by Sonja Stone
“Bad taste in friends?”
“You never think about the angle. It’s all angles, Nadia. That’s what determines whether you live or you die.”
His legs blur out of focus as he strides out the back door and disappears. The screech of tires echoes through the warehouse. The guard lowers the garage door.
Nadia squeezes her eyes closed, hoping her head will stop spinning. When she opens them, Roberts is standing by the stairs in quiet conference with his guards. Roberts glances once in her direction, then strolls up the stairs to the mezzanine office.
Her shoulder throbs from taking the weight of the fall.
Panic creeps through her body. Fingers of fear grow from her midsection up around her heart, down through her legs. Maybe she can break the chair, get free, steal a gun, shoot her way out. Fake a seizure, vomit, have a heart attack. Bribe the guards—with what? She has nothing.
Her father did this to her. And Damon. And she herself—for trusting them.
Nadia spits onto the floor as rage wells in her chest. Anger overpowers the fear. She lifts her head. A sheet of paper from the discarded file sticks to her bloodied lip.
The gunmen relax at their posts. One chats with the driver, the other leans against the front door, messing with his cell phone. Ignoring her. Why wouldn’t they? She’s completely helpless, cuffed and lying on the floor. In front of a pile of papers that Damon threw to the ground. Right beside her chair.
His voice echoes in her head, the story he told her their first day in his trailer. The hardest part was knocking over the chair.
A second later the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling high above her turns on, casting a pool of yellow light around her body.
Damon dropped the files on purpose. He doesn’t do anything without good reason—every action is premeditated. It’s exhausting.
She twists her head to look at the documents. At the far edge of the sheaf she sees it, clinging precariously to a photograph.
A paper clip.
Nadia glances at the gunmen. Finding them still preoccupied, she eases her body backward, a millimeter at a time. Her hands brush against the papers nearest to her. Quietly, with as little movement as possible, bit by bit, she slides along the floor.
The guard by the door glances up. She lowers her head to the ground, relaxes her muscles. Adopts the posture of the defeated. His attention turns back to his phone.
With the tips of her fingers, she pulls the pages toward her, sheet by sheet.
And then she feels it. The paper clip holding the stack together.
Damon brought her here, a lamb to the slaughter. He could’ve told her about his suspicions; they could’ve come up with a plan. Instead, he traded her life for his mother’s. But he left her a way to escape.
Even so, she will never forgive him.
One paper clip is not enough to redeem a man.
Damon’s chest aches as he leaves Nadia handcuffed on the ground. But his mother is tied up in the back of a car behind the warehouse. She’s starving, dehydrated…who knows what. He prays that Nadia understood his message.
He climbs into the driver’s seat as the garage door closes behind him. Reaching into the back, Damon removes the gag from her mouth, pulling it down around her neck. “Stay down,” he says.
“Damon?” Her voice is hoarse, like she hasn’t spoken in a while. “Is that you?”
“It’s me. Just hang on.” The headlights sear through the darkness as he peels out. Two blocks from the warehouse, Damon pulls over and climbs into the back seat. He unties the blindfold and cuts the restraints from her wrists. “Are you okay?” he asks, looking her over.
She throws her arms around him. “Thank God.”
Damon holds her as long as he dares, then pulls away. “Mom, we gotta go.” They move to the front seat, and Damon continues in the direction of the police station.
“What is going on?” his mother asks, tears running down her face.
“I’m so sorry, but I can’t explain right now. I’m taking you to the police.” He hands her a slip of paper with the number of the local WITSEC office. “This is Witness Protection. You need to make sure they get you out of here.”
“Wait—you’re coming with me, right?”
“I can’t. I’m so sorry.” He glances at her. “For everything.”
She’s crying harder now. “I’m not leaving you. You’re all I have left.”
“You have to.” Damon’s eyes fill with tears. The guilt sticks in his throat. “I can’t keep you safe.”
“That’s not your job!”
