Resist (22 page)

Up ahead, Fitzpatrick disappears around the side of a training building, and I put on an extra burst of speed. She's almost at her destination. Cold, thin air grates against my lungs. It's painful, but I feel so alive. Wild, but not free. Not yet. Although the freedom is so close I can taste it on my tongue, and it tastes like a dazzling winter day.

Don't get intoxicated by the adrenaline,
I warn myself. My plan is far from being successful yet.

Turning the building's corner, I slam into someone. I've planned for it and know it's Fitzpatrick. Even if I hadn't, the stink of stale coffee that hovers around her would have given it away. Shoving her against the concrete wall, I discreetly slip her gun from its holster and press it into her stomach. “If you don't want a right leg to match the left, you're going to help me.”

Fitzpatrick's eyes open comically wide, and I can practically see her adding up the facts and arriving at the number seven. “I should have known. You set loose all the Es? Jesus, I know you're a fuckup, Seven, but this blows away my expectations.”

“Really? It's about time. I've been trying to do that for nineteen years. But this is Malone's fault. He's forced my hand.”

“Don't blame others for your shortcomings.”

Somewhere in the distance, an explosion rocks the camp. The ground rumbles beneath me with the force.

“I'm not blaming anyone for them. I think my plan is kind of brilliant actually, and it's working so far. But enough conversation. I'm desperate to save Cole and Kyle, and you know desperate people are willing to go to whatever lengths they have to. You taught us that.” I pause and take care to hide the gun better as a security squad runs down the next path, trailing a jeep. “I need you to take me to Malone's meeting.”

Fitzpatrick barks a laugh, and I want to smash her smug head into the wall. Instead, I press the gun barrel deeper into her stomach. “You out-thought yourself,” she says. “I don't have that information.”

“Please. You have a high-enough level clearance to get it in an emergency, and I do believe this counts. So get on your phone and call in to Malone's assistant. Now.”

Amazingly, Fitzpatrick smiles. I might be part robot, but this just confirms for me that she has ice water for blood. “No. You'll have to shoot me again.”

My patience is wearing thin, and the noise is increasing. Some of the Es could be heading this way. But Fitzpatrick calling my bluff is not going to work. “I've already done it once. You really think I won't do it again? It's my proudest moment.”

I will too if she forces me, but it's not ideal for my plan.

As I've noted before, Fitzpatrick is made of tough material. “Then do it. It's worth it to me to see your plan fail.”

Damn it. A bleeding, wounded Fitzpatrick will make my life more difficult. Fortunately, there's a reason I brought an insurance plan with me when I turned myself in. “Is it worth it to see your nieces and nephew shot too?”

She freezes, and I know I have her even if she doesn't realize it yet. “You don't know anything about my family, Seven.”

“Actually, I do. I spent some time researching them while I was on the outside. I mean, it's hard to imagine someone as inhuman as you are being related to regular people, but apparently you are. It was fascinating learning.”

“You're lying.” She doesn't sound entirely convinced. “You can't possibly have found them.”

I grit my teeth, wanting to speed up this dance. “Why not? Because I don't know that Kathleen Fitzpatrick is an alias? Your real name is Mary Steinbach, and I'll list the names of your sister and her children, your cousins, aunts and uncles, parents and their addresses if you make me, but I don't think we want to waste time on that. There's an E getting close. Can you hear it?”

Fitzpatrick's leathery, tan skin has turned a couple shades paler. “You would never hurt innocents, especially children. It's always been one of your many weaknesses, Seven.”

I cast my thoughts back to all the regretful rage that consumed me this morning, and I channel it into my voice, my expression, my touch. Feeling it is a Sophia luxury I can't indulge in, but Seven can damn well make certain Fitzpatrick is aware of it boiling beneath my skin.

“You're right. I can be emotional. I let myself care about other people, and they're in danger. Because of me. Because I had the chance to kill Malone before, and I wanted to prove something to myself by not taking it. That didn't serve me well, and it's a mistake I'm done making. So if you want to chance just how cold-blooded a killer you've made me, go right ahead. Then ask yourself whether you also want to chance what Three and Six and Eight and Nine, who didn't turn themselves in, would do. Even if you think I'm too weak, you were quite proud of them recently for being better soldiers. One phone call from me and you'll have fewer Christmas presents to buy this year.”

