I don’t blame him. The muscles in my chest are bulging with restraint, my hands are fisted at my sides; my jaw is clenched so hard that for a moment, pain shoots through the side of my face.
“You…” Dr. Allen’s eyes cut to the convoy behind me.
I catch this from my peripheral. The majority of my sight remains focused on her.
And she’s still staring at me.
"You—you are—"
"Deimos," I tell Dr. Allen without looking away from… from...
I can't call her Magdalena.
"Give me a few more moments to talk to her."
I give Dr. Allen my full attention, the tone of his voice sparking curiosity in me.
He's worried. He's trying to hide it, but it’s obvious in his gray eyes. His black hair is all over the place. His lab coat and brown slacks are the only things not disheveled. The buttons of the mustard colored dress shirt he's wearing are buttoned improperly.
He's a wrecked man.
"You have a few more minutes. We have to catch the plane. Hurry." With that, I turn and take a few steps away from them—my eyes land on one of the male Japanese doctors. He's standing at the outer edge of the circle.
He's big. Almost too big to be considered a doctor. I recognize power when I see it.
That man is as much a killer as I am. There's no way he isn't. The build on him and how he stands. That expression on his face. I've seen it all before. Countless times, on countless missions.
And his eyes are focused on Ms. Heaton. He's staring at her with an intensity that I also recognize.
Mission. The word rings loud and clear inside his eyes.
One thought initiates the image scan embedded in my retina. In the middle of my vision, his face is photographed and the recognition search begins, red letters and symbols rushing passed beneath the photo.
"Remember everything I told you."
"Yes F—Dr. Allen."
Ms. Heaton's slip doesn't go unnoticed by me.
The search is still ongoing when I do an about-face and refocus on the Doctor and his patient. She’s looking up at Dr. Allen, an undecipherable expression on her face. I blink; a secondary picture is taken, this one of her profile. The image is rotated into a front-facing picture and another scan begins, right next to the last.
Both identities are confirmed by the facial recognition search. When it comes to Ms. Heaton? Well, no shit. Obviously, I am looking at Ms. Heaton’s body.
I read the name blinking in red under the Japanese man’s photo. Dr. Oshoro. Medical doctorate degree from the University of Tokyo. Science and technology doctorate from Toyko’s Institute of Technology. Not a single family member living. Squeaky clean background.
It’s too fucking squeaky clean and I know what that means—it’s fake.
I think the command that starts an even deeper scan into “Dr. Oshoro.” As I do so I tilt my head down to stare at Ms. Heaton’s feet. Another blink; another scan activates. My eyes trail up her legs. The insides are laid bare, a red outline of what now composes the infrastructure of her body forming.
Dr. Allen says something else to her in a voice too low for me to catch this time. Ms. Heaton nods at him. I ignore them, taking in what the scan is showing me. Stainless steels rods, wires, and the biosensors connected to them come to view.
The higher I go on her body, the more obvious it becomes. The file hadn't exaggerated. Internally, Ms. Heaton's body had been all but destroyed. Her lungs, heart, and all the organs in her mid-section are still intact. Her rib cage, arms, and even her legs now consist of a mix between the organic and the man-made.
Bones and tendons, merged together with the most advanced bionics I've ever seen. Whatever had been broken is now upgraded.
She's a beautiful mixture of humanity and machine. I've never seen anything like it. She's even more advanced than I am, and that's saying something.
My lips part, my concentration stuck on the lines and curves both within, and on that girl. I raise my eyes, seeing the wires that now intertwine with her spinal column. Just like me, those wires run up her spine, and into the back of her mind.
The scan crackles in my vision, startling and making me blink. It hiccups, and the image falters, becoming static.
What in the fuck?
I take a step back, too shocked, too immersed in the fact that someone has hacked my god damn systems—
Words appear across the static filled scan, sliding from left to right across my eyes.
Stop that.
My wide eyes move back, finding those dual-colored eyes on me.
This time, she’s glaring at me.
No. This is impossible. It can’t be.
I try to restart the scan. The red lines of the scan fizzle to life—she scowls at me, her small face twisting with mutinous lines.
The scan collapses right back into static.
I...said...stop.
Oh holy motherfucking shit. It’s her. She’s inside me, overriding the system commands.
Sonofabitch.
THERE’S NO WAY, in any fucking galaxy that I would ever be okay with this.
This isn’t fair. My latest upgrade was meant to guarantee that something like this couldn’t happen. Someone hacking into my systems could be catastrophic. Forget about me. I’m talking about the organization.
No… if she can hack into me, it goes to stand that she was able to do it because of a weakness. I fucked up somewhere, not the system. I must have let her in somehow, must have been too focused on my scan to keep my defenses up.
But the systems are supposed to be guarded no matter what I do. Even if I end up comatose.
Everyone around us has trailed into silence. Dr. Allen is watching the exchange between his patient and I with an odd expression.
I scowl at Ms. Heaton. I’m too focused on her, know damn well I should pull myself away, but I can’t.
She’d overridden my motherfucking systems.
