by M. D. Waters
Is that the same man who supposedly searched the world for me for more than a year? The same one who is all but begging me to stay? For what reason? To make me watch this show of their happy union?
Foster’s hand covers mine and begins prying my fingers away from the butter knife I grip in my fist. In my ear, he whispers, “Ease down, Wade.”
I let the knife clatter to the table. What has gotten into me?
Leigh peers over her shoulder and back. “Target practice must sound pretty good right about now, I’m guessing?”
“Yes,” I tell her, and give the little family another look. They have not taken the same notice of me, and for that, I am glad. My reaction has shocked and embarrassed me. “Can we go now? I am suddenly very anxious to begin.”
CHAPTER 8
Leigh slaps a small gun in my hand. “HK pistol with single plasma-pulse rounds. Don’t let the small size fool you. She’s a serious bitch.”
I grip the weapon and slide my thumb over a tiny switch on the side. The handle hums almost imperceptibly as it powers up in preparation for use, which startles me. My muscles twitch from nerves, and I have to be careful not to inadvertently pull the trigger.
I look into the long concrete room behind protective glass. On either side, deep insets in the wall face each other hiding God knows what inside their shadowed spaces. “What do I do?”
Leigh scoops her hair off her neck into a low ponytail. “You’ll see. Miles and I will go first.”
She slides her HK into the back of her black pants and tucks her black tank top in deeper than necessary, which accentuates her large breasts. Miles does not take his eyes from them, nor does he seem to care if she catches him looking.
When she does, she rolls her eyes, then smacks him in the forehead with the heel of her palm. “Get a good, long look so you don’t shoot them out there.”
Miles grins. “Try not to let them get in the way. Oh, wait . . .”
Foster chuckles and knocks me with his elbow as if we are sharing in our own private joke, only I do not know what it is. Emma would have known, and this only makes me feel like more of an outsider.
Leigh and Miles enter the concrete room. Foster opens a wall panel and keys in a code. The overhead lights dim and sounds of gunfire blasts fill the space.
Foster leans down near my ear. “They’re running through a program that simulates a warlike atmosphere. This is not for amateurs.”
Then I am in the wrong room.
I look through the bulletproof glass at the simulation in progress. Leigh and Miles spin back-to-back in a slow circle, HKs raised. Every few seconds, one of them shoots into the dark insets.
“What are they looking at?” I ask.
“Simulations of the enemy.”
Just then the simulation of a man appears beside Leigh. She ducks to avoid the butt of the man’s rifle and, poised on one knee for balance, aims up to administer a kill shot to the head. He disappears, but two more of the same man reanimate in his stead.
“The program I’ve given them doubles each enemy killed,” Foster says, folding his arms.
“But they cannot possibly win against those odds. They will be outnumbered.”
“It isn’t designed to beat. Just to see how far you get.”
Both Miles and Leigh are “killed” less than a minute later, but they are panting and laughing and giving each other high fives. A fine coating of sweat covers both of them.
They are barely in our protected space when Miles asks, “What are the stats? I know I got more kills.”
Foster presses a button near the panel, and the protective glass comes alive with statistics. To the left of the numbers, a video play-by-play runs through what we just watched live. In the stats list are numbers for each head, torso, and limb shot as well as the percentage of accuracy of each shot fired. Their total death count puts Leigh ahead by two.
Miles’s jaw drops. “What the fuck? Program is jacked.”
Leigh smacks him in the shoulder. “Stop crying.” To me, she says, “Your turn, 2.0. Whatcha got?”
• • •
The HK feels hot in my palm, though the air is cool enough to raise goose bumps along my exposed arms.
“Nervous?” Foster asks.
I peer into the nearest set of concrete insets, where soon the simulations of my enemy will appear. They are not very deep and vary in width. “Little bit.”
“It’ll come back to you.”
“I will never understand why you have such confidence in me.”
He tugs my ponytail and grins. “Just breathe and follow your natural instincts, Wade.”
My natural instincts tell me to hand over the weapon and run for the safety of anywhere else.
Miles’s voice sounds over a speaker system. “Ready?”
Foster raises a hand and twirls his finger, signaling the start of my imminent “death.” The effects of battle filter through the speakers and sound very real on this side of the protective glass. The lights dim and flash in tandem with various bomb-like reports.
I go into full alert mode, eyes open for my first enemy target. Foster and I circle the room as the previous occupants had. This feels very natural, and not because we stood this way a year ago in Dr. Travista’s lab. But because it is what he and I do.
The men appear around corners with HKs or plasma rifles. In the beginning, they are easy to pick off. My aim, surprisingly, is good. A little rusty maybe from the lack of practice. But a focus takes over that is familiar, though unfamiliar all at once. I block out the sounds, and even Foster—but only to a point, because I do not want to accidentally shoot him. I pay no attention to the small audience or the score of the game.