It's a bluff. All of it. But it might be my best one ever. I felt those words this morning, and the only way I could ever carry out this threat is if I were in the same sort of blind rage that the Es are in as they tear apart the camp. Yet by dredging up the memory of those emotions, by concentrating on Kyle and Cole and Malone, the absolute sincerity of my intentions clings to my words.

If you can make yourself believe the lie, you can make others believe it too. Fifty-four variations thereof over the course of my life.

This morning, I believed it. This afternoon, I'm counting on making Fitzpatrick believe it. And while she's right that I would never hurt an innocent child, I don't think she's half so sure about the rest of my unit, although I am. Ultimately, I want her to believe that I'd do it myself though. It'll save a lot of time that way.

Fitzpatrick curses silently, her face so contorted with fury that she's a caricature of herself. “Give me my phone. I'll call in the request.”

Slowly, I hand it over. “If you so much as think of double-crossing me—”

“You'll blow out a six-year-old's brains. I heard you. It's a low blow, Seven. Particularly for you.”

“You're the one who taught me to make my hits count. And like I mentioned, I'm desperate.”

Fitzpatrick's request takes a while, and her voice becomes tauter with each person she has to pass through before she reaches Malone's assistant and gets her to cough up the information. I keep one ear on the conversation, listening for any signals that Fitzpatrick is screwing me over, and the other ear on the fighting. Es have broken out of the building, and AADs and a helicopter have taken to the air. It's a sure sign I need to get out of here fast.

While Fitzpatrick's on the phone, I maneuver her to the most isolated parking lot. She has her own car, but I don't want to get in any car she's especially familiar with. She could have weapons stashed somewhere in it.

“What the hell are you doing?” Fitzpatrick says after she relays the address of the meeting.

“What does it look like I'm doing?” I open the door on an SUV. “I'm taking you with me. I might need you to get me by the gate when I get to the meeting. Now get in and keep thinking of those adorable blond children back home.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Tuesday Morning: Present

Malone chose the location for his meeting well. I look up the address as Fitzpatrick drives. He's rented a luxury compound near one of the ski resorts. It's exactly the sort of place that won't blink an eye when rich people with lots of security roll in, and it's isolated enough that very few, except those involved in the actual renting process, will notice their arrival. And, of course, while they're meeting, those in charge get to bask in the luxury they're accustomed to.

I text Jordan with the address.
How fast can you get there?

She responds instantly with a call. “Whose phone is this? What's going on?”

I grimace because I'd texted on purpose so Fitzpatrick couldn't listen in on our plans. “It's Fitzpatrick's, and the plan had to change. Malone is threatening to wipe Cole's memory. Things kind of broke down.”

Jordan swears. “Do we have time to stop him?”

Fear sloshes about in my stomach, and I steel myself. “I'm not sure. It's not like I have the meeting agenda. In order to try, what I need most is for you to meet me at the address I sent you.”

“Don't worry about us. We'll get there. We've been hanging out about an hour from the camp so we could show up on short notice in case Cole contacted us.”

An hour away. All this time they were only an hour away. Never mind that an hour outside the camp perimeter might as well have been Antarctica. The knowledge makes me want to bang my head against the dashboard.

I text Jordan with what should be a safe place to meet near the rental compound, and I shut down the phone for the moment just in case someone at the camp has figured out what happened and tries to track me with it. Fitzpatrick's knuckles are white as she grips the steering wheel, and her cheeks are red.

We drive several miles, me carefully watching the GPS and her movements before she speaks. “There are five of you.”

“So?” Without another distraction to keep it occupied, my stomach registers its displeasure with the lack of food.

“So you're all well trained.”

“If you do say so yourself.” I rummage through the glove compartment, hoping to find something edible.

That earns me a self-satisfied smirk. “Given the circumstances, don't expect me to be as proud as I might once have been.”

“You were never proud of me, and that makes me proud of myself.” There's nothing in the glove compartment except the usual supplies. Not surprising, but disappointing.

“I could see the subversive streak in you since you were young. You cared too much. I tried to toughen you up, to work the weakness out of you, but you were a lost cause.”

“Yeah. You, me, us. We're an epic personality clash. It's tragic.” I pull the gun closer in case she's trying to distract me. It won't work, but I don't need her getting cocky and causing an accident unintentionally.

I'm also counting on her not causing one
intentionally
by my empty threats to her family. I'm sickened with myself for making those threats, but I figure Fitzpatrick's belief that I—or my unit—could carry them out is a reflection on what the camp taught us. And it therefore demonstrates how imperative it is that we stop Malone. Fitzpatrick's family will never know I used them this way.

