“We definitely need to report this. It’s totally against Enclave protocol. Clearly, they were planning to go off grid.”
“All right,” Gwyneth says, and again, her voice is arch. “As response team lead, do you want to tell Botten? Perhaps even inform the High Council?”
Mort’s silence speaks volumes. No, that’s a one-way ticket back to Seattle.
“If Jack is right—” Gwyneth continues.
“Jack isn’t right.”
“If Jack is right,” she says, as if Mort hasn’t interrupted her, “we don’t have to tell Botten anything. And if he’s wrong?”
“We’re screwed.”
“No. Then we mourn and continue the mission, like we always do.”
“We do that how?”
“I’ve been doing a little research into other incidents like this one. Florence, Wisconsin. Heard of it?”
“Yeah.” Mort heaves a breath. “My capstone at the Academy. Thought it was shitty of them to pick that particular mission, what with Pansy and all. She never knew, and I never told her.”
“Then you know. And you also know that the only explanation anyone could surmise was that the two agents in question were under a thrall. According to the after-action review, Botten himself was there. Tried to stop them but was unable to. There’s a reason we pull our agents from the field. After the Sahara, this may have been too much for Henry.”
Mort nods, lips twisting in derision as if this flaw, this addiction, will never touch him.
Recently, before the coma, that worry had been nattering at Ophelia. That Henry was close, that he’d give himself over to the Screamers, to the thrall. Now, even she begins to doubt. Is that what happened? Could Henry simply not help himself?
“He was in pretty rough shape,” Mort says.
Building a case? Formulating an excuse? Neither will go down well with Botten; this, Ophelia knows.
“It’s not ideal,” Gwyneth concedes, “but we do have their blood. And Botten has the text. We can heal whatever needs to be healed, like Florence. They eventually repaired the fissure there to the point that it was no longer a hot spot. Saved the Enclave quite a bit of money over the years.”
Death, destruction. What do those things matter as long as the Enclave can save a few dollars?
“We do have their blood,” Mort says. “Right? Unless you let Jack have it.”
Ah, and there’s the rub.
“We’ll make do.”
The smile that unfurls across Gwyneth’s face is both cunning and captivating, the calculating look of someone who knows the direct route to her spot on the High Council. Ophelia considers those kitten heels, oh-so-casually slipped back on.
Now, she wonders what her presumptive sister-in-law was doing upstairs. Ophelia assumed Gwyneth simply wanted to escape Mortimer, if only for a few minutes. Really, who could blame her? But another thought crosses Ophelia’s mind.
No one should leave a Worthington-Wells unsupervised, either.
Chapter 71
Jack
King’s End, Minnesota
Saturday, July 15
Jack doubles back for the blood, using a route that takes him over hedges and through vegetable gardens. Gwyneth Worthington-Wells has a reputation, a well-earned one, and he doesn’t trust her to follow through with her promise.
He doesn’t trust Mortimer, either.
