“Yeah,” I said.
He grunted, but the outrage in his voice had died down into something that sounded like reluctant curiosity.
“There were rumors a while ago that Emerson St. John was a ringer,” he said, more to himself than to me.
I raised my eyebrows in question.
“Someone with connections to another government or organization,” he explained. He was pacing again, the file folder tucked under his arm, but in a contemplative manner. He looked more professorial than ever. “It’s the only explanation for how he was able to advance his formula in less than ten years and at half the cost, according to financials submitted to the Committee.”
That, or maybe St. John’s method was just more viable than, I don’t know, growing and raising your own alien/human hybrids in a secret and expensive lab.
“Be on your guard and stay away from the boy. Kill him if he opposes you; otherwise, avoid him. It’s possible that St. John sent him in simply for recruitment or sabotage.” He frowned. “Until we know what his objective is, it’s better to prevent a confrontation.”
I nodded. Not great, but better than being ordered to kill Zane on first sight.
“We’ll be monitoring your positions through the GPS in your phones,” Jacobs warned.
I swallowed a sigh. That would make the Zane encounter more difficult to pull off, though not impossible. “What, no tracking chips?” I muttered.
“And give the Committee the idea that there’s cause to doubt your obedience?” Jacobs asked sharply. “No. A well-trained dog requires no leash, electronic or otherwise. But they will have monitors on you for your vitals.”
Ah, that explained the little black plastic triangle in the envelope. They wanted to know when to cross off names of the dead. Lovely.
“But should you require additional motivation…” He dropped the folder he’d been carrying on the desk, and it landed with a loud slap.
I flinched at the noise, and then felt a flash of my anger returning. Honestly, who was left for him to hold out as a potential punching bag? My father was gone, and Zane might as well be.
I set my jaw and made no move to open the folder. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
But Jacobs, as always, wasn’t particularly keen on what I wanted to give.
He flipped open the folder and held it up in front of my face. Short of closing my eyes, which would have only proved to him that he was on the right track, I had to look.
On the right side, several sheets of paper covered in charts, numbers, and medical information. On the left was a photo, the old-fashioned kind, a Polaroid, with the thick white border at the bottom. I’d seen similar ones in the photo albums Mark had had of his daughter, the original Ariane Tucker, the one for whom I’d been named in the elaborate scheme that had first introduced me into the world outside of GTX. The developing fluid had left strange streaks across the surface of this photo, but the figure in the center was still plainly visible.
The woman was blond and thin, sickly thin if the stick-like arms emerging from her sleeves were any indication. The voluminous dress she wore—dark blue with white polka dots—only made her look smaller, lost within the fabric. Her delicate features—a long, thin nose; high brows and cheekbones—seemed even finer with the strain of weariness obvious on her face, though she was smiling.
That smile…it set off a twinge of recognition, a feeling of familiarity even though I couldn’t place it.
“Do you know her?” Jacobs prompted, watching me carefully.
My mouth was dry, and it took me a second to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth and make it work. I could think of only one woman who’d have relevance in this conversation, not to mention features I might recognize. “No.”
He shook the folder in front of my face, moving it even closer. “Are you sure?” he asked with a hint of ugly eagerness. He was enjoying himself.
The desire to reach up and break his neck swelled in me. A simple solution to a complicated problem. Except it wouldn’t really solve anything.
“She looks familiar,” I said through gritted teeth.
“She should,” he said with satisfaction.
“Who is she?” I asked, hating myself for giving him that advantage but needing the confirmation.
“This? This is the surrogate who carried you. Six months, from implantation to full term. Or, one of your DNA contributors, if you prefer,” he said with a shrug, as if that were irrelevant.