by Lizzy Bequin
“What?” Driscoll stammers, stiffening in his chair. “What are you talking about?”
The professor chortles as he turns his chair around to face the billionaire.
“Well, I suppose I won’t be the one doing the actual killing of course. That’s what the Alpha is for,”
The professor makes an imperious gesture with his skeletal, bionic arm.
“Alpha, please despatch Mr. Driscoll.”
CHAPTER 24: CONWAY
“You sure this will work, Doc?” I ask, double checking the magazine of my pistol.
Reese is sitting beside me in the passenger seat. The poor bastard is pouring sweat and his body is practically humming with nerves. I know he’s not worried about his own safety. His one and only concern is the same as mine.
Amrita.
“I’m not sure about anything,” he says in a shaky voice. He turns to me and attempts a grin, but fails miserably. “I saw it in a movie once.”
We barely spoke during our drive into the city. Reese sat with the handheld tracking monitor in his lap, the small screen displaying a light green blip for Amrita’s location. It didn’t take us long to figure out that she’d been taken to Manhattan. From there, Reese gave me directions every couple of blocks, even though it wasn’t hard to figure out where we would end up.
Now the 4Runner is parked in an alleyway, the grimy brick walls on either side reaching up to the night sky that is starless from light pollution. The alley is dark, but dead ahead, the Omicron Center towers in front of us, the sleek, futuristic skyscraper lit up like some kind of glass rocket ship.
That’s our final destination. That’s where they’ve got Amrita.
“It’s hard to be sure,” he says, mopping the sweat from his brow as he flicks his eyes between the monitor and the Omicron Center. “But I’d say they’re holding her somewhere about halfway up, around the thirtieth floor.”
His use of the word “holding” isn’t lost on me. He’s assuming that she’s still alive. Or at least he’s speaking that way to try and convince himself.
She’d better be alive, or else I’m going to blow the whole damn Omicron Center to the fucking ground. I might just do that anyway.
Okay, maybe we don’t have enough explosives for that, but we do have enough to make one hell of a mess. Turns out Reese was even better equipped than I thought. He had a small arsenal tucked away in his truck, and it’s a good thing too, because it’s going to come in handy now. Reese has a few more grenades hidden inside his hunting vest. Those should make a nice distraction once we’re inside.
Getting in, however, will be the tricky part.
“You ready to do this, Reese?” I ask him.
Reese is holding a pair of rings—looks like an engagement ring and wedding ring—which are looped on a small chain necklace. Studying them, he rolls them between his fingers before tucking them back inside his shirt.
He nods, his mouth set in a tight grimace.
We hop out of the truck and I walk around to the passenger side where he’s standing. He holds out both hands, wrists together, so I can snap the handcuffs in place.
“I sure hope this works,” I mutter. “What movie did you see this in?”
“Star Wars.”
I give him a hard look to see if he’s fucking with me. He’s not.
“I wish I hadn’t asked,” I groan, grabbing him by the shoulder and leading him ahead of me.
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Nope,”
All I’ve got on are my boots, jeans, and tattered sleeveless undershirt. That doesn’t leave a lot of places for me to conceal a bulky 10mm pistol, so I tuck it in the back of Reese’s waistband instead, letting the hem of his vest hang down to hide it.
Then we start walking, marching right across the street, and straight up to the entrance of the Omicron Center. It’s well after midnight at this point, but the place is still lit up like the Fourth of July—a glittering jewel in the heart of the city. If only the people rushing by on the street had any idea about the dark things going on inside.
The big plate glass doors at the front of the building are locked since it’s after hours. My first idea was to drive the 4Runner straight through the glass into the lobby. But in the end we decided to go with Reese’s more subtle approach.
There are two security guards sitting behind a long, granite topped reception desk in the middle of the lobby. A third is strolling around the big wide open room, lazily stretching his legs. When I knock on the glass, all three of them turn and squint at us.
