“Pot, kettle, North junior,” I say blithely, shooting him a reprimanding look. “Are you sure you aren’t a clone? Because I’d believe it if you said you were.”
“That because OI is working on the technology for clones, is it?” Damon asks, feigning genuine interest, the little sarcastic bitch.
“Nah,” I say, “it’s because you’re giving off major ‘I am a clone’ energy, all perfect salutes and photographic-memory bullshit.”
There’s a short pause, and then Damon suggests, “Maybe I’m a robot.” He manages to skate that razor edge between sardonicand sincere, which marks him out as a good liar. And an arsehole.
I make a thoughtful humming sound. “Also a viable theory.”
Damon’s mouth is flat, expression still deadpan, but the slight tick of his cheek suggests he’s fighting a laugh or at least an amused smile. He has less control over his personality than his dad does although I suppose that might come with age.
As planned, Aaron fires off the grenade launcher, and the blast creates a very satisfyingly destructive explosion, large chunks of stone and glass erupting outward and doing us additional favour of taking out a group of OI guards manning the entrance to the facility.
In the midst of the all the fire and smoke crackling and billowing upward in the clearing, I take a short moment to appreciate the damage done. It won’t be easily rebuilt. With Damon’s guidance, we made sure to aim for the weak points, and so the infrastructure is fucked. That’s the thing about modern buildings; they go up fast and come down twice as quick.
I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of watching anything that belongs to my dad burn.
Aaron abandons the grenade launcher on the ground and half turns to wave us forward before darting away toward the facility. Damon bolts from his position like someone lit a fire up his arse, and I’m left scrambling to chase after both Norths.
It’s a good thing I have Liquid Onyx speed on my side; otherwise those two long-legged fuckers would be able to outrun me without trying.
Aaron leads the way, and we pick a jerky path between the debris and fallen OI guards. Most of them are either knocked out, dead, or too busy shouting because of their injuries to bother with us.
The air smells like charred metal and freshly exposed blood, and I have to breathe through my nose to avoid choking on the pungent strength of it.
Once we’re further inside the facility, more guards come to intercept us, and that’s when things get interesting to watch playing out. It would seem that Damon’s similarities to his father extend to his fighting style. They both have a tendency to dart in recklessly close to their opponents and land brutal hits, their movements precise and well-honed from what seems like years of training, followed by even more years of putting those skills to practical use.
Damon doesn’t flinch when he fires his guns close enough to his targets that red-hot blood splatters across his face. He takes punches and kicks where he has to, when it means gaining more ground, twisting his body at the right angles to lessen the impact. He’s fast and ruthless, his young face at odds with the indifference he seems to feel toward pain, both given and accepted.
It’s strange, to see Damon attack and deflect with the same instinctual fluidity as I’ve seen with the Liquid Onyx survivors that OI managed to obtain. He fights like a child soldier, someone who was introduced to the idea of purposeful violence and shown how to carve himself into the right shape to inflict it, how to forge himself into a weapon made from bone and flesh.
I’m not certain how to feel about the thought that Aaron North must have trained his son from a shudderingly low age for him to be able to fight this way now.
At some point, Damon wrestles the position of combat-ready tour guide from his dad and leads us through a series of secure corridors until we come to the cells that hold Roth and Malik. Aaron agrees to stay outside to keep watch for any guards who might swarm out from the bowels of the facility, allowing Damon and me to go into the containment area alone.
Damon punches in the passcode to Roth’s cell without announcing himself, a possible mistake given the very real threat that Roth and Malik could pose to us if he decides to get shitty about being rescued by the enemy. We find Malik first, sitting on the cell’s single bed, back leaning against the wall, and knees drawn up to his broad chest, with his thickly muscled arms wrapped loosely around them.
Eighteen-year-old OI assassin Sami Malik looks up at his would-be saviours with the kind of top-level sneer on his pretty face that could cut into a person as well as a butcher knife. He’s got himself a machete mouth, sharp enough to hack through bone. His eyes are a fathomless dark brown, full of so much primal rage it feels like we’re facing down an endangered predator. He has black hair shorn close to his scalp and military-grade shoulders to match.
There’s not a single thing about Malik that looks safe to go near. Damon North, it seems, doesn’t give a flying fuck, because he places himself directly in front of Malik, within grabbing range of the mad bastard, and makes an offer the other man has no reason in the world to trust.
“Sami Malik, my name is Agent Damon North, and I’m here on behalf of the Forces of Investigation and Security Agency to extract you from Obsidian Inc.’s incarceration and return with you to our base of operations. If you come with us, we will guarantee your safety from OI.”
But not your freedom. Damon doesn’t need to say that for Malik to know the truth of it. In some ways, if he agrees to come with us, he’s just trading one cell for another. All FISA can honestly promise to do is treat him humanely within the laws that bind them, which probably isn’t very comforting to someone who’s had experience dealing with alphabet agencies and their practices.
Malik has Liquid Onyx survivor eyes. There’s something not quite ordinary about them, the unnatural gleam of the irises, as if illuminated by fire from inside, and the purity of their colour. It’s difficult to properly describe, but they make him look weird, almost alien, and undeniablyother.
He stares at Damon for a handful of beats before shifting his attention to me. There’s recognition on his face, of course there is, of course he knows who I am, and that rage flares fiercer and hotter, a scalding fury he makes no effort to hide.
“Stone,” he growls at me.
I glare back at him, unintimidated, which I suppose makes me as batshit insane as Damon. “That’s Agent Sathe to you, dickhead.”
My mirrored aggression appears to settle Malik, which isn’t a shock to me. He’s likely more than used to getting that shit from the OI agents and guards he’s had to deal with his whole life. Any sort of kindness would be treated with great, and well-earned, suspicion.
“You working with FISA now, then?” Malik looks me up and down, taking in my uniform, his disdain a palpable thing that I couldn’t care less about. “That’s where you pissed off to? To play government agent?”
Patience already worn thin from having to look at him this long, I ignore the nonquestions and demand, “You coming with us or not, Malik?” I bare my teeth at him. “Feel free to stay here and rot as one of OI’s favourite chew toys. I don’t give a fuck. But he does.” I jerk my chin at Damon. “You’ll probably be safer with FISA if you’ve got him in your corner.”