Fitzpatrick taps her fingers against the wheel. “My point, Seven, is that you can't win here. The five of you may be capable of many things, but you're out of your little silicone-chipped brain if you think you can get past Malone's security and get One and Chen out of there without all of you being killed. Malone's patience for trying to fix you will only go so far, and he isn't alone, which I'm sure you're aware of. These other people will have their own security too, and their own opinions on what should be done to you. What you're attempting is suicide, a quick bullet to your head if you're lucky. Slow and painful if you're not.”

I don't particularly relish having Fitzpatrick tell me things I've already assumed, but her words do resonate. Repositioning the gun in my lap, I contemplate Fitzpatrick's phone. “Good thing getting One and Kyle out is only part of the plan. I'm far too ambitious to leave things at that.”

“Ambitious isn't the right word. Try delusional.”

“That too.”

Surprise registers on her face, but it's true. What I'm about to do does, in fact, mark me as delusional. Delusional and as desperate as I told her I was.

Scrolling through the contacts on Fitzpatrick's phone, I call the camp and mentally cross my fingers for the risk I'm taking. The phone rings and rings, and I start thinking that my worry is for nothing. The camp must be in too much chaos from the Es for whoever is supposed to answer the main line. Then a gruff but harried man responds.

My voice in no way resembles Fitzpatrick's harsh, deep one, but the phone should register as belonging to her. Between the crappy mountain reception and the state of the camp, the guy on the other end of the call is unlikely to think much of it. Dropping my voice as low as it goes, I give Fitzpatrick's security clearance and ask to speak to Sky.

Fitzpatrick barks a laugh. “You should have thought about backup before you left. Sloppy, Seven.”

While I wait to be connected, I turn to her. “What makes you believe I didn't think about it and decide this was the optimal time to put that part of the plan into play?”

“Yes, ma'am?” Sky's voice returns my attention to the phone. Since Cole was effectively demoted last night, I assumed that sometime during the morning Sky might be offered care of his phone. “We've been waiting for orders to help again.”

“Sky, it's Sophia.” I purposely emphasize our names, trying to switch her from a soldier's mindset to the subversive one we had when we named ourselves.

Sky fumbles with both names as she responds. “Why do you have Fitzpatrick's phone?”

“No time to explain. I'm sorry, you're going to have to trust me.”

It's quiet in the background. I imagine Sky and the others are going stir-crazy, aware of the battle outside and torn between jumping in to help and obeying orders to stay put until called upon.

I plow ahead. “If you want to know why I and the others ran, I can tell you. And if you want to prevent Malone from wiping not just Cole's memories, but also most of his emotions, and eventually all of our emotions, then I need your help.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Malone's planning on altering Cole's brain today. If he's successful, we're next. I don't think you want your personality erased any more than I do, but I can't give you the whole rundown on the phone. It's too risky.” Someone at the camp could be listening in to the call or tracking down my location as I speak.

Of course, telling Sky any of this is also risky. If she chooses to trust Malone over me, like Cole did initially, I'm making a huge mistake. I have to hope that she'll put family first, much like Fitzpatrick has—somewhat surprisingly—done.

“Are you… This is real? They can't do that.”

“Malone told me this morning that they can. I don't think he wants to permanently destroy our emotional centers and turn us into CYs, but if they found a way to do it more subtly, to make us more like the HY2s, you really don't think they'd
not
do it, do you?”

I can hear her swallow. Our emotions have always been considered a weakness. Sky knows it as well as I do. I've never been as close to her as I have to some of the others in my unit, but she's no idiot and no automaton. And she's still like a sister, and that's because she values her emotions.

As I ponder it, I realize Malone's made a crucial mistake. Convincing Sky and my unit members at the camp that we've been working for the bad guys all our lives is too complicated. They were never as rebellious as those of us who escaped, and without the myriad proof I had to show Cole, they would react the same way he did initially.

But the threat of having our emotions muted, of our personalities potentially being destroyed, is entirely credible. It's never been a secret that RedZone has wanted to do that to us for years.

“Did you release the Es?” Sky sounds incredulous.

“It was the best I could do on short notice. I'm on a mission: rescue Cole and ruin Malone's plans. And I'm probably going to need help. I need to know if you're in.”

