Revive (12 page)

I really hope he doesn't try to pick anyone up. My intel assures me that he's devoted to his third wife, but really—he's on his third. How devoted can he be to anyone? The first wife he divorced. The second wife he killed. Yet I'm supposed to believe he's madly in love with lucky number three and won't cheat on her?

Rolling my eyes, I check my equipment to keep myself busy. I guess even terrorists can have soft spots, right? I bet Hitler loved his dog or something.

I text with Audrey while the clock creeps toward midnight. She turned down a night of partying to cozy up with those books she bought earlier. As for me, my dearest “Aunt Kate” supposedly wanted to see me again before she left Boston. Audrey thinks we went out to dinner and to see some aging blockbuster, a story chosen specifically so no one would bother asking what the movie was about.

Finally, as my stomach growls to let me know it's been five hours since dinner, footsteps pause outside the room door. I let out a breath of relief, and my muscles relax. I love the calm that comes over me when I get to act. No doubt that calm was trained into me, but I don't care.

Not for the first time, I wonder why Fitzpatrick and her superiors think I can't pass their test. This is what I was born to do. Are they not as capable as me of seeing the distinction between a terrorist responsible for bombing innocent students, and the innocent students themselves? That's a disturbing thought, and one that's been weighing on me. For now, though, I push it aside so I can get this assignment over with.

I'm positioned by the door when my target opens it and flips on the light. He's astute; I'll give him that. A mass murderer, sure, and possibly drunk, but an observant drunk mass murderer. He notices my laptop immediately.

I kick the door shut as he tries to maneuver, but even as quick as he is, he's not quick enough. He's also short—sixty-five inches—which I know from the information on the data stick, and which is a fact I'm relying on. With my left hand, I cover his mouth. With my right, I jab him in the neck with the needle I was provided.

He struggles for only a couple seconds, but the drugs work as fast as I do. He starts going limp in my arms, and I lower him to the floor. Looking down, I struggle to feel something. Empathy? Compassion? Maybe I have some for his wife, though I'm probably doing her a favor in the long run.

Guilt? Horror? No. This isn't the same as what happened at RTC with the AnChlor. Removing this man is justice, the only type his kind is likely to ever get.

I flip off the laptop's camera and whoever will end up watching this. The gesture says “I can pass your stupid test” more eloquently than words can.

Then the man on the floor grabs my ankle. I jump, but his grip is weak, his breathing labored, and I kick his hand off easily. He tries to speak, but his words slur as he loses control of his tongue. Too fucking bad.

“Eighty-six children are dead because of you, and hundreds of adults,” I tell him. “I don't care what you're saying.”

He draws a long breath, his face straining with effort. This time, enough of his words are understandable. “You think…that's…about? Tell Harris he's…evil bastard.”

“I don't know who you're talking about. I don't work for anyone named Harris.”

He gasps once, twice, and I think he's laughing. “He'll get to you too. One day.” Then his muscles lose all tension, and he seems to melt into the floor.

Stepping over him, I cap the needle, shut down the laptop and clean up any traces of my presence. Now I am a little disturbed. Not by the guy's words since they don't make sense, but by the idea that he doesn't get why he died. It doesn't seem right. He should take that guilt to his grave.

He'll get to you too. One day.
That just goes to show this man knew nothing about me. Harris, whoever he is, won't get to me. Nor will anyone else. The whole point of my existence is so that no one can get to me.

I carry all one hundred fifty pounds of terrorist onto the bed and position him so he looks comfortable. There's no reason for that, but dumping him in a heap bugs me; I was trained to be meticulous and tidy. Then I check my disguise in the mirror, grab my things and get out. My test isn't officially over until I return everything to the drop point, but now that the tricky part is done, I'm feeling antsy again. And hungry.

But I defy anyone to tell me I didn't pass.

Chapter Eleven

Saturday Morning: Present

I'm cut off from the garage stairs, and my options flash through my brain: hospital again, garage ramp or fight. Just minutes ago, I'd have said fight, but I suspect my original tails are nearby. I've got to be outnumbered three to one.

So be it. Running it is. But as I throw open the hospital door, I barrel straight into someone. Strong hands grab my shoulders.

Yup, my tails are nearby. Very nearby.

“Sophia, stop it,” the guy says, struggling as I yank out of his grasp.