He pulls along the curb at the back of the police station. “I am truly sorry. I love you more than anything. I need you to trust me. Go inside. Wait twenty minutes before you say anything to anyone. Twenty minutes. And then tell them what happened to you. Ask them to call that number.”
She clings to his hand, presses it to her wet face. “No. Please don’t leave me,” she sobs.
Damon’s heart feels like it’s ripping in half. The pain on her face—the same pain he saw when his brother died—it’s too much to bear. His mind sprints through scenarios where they leave together, get new identities, move to another country, go into hiding. He’s looking over his shoulder for the rest of their lives, desperately trying to keep her safe. If they find him, they find her. And then they kill her.
She’s better off without him. He knows this deep in his gut, but he can’t tell her; he can’t explain why. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”
“No.” Her face crumples.
“You need to go. Please.” He leans over and unclips her seat-belt, then opens her door.
“Damon.”
He gently pushes her hips toward the door. “I love you, Mom.” The second her feet touch the ground he shuts her door. Damon blows her a final kiss and pulls away from the curb, watching her shrink in the rearview mirror.
For a minute he feels numb.
And then he feels the pain. He forces back the tears, swallows the sobs. His throat feels raw, his chest hollow.
As Damon takes the corner around the front of the police station, a high-pitched beep fills the car, followed by a tiny pop, and then silence. A warm wetness spreads across his hip, seeping through the pocket of his jeans. He touches the liquid and brings his fingers to his nose. Bitter almonds.
The cyanide capsule attached to his tracking device.
Roberts just pressed the kill switch.
Nadia fumbles for the paper clip and slips it free from the pages. Her hands shake as she straightens the metal. When she tried with the paper clip in the trailer, she failed. She folds the clip against itself and squeezes with all her might. The guard near the stairs briefly looks in her direction. Behind her back, she finds the hole in the handcuffs and inserts the makeshift key.
Roberts exits the mezzanine office and stomps down the stairs. He speaks to his guard, and together they approach. Nadia folds her hands together, concealing the clip.
The guard easily lifts her and the chair, righting her position. She glances at the papers fanned out across the ground. Her head throbs. She tries the clip a second time.
“If it’s any consolation,” Roberts says, “I’ve activated Damon’s kill switch.” She doesn’t respond. “You’re welcome.”
“I don’t know what that means.” Nadia struggles to find the hole on her handcuffs. Her hands sweat; the paper clip slips. She snatches it just before it drops from her grasp. The bent loop will barely fit inside the hole.
“The cyanide capsule attached to his tracking device.” Roberts glances at his watch. “Would you believe that Damon drove straight to the police station? He was only going thirty-five when we detonated, so it’s possible his mother will survive, but who knows.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter one way or the other. “In any case, he won’t bother you anymore.”
She closes her eyes. Tries to remember the mechanics of the handcuffs. For a second she considers telling Roberts he failed—that she cut out the tra
cker. But then Roberts would send a hit squad, and no matter how she feels about Damon abandoning her, his mom shouldn’t have to die. And frankly, to save her own mother, Nadia would’ve done the exact same thing.
“Does that upset you?” Roberts asks.
Nadia visualizes a handcuff key. Tiny, compact; the end, a small ninety-degree angle.
Damon’s voice in her head: Think about the angle. That’s what determines whether you live or you die.
Her eyes open. That’s why she couldn’t get it. “I’ll pull through.”
She needs the mechanism of a pin, not a loop. Nadia shoves the straight end into the latch and presses against the metal to form a ninety-degree bend in the paper clip, using the lock as leverage. The right angle forms and she reinserts the clip. She feels it catch and holds her breath. The pin slides out of position. Back in again.
“To the matter at hand,” Roberts says. “Are you familiar with Project Genesis?”
“It’s come up once or twice.” The key is too long, bent too far up the clip. Nadia straightens the metal and tries again, bending a smaller section on the end.
“Ah.” Roberts nods. “Of course. The explosion near Langley. Well, after we lost Damon, our man on the ground, we were forced to try a more direct approach.”
