Jo looked at Dr. Rossi, the lead physician. “How can that happen?”
The doctor scrolled on his laptop for a few moments before he answered.
“It could be a result of inaccurate splicing that caused an inversion of pheomelanin produced in the hair follicles. Or more than likely, the overdosing of catecholamine resulting in a dominant negative that blocked the pigment gene, causing rapid, colorless growth.”
“Is it reversible?” she asked.
The doctor shook his head. “Afraid not. The damage is already done. Even if he dyes his hair, the roots will always grow white.”
“The scientists must’ve gotten some of the formulas right because he’s bigger now, stronger, strong enough to throw a damn antenna pole like a javelin through our helicopter’s window and into our pilot.” Valor said.
Jo exhaled through her nose. “The old director’s formulas were inconsistent. Half genius, half recklessness. We’ll have the medical and science divisions do their best to figure out what he was trying to achieve, but clearly, we’ll have to decipher a lot on our own.”
Dr. Sherman, head of Bioengineering, spoke next.
“It seems the director was attempting rapid genome balance, but rapid rarely means effective or safe. The Whites’ cellular acceleration increased their strength and speed, but it’s gonna’ be unstable.”
“I should’ve killed that motherfuckin’ director a lot slower than I did,” Meridian gritted.
Everyone knew how he’d killed him, so the thought of him inflicting even more torture made an uncomfortable silence roll through the room.
“Duly noted.” Jo blinked, then turned back to the research team. “Anything else usable? What about upbringing?”
Reconnaissance officer, Mariah, stood up. “Scar has no siblings on record. Both parents are deceased. Mother died from a drug overdose, and his father was killed by police during a robbery. He’s been on his own since he was twelve. There’s limited intel on his associates, but we know of a few clubs and pool halls that’s been overtaken by the Kings.”
A strategist tapped away on his laptop. “We’ll start at those hangouts. My gut says Scar will go back there for help. Once in a gang, you’ve got a family for life, or so they say.”
The second image on the screen brightened and showed a face caught mid-motion, head slightly tilted, expression stoic, eyes a reflection of immense regret and pain.
“Subject Two: Gage Harrington.”
Jo’s voice lowered a degree. “This is the one whose vision was damaged during the experimentation process, yes?”
Dr. Sherman nodding solemnly. “Likely due to optic overload. They must’ve formulated a tri-compound serum to expand ocular range, but the instability resulted in an optic overstimulation that caused retinal collapse. But according to records, Gage was adapting fast to his vision loss with high auditory and tactile compensation.”
“Okay.” Jo folded her arms, looking serious. “We need to find them before anyone else does. The director wasn’t the only one who wanted these two.”
Zorion leaned back in his chair. “Gage didn’t move like a man who couldn’t see. If anything, he fought better than mostwho can. Scar was calling out directions—north, left, and using degree rotations—and Gage responded as if he’d been moving that way his entire life.”
Jo looked in the direction of the seven lead managers of the medical division. “Compile me a list of the world’s best specialists in sensory rehabilitation, specifically for combat operatives. And, you”—she pointed at Izzo, the weapons coordinator—“draft adaptive weapon designs for visual impairment and have some prototypes to present within forty-eight hours.”
Izzo blinked. “How will I know what type of weapon he’ll best adapt to?”
Jo stared. “That’s what I pay you to figure out.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Anything usable in Harrington’s background?” Jo asked.
Mariah flipped through a thin file folder.
“He’s twenty-three. Grew up on the West Side of Chicago. Two-parent household. Father’s a pastor, and mom stayed home but volunteered weekends at the local food banks. Strict upbringing. Strong academic history. He completed a few semesters at seminary school before getting involved with Mateo Ciro Rodriguez, known as Roz, a lieutenant in the 13th Ward Hustlers gang.”
Ex frowned. “He doesn’t fit the mold of a banger.”
“Because he’s not. Gage was with a low-level member, um, Jace Guzman, who robbed a gas station. Police were called, Jace got away, our subject did not. He refused a plea to name top officials in the Hustler’s gang and was sentenced to three years for accessory.”
“So he’s dumb but loyal,” Valor muttered.