This time when I swing at him, he's ready and ducks. I grapple with both men, who—it's starting to dawn on me—aren't exactly fighting back. They're blocking me. Their moves are aimed at subduing and restraining, not hurting. What's with that? It doesn't make sense.

Bad people are coming.

If they're bad, why aren't they trying to hurt me?

Trust no one.

But it's no good. Confusion slows me down, and speed was my advantage. One of the men snags my arms and forces me to my knees.

I scream, and my voice echoes in the lot for a second before the second tail clamps a hand over my mouth. It's calloused and stinks of cigarette smoke. I'm going to hurl.

“Don't scream,” says the same voice that called my name.

The man with my arms forces me around, and I quit struggling. It's not doing me any good, and I should pay attention. After all, the guy who got out of the SUV is pointing a gun at me. I'm not sure I could scream anymore if I wanted to.

I nod at the guy to let him know I understand, and the hand peels away from my mouth. I gasp for the cleaner air.

“What do you want?” My voice trembles only slightly. I'm almost proud of myself for being brave, except I have an inkling that I've been drilled for this sort of scenario.

The guy with the gun spreads his arms. He wears a long black coat and leather driving gloves, and he makes my tails look like cheap hired muscle by comparison. “I'm following orders. I'm here to take you home.”

“Home?” I stare at his face, but unlike the two others, I have no sense of familiarity with this guy. We've never met.

Since he doesn't bother to elaborate, I switch tactics, shifting my gaze from him, to the SUV with its engine running, to the man at my side. Calculations and maneuvers arrange themselves behind my eyes. I'm aware of some of them, the thoughts accessible. Others are beyond my reach, not quite subconscious, but as if they're so complex I can't consciously follow them either, or how they go together—the number of steps between me and the gun, me and the SUV, me and the car to my right. The number of seconds required to close those distances. The number of rounds the gunman is packing. Angles. Odds.

Kyle.

Oh, and I apparently once killed a man in a hotel room. What is wrong with me?

“What?” I lose track of my brain's calculations but am vaguely aware of them continuing without me.

“The boy you were with at South Station,” the guy I've started thinking of as Tail Two says. “Where is he?”

“Who is he?” asks Tail One from behind me. He shifts, pinching the skin on my wrists as he does.

I struggle for a more comfortable position. The garage floor is cold through my jeans. “I don't know. Some guy I met there. I ditched him.”

“He was with you in the hospital,” Tail Two says.

I glare at him. “Which goes to show he was harder to lose than you are. Does someone actually pay you for this sloppy work?”

The guy's arm twitches as if he wants to strike me, but he controls himself. I don't care if he does. I'm just glad my attempt to divert the conversation from Kyle appears to have worked.

“Let the boy go,” says the gunman. “He's not important. But you…” he lowers the gun, “…Malone will be worried about you.”

“Malone?” I shake my head, half hoping that will knock one of those memories in place. The name is vaguely familiar. I must know a Malone, but that's all I know of him. Judging by this happy scene, he must be one of the bad guys. So what exactly is “worried about you” code for? Can't be anything good.

Wait—I killed a man in a hotel room?

Yes, the memory is quite clear. I killed a man in a hotel room. Holy shit.

My conscience struggles to keep up with current events. Who am I to judge good and bad? I'd be sick except I'm too busy trying not to die myself.

Gunman presses his lips together, assessing me. “Looks like you got a bump on the head. That explains a few things. Let her go, and leave,” he says to the others. “Your job is finished.”

Tail Two scowls, but Tail One releases my arms, and they stalk back into the hospital.

That's it? No longer outnumbered, I return to calculating escape scenarios, but it must show on my face. The gunman raises his weapon slightly. “Don't. Just get in the car.”

“Not a chance.”

He sighs and walks toward me. On the other side of the garage, an engine starts. I debate screaming again, then dismiss the idea as useless. Through the far row of cars, a shadow shifts on an upper-level ramp. Tires crunch over the concrete. The other car is on the move. Soon, it'll be down by us.

A new plan begins in my mind. If that car can get by the idling SUV…

Casually, so I hope, I step toward the gunman, trying to make it appear as though I'm cooperating. My heartbeat quickens, readying me to do something that's quite likely incredibly stupid.

