A familiar figure came through the doors then. Justine, looking much thinner in a dark suit, her dark-red hair sleek and smooth in a knot at her neck. It took me an extra second to recognize her without her “hassled average mom” disguise.
“Justine.” I sank back on my heels in relief at the sight of a familiar and theoretically friendly face. “Where are they taking Ariane?”
She ignored me, listening to the man reporting in to her and surveying the room and the damage.
“Justine!” I bellowed.
And this time, she glanced in my direction, her forehead wrinkling with annoyance, as though I were the neighbor’s puppy left unattended and barking on the porch all night long.
“Where are they taking her?” I demanded.
She stared at me, as if she’d never seen me before. “Taking who?” she asked.
Cold seeped into my skin. She’d set this up. She’d gone to my mom to orchestrate that news story, to push us out of hiding and to make the Committee/DOD run. She probably wasn’t even “here,” officially. And if this wasn’t official, then that would make it even easier for Ariane to disappear. Forever. “You know who!” I shouted.
She returned her attention to the man on her team, as if I didn’t exist.
No. Just no. Not after all of this. “Justine! You have to tell me. You can’t lock her up. You can’t just take her away! She has rights!” Except…did she? Did any of us these days, let alone someone who wasn’t entirely human?
“If I may?” Emerson approached the guys guarding me, who were getting a little twitchy with my shouting. Not that I was going to stop. They wouldn’t, most likely, shoot me just for being loud. The paperwork would be a bitch. “I’m his physician,” he added.
Justine gave a nod, and they let him approach, though they didn’t withdraw. None of them even asked why I would have a doctor here, which should have struck at least one of them as odd.
“Not now.” I glared at him. “They took Ariane!” As if he hadn’t witnessed it himself. But I certainly hadn’t heard him protesting.
“Zane.” Emerson squeezed my shoulder and then handed me a wad of tissue from his pocket. “Wipe your nose, calm down, and listen.”
I hadn’t even realized my nose was bleeding again. Damn it. I snatched the tissues from him and cleaned up my face.
“You’re not going to be able to help her if you’re dead or tucked away in a cell that they’re doing their best to forget exists,” he said quietly.
He smiled placidly at the armed men surrounding us.
“These gentlemen are just doing their job,” he said in a louder voice. Then he muttered, “So just shut up for now and wait for your moment.”
He was, unfortunately, right. And I had to figure he knew what he was talking about, as he was the only one who’d successfully struck a deal with Justine. And he’d survived.
With an effort I gritted my teeth and swallowed my protests, even when Justine, after a final look around the room, walked out, followed by the men guarding me.
Before I could get to my feet, though, EMTs were rushing in to tend to Dr. Jacobs and the injured GTX guard, and there were lots of angry Chicago police officers with them.
Better to stay down, then. I wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.
So, I waited, impatience burning in me, for the right moment, the one that would be mine.
Six hours later—after I was mysteriously released from police custody to my mom—I realized that Emerson St. John’s seemingly sound advice made a rather large and risky assumption: that there would ever be a more advantageous moment.
And there were no such guarantees. Ever.
“ZANE! COME ON, MAN, YOU’RE going to make me late for class!” Quinn pounded on my bedroom door impatiently.
“In a minute,” I said, not bothering to look up from my laptop. I had time for one more e-mail. The best thing was that once you figured out the Homeland Security address formula—[email protected]—you could e-mail any DHS employee whose full name you knew.
Last month, after I got back from my treatment and recovery at Emerson’s lab, I’d started out looking for a reference to Justine, any Justine. When I couldn’t find her, I’d begun e-mailing every valid address I could find at that domain with a condensed version of the story, then asking if the recipient knew anything about Justine or Ariane.
Most of the e-mails went unanswered. Some of them came back with very carefully worded threats. I’d even gotten several “anonymous” phone calls, warning me to stop.
Right. I’d taken those as signs that I was getting closer than they wanted me to be. That, or I was just annoying them. Which was fine. If I had to be the irritating mosquito and risk getting swatted to get their attention, so be it.
It was December now, and I’d last seen Ariane over two months ago. With every day that passed, it felt more and more like I’d never see her again. Life had returned to almost normal, and sometimes it seemed like I’d made her up. I didn’t even have a picture of her.