The nearest one, the guy who was pacing, turns and says something to the guys at the desk. They exchange some words that I can’t hear through the glass.
We must be an odd-looking pair—me dressed in a dirty white undershirt, my arms and shoulders still smudged with soot from the cabin fire, and beside me, Reese, his hands cuffed like he’s my prisoner.
The closest security guard turns back toward us and walks in our direction, his right hand resting on the pistol at his hip. He unlocks the door, the bolt snapping back as he turns his key.
I could rush him now, but that would definitely cause a commotion as the other two guards would certainly to open fire. I’m going to be patient and follow Reese’s plan.
“I’m an agent with the Alpha Initiative,” I tell him, taking out my wallet and shoving it toward him to show my company ID card. His eyes go wide.
“Alpha Initiative?” he stammers with awe in his voice. Good. I was hoping that would impress him. “What are you doing here? You fellas don’t normally use the front entrance.”
I nod toward Reese, who is keeping his eyes cast down. “I apprehended this man trying to break into the building.”
The man’s eyes dart back and forth between me and Reese. His hand remains on the butt of his pistol. One wrong twitch, and I’m prepared to rip this guy’s throat out. For his sake, I hope he doesn’t twitch.
“You need to call the cops?” he asks.
“No cops. This is a delicate company matter. Mr. Driscoll himself has personally requested that we handle this matter internally.”
“Internally?” the guy stammers, his eyes still jumping back and forth between my face and my clearance card.
“Let me in now, and I’ll put in a good word with Mr. Driscoll. Who knows, maybe there’s even a promotion in it for you.”
“You know Mr. Driscoll personally?” he asks, his voice full of amazement
“Then again,” I continue, “If you don’t let us in, I’ll be forced to tell Mr. Driscoll that you obstructed my mission.”
The guy hands back my wallet and gives me a nervous nod.
“Okay, come with me.”
As we cross the lobby to the front desk, the squeak of our shoes on the marble floor fills the spacious interior, echoing between the high, plate-glass windows and granite columns. I briefly consider snapping the security guard’s neck and opening fire on his partners. It would be so easy. But I decide to hold off, at least for the time being. I noticed when he handed back my wallet that he’s got a ring on his finger. Maybe even kids too. Used to be, that kind of thing wouldn’t have mattered to me, but the past few days have changed me.
Both of the other security guards behind the desk have now risen to their feet as we approach
“What’s going on?” one of them calls out
“This guy…This gentleman is with the Alpha Initiative. He’s got this man in custody. Caught him breaking into the building.”
“In custody?” one of the other guards asks, scratching his head.
I understand why he’s confused. I’m an operative for the Alpha Initiative, not a cop. We don’t exactly take people into custody. But I play it off and try to keep control of the situation.
“That’s right,” I tell him. “I need to escort this man to level thirty.” I just pulled the number out of my ass based on what Reese said earlier.
“Level thirty?” the guard who walked us in asks, “The labs?”
“Sorry agent,” one of the other guards says, eyeing us suspiciously, “but we’ll just need to run your clearance through the computer before I can permit you on the elevator.”
“Of course,” I grunt, tossing my wallet on the counter and sliding my ID card out again.
The security guard takes the card and begins tapping away at his keyboard. The computer utters a strange dull beep, and the man’s eyes go wide as he stares at the screen, looking as if he’s seen a ghost.
“Problem?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.
“This says…you’re deceased.”
Shit. Those stupid bastards must have assumed that Kruger killed me and they updated my company profile prematurely.
My eyes detect the faintest hint of movement, the slight roll of a shoulder as the man reaches for his gun. But I’m too quick for him. In the blink of an eye, I’ve drawn the 10mm from the back of Reese’s pants and squeezed off two rounds.
I put the first round through the hand of the man reaching for his pistol, blowing away his thumb. With a quick sweeping motion, I fire the second shot through the next guard’s biceps, the high-caliber round shattering his humerus and rendering his arm limp. The gun stops with its sights lined up right between the third guard’s eyes.
