Like I was a puzzle he was looking forward to solving.
“Ms. Bolton.” His voice was smooth, cultured. Almost kind. “I’ve been very curious to meet you.”
I clamped my jaw shut. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing fear.
Dresner smiled. Small. Knowing. “The strong, silent type. How refreshing.”
He crossed the room with unhurried steps, shoes making soft sounds on the tile. He stopped beside the monitoring equipment, fingers trailing across the dark screen.
“I imagine you’re confused. Perhaps frightened. That’s understandable. But I assure you, Ms. Bolton, you’re in no immediate danger.”
The words should have been comforting. They weren’t. They turned my stomach because immediate meant there was danger coming later.
“Where am I?”
My voice came out hoarse. I swallowed, tried again. “Where am I?”
“A secure location. That’s all you need to know for now.”
Secure. Right. Prison by another name.
I tested the bindings again, slower this time. Looking for any give, any weakness.
“I wouldn’t recommend struggling. Those are medical-grade cuffs. I’m sure you recognize them. You’ve used similar models yourself, haven’t you? At Boston General?”
Ice flooded my veins.
He knew where I’d worked. Where I’d lived. My history.
“Three malfunctions in eighteen months.” Dresner pulled a tablet from inside his jacket. He swiped the screen with the focused interest of a researcher reviewing data. “Unprecedented. Each one a different generation operative. Each one perfectly conditioned. Each one broken.”
He looked up, meeting my eyes. “The conditioning was flawless, Ms. Bolton. The problem wasn’t internal.”
My mouth was dry. I wanted to look away from his steady gaze but couldn’t.
“What are you talking about?” I forced the words out. Needed to understand, even though part of me didn’t want to know.
“So I looked for external variables. What did these three agents have in common? What changed in their environments before malfunction? What stimulus triggered the resistance?”
His tone shifted slightly. More engaged now. Almost excited.
He turned the tablet toward me.
Three files. Three photographs.
“I’m a pragmatist, Ms. Bolton. I follow the data.”
“There is one of my Prima Generation agents. Reaper’s malfunction coincided with sustained exposure to a woman, a journalist. His conditioning began deteriorating within seventy-two hours of contact.”
My chest tightened.
“She asked him questions. Made him remember who he was before. She made him feel.”
The second photo appeared. Another woman. Professional. Composed.
“Specter’s breakdown occurred after meeting a psychiatrist. His implant showed irregular patterns within one week.”
Dresner’s finger hovered over the screen.