“You're going to cooperate?” the gunman asks, looking amused. He's almost to me, and he's tucked the gun under his jacket. Even if he's fast to draw, I have all the time I need.

I nod at him, but my gaze darts to the oncoming car. In that second, I feel a pinch in my neck, then my knees give out. Everything blurs as I sink toward the ground, but my captor catches me under the arms and gently lowers me to the floor. From the corner of my eye, I see him cap a needle and put it in his pocket. Then I can't hold my head up any longer. My brain panics, thoughts race, but my body doesn't follow. It's like I've been disconnected.

As everything around me begins to blur, all I can think is that this man just did to me what I did to that guy in the hotel all those weeks ago. Damn you, irony.

At the time, I wanted the hotel guy to understand why he was a target. Now I think I understand why I am. There must be something horribly, awfully wrong with me to do what I've done. Maybe I deserve to die.

He'll get to you too.

Read Harris.

My murderer's words are the last thing I hear as he picks me up. “Malone called you Sophia, but I know what you really are.”

Part Two

If you do not tell the truth about yourself,

you cannot tell it about other people.

~Virginia Woolf~

Chapter Twelve

Eighteen Weeks Ago: Summer Before RTC

I stifle a yawn as I watch Lev attempt to dismantle a bomb. He has two minutes to do it without blowing himself up. If he succeeds, he gets full marks on the assignment. If he fails, Eight, who designed the bomb, gets them. It's tough grading, making us compete against each other this way, but it's better than what would happen if this weren't a simulation.

If that were the case, we'd already be dead thanks to Two.

Our instructor, a half-deaf, ancient Ukrainian whose name is Bondar—but who we like to call Bomb-ar when he's not around—is always doing this sort of thing to us. He seems to despise the fact that our unit is close. To be fair, he's not the only one. As we got older, most of our instructors aim for newer and cleverer ways to pit us against each other.

Only Fitzpatrick continues to preach about unit cohesion and loyalty. It's the one thing I like about her. But it's no secret—though it's supposed to be—that our unit's behavior bothers those in charge. We hear them speaking about us when they think we can't.

We're too emotional. Too empathetic. Too human. They made a mistake with us that they can't afford to repeat, and that's why they've held us back. Some people around here would like to hold us back permanently. Turn us into analysts or something boring like that instead of the field agents we were born to be.

I doubt that will happen, but I'm also pretty sure they haven't repeated the mistakes they made with us, either. When I watch the HY2s, who are four years younger, I think they've improved upon us in that way. Instead of jealousy though, I feel sadness. For the HY2s.

At the front of the room, Bondar directs our attention to the timer that's counting down. Lev has thirty-four seconds left. His face is taut as he picks up the wire cutters, and his black hair stands on end because he keeps running sweaty hands through it. For the first minute he did nothing but study Eight's design. Watching him is not the most exciting thing, and between that and the oppressive heat—Bondar keeps his rooms sweltering—it's hard to stay awake.

I don't have a good a view of Eight's handiwork because we all stand far back to give Lev plenty of light. But from where I wait, Eight's design appears tricky. Silently, I compare what little I can see to various schematics we've studied. I'm glad I'm not Lev.

Then Bondar's phone buzzes, breaking the hot silence. We all jump, including Lev. His hand twitches over the wire cutters, and a blue wire snaps in two. As the device flashes red, Eight whoops in triumph. Lev is dead. She wins.

Lev throws down the wire cutters. “That's not fair. I wasn't going to cut that one. I was startled.”

Bondar glares at him. “You startle. You die. There is no room for startled here.” While Lev continues to grumble and Eight continues to gloat, Bondar checks his message. He curses in Ukrainian as he puts the phone down. “Seven, you are to go to Malone's office.”

I'd been surging forward with the others to check out Eight's bomb, and I look up in shock. “What? Now?”

Malone? Me?

Class isn't over for another twenty minutes. Five is supposed to try to disarm my bomb next.

“Now. We'll do yours tomorrow.” He doesn't sound pleased. Bondar hates interruptions in class, convinced his subject requires greater concentration than anything else we do.

Of course, all of our instructors think that, which can be rather annoying.

I keep my face carefully neutral as I leave the room, but my stomach ties itself in knots. One gives my arm a reassuring shake, and I flash him a smile that's supposed to hide my nerves. But it's impossible to hide that sort of thing from One. No doubt that's why he tried to reassure me.

