“Not for what we want anymore,” Justine said calmly.
“We still need you,” Emerson, always the peacemaker, said. “They’re going to be monitoring Zane very closely.” He gave me a worried look. “You’re going to have to—”
“I didn’t sign up for this to be the fucking B-Team,” Adam snarled, his face distorted and red with anger. He was in love with the idea of being a supersoldier. I’d heard him talk about it night after night. And I kind of didn’t blame him. He’d fought for his country and then he’d given up two years and a chunk of his humanity to be the first in the line of new and improved. He didn’t deserve this outcome for all that work. Even if he was a total douche.
Justine raised her eyebrows. “You signed up for whatever we tell you, soldier.”
He stiffened. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. Then he dropped the envelope on the bed, like it was covered in filth, and stalked out of the room, the door banging shut after him.
Emerson sighed after him and then sat down heavily in the desk chair.
“I wasn’t kidding,” he said to me, scrubbing his face with his hands, as though he’d been downstairs for hours instead of minutes. “You’re going to have to be really careful. It’s not going to be as straightforward as we thought. Getting her alone long enough is going to be tricky.” He looked to Justine as if for confirmation or help.
She waved away his concern. “That’s why we have Zane, isn’t it?” she asked, the threat implicit in her tone. If he can’t do this, then why are we sending him?
I nodded quickly. “Yeah. I can do it.” As if there were even room for another answer now.
Justine’s phone chirped, and she pulled it from her pocket, examining the screen with a frown. “I have to go. Keep me apprised.”
She left hurriedly, not bothering with anything resembling good-bye or an explanation.
St. John twisted back and forth in the chair, the base of it squeaking shrilly in the now otherwise silent room, before leaning forward to balance his elbows on his knees.
“Is that any better?” he asked, tipping his head toward my nose.
I shrugged, lowering the tissue. “Think so.” I didn’t want to commit either way. Needing another injection too soon would mean that my body was continuing to reject the changes rather than stabilizing.
NuStasis was nothing to mess with. Emerson had shown me a video of a test animal, a rabbit, that had “destabilized.” I’d had nightmares. So much blood everywhere. It was nothing but a limp pile of fur and bone in the end.
But that was not going to be me. My body would eventually adjust and accept the changes, as Adam’s had, and I’d be Zane 2.0 permanently, new and improved. Okay, yes, it was taking me far longer to stabilize than it had taken Adam, but that was probably just because of the way I’d started treatment.
This had to work. I was determined to ignore any other possibility.
Like reaching the point where my body would make the choice for me, rejecting all of my virus-altered DNA, and no amount of NuStasis injections would save me. Then, instead of the bloody rabbit stew, it would be me in the middle of that mess. Whatever was left of me, that is. Which wouldn’t be much.
Running a hand through his rumpled hair, Emerson got up with a sigh and moved to crouch down in front of me. Then he pulled a pen light out from the inside of his coat. “Follow my finger.” He held up his index finger and waved it from right to left, with the light shining on me with blinding intensity.
My eyes watering, I did my best. The new sensitivity was brutal. I wasn’t sure if this was something Ariane had had to deal with, or if she’d simply grown accustomed to it after years of practice.
“What number am I thinking of?” he asked, pulling a small pad of hotel stationery he’d swiped out of his shirt pocket and jotting something down. Emerson was unorganized and kind of…all over the place. Not exactly the mastermind Dr. Jacobs was, but dude was obviously smart. Like one of those kid geniuses who’d never grown up. He was prone to impulse and not always thinking things through. A trait I was exceedingly grateful for, since it had resulted in me being alive still.
“Seventy-two,” I said immediately.
“Yes,” he said, startled.
“You need to think of a new number.” I couldn’t really hear thoughts. Not reliably, anyway. Just bursts of random noise, like a bunch of people shouting all at once. It was usually strongest right after an injection. I could occasionally get a few words here and there, along with a blinding headache. It was mostly useless, more of an annoyance than anything.