I blink and look at Blue again.
"Yeah? Let’s see how long that lasts. They kill omegas, alphas, kids. If you think they’ll let you live, you’re kidding yourself."
"NFH doesn’t care what I am. They care what I can do. And I’m not a breeding risk anymore." He grins. "I handled that." And he makes a gesture with his hands, as if tying something up.
Then he steps closer. I catch his scent, one I used to know so well, one I used to secretly breathe in. Now it makes me nauseous.
He reaches for my head, but I pull away, so his hand lands on my shoulder instead. He taps it lightly.
"Sulking? Oh, my little boy, Gabby. Come on, cheer up, little puffed-up frog." He touches my cheek with his finger, but I jerk my head away sharply. "Always so eager, anxious, and… sheepish. And those countless insecurities of yours! If low self-esteem were a competition, you’d have the gold."
What am I supposed to say?
I don’t feel like playing his game.
"So smart, and still so stupid," I mutter gloomily. "You’ll lose anyway. Psychos always do."
"Okay, enough talking," Gunman cuts in, turning toward the table. "We need to connect to the base."
"Hold on," Marcel says, stepping in his way, arms crossed. "Not yet. I’ve been waiting for this. I’m going to enjoy it thoroughly. We can connect in a minute."
Gunman mirrors his stance, arms crossed.
"The risk is too high. Police, FBI, they’re all already looking for him. We finish this fast. Those are the orders."
If he thinks Marcel takes orders from anyone, he’s wrong.
Marcel moves right in front of the table where I now notice some kind of device that looks like a transmitter with a screen. Edgar steps beside him.
"No."
"Move," Gunman hisses.
"You give me thirty minutes, then they’re yours. That was the deal."
"I don’t know anything about that deal. Move or—"
Marcel pulls a handgun and points it straight at him.
"That was the deal. And it stands."
I raise my eyebrows. Wow. Marcel really went all in, from a wild college activist to a full-on terrorist. And a gun? He, who was so adamantly against civilians owning guns? Fucking hypocrite.
Blue watches all of this with that same strange calm.
The NFH guy lets out an angry growl, staring down the barrel.
"You’ll regret this, breeder, but fine. You get your fucking thirty minutes."
"Oh, I get them? How generous. Now shoo, go stand by the wall, where you belong," Marcel says, waving him off.
I can still hear him murmuring under his breath, so quietly it’s beyond a beta’s range of hearing, "Useless betas…"
Well, if I were him, I wouldn’t be so blatant with that attitude. Everyone who actually matters in NFH is a beta. Doesn’t matter how close they’ve gotten with Marcel or how useful he is to them, they joined this organization because of a deep hatred toward fertile types, alphas and omegas. Those are the ones they see as alien invaders on this planet, the ones they want wiped out from the population, the extraterrestrials who have no right to exist on Earth.
It’s hard for me to believe that with views like that, Gunman is just calmly accepting Marcel’s leadership. But he leans back against the wall anyway, arms crossed.
Marcel, still holding the gun, turns toward Blue.