It doesn't help. Why does Malone, of all people, want to see me? This is not normal. I don't like it.

At least I have plenty of time to compose myself as I head toward his office. The camp, which is how everyone refers to the RedZone complex, is laid out like a wheel with the main administrative building in the center. To the north, directly across from the academy's buildings, are the labs. To the west are the storage units. And to the east are living quarters and training fields. Around the entire perimeter is security layer upon security layer. Even I don't know half of the systems, and even I—with all my training—am convinced that attempting to break in or out would be suicide.

It's a nice, summer day, so I head outside into the breeze. The entire camp is connected underground. In fact, many of the buildings, including all the labs, exist only underground. It's convenient in the winter, but during the rest of the year, I can't get enough of the sun. Also, once you get past the drab buildings and the barbed wire and the armed guards, the area is pretty. Mountains fill the view to the south, and we're surrounded by woods and rolling, rocky hills.

Malone's office is in the central-most building, the only building with a second floor. I've never been up there. Malone runs the entire camp, so he doesn't usually have much direct interaction with us. Sometimes he observes our lessons, and he sits in on our annual progress reviews with Fitzpatrick, but he never says much. He comes and goes a lot, sometimes taking off from the helipad on top of his building, other times in his armored black car through the central gate.

Outside Building One, as it's uninspiringly called, I brace myself. Logically, I know I've done nothing wrong, but Three's and Nine's borderline treasonous whispers echo in my head. I hope this summons has nothing to do with them.

Jaw set, I swipe my thumb against the lock and enter the building. The AC hits me as I step inside, and I shiver. I'd taken my uniform jacket off earlier, but I put it back on now.

The entryway is empty except for two people. One of those people is security, and he ignores me. I used my print to get in, and he'd have seen that on one of his monitors. Therefore, he has no interest in me.

The other person is Malone's assistant. I've never spoken to her, but I've seen her accompany him on his trips. She has a face like a porcelain doll, pretty but every bit as hard, and ringlets to match. I also know she's not a half-bad shot because I've seen her practicing at the indoor range.

She assesses me now with an expression of mingled disdain and something else. Fear possibly. “He's expecting you.”

She enters a combination on the keypad to her left, and the elevator opens. Growing ever the more curious, I detangle my hair as the elevator takes me up one flight. When it stops, the doors on the opposite side open, and I face a hallway that shocks me almost as much as this summons.

Everything about the camp is utilitarian, but not this place. Sculptures in glass and stone line the hallway. The walls are painted with murals, and the lights are trained to shine on interesting sections. Intrigued, I slow my steps to take in this rare glimpse of warmth and humanity. Above, a camera follows me down the stone-tiled floor. When I've made it halfway, doors open on my left.

Malone gets up from his desk, smiling. With the wrinkles around his eyes, it almost seems genuine. “HY1-Seven, please have a seat. Care for some tea?”

The inside of Malone's office mirrors the hall. It's bright and modern with cheerful abstract art. An electric kettle clicks off as he approaches the sideboard. He motions to the selection of tea canisters beside it.

“No, thank you.”

“Water then?”

I nod because it seems polite, and he pours me a glass from a silver pitcher. This whole deal is getting weirder by the second.

“You're no doubt wondering why I called you here.” Malone returns to his desk, teacup and water glass in hand. “You may not realize it because our paths don't often cross, but I keep a close watch on all our children. You show remarkable progress. HY1-One, in particular, thinks highly of your potential.”

Internally, I bristle at being referred to as a child. Malone has always called us that, and when I was a child, it didn't bother me much. I'm not a child anymore though, and like the rest of my unit, I'm tired of being treated like one. I'm tired of being stuck at the camp and denied the missions we've trained our whole lives for.

I can't let any of that show, however, so I sip the water, grateful that it gives me something to keep my hands busy.

“To be honest,” Malone continues, “I've had my eye on you for a while. I know none of you are technically children anymore, but I will always think of every one of you, all the HYs, as my children. It's what parents do. You're all special, and you all have your particular strengths. But a few of you show something more than that—a dedication and a loyalty that makes me proud. This is why I'm particularly pleased to have a mission that's suited for you.”

“A mission?” I'm so surprised the words slip out even though I haven't been given permission to speak.

“A very important mission. You're wondering why you and not One?”