She’d taken some pleasure at the fact, too, if the stubborn set of her jaw and the glint in her eyes was any indication.
How did this little thing learn to control her software so quickly?
Was it because “she” had been a software program once?
Maybe part of her still was.
She breaks our stare. So easily. Not an ounce of effort on her part. While I'm standing here, eyes glued to her profile as she turns and places a hand on Dr. Allen's shoulder.
"It's alright," she tells him. "I'm ready to go back… to my father."
I tense as someone stops next to me.
It's Gage, phone in hand. "We need to leave now if we want to stay on schedule." He looks up from his phone. The force of the glare I've leveled on him makes him frown with confusion. "What?"
He snuck up behind me, that's what. No one—nothing comes close to my body without me sensing it. Not even the wind.
Distracted. I'm fucking disgusted with myself right now.
“I’m ready to go.”
A current shoots through every muscle at the sound of that voice. Every nerve. Every damned wire. It ripples through me until I find myself tensing even more.
I turn my head toward her. Dear God, she’s tiny. And—if my estimations are correct—she is now capable of bench pressing at least two-hundred pounds.
Her skin is smooth, tinged pink, and her eyes are so expressive. So alive. No one would guess from looking at her that she’s half machine now.
I’m the same way. For some reason, in that moment, with her big eyes staring up at me, there's an odd sense of solidarity. There are many that would consider the girl a freak if they were to find out what she now is. As they would consider me.
Neither of us asked to become what we now are. A freak accident stole half of our humanity.
That’s not to say that being like us doesn’t have a myriad of benefits.
The girl—I still don’t know what to call her. Nothing feels right—tightens her arms around her ridiculous bag. But she doesn’t back down fro
m my stare.
Her pupils are dilated; huge inside her gold and green irises. Her pulse pounds in her neck. Yet her expression is controlled, despite the turmoil in her eyes.
I’m glaring at her but she doesn’t show any fear. Not in any sense.
I’d never be a threat to her, yet she doesn’t know that for sure, does she? Brave little thing. Unbidden, a flare of admiration sparks to life inside me.
Gage shifts next to me. The girl’s attention leaves me, only to focus on him and stay there. She studies him, appraising.
I wonder if she’s scanning him.
The vein in my temple throbs. The idea of her scanning him—his identity, his insides—I resist the urge to shake my head, trying to understand what’s happening to me. Why I'm jeal—
Oh, hell no. Don’t finish that thought. My head flies back in Gage’s direction. “Get in the fucking car.”
His eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline at my request. “Excuse me?”
In other words: What the fuck is wrong with you?
Apparently, I’m glitching. Hard. Something got fucked-up inside the coding of my software. What else can explain what’s happening to me?
I give him a glare that says later. He frowns but still turns back toward his car.
The girl takes a step in his direction, planning on following him.
My hand shoots out, blocking her way. “You’re riding with me.”
She stares at my hand then at my face.
It’s always been the plan that she would be riding in my vehicle. Still, not even I can deny that the tone of my voice had been harsh.
I’m not in the mood to apologize for it. Hell, I don’t even want to acknowledge it. So I gesture for her to go toward the car. She does, but not before throwing me one last curious glance.
I sense eyes on me as I follow the girl. Probably Dr. Oshoro. I haven’t forgotten about him.
I send the results of my first scan to Gage’s phone with the instructions to have Misty search further into the doctor. My second scan into his identity will continue on in the background until it finds anything that doesn’t match up with the first scan.
My “cargo” stops in front of the K-car and reaches for the handle.
Four of my men remain in there. The driver we need. The others? Suddenly, I don’t think so. Not so much.
In a flash, I’m next to the girl, grabbing the handle before she can. “Excuse me.” I make sure my tone is gentler this time.
She steps back. Her arms remain wrapped around that bag. For the first time, I wonder what she’s carrying inside it that she seems to be guarding it so carefully.
I yank the door open, lean inside, and bark out a single command at my men. “Out.”
Three pairs of eyes blink up at me.
No one moves to do as I say.
“I said, out. Everyone, except Clark,” I nod at the driver, “is going with Gage. That includes you, Russell.”
Russell turns to stare at me from the passenger seat.
And still, no one moves to do as I fucking told them to. A low growl rumbles behind my clenched lips.
As one, they all snap into movement, gathering their shit.
I move away from the door, making room for Ron to exit the back. Annoyance flashes on his features, but he doesn't say anything. Yeah, it’s going to be a tight as hell fit in Gage’s car. Don’t care.
They know better than to complain. I’m bionic, and it’s common knowledge to anyone on my team. I could crush their fucking heads with one hand if I wanted to.
Russell gets out of the car, swinging his carry-on over his shoulder. He comes over to me. “It’d be safer if we all stuck to the plan,” he whispers so only I can hear.
“It’ll be fine. You’ll be trailing close behind us.”
His brown brows furrow.
I raise one of my own, waiting for him to start hoofing it.
Without another word, he spins around and makes his way to the other vehicle.
Gage is standing next to his car, watching the men pile in like sardines in a can. His expression makes it very clear; he thinks I’ve gone mad.