“How’d that work out for you?”
Roberts narrows his eyes and leans to the side, examining her forearms. Maybe he’s noticed her movements. She presses the straightened paper clip between the index and middle finger of her left hand. She’ll wait until the conversation ends.
He clears his throat and straightens. “Unfortunately for you, not well. Had we been successful, you would still be at school. But now I’m left with no other option. We need to compel the creator of Genesis to join our little organization.”
“I gotta be honest with you. I failed cybergenetics, so I’m not really sure how I can help.”
Roberts looks amused. “You remind me of your father. I used to know him very well. I only met your mother the one time. Intriguing woman; I understand his attraction. Tell me, do you know about your father’s past?”
Nadia’s heart pounds. She’s dying to ask questions, but if she does, he’ll have a negotiating tool. Worse yet, he’ll figure out she doesn’t know anything and lie to her.
He studies her face, then takes a deep, sudden breath, and exhales. “My interest lies in unlocking the science of Project Genesis. To that end, I need you to make a phone call.”
“I can’t help you.”
“You will call your father, explain the situation, and then hand me the phone.”
“If you know my father, then you know he’s not a scientist. He doesn’t have access to Project Genesis.”
“I need the creator of Genesis, and I need her to be a willing participant. In order to make that happen, I will use you as my bargaining chip.” He pauses for a second. “I’m explaining this to you so that you understand—”
“Did you say her? Who’s the scientist?” Simon’s mother? Didn’t Roberts know she was dead? And why would Simon’s mom care about helping Nadia?
He continues as though she hasn’t spoken. “So that you understand that I don’t mean you or your father harm. I just need a cooperative scientist. Now, you can either make the call, explain the situation, and hand me the damn phone, or alternatively, we send you home, a little bit at a time. A finger here, an ear there. It’s entirely up to you.”
A wave of nausea washes over her. “Who’s the scientist?”
“Boss.” The man guarding the stairs moves toward Roberts and speaks into his ear. “We’ve got a lead on Nightingale.”
Nightingale. I know that name.
“A phone call,” Roberts repeats, rising from his chair. “I’ll give you a few minutes to think about it.”
Damon narrows his eyes and digs the tracker out of his pocket. He’s not surprised that Roberts activated the kill switch, but he’d expected a longer grace period.
Doesn’t matter; this works out well. Now Roberts thinks he’s dead. He won’t see him coming. Damon tosses the tracking device out the window without touching the brakes.
A block from the warehouse, Damon makes a U-turn and pulls along the curb. He throws the keys under the driver’s seat and continues on foot. In another half block, he retrieves his silenced rifle and canvas bag from under the dumpster. Stashed inside the bag are three full magazines, a couple flash-bang grenades, and a signal jammer to block cell phones and walkie-talkies. He shoves the mags into his pockets.
Damon approaches the warehouse from the south, pausing long enough to toss the signal jammer into the bushes and shoot out the outside light. The bulb pops as sparks fly to the pavement. He climbs up the fire escape and peers through a crack in the open window, just wide enough for his long gun.
Nadia sits upright in her chair. Her lip is swollen, her head down. Above her hangs a bare lightbulb. He shoves a flash-bang grenade through the crack and turns his head, then engages the night-vision scope on his rifle.
The grenade detonates on impact—a blinding flash of light, a deafening boom.
He steadies himself and takes aim at Nadia’s head.
A breath.
A heartbeat.
He adjusts and presses the trigger, shooting out the light hanging over her. Shards of glass flutter down like snowflakes. The lower level of the warehouse is pitch black.
Another breath, another heartbeat. Press the trigger. The first guard falls.
Damon adjusts his aim. The driver’s in the crosshairs, pressed against the wall, blinking wildly, blinded by the flash of light. The grenade served its purpose.
Beat, breath, trigger. The driver falls.
Using the scope, he searches the warehouse for Roberts and the remaining two guards, but none are in sight.
