I cocked my head, letting him get the full effect of my stare, which most humans found unnerving. “You could,” I agreed. “But remember, I’m valuable only as a competitor.”
I stood and inched closer to him, watching with gritty pleasure as sweat beaded on his forehead. “It would be unfortunate if something happened to me the night before the big event, right? Or, if word got out that your ‘product’ wasn’t as compliant as you claimed?” I smiled, feeling it stretch my face into something harsh.
“What do you want?” he asked, anger bubbling in his voice, but he couldn’t quite meet my gaze.
“Just for you to remember what you made,” I said, deliberately choosing the word he would use for me, “what” not “who.”
His upper body jerked as if I’d slapped him. “And you’d do well to remember that if I made you, I can destroy you,” he snapped.
Except he couldn’t, not yet. And we both knew it.
I held him for a moment longer, just long enough for him to truly feel the start of panic and for one of those beads of sweat to trickle down the side of his face.
Then I released him. There was no point in pushing him further anyway, not now; I wanted to shake him a little, not scare him into pulling me from the competition.
Jacobs stumbled backward, catching himself on the dresser. He straightened up, squaring his shoulders and tugging his lab coat into place. “Be careful, 107,” he said in that smooth tone that never failed to raise goose bumps on my skin. “You don’t want to test my resolve, I promise you. Push hard enough and my choice might surprise you.”
Then he turned and stalked out. Just a little bit faster, and he might have been running away from me.
My harsh smile returned.
Even better.
THE TRIALS STARTED WITHOUT FANFARE. No horns blaring, no voice shouting over an intercom, “On your marks, get set, go!”
Just a tiny chirp at nine A.M. sharp from a timer app on the Committee-provided cell phone, as the numbers started rolling backward from twenty-four hours, and the growing sense of dread and anxiety in my stomach. Somehow, the subtlety of the start made it feel all the more real and dangerous.
This was it. My last chance to make things right. And somehow, while wishing for it and anxiously awaiting it, the moment had still managed to sneak up on me.
I resisted the urge to pick at the edges of the vitals monitor that Emerson had attached to my chest before I left my room this morning. It felt conspicuous, the black plastic forming a dark leachlike bump beneath the stupid yellow shirt that had been designated as the uniform for Adam and me during this whole mess. It matched the yellow in the Emerson Tech logo, I guess. The phone the Committee had provided, now in the pocket of the khakis—seriously, who picked these clothes? Who goes on a secret mission in freaking lame-ass Dockers?—felt less invasive and obvious. But maybe that was because I was used to carrying a phone, even if it normally wasn’t one being used to track my location. At least as far as I knew.
I shifted my weight from foot to foot and wiped my sweaty palms across the bottom of my shirt. “Come on, Ariane,” I muttered. This particular side corridor of the hotel, which included double glass doors labeled as the west entrance, was empty, for the moment. The restaurant, O’Malley’s, was closed for renovations, according to a sign on a stand blocking the entrance just behind me. But I couldn’t stand here for much longer without risking that someone, whoever was monitoring our locations through the phones, would notice that I wasn’t actually leaving the hotel and trying to find the designated target.
If Ariane didn’t show up now, if she’d somehow mistaken my message or just not received it, I’d have to leave and try to find her out in the city. That would be a nightmare.
Assuming that she’d even want to be found by me.
She might have heard me just fine yesterday but want nothing further to do with me. She could easily still blame me for screwing up her plans with Ford. I bet Ford did. And if Ariane had something in mind for getting out of all this, she might not want to take the risk of involving me again.
That was a mistake I could not make again. If I was given the chance.
I studied the metal push bar on the doors to the sidewalk, focusing on the way it gleamed in the early morning sunlight, how it was probably warm to the touch. Holding those sensory details in my head, I reached out and gave the doors a push, using that newly accessible part of my brain.
They opened, just as if I’d given them a shove with my hands, and a thrill shot through me, as always. I would never get used to this. And I was getting better, the more I practiced.