Twenty-Two
Less than three hours later, Mom and I sat next to each other on a plane after all. But not one bound for Germany. The soldiers wouldn’t release a single detail, but I was relatively certain that Mom, who placed one shaking palm on the window and stared into the clouds, had a good inkling as to our ultimate destination.
Mom shifted away from the window to lean close to my ear. “Mila, don’t give up,” she whispered. “I’ll figure something—”
The guards behind us kicked our seats forward. “No talking!”
I focused on the cockpit. I couldn’t look at her. Not right now. Not with guilt twisting me into a knot. Because not even the terror of the girl and the drill could suppress the traitorous curiosity that snaked through me. Somewhere, beyond the blue sky and patches of white, was the place I’d been created. A place that would still exist in my memory if Mom hadn’t wiped that portion clean.
Right or wrong, a part of me desperately wanted to recover that lost information about my past. Real information, not implanted lies.
Maybe once there, I could find something that would help mesh the two parts of me into a whole—a challenge. I was constantly failing that challenge on my own.
The plane angled down for its descent. The soldier across from us sat up straighter, gripping his hands tightly in his lap, while the others shifted in their seats.
I sat up straighter, too. Where were we?
GPS.
This time, when the green map materialized before me, I almost welcomed it. A replica of the U.S. unfolded, with our plane as the tiny, blinking dot somewhere in the east.
The barest hint of a desire to get a closeup crossed my mind, and instantly the map stretched out in front of my eyes. States elongated as I zoomed in on our exact location. West Virginia. We were flying over Martinsburg, West Virginia.
Our dot was headed right for D.C.
I gaped, saw the soldier across the way nudging his partner and pointing at me, and snapped my mouth shut. Were we landing at Dulles?
The D.C. area enlarged, showing me a private CIA airport in Langley and another called Davison Army Airfield.
Current trajectory: Manassas. Whitman Strip.
A tiny private airport.
The logic behind the choice hit me immediately.
Private.
Of course it was. This was a secret group, after all. A private airstrip assisted with deniability if something major went wrong.
That thought sucked away all my curiosity in an instant and sent an uncontrollable chill through me. Mom pressed her shoulder up against mine to reassure me. “It’s okay,” she mouthed.
I really, really wanted to believe her.
Around us, the soldiers buckled into their seats, finally settling in for the landing.
The plane bumped down onto the narrow landing strip, smacking the ground three times before rolling. Around us, nothing but grass and a cluster of trees. I saw streets off in the distance, what looked like open space, and beyond that, buildings.
The airport itself appeared deserted.
While we were still rolling, the soldiers across from us jumped out of their seats. They formed a line in the walkway toward the cockpit. The solider who’d shushed us from behind—a short, stocky brute of a guy—and Davis from the detainment room stopped right in front of our seat, blocking us in with thick, khaki-clad thighs. After the flight with so many men, the airplane had started to smell, a really unfortunate blend of sweat, dirty socks, and spicy deodorant. Lungs or not, I was more than ready to get some fresh air.
The leader, the narrow-faced man who’d spoken to us back in Toronto, stood at the front. He turned to watch us just as the plane shuddered to a stop, legs shoulder-width apart, body tense. Definitely not at ease. “We’re opening the door. Follow directions, and we’ll get along just fine.”
Two men grabbed my forearms and guided me down the steps while three more soldiers fell in several yards behind us.
We were ushered at a brisk pace down the runway, toward stretches of grass and a tiny parking lot. The air was heavy with unseasonal humidity, bringing a sheen of sweat to the leader’s neck, a dampness to my captors’ hands that made me feel slimy and in desperate need of a shower. Plenty of lush green trees, but not an outsider in sight—just three dark Suburbans.
The leader stopped ten feet away from the middle Suburban, and we jerked to a halt behind him. He executed a neat about-face, pulling his hands apart and pointing at the first and last Suburban. “Load the SUVs.”
Tension gathered in my limbs. Surely they didn’t mean to—
Behind me, I heard Mom being dragged in one direction, while my captors tugged me the opposite way. No. No, no, no. They couldn’t separate us.
While my escorts pulled, I craned my head over my shoulder, frantically seeking out Mom’s tall, sleek figure. What I saw made my entire body go rigid. Two guards were already ushering her toward the first Suburban.
“Mom!” If they separated us now, would I ever see her again? What if they took her to an entirely different location?
What if they killed her?
Human threat detected. Engage?
Yes.
A quick jerk up and back released my arms. My left elbow whipped behind me, delivering a brutal jab to that soldier’s throat. I let momentum spin me around, and when the other soldier lunged, my left foot rammed him hard in the gut.
Before he even hit the pavement, I was up and running. Preparing to take on the next closest soldier. And the next. And the next.
“Mila, stop! You’re only making it worse!”
I didn’t even hesitate at Mom’s frantic words, not with this power surging through every limb, every cell. I didn’t care how many men I had to fight. I’d litter this entire parking lot with bodies if I had to—whatever it took to reach her.
“Fall back with Laurent! Fall back!” The leader screamed commands from somewhere behind me. Right as my fist lashed out and caught the closest soldier in the nose with a crunch of buckling cartilage.
Blood spurted as he flew backward, while two more rushed me from both sides. I sent them both crashing to the ground with minimal effort. My gaze swept past the remaining men and locked onto Mom, whose newly dark hair whipped side to side. “Mila, no!”
I hesitated. Then I advanced another step.
“Don’t even think about it,” the soldier holding Mom warned, but his voice wavered as he took in his fallen partners. Camo-decked bodies sprawled out around me, some groaning, some out cold. It looked like a bomb had gone off. And now only one man was keeping me from Mom. Once I took him down, I’d grab her. We’d steal one of the Suburbans and—
Just as I went to swoop in and grab him, I heard a click of metal that made my phantom heart stop cold.