He gets the message and slowly raises his hands, palms out.
“Get their guns, Reese.”
I keep the gun trained on the third guard, while Reese swiftly disarms them one by one, placing their handguns on the granite counter.
“Now get out of here,” I growl.
“You’re not going to kill us?” one of the men asks.
“Get out now, before I reconsider.”
As the three men are hurrying toward the entrance, their soles slapping on the smooth marble floor, Reese and I hoof it toward the elevators
“You let them go,” Reese says in amazement as I press the button to call the elevator.
“Yeah,” I grunt. “I must be getting soft.”
While the elevator is descending, I release the cuffs from Reese’s wrists so his hands are free. He’s got one of the security guards’ pistols in his right hand, and with his left he takes out the tracking device monitor so we can pinpoint Amrita.
There is a ding, and the elevator doors slide open. The elevator is thankfully empty. We climb aboard, and I press the button for level thirty.
“That was the easy part,” I tell him as the doors slide shut. There is a strange bounce in the pit of my stomach as the elevator begins its swift ascent. “There’s going to be a lot of security around the labs. We’ll need a diversion to draw them away.”
“I’ve got it covered,” Reese says with a grin as he lifts one of the grenades from beneath his vest.
CHAPTER 25: AMRITA
“Alpha, please despatch Mr. Driscoll,” the professor says with a gesture of his whirring, bionic hand.
The entire operating theater has grown quiet now. The doctors in their green scrubs and caps have moved away to the perimeter of the room, their backs pressed against the metal panels of the walls. Upstairs around the balcony area, the technicians are peering through the windows of their control rooms in nervous anticipation.
For a moment, the only sounds are mechanical and electronic, the various clicks, beeps, and hums from the machinery and computer stations spread around the room, especially the central device that Mr. Driscoll is hooked into by tubes and electrode cables—the very same device whose multi-jointed cybernetic arm holds a long needle pointing menacingly at my abdomen.
At my unborn baby.
“You’re out of your mind,” Mr. Driscoll snarls at the professor, leaning forward in his reclining medical chair. “Alpha, apprehend the professor, and—“
His eyes become a pair of wide, fearful circles. Instead of obeying Mr. Driscoll, the massive Alpha, dressed in his black suit and shades steps toward the seated billionaire and places his monstrous clawed hand on Driscoll’s shoulder, shoving him back roughly into his seat.
“Traitor!” Mr. Driscoll hisses, then he softens his tone, realizing his precarious situation. “Listen, think about what you’re doing here. Don’t you realize who I am? I’m one of the wealthiest men in the world. Whatever that ugly little bastard is paying you, I’ll double it. Hell, I’ll quadruple it.”
The professor clucks his tongue with glee, clearly enjoying watching the billionaire plead. He holds up a skeletal finger to stay the Alpha’s hand before he murders Mr. Driscoll where he sits.
“He’s an Alpha,” the professor spits, his voice dripping with disdain. “He doesn’t have any use for money, you ignoramus! Alphas only care about two things…”
The professor’s mechanized knuckles make a ratcheting sound as he extends the first and second fingers in turn, emphasizing his point.
“…hunting and mating.”
His wheelchair performs a deft, three-point turn as he scoots around to face me again.
“I promised him something only I can give him. I promised him an Omega mate to dispose of how he pleases.”
My stomach tenses, and sweat breaks out across my skin as I notice the lustful way the Alpha is gazing at my naked body, licking his lips. A shiver of disgust runs through me.
“But why?” Driscoll whimpers, “What do you think you’ll get out of betraying me? Without my money, you’re nothing.”
“On the contrary, I have everything I want right here.” He gestures toward me. “For over twenty years I’ve been confined to this chair, a frail shadow of the man I used to be, my body destroyed by the Alphas I helped create. But now those very same Alphas are going to heal my broken body, Mr. Driscoll. I’m going to take those precious stem cells for myself.”