He thunders down the fire escape and sprints toward the front of the building. As he rounds the corner, Roberts’ car screeches out of the parking lot. Damon fires after him, but the succession of gunshots coming from inside the building pulls him toward Nadia. Three, then a fourth.
Damon slips through the main entrance.
The smell of acrid smoke fills the room. He can’t find the shooter. He moves toward Nadia’s chair.
As he nears, she stands, pulling a gun from the hand of the dead man lying at her feet. She points the weapon at Damon’s head.
“Whoa—wait a sec,” he says, holding up his hands. “It’s me. Don’t shoot.”
Nadia pulls the trigger.
Nadia closes her eyes, visualizes the shim of the handcuffs. The throbbing pain at the back of her skull makes it difficult to concentrate. She’s running out of time—the thought sparks a new flash of fear in her heart that quickly flares into panic. Stop it. Focus. She ignores the loud clang of a metal pipe as it hits the concrete floor.
A bright flash pulses through her closed eyelids, followed by a deafening concussion. Her eyes fly open—a new surge of fear as the warehouse fills with dense smoke. An unwavering, high-pitched squeal rings in her ears. The lightbulb over her head explodes. Panic closes her throat as glass rains down onto her hair and clothes. She jams the makeshift key into the lock. Her eyes sting from the smoke in the air and the pain in her fingers.
A guard materializes through the haze. He’s directly in front of her, gun raised, pointed at her head.
“Wait,” she cries. The paper clip is in the lock. His lips move, but she can’t hear his words.
A warm, sticky spray fans across her face. The guard falls forward onto her lap, then slumps to the floor. There’s a bullet hole in the back of his head. His blood is splattered across her chest.
Something hits the wall to her right. She squints through the dark haze. The driver collapses on the ground. Nadia jiggles the paper clip, searches for the proper angle.
“What the hell?” the second guard yells, but it’s muffled, like underwater. He moves toward her, weapon drawn, then spins erratically, searching the dark for the shooter, backing against the
wall in front of her. He fires into the open space. The noise echoes and reverberates off the tinny walls. Three, four shots. She lowers her head—he’s spraying bullets.
Blood roars through her ears. The smoke fills her lungs, stings inside her chest. She struggles for a clean breath. I can’t do it.
She’s about to give up on the cuffs when a figure emerges from the smoke. He strides toward her, broad shoulders, slim waist. The silhouette of a sniper’s rifle in his arms.
Damon.
With one last effort, Nadia twists the paper clip hard. The lock clicks open. Damon moves closer.
A second shadow appears over his right shoulder.
She stands, grabs the gun from the dead man’s grip, takes aim.
“Whoa—wait a sec,” Damon says, holding up his hands. “It’s me. Don’t shoot.”
Nadia leans a quarter inch to her left—so slight it’s nearly negligible—and fires three shots.
Damon flinches, covers his head.
She hears the thud, and Damon turns around. Nadia moves to his side.
Directly behind him, a guard lies dead on the floor, three shots in his throat, gun in hand, finger on the trigger.
Damon whistles. “Nice grouping.”
Nadia steps away and points her gun at Damon. “Drop your gun.”
“Don’t point that at me.”
“Put it down!”
“Okay.” Damon eases the gun to the ground. “But I’m not here to hurt you. I came back to help you. I left you a way out, right?” He nods toward the handcuffs.
“Yeah, you’re a real pal.” She hesitates for a second, then lowers the gun. “Where’s Roberts? We need to stop him.”
“It’s too late. He’s gone.” He steps toward her and brushes her hair from her cheek. She slaps his hand away. “I’m sorry I pushed you down.”
She tries to shove him, but he’s strong enough that he doesn’t move. He looks amused, which thoroughly annoys her. “You think it’s funny?”
“Are you okay?” He leans in and examines her cut lip.
“I’m fine.” She swats him away.
“Come on, we don’t have much time.” He takes her hand and leads her to the front door. “The car’s down the block. Can you find your way back to school?”
