by M. D. Waters
I hand Noah the scrubs and reach for Adrienne. My little girl takes one look at me and turns into Sonya, clinging and screaming. This seems to wake the two of them out of their shocked stupor while simultaneously sending me reeling.
Sonya rocks Adrienne and stares right at me as she says, “It’s okay, baby girl. I’ve got you.”
There is no doubt about that, is there? She has my family exactly where she wants them. Meanwhile, I stand here bleeding out from invisible wounds inflicted by my own flesh and blood.
Noah passes me the scrubs with a frown and takes our screaming child out of Sonya’s arms. Adrienne kicks and throws her head back, but he does not let that stop him. Sonya’s hands follow the girl over as if wanting to steal her back.
I place the fresh garments in her outstretched hands instead. Her glare leaps over to me, and if her animosity was not clear before, it is now.
Noah cradles Adrienne against him, heedless of the mess coating the front of Adrienne’s clothes. “Come on, Emma.”
At this, Sonya’s attention shifts back to him, her nostrils flaring. “But—”
Noah cuts her off with a look. “I know how to monitor a fever and handle the stomach flu. She’s fine.” He takes my hand. “Let’s go.”
• • •
“The nation sits in stunned silence this evening,” the newsman says, his expression somber. “Lydia Farris, Arthur Travista’s third successful clone, was found dead in her Richmond home this afternoon. No word yet as to her cause of death.”
CHAPTER 39
The following days pass almost too quickly, and with no further mention of removing me from duty. Miles and I spend our mornings devising a way to get to the server room deep inside the Alexandria WTC. I then spend the afternoon with Dr. Malcolm hooked up to monitors while he asks me questions the same way Dr. Travista used to, mapping my brain. If he has any idea what is going on, he keeps it to himself, much to my and Noah’s frustration. Neither of us has broached the subject, but Lydia’s death hovers like a black cloud. Another unexplained clone death blamed on the resistance.
As for the blackouts, they have occurred on a near daily basis, and I have been lucky so far to hide them from Noah. Only one happened in front of Leigh, and she thought I was having a fainting spell, then asked if I was pregnant. The others happened while I was alone in my room, and none have required the activation of my heart monitor.
Just shy of a week out from the raid, I spend some much-needed time in the gym sparring.
Foster swings at my head and I block with my forearm. “That all you’ve got, Wade?”
I grit my teeth and avoid another punch, then come back swinging. “I thought this was supposed to be realistic. My opponents do not usually talk.”
He snatches my shirtfront and gets in my face. Those shining gray-blue eyes dart back and forth between mine. Sweat drips from his nose. “You want realistic? Then stop worrying about hurting me. Fight. Back.”
He is wrong about one thing: My focus has been less about hurting him and more about our witnesses. They watch me everywhere I go, judging my every move. It is time to start forgetting about them.
I push him away and let the crowd surrounding us blur around the edges. My following attack puts him on the defensive more often than not. I do not know who is more surprised: me or him.
The sparring ends when I jump and kick out with both feet, hitting Foster square in the rib cage. I fall hard, my skin slapping the mats, knocking the air from my lungs. I dart a look in his direction and find him sprawled on his back, chest heaving. Claps erupt from the group surrounding us.
The round is over.
Leigh helps me to my feet. Her face is red from her own recent round. “Nice, 2.”
Foster reaches out to shake my hand. Our palms are sweaty and slide. “Savor the moment. Next time you won’t be so lucky.”
I laugh. “Keep telling yourself that.”
He turns with a smile and claps twice. “Good work, everyone. Same time tomorrow.”
“Let’s go before he changes his mind,” Leigh says, and leads me into the locker room.
The three other women in our group are already in the showers. Steam escapes the tiled corners leading into the far room. At our lockers, Leigh strips from her top and shorts without hesitation. I have seen the long, thin scars covering her abdomen and back for a while now, but the idea behind them still makes me uneasy. The first time she caught me looking, she said, “Not everyone escapes the WTC with invisible scars,” and left it at that. I refuse to ask for details, because I can imagine just fine on my own.
Leigh grabs two towels and hands me one. “Mind if I ask you something?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you doing okay? Physically, I mean.”
I am honestly surprised it has taken her this long to ask. It has not exactly been a secret where I spend my afternoons. Be that as it may, I have not devised a response in preparation.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” she says when I take too long to respond.
We enter the shower area and the pale yellow tile is slick with humidity. “I am not avoiding the question,” I tell her, and glance at the others, who laugh and chat as if we do not exist. “I just do not have an answer.”
Leigh flips the nozzle to a stall that stands out of earshot of the others. “But you are seeing Dr. Malcolm for a reason?”
I turn on a shower beside her. Cold water splashes up to warn me against getting under too soon. “Yes,” I say, and scratch my head automatically. I cannot feel the nanites now residing there, but the idea gives me chills just the same. It has been two days since their insertion, and Dr. Malcolm is hopeful the tech will yield results he has not yet discovered on his own.
She steps out of her remaining clothes, partially guarded by a half wall between us, and steps under the spray. “Are you going to make me play twenty questions?”
