Prototype

by M. D. Waters

  He spins around and rushes toward a brown tiled archway. My heart collides against my ribs as realization strikes. He aims to slam me into the wall. Head first. I do not think as I run up the arch, then push with all the force my legs can afford. We topple backward and the rifle barrel loosens. I suck in a needed breath and, without another moment’s hesitation, ram an elbow into the man’s side, where he is not protected by gear. He grunts and I roll off him.

  “Wade!”

  Miles’s voice alerts me to the HK he hurtles through the air. I catch the weapon and aim at the man’s head. His brown eyes widen, and his chest lifts in quick, short breaths. His arms rise in surrender.

  This is all I need to stop from pulling the trigger. I cannot shoot this man in cold blood. Not like this. But I cannot leave him to hurt someone else, either. I shoulder his rifle, then shoot both his legs just above the knees. His screams echo and collide with the growing torment from the great hall.

  Miles’s expression is pinched when I reach him. “Why didn’t you kill him?”

  I look at the dead man near his booted feet. “You deal with your conscience and I will deal with mine.”

  He quirks me a smile. “Those exist?”

  “Ha. Can we go?”

  He nods toward the hallway. “This way, my lady.”

  The corridor leads directly to a narrow staircase encased in large stone blocks that spiral up at a steep angle. Small, simple lamps hang overhead and dangle far apart from one another. We alternate between being bathed in brilliant light and disappearing in shadow so dark the stairs are invisible. It is by a stroke of luck I do not trip.

  Halfway up, the pound of footsteps races toward us. A lot of footsteps.

  Miles stops. “Wait.” Muscles leaping in his jaw, he glances around, then leads me into the dark. “You’re going to want to shoot to kill this time,” he whispers. “If you don’t mind.”

  I can hear the smile in his voice, though I cannot see him at all now. “The only thing you should worry about is losing to a girl.”

  He chuckles. “As if.”

  I aim into the light and wait, controlling each breath, longing to heave from exertion. My heartbeat drums in my ears. I palm an additional HK from my hip with a too-warm hand.

  The soldiers finally appear around the tightly wound corner, shoulder to shoulder. My guess is they planned to surprise our group in the great hall by coming in from behind. The dark hides us, but we are still only two against . . . I cannot count how many.

  “Now,” Miles says.

  The first few men are easy to take out. Bodies crowd the way down, making it impossible for anyone to come closer. If they try, we kill them. Several stay and shoot aimlessly into the dark. Others duck around the corner, where it is safe.

  Miles and I back into the light and take cover in a deep inset of wall with a high shelf. Loose cobbles of rock make it hard for my boots to grip. I kneel facing the inset’s curved stone, shooting around the corner whenever a new soldier appears.

  Miles kneels behind me, one hand on my waist for balance, the other shooting up the stairs. We stay like this for what feels like an eternity. My legs scream, and my shoulder aches from holding the HK up for so long.

  The soldiers either are all dead or have run. Either way, the firefight ends with the two of us unharmed.

  Miles rests his forehead against my back and breathes deep. “That was close.”

  My heart feels bruised due to the rapid thunking against my rib cage. “Yeah.”

  “Hold tight while I make sure it’s clear. Watch my back.”

  I lean out and aim a gun in both directions, listening for any sound that does not belong to us. Finally, Miles motions the all clear and we continue up the stairs until we reach a turret with an open area surrounded by crenellations. I glance over the side to see the back of the compound. Members of our team lead a stream of girls into the woods. The girls are older, telling me they are nearing the last of the groups. The younger girls are always rescued first.

  “Almost there, Wade,” Miles says behind me.

  We find another hallway inside. Three uneventful turns later, we end up in a small room lined with computer equipment. Lights of various colors wink from black servers. Video screens high on the walls run a live feed.

  Miles positions himself behind the desk and places a flat black disc on the surface of the main hard drive. A red light blinks from the center. He taps his com. “Jaybird and Prototype in position. Uploading data now.”

