I unbuckled my seatbelt and crossed the narrow aisle, dropping into the empty seat beside Evelyn. She didn’t turn,didn’t acknowledge me, but her right hand found mine immediately. Her grip was tight enough to hurt, fingers digging into my palm.
Her knuckles were bone-white, tendons standing out along the back of her hand. She breathed too evenly, too deliberately, the kind of controlled rhythm that meant she was holding herself together through sheer force of will.
“She landed two hours ago,” Evelyn said, voice rough from disuse. Her eyes never left the window. “They’ve already taken her to the facility.”
I didn’t tell her it would be okay. We both knew better.
Instead, I turned her hand over in mine, studying the calluses forming on her palm. Small ones, new ones, from the training she’d insisted on during our prep. The faint scar across her knuckles was newer, from when she’d punched Langston.
“We’re going to get her back,” I said.
She made a small, harsh sound that might have been a laugh. Or a sob. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because failure isn’t an option I’m willing to accept.”
Now she did turn, her dark eyes meeting mine for the first time since we’d boarded. Red-rimmed but dry. She was past tears, past fear, into something harder and more focused.
“That’s not an answer,” she said. “That’s a bumper sticker.”
I kept hold of her hand, feeling the tension in her fingers gradually ease. “I’ve stormed better-fortified positions with worse intel and longer odds. This is just another mission. Just another objective.”
“Just another little girl being experimented on?”
“No,” I said quietly. “Not just another little girl. Sophia.”
Something in my voice must have reached her because she looked down at our clasped hands, then back to my face.
I pulled her closer, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. She resisted for a moment before leaning into me, her body still tense but no longer rigid.
The words sat heavy in my chest. I’d been carrying them since Montana, turning them over in my mind, trying to find the right way to say what couldn’t be said in any right way.
“There’s something you need to know,” I said. “Something I found in the files at the tower site.”
Her body went still against mine. “What?”
I felt her pulse jump beneath my thumb where it rested against her wrist. My throat tightened, but I pushed through it.
“The genetic material Innovixus used for Sophia’s conception. The paternal DNA.” I paused, the words fighting their way out. “It wasn’t Langston’s.”
She pulled back to look at me, confusion crossing her face. “What do you mean? I went through IVF. They said they were using his sperm.”
“They lied.” The anger in my voice leaked through despite my best efforts to stay calm. “They substituted genetic material from someone else. Someone they’d already experimented on.”
Her breathing changed, coming faster now. “Who?”
“Subject L-7.” I watched her face, saw no recognition there. “That was Gage’s designation when Innovixus had him. When they were cutting him open and rebuilding him into their weapon.”
The color drained from her face. Her hand went to her mouth.
“They took his DNA during his captivity,” I continued, each word feeling like broken glass. “Used it to create Sophia. She has his genetic modifications. The enhanced healing. The increased metabolism. All of it inherited naturally instead of forced.”
“No.” The word came out small, broken. “No, they couldn’t have.”
“They did.” I tightened my arm around her. “You’re her mother. Biologically, legally, in every way that matters. But Gage is her biological father. They made her to be proof their program works.”
She started shaking. Not crying, just trembling like something inside her had snapped. I pulled her closer, let her press her face against my chest.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered into my shirt. “I thought she was his. I thought I was carrying Langston’s child and I hated it but I loved her anyway and now...” She couldn’t finish.
