“I didn’t even know the target was Carter,” Zane reminded me, his mouth tight. “Not then. Just that it was a guy.”
I let out a slow breath, anxiety crawling over my skin like an itch that I couldn’t scratch. I wanted to be moving, to be doing something. But taking action now, without a plan in place, would be useless at best and reckless at worst.
The situation was spinning out of my control. Which was, of course, an illusion, because it had never been within my control. But at least in the beginning I’d been expecting a direct confrontation, honor in a death I chose, one while fighting rather than one of futility.
That was still an option, I realized with sudden grim clarity and a sinking feeling.
In a logical evaluation of our situation, our objective against available information and options, we were, in the common vernacular, screwed.
We didn’t know where to find Adam, Carter, or Ford. We didn’t even know whom they’d selected as a target for Ford, but it had to be someone who meant something to me.
And no matter how I approached that particular problem—find Adam before he hurt Carter so I could stop Ford before she reached her target, all without running out of time—I couldn’t see a way through.
But there was, as my father had always taught me, more than one way to view a problem. If I couldn’t achieve my objective with the information I had, then maybe it was time to reevaluate my objective.
What could I do?
We did have one piece of solid intel: I had the location of Jacobs, Laughlin, St. John, and the Committee.
I imagined them all lounging in some suite within the hotel, drinking and eating whatever luxuries room service could deliver, with occasional glances toward the computer(s). In reality, based on Dr. Jacobs’s texts, they were likely hunched over laptops, watching the blips of our various tracking devices on-screen, like it was some kind of important sporting match.
That image rekindled the fury in my gut. They were using us, and even worse, using us against each other. It wasn’t even a fair fight.
Maybe it was time someone brought that unfair fight to them.
“Whatever you’re thinking, I don’t like it,” Zane said darkly.
I blinked up at him, startled. “I didn’t think you could hear me that clearly—”
“No, not from your thoughts. It’s on your face,” he said. “What’s going on?”
I sighed. “Zane—”
“No,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “The last time you had that look, you pretended to be Ford and sneaked into Laughlin’s facility, otherwise known as certain death.”
Either he could hear more than he realized, or he was just getting better at figuring me out.
“You’re thinking about going back to the Manderlay, aren’t you?” He stood, swaying before catching himself. “No. Hell no.” He shook his head. “The second they see you start that way, they’ll have someone on you. You have to know they have a contingency plan. Jacobs is already threatening it.” He gestured to the phone in my hand and the messages on it.
“I can ditch the vitals monitor,” I protested. “Make someone wear it and then put the phone in someone else’s bag—”
“And maybe get that person killed if they send someone to shoot you from a distance because you’re not following orders and tracking down your target?” he demanded.
“What else would you have me do?” I asked, trying for calm. One of us had to be.
He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, maybe take time to consider that throwing yourself on this particular bomb isn’t the way to go?” He glared at me. “You’re always so quick to sacrifice yourself.”
“Says the guy who endured multiple doses of an as-yet mostly untested virus that changed his DNA, to enter a competition where he might die,” I shot back. Staying calm was not so easy when I could feel his agitation, and my own frustration was growing. Why couldn’t he just let this go? Accept it as part of the deal, a price that had been agreed upon before I was born, to be paid in the future.
“Yeah, and look how pissed you were with me for that,” he said. “And you want me to just throw my hands up and say ‘Oh, well’ while you walk in to your own execution?”
His expression softened and he reached out and touched my cheek, his thumb brushing over my mouth. “How am I supposed to do that?” he asked in a pleading tone that sounded like he genuinely wanted me to help him find the answer.
I forced a swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. “I know it’s not fair, but I can’t put my personal feelings ahead of—”
He dropped his hand, his face shuttering. “And why the hell not?” he asked. “You’re a person too. Don’t you get to choose what you want? Why does it have to be you?”
“Because there’s no one else!” I shouted, and immediately regretted it when the bubble of low-level noise in the coffee shop shattered into shocked silence and I felt the few other customers staring at us.