  After a quick file search, he says, “Server number is 937.”

  We run along the multiple rows, and several stacks of servers later, I locate the correct one. “Here.”

  Miles kneels and reaches behind, his expression strained as he works blindly to disconnect the back. Sweat streams down his temples. Something pops, and he grins. “Just like a woman’s bra clasp.”

  I roll my eyes. “Focus.”

  He jerks the server free of the shelf. “Sort of takes the fun out of things, don’t you think?”

  From the back, Miles pulls a clear data-slip from a slot. I remove a protective shell from one of my zippered pockets and hand it over so he can tuck it inside for safekeeping.

  I tap my com. “Target acquired.”

  “You heard her. Let’s finish this up,” Noah says. “Detonation in ten minutes.”

  I release a sigh of relief. He is okay. We are both okay, and this is almost over.

  Miles taps my shoulder and winks. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  The main stairs are close and we take them to the second-level hallway overlooking the grand entryway. Bodies lie everywhere. Blood spatter darkens the brown-tiled walls. The enemy soldiers seem to be missing, and a few stragglers from our groups sprint for the exit. Reid is with them, waving them past. Foster and Leigh bring up the rear.

  I should have been paying more attention to the hallway I pass, but I am anxious to reach the next set of stairs. Someone large barrels into me and we hit the stone railing. My shoulder and arm go numb on impact.

  Miles is already partially down the stairs when the noise forces him to spin around. At least five men surround me and I lose sight of him. Someone strikes me in the jaw, sending a wave of pain through my face. Darkness threatens to sweep me under. Another man yanks my beanie off so hard he pulls my hair. The freed locks cloud my vision until a grip jerks my head back and parts the strands. The heated end of a gun presses to my temple.

  CHAPTER 45

  Plasma shots drive into my crowd of attackers. One of my HKs is long gone, but my left is holstered and I snatch it free. I shoot up and behind at the man who has me by the hair. Upon release, I fall forward, trying to ignore the pain screaming behind my eyes and the exhaustion coursing through my body. Miles comes into view and bodies fall dead around me.

  Miles kneels and pushes my hair back. “You look a little worse for wear, Wade.”

  I try to smile. “Admit it. This is how you prefer your women.”

  He puts an arm around my waist and hauls me to my feet. “You know me too well.”

  “Seven minutes,” Noah says in the com. I wonder if anyone else can hear the near imperceptible quiver in his tone.

  I peer over the railing. Noah, like so many others, wears a mask pulled down tight to hide his face. He stands near the bottom of the stairs looking up at us and waves us down in a frantic gesture. Straggling remains of our team run past him.

  The overhead lights in the building flicker and dim. Heavy footsteps pound the carpeted floor from the hallway behind us. I spin to face them but am unprepared for who stands there.

  Declan.

  Miles’s arm tightens around my waist. The two of us raise our guns to the large crowd of men aiming at us.

  Declan’s gaze drops to where Miles slides his arm out from behind me to steady his gun. “You must be the husba
nd I’ve heard so much about.”

  Miles jerks his chin up. Grins. Stupid, brave Miles. “Damn right. Gets under your skin a little bit, too, I’m guessing.”

  Declan motions to the men. “Get their guns.”

  There must be twenty of them rushing forward to surround us, rifles and HKs aimed at our heads. They snatch our weapons from our hands. Declan strolls forward and takes what used to be my gun. He turns it over in his palm. Back and forth. Studying.

  When he looks up, it is with an intense, focused glare on Miles. My breath catches in my throat. I need no words to confirm the thoughts running through Declan’s mind. The gun rises in a swift arc and the shot is off before I have a chance to say a word.

  Miles drops heavily at my feet and I follow, stupidly intending to cushion the fall he will never feel. I hit the floor with his limp body, pain ripping up from my knees.

  I cup his still face. “Miles!”

