"I improvise death. Not rescue."
"Then learn something new." He claps a hand on my shoulder. "You've already learned how to feel. How hard can the rest of it be?"
Jagger pulls me aside while the others finalize equipment checks.
We stand in the corner of the hangar, voices low, the hum of machinery providing cover for our conversation.
"There's something you should know," he says. "About Protocol Omega."
My attention sharpens. "You found something?"
"Fragments. Enough to piece together a partial picture." He pulls out a tablet, swipes to a document filled with redacted text and partial records. "It dates back twenty-three years. A joint operation between House Harrison, House Webb, and two others—Sterling and Holloway."
"What kind of operation?"
"That's where it gets murky. The official records call it a 'population management initiative.' But the financial traces tell a different story." He scrolls to a spreadsheet. "Massive fund transfers to medical facilities. Contracts with genetic research labs.Procurement orders for equipment that doesn't match standard Ministry protocol."
I study the numbers, the names, the dates. Something cold settles in my stomach.
"They were experimenting."
"On what, I don't know. The records are too fragmented. It has a lot to do with Westpoint and if my information is solid, that academy was a breeding program. One they intend to resurrect in the near future. The building is already being rebuilt. It’s not the whole picture, but…" Jagger pockets the tablet, "whatever it was, Moore was involved. Deeply involved. And so was our father."
Our father. Dead for fifteen years, killed in what was officially recorded as a training accident at the Foundry.
I was eight years old. Jagger was twelve. Jinx was six.
We never questioned the official story. We were too young, too conditioned, too focused on surviving our own training to wonder about the circumstances of his death.
"You think his death wasn't an accident."
"I think a lot of things weren't what they seemed." Jagger's expression hardens. "And I think Moore's archive might have the answers. But that's a problem for after we get Elliot out."
"Agreed."
"Jace." He grabs my arm, stops me from turning away. "Whatever happens in there tonight, remember you're not just fighting for Elliot. You're fighting for all of us. For the chance to be something other than what they made us."
I nod. I don't have words for what I'm feeling so I just grab his forearm and squeeze.
"I'll get him out," I say. "Or I'll die trying."
"I know you will." Jagger releases my arm. "That's what terrifies me."
We move at 0130.
The body bag is military grade, designed to preserve biological evidence during transport. Inside it, Briar lies motionless, his vital signs suppressed to near-extinction by the sedative coursing through his system.
I carry him over my shoulder through the service entrance of the office building. The security guard barely glances at my credentials—priority clearance, do not obstruct—before wavingme through.
The elevator descends three floors below street level. The doors open onto a corridor of polished concrete and recessed lighting, sterile and cold.
I've been in places like this before. Dozens of them. Facilities designed to process human beings like inventory, to extract value from flesh and bone and fear.
I never thought twice about it. Never questioned whether the people in the cells deserved to be there, whether the methods used against them were justified, whether the system I served was worth serving.
Elliot changed that.
Elliot changed everything.