“I agreed to let him run some tests for his clone study.”
“Won’t that be a moot point in a few days?”
“Not if something goes wrong with the existing clones.”
She nods, appeased, and I soak my head under the hot water, rubbing the grime of sweat from my face.
“Sonya’s leaving today?” I hear Leigh ask from under the rush of water.
I lean out and stare up at the silver showerhead. Heavy drops of water well up and fall from the bottom. The tension in my shoulders increases. “Yes.”
“She took the breakup awfully well.”
“I would not say that. We have had a few moments.” The last being five days ago in the hospital wing with Adrienne. I can still picture her face as Noah and I walked away. How heartbroken and alone she looked.
“Yeah, but she hasn’t beaten the crap out of you, or made it hard on Tucker. The people around here respect her. If they thought she wanted his life to be hell, they’d find ways to make it so.”
“I hate this entire situation. I wish things could be different.”
Leigh takes the shampoo bottle off the tiled wall between us. “Why? You’re getting your family back together and won’t have her around giving you the evil eye.”
“I know. I just keep thinking about Adrienne. She will miss Sonya. But once she leaves, I will not have to look over my shoulder every time Noah holds my hand.” I smile at the prospect. It will be a relief to not have to worry about sparing her feelings.
“Should we be expecting wedding bells in the near future?”
“He has not asked.” The idea makes butterflies wing through my stomach. We talk of a future, but neither of us has mentioned renewing our marriage.
“Ask him. What are you waiting for?”
The idea brings me up short. I should ask him. He will say yes. I know he will. But there is only one thing left in my plan to prove to Noah I am not going anywhere.
> “I have to do something first,” I say. “Can you help me?”
• • •
Miles lifts my left hand off our shared desk. His nose squishes up as if he smells something horrid. “What the fucking hell did you do to yourself?”
The brand did smell at first but does not now. A spray of antiseptic and burn recovery healed the damaged skin, and my hand is as good as new. Except for the luckenbooth staring back at us. I cannot wait to see Noah’s face when I show him.
I steal my hand back. “This is none of your business.”
He grunts and returns his attention to his four screens. Behind a forced cough he says, “Lucky bastard.”
“Excuse me?”
He grins but does not look at me. “Mind your station, Wade.”
I roll away and flip on my four monitors. Miles and I are examining every inch of the Alexandria WTC for weak points and have to report later today. Except my heart is not in it. I feel a little glowy and happy and have a burning need to see Noah. But he is upstairs in his big office with windows overlooking a perfectly sunny day.
I grin. Lucky bastard, indeed.
I open a chat window on one screen and find Noah on the available list. I click his name and a white box appears.
“THINKING OF YOU,” I type.
“DETAILS.”
“IT WILL HAVE TO WAIT.”
“TEASE.”
I look at the hearts permanently marking my hand and smile. “I HAVE A SURPRISE FOR YOU.”
Miles peeks around and tries to read my chat screen. “Sexting again, Wade? Really? I expect better from you.”
I push him away and laugh. “Stop it.”
He grins. “I thought we agreed you’d invite me next time.”
I roll my eyes and read Noah’s response. My screen blinks as if ready to go out, but then returns to normal. “CAN’T WAIT. LUNCH?”
“HOLOGRAM ROOM?” I want to show him the brand on our beach.
“I’LL BE THERE. NW.”
I smile and can almost hear him say the phrase we have said since our night at the apartment: “No words.” We could say “I love you,” but in the end, they are only three little words. For us, there are none.
“NW,” I type, then close the window.
When lunchtime approaches, I practically fly from my station. “See you later,” I tell Miles.
“Slow down, Wade. Should I be worried about a fiery inferno erupting in a second?”
I laugh and shoot him a wave over my shoulder. I thought most of the morning about it and have decided to ask Noah to marry me today. Now. I do not want to wait. A hologram room is not very romantic, but is a step up—quite a few, actually—from his proposal years ago in a command center during a fight in front of hundreds of witnesses. And anyway, the location does not matter.
I am so lost in thought, planning my little speech, that when I turn a corner too sharply, I run directly into Sonya. I am beginning to apologize when she grabs my shoulders in a tight grip.
Her eyes are wide and frantic. “I was just coming for you.”
I blink. Me? “Why?”
She tugs me in the direction from which she just came. She is practically running. “It’s Noah. He’s hurt. Come on.”
Any questions I have lock in my throat and I stop trying to hinder her progress. I race behind her, my heart thunking against my sternum. I cannot live without him and pray to whoever is listening that he is okay.
Moments later she darts into Noah’s empty hub office. I had assumed she was leading me to the hospital wing. Not once did I think she would bring me to this room when he was working upstairs today.
I pause in the doorway. “What are we doing here?”
She opens the panel to his teleporter, climbs inside, then motions for me to hurry up. “What the hell are you waiting for? Let’s go!”
Trepidation sinks like lead in my stomach. If we need a teleporter to reach him, we had been closer to the ones in the command center when I ran into her.