  I shake him, waiting for that grin to tilt up. A joke to spill forth. A wink. Anything to tell me this is a fabrication on his part. But he only stares straight up, jaw slack. Blackened skin surrounds a hole in his forehead.

  A scream freezes in my throat. My head feels too heavy. My chest too tight. Hot tears blur my vision, blessedly hiding the fatal wound.

  “You killed him.”

  My fault. All my fault.

  Declan believed Miles was my husband. What if this had been Noah? Really Noah? There had been zero hesitation. No thought. No time. And now one of my closest friends is dead over this case of mistaken identity.

  This could have been Noah.

  Plasma fire floods the second-floor landing from the stairwell. I look past Miles to the small group in black kneeling on the stairs and firing at Declan and his team of security.

  “Emma,” Noah’s voice fills my head. “We have five minutes to get to minimum safe distance. Get up. You have to leave him.”

  But I cannot get up. Grief crushes me and I cannot feel my legs.

  “Get the fuck up, Wade.” Foster’s demand holds no room for argument and is the fire I need to wake up. The building is going to blow. Miles cannot have died for nothing.

  I lean close to Miles’s body and surreptitiously drag my hands down his eerily still chest until I feel the hard bump. The data-slip container in his pocket. I fumble with the zipper and retrieve the item that ultimately brought us to this point.

  A harsh grip yanks me to my feet. Declan forces me to face him, his fingers digging into my biceps. The blue-green of his eyes blazes. “Competition’s over.”

  Plasma fire flies too close to Declan’s head. His men rush forward to cover us.

  Declan pulls me toward the hallway. Dragging my feet, I twist and tug to get free.

  “Emma!” Noah’s frantic call forces me to look toward the stairs. Though his face is covered, I recognize him rushing toward us.

  Declan aims the gun, only this time I am prepared. I slam a knee in his gut. He doubles over but comes back swinging. A backhand to my cheek sends me flying to the floor. Declan aims again.

  Panic sweeps through me like a brush fire. I jump to my feet and rush forward, putting myself in the bullet’s path. “No!”

  “Emma, what are you doing?” Noah asks. His voice is barely audible in my com.

  “Get out of the way,” Declan warns in a near growl.

  “I will go with you,” I tell him, tears thickening in my throat. “Just stop this. No more. Please.”

  He searches me for a trick but will not find one. I watched him kill Miles. I will not watch him kill Noah too. Finally, he reaches a hand out. The test I will not fail. I lay my hand in his. He leads me toward the hallway and I twist around to find Noah fighting another member of the security.

  “Get out of here,” I say. “There is no time.” After everything, if the building blows up with him inside . . .

  Noah looks up and starts for me. Declan’s focus is on a room ahead, so I throw the container holding the data-slip, and Noah catches it easily.

  Declan turns into an office and shuts the door. He punches a code on a keypad, and a click sounds the lock mechanism.

  A fist pounds on the door outside. “Emma . . . shit . . . hold on.”

  I stare at the door, the breath still in my chest. “Go,” I whisper.

  “I’m coming,” Noah says. “I’m coming for you.”

  “I know.” I could not stop him if I wanted to.

  Declan searches one of my ears, then the other, finding my com. He drops the device and stomps on it. He turns me toward a private teleporter. “Time to go.”

  • • •

  We go straight to the cloning facility in Colorado. Declan remains silent as he leads me down a sterile white hallway. Windows face a parking lot lit by fluorescent lamps and beyond that, a dark, unknown landscape.

  Opposite the windows are opaque doors under rectangular alcoves with curved corners. On the wall inside every recess, a touch-screen computer hangs above cubbyholes filled with various supplies. The ceilings and walls are a smooth white tile, but the floors are a grayish brown. The high sheen reflects the thin strip of lights above.

  Red coats stroll behind us, arms tucked behind their backs. Yellow-scrubbed orderlies nod as they pass. Blue-coated botanists pass without so much as a glance up from their tablet computers. Then there is Dr. Travista in his white coat, stopped in the middle of the hallway, hands deep in his pockets.

