“Melody has additional information for you regarding the specifics of what will be required,” he said, gesturing carelessly at the woman next to him. “Melody?”
Her mouth pinched in clear displeasure—pissed that he’d used her name, perhaps, or that the doling out of details had been delegated to her—but she nodded. “You have an assigned target for this mission,” the woman said, speaking to Jacobs, Laughlin, and St. John, as if they were the ones doing the work. Now that the novelty had worn off, Ford, Carter, and I had ceased to exist, no more a party to this discussion than the furniture. “In the packet, which you’ll receive at the meeting’s conclusion, you’ll find the target’s photo, some basic information about the target, and a phone for designated check-ins. Find the target, confirm identity by taking and transmitting a photo, and then await further instructions.”
Well, that explained why we were here in the middle of the city. Dumping us all into an echoingly empty warehouse wouldn’t be much test of our tracking skills.
If that was, in fact, what they were testing. The “await further instructions” bit gave me a weird vibe. I couldn’t read Melody’s thoughts—she was military trained and, obviously, they’d all been briefed on what we were capable of—but excitement glittered in her eyes.
I shifted slightly in the chair, taking a slow, deep breath. If I was going to do this here and now, the three of them—Old Guy, Melody, and Morpheus—had to be first priority. They were soldiers, past or present; they had, most likely, faced some form of attack in the past.
People like them never let their guard down completely.
“From the itinerary our sources have assembled, the target should be within the city limits for the next forty-eight hours,” Morpheus added.
I ignored him. The trick would be taking out as many as I could at once. The moment one of them went down, the room would dissolve into chaos. And I’d have to devote my effort to holding the doors against the guards and addressing any additional threats inside the room.
“Discretion is a mission requirement. No exceptions. But you may eliminate the competition as you see fit, provided it doesn’t violate that order,” he said. “This is a test of strategy as well as skill.”
I reached out with my abilities and tugged gently at the wooden cabinet housing the whiteboard, testing. It wobbled, spilling out a blue marker that landed on the floor behind the three with a quiet thwap on the carpet.
Ford stiffened. She’d noticed.
Crap. I released the cabinet immediately, letting it settle gently against the wall again.
But no one shouted or pointed as Morpheus continued outlining mission standards. Dr. Laughlin was too busy rocking on the two back legs of his chair and smirking at Jacobs, who was glaring death at him. St. John had resumed the study of his phone.
Ford risked a sharp glance over her shoulder in my direction. Warning or questioning me? It was impossible to tell.
I returned my attention to the cabinet. It was loose, definitely. If I could pull the entire structure free of the wall and send it at their heads with enough force—
“Is the target aware of his status as such?” Ford asked abruptly.
The ensuing silence was breathtakingly loud.
I froze. What was she doing? They hadn’t, as far as I knew, been instructed to keep quiet, but these military types likely weren’t used to being questioned, particularly by beings they equated to weapons, nonsentient tools.
Laughlin set his chair down with a resounding thump, his angled face a dozen shades of furious. “Ford,” he barked. Carter cringed, inching closer to Ford, whether for protection or to protect her, I wasn’t sure.
But the one I’d dubbed Morpheus nodded approvingly. “No. It…she is correct. That would change the parameters.” To Ford, he said, “The target has no reason to feel hiding is necessary.”
Jacobs reached over and pinched my arm, signaling in a flurry of confusing motions that I should stand and do something. Evidently, he didn’t want Ford getting too much positive attention from the Committee.
But as I stood reluctantly, the door to the hall flew open, startling everyone except Dr. St. John, who turned with an expectant smile.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” he said to someone just out of sight. Then he stood and swung his arm out in a welcoming gesture. “Everyone, may I present Adam.”
I made a face. Adam? Really? Naming with numbers (107) wasn’t particularly inventive, either, but Adam was such a tired cliché.