Sky swears multiple times in succession, and someone in the background asks her what's going on. “Damn it. I might regret this, but I can't believe you and the others broke out of here the other week without good reason. Things have been weird since too. But there are Es rampaging all over the camp.”

I let out a silent
Thank you
, never taking my eyes off Fitzpatrick. She's turned an even darker shade of red, bordering on purple. “I can't help you with that, but if you let security handle the Es, you should be able to find some way to use the distraction to your advantage.”

“We'll figure something out.” She sounds uncertain. “Then what?”

I give her the name of the town where we're headed and tell her to check in with me when she arrives. It should take her and the others some time to find a way out of the camp, and I have almost an hour's head start on them. If they decide to betray me, we still have a fighting chance with Malone's people before they arrive. And if they don't betray me, they could be useful when they get there.

“Come prepared to fight,” I add.

“That's a given.”

I hang up, and I rub my thumb along the gun, waiting for Fitzpatrick to say something.

“You're still too few,” she says finally. Her lips are thin and her face so hard that she could be a statue, but no additional comments or insults come. I take that to mean she can't find any words to disparage my plan, and I hope it's a good sign.

It's early afternoon by the time we arrive on the outskirts of the dinky resort town. A light snow is falling, but the sky is bright. Checking the time makes my stomach tense. For all I know, Cole's punishment has already taken place. I have no idea when Malone left the camp this morning after his meeting with me, and I'm running on a couple potentially faulty assumptions.

The first is that it would take time for Malone's techs to set up and calibrate the delicate equipment needed to wipe Cole's memories and emotions. It isn't as simple as plugging him into a computer. The techs would need to prepare, and they hadn't had much time to do it even if Malone made his decision about Cole last night.

My second assumption is that The Four, and any scarily powerful clients with them, will expect to be treated well. Malone wants their buy-in for his plans—the go-ahead to pump more resources into his projects and the funding to increase this arm of RedZone's research. As with any high-powered business meeting, it stands to reason that social time would come before getting to work. That's also time that would allow the techs to do their setup.

Toss in a leisurely lunch, and it's possible The Four would only be getting down to business now.

I try not to dwell on how wrong I could be.

“Where to?” Fitzpatrick asks, yanking me from these worrisome musings.

I direct her into a parking lot of one of the many motels along the highway. Given the time of year, very few places show vacancies. But then, I don't need a room. Just a place to stash her.

A nondescript van with out-of-state plates opens a door as Fitzpatrick pulls into a spot. Jordan climbs out and meets us at the driver's-side window.

“Open it,” I tell Fitzpatrick.

Grumbling under her breath, she does, and Jordan smiles at her annoyance. “You couldn't have acquired a more pleasant driver?”

“She made a better companion on the drive than I expected,” I say.

“I'm assuming that means she didn't talk much.” Jordan eyes Fitzpatrick's silently seething expression with calculation. “Do we need her for anything else?”

I've been asking myself that question for the last several miles. It's possible I could use Fitzpatrick to get us into the rental, but I haven't thought of a definitive method yet. Without seeing what the actual security is like, it's hard to say what I need.

Other than intel of any sort, that is. With zero idea of what we're going to face as we approach, we're heading in blind. Blind and in a rush. There's no time for much recon, and we're ill-equipped for it too. I have some satellite images of the building I was able to get with Fitzpatrick's phone, but they obviously tell me nothing about the current level of security.

Pretending to be unperturbed by threats on her life, Fitzpatrick drums her fingers against the steering wheel. She does a good job of giving off the impression that she's evaluating our performance rather than fearing for her own future.

Not that I have any intention of killing her. She probably deserves it, but my targets today are bigger than Fitzpatrick.

I swallow. “Until we know what we're up against, I don't know if she'll be useful.”

“That was my thinking too.” In a flash, Jordan's uncapped a syringe and jams it into Fitzpatrick's neck.

Caught unawares, I jump in my seat as Fitzpatrick's eyes close. “What was that?”

“Just a sedative. She'll be knocked out for the next few hours, but we can wake her up if we decide she'll be useful. And if we don't need her later—” Jordan smiles, “—
I
get to shoot the bitch this time.”

I throw off my seat belt and unfasten Fitzpatrick's so we can move her. “Don't turn into her. That's all.”

“Please, Soph. I just want to make sure she doesn't get to torture any more children.” Jordan opens the driver's-side door. “We can dump her in a storage closet. I've already picked the lock. If we toss a blanket over her and tie her up, she'll be fine until she comes to.”