“He could die while you’re standing there,” she says, which is all it takes to yank me forward.
I climb in and inhale her too-sweet vanilla scent. She punches in an untraceable code—Why does she need that?—and the scent of spearmint envelops the tube. Noah’s concrete office dissolves, and wood floors, each slat a varying shade of brown, take its place. We face a glass wall. A sunken living room. A small kitchen. A bedroom open to an unmade bed.
And Declan Burke.
CHAPTER 40
Sonya steals the HK from my hip and sticks it into my side. “Get out,” she whispers, her eyes on Declan.
What is happening? Sonya—Sonya—brought me here? But why? “What the hell are you doing?”
“What I have to. Give me your com.”
I finger the device from my ear and drop it into her palm. “You will not get away with this.”
Outside the booth, Declan watches in silence. As if he cannot believe I am finally here. He is clean shaven and wears a navy-blue T-shirt, my favorite color on him. His hair has grown out enough that he has combed it back in his old style. He is very nearly the husband I once loved.
Declan opens the teleporter. The ghostly scent of burned wood wafts inside the glass booth. He reaches for my hand and I recoil.
“Go,” Sonya says.
I have no time. I slam an elbow in Sonya’s face, forcing her to stumble back. The gun never goes off, confirming what I suspected: She would never have the nerve to shoot me.
Just as I go for the keypad, Declan reaches inside, fists my shirt, and drags me out. He twists me around and brings my left arm up behind me at a painful angle. I cry out. Even pushing up on my tiptoes does not relieve the pain in my shoulder.
“Let me go,” I grit out, twisting despite the agony jolting through my arm.
Declan kisses the crown of my head. “Not a chance, love.”
Sonya steps out of the teleporter, wiping blood from her busted lower lip. She avoids my eyes. Stares up at Declan. “Do you have what I want?”
Declan’s hold tightens as he walks us to the kitchen island and lifts a small, opaque envelope from the countertop. “Sure you don’t want the money instead?”
“If that data-slip has everything I asked for, then yes, I’m sure.”
I cannot believe she is doing this to me. Of everyone, not her. “What was so important, Sonya? What could you want so badly that you would just hand me over?”
She takes the extended envelope, then slides her gaze over to me. At least she has the decency to frown. “I’m sorry, Emma. I really am.”
Backing away, she opens the envelope and removes the clear strip that resembles the home videos Leigh found in “Emma’s” box. Tucking the HK under her arm, she removes a palm tablet from her pocket and inserts the data-slip inside. She plays with the screen for a half minute before a self-satisfied smile breaks her bland expression.
Her eyes shine at me as she tucks the tablet away. “Some things are worth far more than your life. And in time, I’m going to make him believe that.”
Him. Noah. Comprehension wrenches up my spine and twists. Bile burns the back of my throat. “This has nothing to do with that data-slip at all, does it?”
“I’m getting a two-for-one deal,” she says, and steps inside the teleporter. Her fingers hover over the keypad. “You can take comfort in knowing that I’ll take care of them.”
Moments later she is gone.
• • •
My wrists and ankles are bound by mag-cuffs. My arms and legs ache from the battle I lost trying to get free after Sonya disappeared. But my head clears of the adrenaline rush and my thoughts begin to line up straight. I only need to wait. Someone in the hub will see me and alert Noah. He will come for me.
So I wait and wait and wait for rescue that never comes. Can n
o one back home see what is happening? Then the answer hits me like a steel fist in the stomach. Sonya did something to the feed, which can be done from any location in the hub. She had to in order to get away with this. Which means I am on my own.
Declan sits on the opposite side of the couch from me, a glass of bourbon in his hand. He holds the glass out. “Would you like a drink?”
I would, but I need my thoughts sharp if I am going to escape. “What did you trade for me?” I have to know what Sonya found worth the risk.
“Everything Arthur has on cloning. I take it that woman is with the resistance?”
I look directly at him for the first time. He has no idea who he was dealing with? “Does it matter anymore? You have me. She has the data-slip.”
He sips his drink, then seems to give it a second thought and downs the entire thing. Ice clinks in the glass. He stands and enters the kitchen for a refill. “That woman? Sonya? Called me four days ago to make the trade.”
Four days ago. The day after the incident in the hospital with Adrienne. Had I walked away that night, left Noah and Adrienne in her care, would I be here now?
He turns and leans against the island, drink poised at his lips. “She wouldn’t answer any of my questions. Just asked that I be fair and give her what she wanted.”
His second drink disappears and he sets the empty glass down. He returns to the living room and sits in the center of the couch, only inches from me. The sharp scent of alcohol penetrates the air.
Declan tucks my hair behind my ears and whispers, “You cut your hair back. I’m glad.”
I angle my head away from his touch. Tears burn the backs of my eyes.
“Do you hate me that much?” he asks, pulling back.
How can he ask that? I am just getting my life back together, and the pieces are only scraps of what remained. That is his doing.
But fighting with him will not help me. It never has. There has to be another way to do this, and I can think of only one way that has worked in the past. He was always fairly easy to manipulate. Maybe he still is.