My adrenaline pumps strong through my veins as the numbers of my enemy increase. My movements have to be quick. Foster is no longer at my back; the two of us separated a while ago. The simulated men begin to swarm, and I shoulder roll through them. They jump out of the way as if I could actually knock them over. When I sweep kicks at their ankles, they fall. They grunt and curse and spit . . . everything I might see in actual combat. Without the pain, of course. They strike me and I feel nothing more than a mild jolt of electricity.
When I finally “die,” I am on the floor, breathless and laughing. Foster yanks me to my feet.
“That felt amazing,” I say, gasping deep for breath.
He rocks me in a hug. “I’m so damn proud of you, Wade. I knew you could do it.”
Raised voices from behind the glass draw our attention, and the second I look over, the lights go up, blinding me. I raise my free hand to hood my eyes just as three men dart into the large space, guns pointed directly at me.
“Put the weapon down,” one yells.
Foster puts himself between me and them, but I do as I am told. My blood runs cold and freezes the layer of sweat coating my body. My vision darkens and the ground seems to tug at me, beckoning with icy fingers.
“What’s the problem, guys?” Foster asks.
His voice forces me back to the bright room and I shake off the abrupt dizziness. Skipping breakfast was probably not the smartest idea.
Clint Reid enters behind the men, and I know he has something to do with this. He, too, has a gun trained on my head. “Mrs. Burke. Kick the gun over and put your hands up.”
Behind Reid, Noah appears, and his nostrils flare with each breath. His face is red. “Put your guns away. You’ve made your goddamn point, Reid. That’s enough.”
The men do as they are asked. Reid is a little more hesitant but finally manages to follow orders.
Foster moves closer to me and I have to peer around him to see. Clearly he is not as trusting of them as I would be. “Someone want to explain?”
“Mrs. Burke is considered high risk and isn’t authorized to carry firearms,” Reid says. “She shouldn’t even be in this area of t
he hub.”
So that is what they call this place.
Reid continues with a pointed glance at Noah. “If I had my way, she’d be locked away until this matter is cleared up, but—”
“—but she isn’t and won’t,” Noah snaps. He looks at Foster. “Take her out of here.”
Leigh and Miles appear in the doorway and Reid shakes his head at them. “The three of you”—he eyes Foster to include him—“are on notice. One more fuckup like this and I’ll have your asses.”
Noah raises his hands. “Okay, okay. Foster, Wade, out. Bennett, Trumble, you too. Everyone’s dismissed. Except you, Reid.”
Foster leads me by the elbow, his eyes focused on the four men who previously had their guns trained on me. When I pass Noah, he does not look at me, and muscles feather along his jaw.
Reid, on the other hand . . . “Don’t even think about teleporting from this facility, Mrs. Burke. You’re here for the duration.”
My footsteps falter. What?
Foster pinches my elbow. “Come on, Wade.”
I want to laugh. Maybe Emma Burke would exit this room without a word, but I am not that woman anymore.
Pulling free of Foster’s grip, I spin so fast Noah and Reid stop arguing to stare in bewildered silence.
“You will not keep me here, Major Reid,” I tell him, but shift my focus between both men in case Noah decides to join Reid’s crusade. “I dare you to try.”
I turn my back and shoulder past my slack-jawed audience.
CHAPTER 9
And the top story today,” the male anchor says from behind a desk, “is, of course, the question at the top of everyone’s mind: Where is Emma Burke?”
Behind him, still images from a Las Vegas casino float in a holo-vid for the entire world to see.
“The latest coming out of Las Vegas, Nevada. Footage was leaked to our sources of Mrs. Burke trying to escape security in a local casino. After close examination, authorities have ruled the video feed a fabrication by the resistance in an attempt to divert attention away from her actual whereabouts.
“The hunt continues for the beloved wife of Declan Burke, the Godfather of Cloning.”
• • •
I shoulder a backpack with several items of clothing from “Emma’s” box and shut off the vid screen. These continued broadcasts are going to make things hard, but it has become very clear what I face if I stay. I will not live down here with Noah’s false sense of freedom as I once had with Declan’s.
I zip up my leather jacket and exit the room. I already know I cannot leave through the command center. Major Reid will have cut off that escape route first. But I doubt he knows that I know about Noah’s private teleporter, which is why I head directly to his office. Noah could be there, of course, and fighting him to get out is not something I want to do, but I will do what I must.
The sound of a large group of children makes me slow outside an open room. Inside are bright colors and low tables with tiny chairs. Soft mats cover the concrete floor. Pictures of animals and the alphabet decorate the walls. Children sit at the tables or in groups on the floor. Several older girls—they can only be in their late teens by the looks of them—appear to be the only adults in sight.
Adrienne sits in the lap of one teen, pointing at pictures in a cardboard book. The two of them name animals and re-create their sounds on each page. I drift closer, unable to tear my gaze away. She repeats the animal names but makes the sounds without prompting. I do not know if this is normal, but to me, she may as well be a genius.
Guilt like nothing I have ever felt before wraps tight fingers around my throat. I should have been here to witness these advancements for myself. I blink rapidly to dry my wet eyes.
