I loathe every fucking monster who had a hand in this.
For what? Fame? Power? Profits?
The powerful men and women at the top of the food chain played with our lives and basically ruined them. Knowing now that the president was kept in a cage after his Turning by men like Winston—men who were strong enough to contain him, then failed, leading to the rest of the world discovering that the president was a lurker… and withdrawing any help they had offered us—doesn’t make me feel any better.
Good people died, too, and I willneverforgive anyone who put this into motion.
“Fuck you.”
“Pardon?”
A pair of chilled fingers pinch my neck. I don’t care. Way I see it, we’re dead anyway. “I said?—”
“So what happens now?” That’s Chase. As always, he’s my knight in shining armor, rushing to my rescue. “Are you going to let us go?”
He might be wearing shades, but there’s no denying the scrutinizing look that Winston gives Chase, almost like he’s peering through a microscope at an unusual creature. “You won’t be allowed to leave New York.”
“So… what? We’re just staying here now?”
“Oh? Did I give you that impression? I’m sorry. Of course you won’t be staying here.”
The goon responsible for Maverick raises his hand; no reason to watch the cop closely considering he’s gone silent, sagging in his seat, completely out of it since we were caught by his enemies before he could exact his revenge. No help from him, though I do feel a little bad.
If being snagged by these assholes is bad for me and Chase, it must be hell for Maverick—especially after they snapped his arm, leaving him cradling it against his chest.
Winston nods at the other agent, gesturing for him to come closer. As the other man leans in and whispers in his boss’s ear, Winston listens and continues to nod.
“I stand corrected. I guess you could say that this facility is your new home. You see, I lead the project, but I’m not in charge of any of the science behind it. That’s above my pay grade, and I just follow orders from those left to give them. In this case, that’s the Doctor. Seems like we’re in need of test subjects for further trials for the next phase of the project. You three will do nicely.“
Winston rises up, planting his hands against the desktop. “We’re done here,” he says, addressing our new bodyguards. “Take them away.”
They don’t shackle us or handcuff us the way that Darryl did, but with six more suit-wearing lurkers coming out ofthe woodworks, flanking us on each side as they lead us underground, I admit that there’s no point in running.
There’s nowhere for us to runto.
They take us down the emergency stairwells. Each level is gloomy and dark, carrying that same sickly sweet smell with it. It’s the perfect amount of light to keep these almost-lurkers from wincing, though they all keep their sunglasses on as we’re herded down so many flights, I lose count.
My head is spinning. They’ve moved their formation so that there is at least one agent standing between the three of us. If we try to speak, the one in the back barks at us to keep quiet. I can’t say anything to either Maverick or Chase, and that includes any plotting for an escape.
Even hand signals are out. I twitched my finger once, and the agent directly behind me said that if I did it again, he’d break it. Bastard. I already have a broken pointer finger on my right hand. I don’t need another one.
Still, I hold out hope that we can get out of this mess before they turn us into a trio of human guinea pigs—hope that lasts until they march us in front of a glass door, pull it open, wait for us to go in, and slam it shut.
I don’t need to hear the lock turning to know what this is.
It’s a cell.
The three of us share a small room around the size of Stacey Finch’s bedroom back in the Grave. A small stainless steel toilet is in one corner, an even smaller sink perched over it. Two narrow cots—twin-sized if we’re lucky—are lined up against the furthest wall, a small gap between them, making the setup look like an equal sign. No blankets, only a sterile white sheet and a single creased pillow.
A pair of video cameras are positioned in opposite corners. Two of the walls are made of solid grey cinderblock. The thirdhas a white door built into it that is across from the door we entered in through on the fourth wall.
About an hour after we’re abandoned in this room, I’m pacing, Chase is whispering assurances under his breath that I know neither of us believe, and Maverick… he claimed one of the cots, lying on his side, giving us his back while still cradling his broken arm.
And that’s when a pale woman wearing a lab coat and carrying a clipboard walks in through the same door we did, bringing two suit-wearing agents with her; like the agents, she has on sunglasses. She’s about forty years old, give or take, her light brown hair pulled into a low bun.
With the agents’ help, she takes blood from each of us, jabbing Maverick’s good arm repeatedly until her needle can break through his skin and reach his web-thin veins.
Another small tube contains a hair plucked for each of our heads; my scalp is still stinging from where the sunglasses-wearing technician yanked it from the root.