  He gives me a tight smile, and when we reach him, he says, “No fight today?”

  “I killed her husband,” Declan says beside me.

  Bile burns my throat, and tears sting the backs of my eyes. Poor Miles. Why did he have to lie?

  Dr. Travista scans me. “Probably in shock.” To me, he says, “Why don’t I show you to your room so you can get cleaned up and changed?”

  I glance back in the direction of the teleporter room, wondering how long until Noah will come through those doors. Do I even want him to? If Declan finds out he killed the wrong man . . .

  My stomach wrenches remembering how the light had just vanished from Miles’s eyes. It happened so fast. An eyeblink. Gone. That cannot happen to Noah. I have to get out of here before he shows up.

  Declan nudges me forward. “Let’s go, love.”

  I throw a punch at his jaw that very well could have broken my knuckles for all the pain radiating up my arm. I am quick to follow up with an elbow to save from breaking my hand. The force I put behind the strike takes him to a knee.

  As I prepare to kick, two red coats rush in and twist my arms up behind my back. An upsurge of panic sets my blood on fire. I have to get out of here. I have to. Noah cannot come after me.

  “Hold her still,” Dr. Travista says.

  The needle appears in my periphery. Not enough time has passed for me to forget the effects of his sedative. If he sticks me again, this is over.

  I stomp on one man’s instep and blindly piston my head back, hoping to connect. I clip a jaw, I think, but nothing serious enough to get free.

  The two red coats lift me off my feet and slam me chest first to the ground, driving the air from my lungs. The needle stings going into my neck, and cold spreads under my skin.

  • • •

  Dr. Travista leans straight-armed on the bed, gripping the steel sides, and watches me through glasses that sit near the edge of his bulbous nose. His smile is genuine yet small as he says, “Good morning, Emma. How do you feel?”

  Morning? I squint into the sunlit hospital room. Large, square windows face a mountainous landscape. Very, very far in the distance, the tops of skyscrapers in Boulder, Colorado, glint in the sun.

  Heavy blankets lie up to my chest. Someone has cleaned and dressed me in white scrubs. My stomach turns. Who would have done that? Declan? Dr. Travista? His favorite nurse, Randall? It does not matter. A violation ha
s occurred.

  I twist my bound wrists until they burn. An IV has been inserted, taped to the inside of my elbow, though nothing is connected. The smallest movement of my forehead tells me I have electrodes attached, and I see the slopes of more under my scrub top.

  A hand comes to rest on my shoulder from the opposite side of the bed. Declan.

  “Take your hand off me,” I say.

  He combs hair away from my face. “It’ll be over today.”

  Dr. Travista pats my hand. “In an hour you’ll be perfect.” He looks up at Declan. “I think we can save some of her earlier memories. Save from starting completely over.”

  Declan shakes his head. “Too risky. We don’t know when she started to remember.”

  “Stop talking about me like I am not here. You have to stop this. I have a daughter, Declan. She needs me.”

  He gives me a sad smile. “I’ll find her just like I found you. We’ll raise her together, love.”

  The words are a weight on my chest. “You will never lay a hand on her. Never.” My threat must sound empty to him, because what he does not understand is that Noah will kill him first.

  “That may be true, but in the end, will it matter? You won’t know she exists, and our own children will fill any void that remains.”

  I jerk upward, wishing I could hurt him. “I did not want your children even when I loved you. Not that you could produce any. You were sterile.”

  He blinks. “How did you know?”

  “Does it matter? You do not have that problem anymore, do you?”

  Dr. Travista smiles beside me. “No, he doesn’t. Thanks to you.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’d been trying to talk Declan into the procedure for months, but he was reluctant. When you brought him to the brink of death—I’d just gotten to him in time to save his full memory—you forced his hand.” He gives us both a placating smile. “You two will make beautiful children together.”

  “You both make me sick,” I say. “You made me believe for months I was to blame for never becoming pregnant, when all along it was Declan.”