Someone approaches from behind and stops beside me, startling me. Dr. Malcolm smiles into the open room of children, arms clasped behind his back, rocking between his heels and the balls of his feet.
“Children are a miracle,” he whispers in order to not alert anyone in the room to our watchful presence. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Emma?”
I clear my throat. “Yes, of course.”
He nods toward Adrienne. “And your little miracle . . . Adrienne is a beautiful child.”
My little miracle. The daughter I never planned for. Is she mine? I mean, really mine? My feelings aside, because God knows from the moment I saw her I loved her, do I have the right to call myself her mother?
Looking at what I am about to do, I know the answer is a swift and resounding no. Because here I am, once again, about to desert my daughter as if I hold no responsibility in her upbringing. What kind of mother does that?
“I can only imagine the relief you must feel when seeing her,” he says. “Knowing the struggle behind her gestation period and birth.” He stops and smiles up at me. “But it worked out perfectly, didn’t it? Your daughter is here and healthy.”
“Dr. Malcolm.” I turn to face him. “Is she my daughter? I know it is a strange question, but I have often doubted the possibility because of my situation.”
He beams up at me as only he can. I do not know how he does it. “Genetics are genetics, Miss Emma. Biologically, she is unequivocally your daughter.”
Unequivocally.
My eyes are wet again, and I avert my gaze back to where Adrienne and her caregiver have moved on to a book of shapes. That precious creature is my daughter. There is no question in my mind that if I leave now, I will be unable to live with the guilt of what I have done.
Even if it means giving up my freedom. It is time to make a choice, and it needs to be one I can live with.
Dr. Malcolm swivels to face me. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
I am almost afraid to give him permission, but he has given me something I have been short on of late. Hope. “Not at all.”
“Are you leaving us?”
I find him glancing at my backpack. I adjust the bag’s weight and look back at my daughter. Mine. Not Hers.
Freedom be damned. I will figure out another way. “No.”
• • •
I stand outside Noah’s open office and reshoulder my pack. He sits behind his desk, head bent over a computer tablet. Nerves flutter in my belly at the sight of him. There is no distinction between the anxiety over the conversation we need to have and my attraction to him. Unfortunately for me, it may be a little of both.
He looks up and seems unsurprised to find me standing there. “I went by your room. We need to talk about . . .” He trails off as his attention falls to my bag. His lips form a thin line and he leans back in his chair, making the springs skritch. “I’m surprised you even went out of your way to say good-bye this time.”
I drop the offending bag and bury my trembling fingers in my back pockets. He must see confidence, rather than the fear I feel right now. “Can we talk?”
His expression is set to one of impassivity, and his eyes may as well be closed to me, but he nods and waves me inside. “Close the door.”
I take a single step inside, tap the door switch, and cut off the view to the people beginning to rubberneck in the hall. “I have been giving our situations a lot of thought.”
“Have you.”
This is not a question, and his tone lashes. A moment later, his gaze darts to my bag and back. If I had a match I would set the thing on fire. I should have taken it back to my room.
“I do not want you to do me any favors, which is why I will not ask you to make Major Reid back off. With that said, I will not live here like a prisoner.”
He scoffs. “You’re hardly a prisoner.”
“Not all jail cells have bars. I know that better than anyone, and I refuse to let that happen to me again.”
Noah leans forward and rests his arms on his desktop, linking his fingers. “Last I checked, you came to me for help. And that’s what I’m doing.”<
br />
“By cutting off my access to the outside world?”
“Let’s not pretend you have somewhere else to go.”
“I met someone.” I purposely imply there is a more than friendly relationship between me and this “someone,” who happens to be Peter. Noah’s expression falls and I know he believes it. “He offered me a permanent home if I want it. There is no reason to believe I cannot live there undetected for a very long time.”
He looks down and away. “If that’s the case, why did you even bother coming here?”
“You know why.”
Noah stiffens. The rash words take us both by surprise, especially since their meaning is clear. I fought an internal battle against coming here for a full day, but the truth is that he was my first choice. He will always be my first choice. I could not stay away from him if I tried.
“No,” he says. “I don’t know why. Why don’t you tell me?”
I cannot tell him the truth. Mine could quite possibly be the only heart at stake, and I will not torture myself by laying everything out for him to feast on.
I detach my gaze from his. We have to get back on track. “I know you cannot risk losing the respect of your men by handing me my freedom without something in return. So I have a solution I think we can both live with.”
Pausing, I meet his eyes to gauge his reaction to my change of subject. If he really wants to, he can press rewind and force the truth from me. I hope he does not.
He eases back in his chair. “I’m listening.”
“Major Reid does not trust me, but if I were to help you with Declan . . . Finish what we started more than a year ago . . . Nobody knows him as intimately as I do. You can use me.”
The last thing I want is to go anywhere near Declan, even if it is from the safety of this resistance hub, but I do not see another option.
“And in return,” he says, “I get Reid to back off.”
“That, and I still want to look for my parents. Any help you can provide in the way of computer access would be appreciated.”