Mace couldn’t answer. Not because he didn’t remember, but because everything blurred together in a patchwork of misery. Not pain, misery. Because the physical torture, while sufficiently horrifying at the outset of his secret captivity, was the least of it. He’d learned quickly enough that Richter had even more harrowing torments in store for him.
“Couldn’t tell you,” he said finally. “They may have wanted to hurt Knox as much as possible, or they could have been lazy. I never asked.”
“Understandable.” Her fingers danced across the tablet’s surface as she looked down, and the machine beeped softly. “If you decide someday that you’d like to be rid of them, I know someone who is quite deft at scar tissue revision.”
“I imagine you do.” Her skin was flawless—brutally, calculatedly so. “But I’m not scared of a few scars.”
“Everyone has to choose their own way of dealing with the memories.” She pursed her lips and tapped the tablet again. “I can’t detect your implant.”
“I know.” At her questioning look, he shrugged. “Luna suppressed the signals on our implants to guard against broadcast scans.”
“Really?” Both of Ava’s eyebrows shot up. “The software I’m using can find hidden and passive signals. That girl is inordinately clever.” She swiped her fingers over the tablet and it gave a final beep. “Well, I don’t detect any trackers, which is good. No radioactive isotopes, either. If he’s tracking you, he invented a new method.”
“I know that, too. We already checked for everything, including isotope tags. Twice.”
She stared at him for a moment, unblinking. Then her expression blanked. Her movements were precise as she unclipped her scanner, but there was temper in the way she snapped her tablet shut. “If that’s the case, then why did you agree to let me do this?”
“Well, you didn’t exactly ask, did you? You just informed me, and I didn’t argue. Figured I’d just be wasting my time.” He smiled again. “You know, you’re kinda cute when you’re pissed off.”
Ava’s blank stare hardened. “I am not, nor have I ever in my life been, cute.”
“So damn cute.” He braced his hands on the side of the exam table and paused before hopping down. “Can I get dressed now?”
“You know, I still haven’t ruled out stabbing you.”
He’d be tempted to let her. True, he was mostly calling her cute to irritate her, but that didn’t make it untrue.
In fact, Mace was surprised by just how not untrue it was.
“So what’s your story, anyway?” he asked as he dragged his shirt back over his head.
“My story?” She huffed as she slipped her equipment back into her bag. “I thought you had it all figured out. I show up here to be creepy all over my sister’s idyllic life and then leave again.”
“You don’t always, apparently. Leave, I mean.”
“I occasionally do irrational things to make my sister happy. Like sleep on a cot instead of in my penthouse.” She eyed him warily as she rose from the stool. “And not stab dangerous strangers who are lurking on her roof.”
She was as evasive as she was prickly. “Fine, don’t tell me. It’s more fun to make it up, anyway. Like … you trained as a knife-thrower in a traveling circus. That’s why you’re obsessed with stabbing people.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted. “A knife-thrower in a traveling circus couldn’t afford these boots.”
“Hey, it could have been a very posh circus.”
“You’re closer than you think.” She swung the strap of her bag over her head. “Do your best to remain sane, James Mason. Surprisingly, I’d rather not have to kill you.”
He actually almost believed her.
RICHTER
The beating heart of the TechCorps was 1,027 meters of concrete, steel, and glass thrusting high into the clouds to dominate the Atlanta skyline. There were fifty-two elevators, forty-seven doors with access to street- and sublevels, thirty penthouse AirLift pads, and nineteen full-size landing pads, three of which could accommodate the Protectorate’s largest transport helicopters. Twenty-four skyways connected the central headquarters to seven smaller buildings, with a combined 407 points of potential access.
It was Tobias Richter’s job to control each and every one.
The sheer impossibility of such a task might have daunted a lesser man. Richter lacked the capacity to be daunted. In the wake of the Flares, he’d coolly evaluated the various opportunities presented by the ensuing chaos and recognized two realities:
Without federal oversight or local regulation, the ruthlessness of the Board would escalate without limits.
The only way to avoid being their eventual prey was to be their most dangerous predator.
From his office on the hundredth floor of TechCorps Headquarters, Richter held most of the Hill in his grasp. He controlled all elevators and doors of the main building. Through the mandatory RFID chips embedded in every TechCorps employee or subcontractor, Richter could track their locations and grant—or revoke—entry to all those points of access at his whim. His most trusted driver sat ready on his private landing pad, and his personal elevator ensured that his sprawling network of informants could come and go discreetly.
Today, that was an especially good thing. Lucas Taylor hadn’t even bothered to dress appropriately for the Hill. His patched denim jeans and scuffed boots alone would have marked him as an outsider. The leather vest that bared his tattooed arms was positively barbaric. Long hours in the sun had tanned his pale skin and lightened his sandy hair. He slouched in a chair, looking large enough to collapse it, and stared at Richter with barely contained hostility.
That was the problem with deep-cover agents. Without a sufficient leash, you risked losing them as they sank into a comfortable life on the outside. The precarious state of their position could fade. Loyalties could shift.
The fact that Taylor was here at all was an indication that Richter hadn’t lost him completely. Still, a tug on the leash couldn’t hurt. “You’ll be happy to know that your sister is doing very well. So are your nieces. Coralie is quite a bright little thing. She’ll be taking the general aptitude test next year, I hear.”
Taylor’s jaw clenched. The anger intensified, and Richter didn’t mind. You couldn’t threaten a man’s family and not expect hostility in return. The expensive genetic treatment that had saved his sister’s life might have been the initial leverage that pushed Lucas Taylor into Richter’s employ over a decade ago, but fear for his nieces’ safety kept him in line now.
Richter allowed Taylor a moment to regain his self-control, then offered him a polite smile. “So. Whatever you’ve found must be important if you’ve come in person.”
With visible effort, Taylor swallowed his anger. “That BOLO you sent out? For the rogue Protectorate squad?”
A thrill of excitement whispered up Richter’s spine, though he let none of it show on his face. Or in his voice, which he kept deliberately casual. “The Silver Devils?”
“Yeah.” Taylor dipped into his vest pocket and pulled out a data stick, which he tossed onto Richter’s desk. “I found them.”