That's exactly what I'm wondering. That, and twenty other things, beginning with why it's taken so damn long for this day to come.

Malone taps his fingers against his teacup. “As you know, you each have unique traits which better suit different types of assignments. Sometimes those traits will be irrelevant. This time, they're not. I'll be more explicit later, but I think you'll figure it out for yourself.”

He unfolds an e-sheet and pushes it toward me. It glows purple briefly around the edges as it boots, then a single file folder appears on the clear screen. I've been trained to wait for instructions, so I don't ask, although I wish Malone would hurry up. I'm bursting with questions and biting my tongue to keep quiet.

“Ready?” he asks.

The e-sheet must be connected to Malone's computer because he taps a couple keys and a woman's image appears in front of me. She has brown hair and eyes; a pale, narrow face; and is in every way unremarkable. I've never seen her before.

“Her name was Sarah Fisher,” Malone says. “That photo is twenty-two years old. She was a bioengineer who studied the body's response to injury, and who put her considerable talent to use for the wrong people. Unknowingly, we suspect. Her research was funded in part by a known terrorist organization.”

Malone presses another key and a new photo of Sarah Fisher appears. In this one, she's clearly pregnant. “Seven months into her pregnancy, Fisher disappeared. We don't know why, but my suspicion is that she figured out her research was successful, and she didn't want her funders to get hold of it. She destroyed all her lab records—made a very thorough job of it. Unfortunately for her, she didn't do as thorough a job of covering her own tracks. She was murdered five months later. Her child was presumed dead at the time. Any questions so far?”

“What terrorist organization?”

Malone makes an apologetic face. “I'm afraid you're not cleared for that, but don't worry. It's not important for what we need you to do.”

Maybe, maybe not. But if I'm not cleared for the intel, arguing the point isn't going to do me any good. “Why was her baby presumed dead then? She wasn't found for three months after she'd have given birth.”

“Ah, that's the most relevant question you could ask.” Malone hits another key, and the e-sheet goes blank once more. “Six months into her pregnancy, an ultrasound revealed that Dr. Fisher's fetus had anencephaly. I don't suppose that's covered in your biology lessons?”

“No.”

Malone transfers a new file onto the e-sheet. “You can research it more later, but it's a neural tube defect. Basically it means the fetus's skull doesn't fully form, and the cerebrum never develops. The few children with it that survive until birth are deaf, blind and have no hope of ever gaining consciousness. They die within days, if not hours. It is one hundred percent fatal and incurable. So that's where things get interesting.”

He pauses, clearly waiting for a response. So I give him one. “Interesting how?”

“We've recently discovered that Fisher's child is alive, which is nothing short of a medical miracle. Only because of her research, we suspect it's less miracle and more science. At six months into term, this child—let's call him or her X—didn't even have a functioning brain. And now, at nineteen, he or she is alive and, we have every reason to believe, completely normal and healthy.”

I blink at him. The camp's labs have been working for as long as I can recall on bolstering healing and strengthening our immune functions. They've had some success, but what Malone's talking about sounds way more advanced. “You think Dr. Fisher cured anencephaly?”

“No. While that would be a noble pursuit, no terrorist organization would have funded her to research that. We believe Fisher altered X's DNA somehow. Before she died, she was working on ways to significantly speed up the body's natural healing processes. If she succeeded, that's a reason why she would have been desperate to hide her findings.”

I almost drop my water glass. “Significantly speed up? You think Dr. Fisher grew her baby a brain?”

“And a skull. Don't forget that, because it's just as important in this case. But yes, that's the sort of regeneration Fisher was studying. Can we make it possible for a soldier to take a bullet to the chest and heal fast enough to survive without medical intervention? If we knew how to do that, imagine how many lives could be saved.”

Although Malone poses the question like it's no big deal, I see the gleam in his eye. It's a huge deal. An amazing deal. “If she really did figure out the answer to that question, she'd be crazy to destroy her research.”

He shrugs. “Not if she didn't want her funders to get the data. For all the good this research could do, also think of the evil if it got into the wrong hands. It makes this child of hers unbelievably valuable and puts his or her life in incredible danger. The group that funded Fisher's research discovered her child was alive around the same time we did, and we know they're interested in getting their hands on them. Our task, therefore, is to find X first and protect them.”