A flash of black and blue catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. The girl moves around me, and in the bright LED lights illuminating the outside of the power plant, the contrast of her hair is blatant.
“This is too different.”
What had Dr. Allen meant by that? Was he referring to the odd punk-girl style she has going on? Because it is different. Compared to the Magdalena I’d seen in the files, that is. Mr. Heaton’s daughter had seemed polished. Refined. The perfect society princess. As her father would want her to be.
The girl now sitting in the car is edgy. Something about her screams rebelliousness. She might be nervous, but she’s also raw.
It’s not your job to figure it out. It’s your job to deliver the cargo. That’s—Shit. My cargo just leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs.
The hem of that short skirt seems to laugh at me as it rides up her thigh.
Pale, smooth flesh. My mouth waters and I have to snap my jaw closed.
I stop myself from slamming the door shut. Instead, I shut it gently, blocking out the visual. Although some things can’t be unseen. That was definitely fucking one of them.
My heart beat is a vicious roar between my ears. Open the door, jackass, and get in there. Yeah. Inside that car. With that beautiful, weird, confusing girl. Blood burns hot through my veins.
“Mr. Landen?”
The sound of my last name makes me almost jump around.
My last name. My actual, legal last name.
Dr. Allen is behind me, expression full of determination.
He knows my last name.
A slight tremor goes through his limbs and he raises his chin, holding my gaze like the girl had. “I had to do my research,” he says, answering the question raging through my head.
He takes me by surprise with what he says next.
“She’s important. So important. Please help her.”
This man invented a consciousness out of software and transferred that consciousness into a human body. He equipped that body with hardware and software advanced enough to hack into my systems.
Somehow, he managed to get his hands on information so classified, so damned hidden, that not even Interpol or the CIA could get their hands on it.
Who the fuck is this guy?
Dr. Allen holds out his hand for a handshake before I can think to say anything.
Or wrap my hands around his neck, cut off his air supply, and demand that he tells me what else he knows. Is he working for someone? What the hell does he want?
“She’s important. So important. Please help her.”
Some of the scientists had lingered to watch. Dr. Oshoro’s dark eyes are focused on us, watching with interest.
I raise my hand and grasp Dr. Allen’s. As soon as I do, something presses into the palm of my hand.
“Please help her,” he repeats, shaking my hand.
Then he’s gone, walking away from me before I can tell him what I’ve decided.
I’ll come back. I’ll find you. You will tell me what the hell is happening. How the hell you found out my name.
Carefully, I close my fist and shove my hand in my pocket. The shape of what I’m holding seems familiar. Whatever it is, it’s metallic, rectangular, and small.
I’d bet my left nut it’s a USB.
I open the door to the K-Car. Gold and green eyes meet mine, curiosity in them.
“Please help her.”
Ah, shit. I fucking knew that this mission wasn’t going to be as cut and dry as it sounded.
Dr. Allen is worried sick about his creation. Which means that she’s possibly in some form of danger. Dr. Oshoro’s beady eyes flash through my mind.
As much of a headache as it’s going to be, I’m going to find out what’s going on here. Before I hand Ms. Heaton off to her father.
En route to New Chitose Airport T
erminal
Kamikawa National Highway, Kamikawa, Hokkaido, Japan.
SHE DIDN’T ASK ME ABOUT my conversation with Dr. Allen. I had expected her to.
Instead, she spent the first twenty minutes of our ride to the airport staring out the window and fidgeting with her hands.
Clark turns on the lights for two seconds, searching for his cell phone. He turns them off, leaving us in the dark once more.
Her nails are painted pink. They match the goth teddy bear on her bag. The contrast between her nails and her dark clothing intrigues me.
Light and dark.
It reminds me of a badass rocker chic. Or in this case, bad ass punk chic.
I pretend to work on my tablet, but in reality, I’m staring at her out of the corner of my eye. Her thick hair obscures her profile.
The highways leading toward the airport are sparsely lit and empty at this time of night.
My eyes remain focused on a single thing.
Black and blue.
I like it. Seen it before but never paid much attention to it. On her, though, it’s different.
She’s different from the girl I believed I was picking up.
The black and blue of her hair combined with her gold-green eyes and almost pale skin—Damn. It’s sexy.
No, fuck that. She’s sexy. So attractive to me that I’m having a hard time dealing with it.
Admitting that to myself does not help my situation. At all.
She moves, lifting her bag off the floor.
Curiosity has me alert. I shift as subtly as possible, sitting straighter. First, she pulls out a book. I squint to catch the title. “The Birth of the Mind—How a Tiny Number of Genes Creates the Complexities of Human Thought.”
My eyes widen and that blasted curiosity expands. There’s a bookmark tucked about a quarter of the way into the book.
My heart pounds. It seems to be multiplied by the eerie quiet of the vehicle. She reaches back into the bag and pulls out her cellphone and a small book light. The light is clipped to the book, headphones are slid into her ears, and she starts playing music on her phone.
By the time she turns on the small book lamp and begins reading, I find myself battling back annoyance.
She’s shut the world out.
The Exchange Part 1 Page 2