The leader stood behind me. And his gun was pointed at Mom’s head. “You move again, she’s dead.”
His steely voice, his steady stance. I didn’t doubt him for a second.
I didn’t resist after that. Not when Mom craned her neck over her shoulder and yelled, “Don’t trust anyone,” or when they loaded her into the first Suburban, even though it felt my entire life ended on the spot when she left without me. Not when they put a bag over my head, blinding me.
Not even when they shoved me into the last Suburban and the pock-faced man laughed and said, “Forget about your GPS—it won’t work in here.”
No, the realization that my impulsive attack could have cost Mom her life drained every last bit of resistance out of me.
Not to mention the second realization that was shredding my phantom heart with iron claws—I’d never told Mom I’d forgiven her.
I knew from their occasional throat clearing, fidgeting, and coughing that three soldiers accompanied me in the SUV—two up front, one in the third seat behind me. They remained silent. No music, no talking. Nothing except the drone of the wheels against the road. Their silence felt more ominous to me than anything.
Where were they taking me? And was Mom going there too?
After traveling on highways and then in stop-and-go traffic, we made a turn and went over a bump before heading down. Our wheels echoed now, making me think we’d entered an enclosed building of some kind.
“You can pull her cover off now. She’ll be clueless anyway.”
Behind me, a rough hand yanked the cover off my head. Just in time for me to see a sign that said NO ENTRY: CONSTRUCTION WORKERS FOR MALLORCA UNDERGROUND MALL COMPLEX ONLY.
The driver rolled down his window and stuck out a badge. The security guard scanned it, then waved him through, the outline of a gun showing under his untucked shirt. Overhead, two video cameras recorded everything.
As we passed through, the soldier in the passenger seat said, “Why do you keep calling it a her? You know that’s not a real girl, right, Jennings? I know you’ve been hurting for dates lately, but this one’s strictly prohibited.”
The guy behind me guffawed, then leaned forward, so close I felt his breath on my ear. It smelled like the bottom of the coffeepot after Mom left it out overnight.
“She looks pretty girl-like to me,” he said before reaching over the seat to trail his fingers down my cheek. “Damn, she feels girl-like, too. All soft and stuff.”
His thick fingers squeezed my skin. I went very, very still, keeping focused on the tan headrest in front of me to fight off the revulsion. Everything unmoving except my own fingers, which curled together in my lap. Where they were safe from temptation.
I couldn’t give them any excuse to say I’d caused a problem, not when they had Mom.
If it weren’t for that, I’d turn around and see how much he liked being touched without permission.
“Jennings! Sit back and keep your hands to yourself. That machine’s worth way more than your entire life’s salary.”
I never thought I’d be so happy to hear the leader’s curt voice. Or to be referred to as a machine.
Down we went, making a left and then following dim lights into a cavern of concrete. Another left led us behind a wall, to a parking bay with six other cars. The driver turned off the gas, jumped out the door, and immediately yanked mine open. I hopped out, searching behind me for even a hint of the other SUV that carried Mom. No sign of it anywhere.
My escort grabbed me with a viselike grip, leading me away to a plain metal door. When we reached it, I shot one last look into the garage, even though I knew what I’d find. Empty. She still wasn’t there.
The soldier entered a pass code, and a moment later the door slid open—revealing yet another pass-code-protected door. Someone was obviously serious about security.
“Holland won’t give the word to bring her in until he sees you. So no stalling,” my escort said.
I was led down a narrow cement-floored hallway, past a small open room featuring only eight cubicles. Four men and two women typed on computers.
We rounded a corner, where the hallway dead-ended in a large door.
Another plain metal door, the sight of which made my entire body balk. I knew that door. I knew it.
The man yanked on my arm, forcing me to follow him inside, into a stark white room, the floors reflecting a glare from the forty-two unnaturally bright lights crisscrossing the ceiling. Yet for all the illumination, the room felt sterile and cold. Embedded computer screens glowed from the back wall, and high above them sprawled a huge window, framing a group of six men.
Spectators, I realized.
Their heavy stares sent a shiver through me. I’d been here before. This exact room.
I scanned the enclosure again, this time focusing on the left wall, where a low-backed chair was tucked under a massive steel worktable. Twelve toolboxes were stacked on top in two identical rows of six. The toolboxes whispered of something ominous, but it was what I saw behind them that made my legs go still. A pile of thick metal chains on the floor, gleaming under the artificial lighting.
Chains . . .
The memory rushed up on me. Being chained in this room. My hair whipping side to side as the lab-coated man smashed my face with the gun.
The harsh rasp of the drill, raised high over my head.
My scream, pinging through the room. Like it was clawing at the walls to escape.
My head . . . jerking back, as if dancing to the deafening gunshot.
I staggered backward and gasped in a compulsive bid for air, an action that couldn’t possibly dim my horror because my body didn’t require oxygen in the first place. Only one thought blazed through my head.
Get out. Get out now.
I whirled for the door, desperate to escape, ready to mow down whoever stood in my way regardless of the consequences. Terrible things happened in this room, and I wasn’t about to stick around and wait for them to happen again.
Only . . . the door had just closed. Closed, sealing in a tall, steely-eyed man with silver threaded through his dark hair. A man whose broad face might have been pleasant if it hadn’t been for the harsh mouth, or the possessive gleam in his gray eyes as they pored over me.
“Welcome back, Mila.”
I couldn’t move, couldn’t think of running now, because I recognized that Southern drawl instantly from the iPod.
Finally I was face-to-face with my other creator.
General Holland.
