Before I came to a conclusion, the hotel room door banged open.
The guards jumped, and I moved my hand up automatically in defense against their guns. Never startle edgy people with weapons. That had not been one of my father’s Rules, but, considering it now, it seemed to be a worthy addition.
The guards parted when Jacobs charged toward them, a battered file folder and a large envelope in one hand.
“Wait outside,” he said to them over his shoulder with a dismissive and impatient wave. Which was good, because this space was not meant to hold four large men, one medium-sized scientist, and a smaller-than-average alien/human hybrid. (As if there were enough of us for there to be an average.) It was starting to feel claustrophobic.
“They’re allowing him to continue,” Jacobs spat at me as soon as the door closed behind the guards.
I sat up straighter, finally feeling safe enough to put my feet on the floor. I wasn’t sure whether the “him” Jacobs was referring to was Zane or St. John, but either way, it amounted to the same thing.
“St. John lobbied that his death, and his subsequent recovery and alteration, should qualify him for entry. And they agreed,” he said, his voice trembling with outrage. “It’s a mockery of the entire process.” He paced in front of the dresser, as if making his case before an invisible jury. “Completely unacceptable!”
“Right. Because the purity of the sport is your top priority,” I said, unable to help myself.
Jacobs spun around and glared at me. “You think this is funny?”
I didn’t care for the method or how St. John had chosen to execute it, but it was kind of amusing—in a really dark, depressing way—to see Jacobs being out-Jacobs-ed and how much it rattled him.
“Welcome to the other side of manipulation, Dr. J.” I gave him an icy smile.
“Careful, 107,” he said, flecks of spit flying outward in a spray. “Don’t enjoy this moment too much. You’re valuable to me only as a competitor. You’re lucky they didn’t disqualify you based on your behavior. What was that display?”
I stiffened. He was not going to pin this mess on me. “If you don’t want me to react poorly to the sudden resurrection of loved ones, perhaps you should try to avoid killing them.”
He made a sound of disgust. “Do better, 107. Laughlin’s products are the only ones that made a decent impression today. Between St. John’s ridiculous showboating”—yep, he was definitely jealous of what St. John had accomplished—“and your emotional outburst, we are at a disadvantage.”
He paused long enough to chuck the bulky manila envelope at me. Acting on instinct, I stopped it before it hit my face, forcing it to float down into my hand instead.
It was a testament to the level of his distraction that he didn’t even notice or pause to admire his own work, as he perceived it.
I pulled the envelope open and tilted it so the contents would spill out onto the desk. Five crisp twenty-dollar bills clipped together. A smartphone, fully charged. An unidentifiable triangle of black plastic about the size of my fist, with a removable paper backing. A sheaf of pages, all surveillance photos of a girl. Not much older than me, if the pictures of her wandering what appeared to be a college campus were accurate.
“What is this?” I asked.
His eyes bulged such that I thought one of them might pop out and roll on the floor. “Were you not listening at all to the—”
“Yes,” I snapped. “The target. Follow, confirm identity, await further instructions.” I held up the sheet of photos. “You’re telling me this is the target?” She was distinctly younger, and less…grizzled than I’d expected. In all the training scenarios I’d been given over the years, the targets had been hardened and elusive criminals. Warlords, fellow spies, drug kingpins, dictators, anyone who threatened the safety of the country.
Not a girl who looked like she should be rushing a sorority or protesting the use of Styrofoam in the cafeteria.
Jacobs glared at me. “You waste time questioning the facts while your competitors are no doubt using them to develop a plan of attack.”
Please. Unless this girl was something more than her photos revealed, Ford would eat her for breakfast and still have time to grab a latte. Assuming Ford knew what a latte was.
“You want to obsess over something, how about this? It makes no sense for St. John to allow Zane to compete as his candidate,” I said, lobbing the words out there like a grenade, one I would not be able to escape if it blew up in my face.
Jacobs threw his hands in the air. “Of course it does. You’re distracted, which keeps you from performing at your optimum—”
“And allows Ford to take the lead,” I added.
The good doctor stopped, his mouth open in anticipatory protest. Then he snapped it closed and looked at me with a grudging glimmer of respect.
“The other one, Adam, would give St. John a far better chance,” he said slowly, thinking it through for the first time.