Driscoll laughs bitterly.
“That doesn’t make any sense. You said yourself, there needs to be a genetic match between the donor and the patient. The Alpha that knocked her up is my biological son. That embryo carries my genes. It won’t work for you.”
The professor’s wicked grin widens, wrinkling the whorled flesh of his burn-scarred face. He wheels himself across the room until he is positioned right beside Mr. Driscoll.
“Do you truly not understand?” He taps his metal claw on the billionaire's temple. “Then you’re an even greater fool than I already took you for. Yes, the Alpha Conway is your offspring, Driscoll. But did you never stop to consider the origin of the Omega?”
My mind reels as the implication of what the professor is saying starts to sink in. The room seems to spin around me.
“No,” I cry, my voice choked by the lump in my throat. “I don’t believe it!”
Mr. Driscoll shakes his head in disbelief too.
“You mean, she’s your…”
“That little Omega embryo that was stolen from me all those years ago was made from my very own seed,” the professor sneers. “And now here she sits, carrying the key to my salvation in her belly.”
“No!” I scream as I continue to struggle uselessly at my restraints. Despite my newfound muscles—the Omega maternal defense instinct, according the professor—the straps that bind me refuse to budge.
“It’s been a pleasure working with you, Mr. Driscoll,” the professor says coldly, “but I’m afraid you’ve outlived your usefulness.”
He nods his gnarly, bald head toward the Alpha in the black suit.
“You can’t do this to me!” Mr. Driscoll shouts, “I’m not supposed to die like this! I’m not supposed to die at all! I’m Damon Driscoll goddamnit! I’m—“
His voice is choked off as the Alpha’s gigantic hand closes around his throat, squeezing his windpipe and cutting off the blood to his brain. In mere moments, his face turns from bright red to a disturbing shade of purple. His bloodshot eyes bug out with fear, while his feet kick wildly at the stirrups of his seat.
Then is body goes limp,
arms dangling loosely at his sides. The Alpha continues to squeeze for several more seconds, just to make sure the man is dead.
“Good,” the professor mutters.
He glances around at all of the doctors and technicians staring wide eyed at the proceedings.
“Well, what are you all gaping at? Remove that cadaver so I can be prepped for the cellular transfer.”
Apparently everyone here fears the professor and his Alpha because nobody tries to argue.
Immediately the room is bustling with activity. Several technicians pull away the plugs and tubes from Mr. Driscoll’s lifeless body, and the Alpha hefts the dead man out of the seat with one hand, simply palming the billionaire’s bald head.
As the professor begins to get hooked up in Mr. Driscoll’s place, I narrow my eyes at him. What he said before may be true—I have been created from his genes—but he’s not my father. No father would sacrifice his offspring like this.
In his eyes, my baby and I are nothing more than commodities for him to use as he pleases.
“I hate you,” I hiss. I’m nearly rabid with rage. “I’ll kill you.”
“On the contrary, my dear.” He winks with his living eye. “You’ll make me live forever.”
Suddenly the whole room shudders, as if there is a light earthquake. Medical equipment and surgical tools rattle on their trays, and a dull, muffled boom ripples through the room. Everyone stops to listen, and a moment later, we all wince in pain as a shrill alarm attacks our ears.
A black clad security officer rushes out of the second-level control room and leans over the rail of the balcony, shouting to make his voice heard over the alarms.
“There’s been an explosion in sector six, sir. Unknown origin. We’re sending a security detail to check it out.”
“Yes, yes,” the professor snarls distractedly, “Just get it under control.”
With a nod, the security officer departs, shouting orders to his team, who must be inside the control room. The black-suited Alpha begins lumbering toward the stairs as if to follow.
“No,” the professor snaps. “You stay here. I don’t want anything to interrupt the procedure.”
