miss Emma,” he says, and darts into the room with quick feet, stocky arm extended in greeting. He wears tan slacks and a rumpled button-down shirt striped in shades of brown. One of his shoes is untied. His palm, when I take it, is warm and moist but soft.

  “Just Emma,” I say.

  “Phillip Malcolm. Call me Phillip.” A nervous energy makes his hazel eyes dart, his smile twitchy. His head bobbles jerkily from side to side. “Or Phil. Or Dr. P.”