Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Lyons says. “But not everyone has your special set of skills.”

“Unless a dangerous lack of fear and amnesia have become desirable traits, I’d say he’s better off than me.”

Lyons points a finger at me and winks. “A debate for another time, I’m afraid.” He steps toward the door. “I’m retiring for the evening.”

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Midnight,” he says. “You’ve been asleep for eight hours.”

“And you expect me to sleep now?” I lift my arms. The restraints snap taut. “In these?”

Allenby looks at my hands and gasps. The purple mottled skin caused by my cutting off the circulation looks horrible and has the desired effect. She takes one of the restraints in her hands and looks at Lyons, who nods. She looks at me. “Please don’t try anything. There’s a guard right outside.”

“I saved your life today,” I tell her. “We fought side by side. For now, we’re comrades. You’d rather that not change.”

She nods slowly and loosens the strap, not enough to free me, but enough to ease my phony discomfort. “Can’t argue with that.”

I make a fist as she refastens the buckle. The flexed muscles and swelling caused by the buildup of blood increase the thickness of my arm by a few millimeters, but that should be enough.

She moves to the other side and repeats the process.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she whispers, leaning in close. Her voice seems loud enough that Lyons should be able to hear, but he shows no indication of having heard her warning.

Allenby makes unflinching eye contact while she works the second strap. Is she trying to tell me something beyond, don’t be stupid, or am I being played? They knew I’d go for the sweets. Maybe she knows what I intend to do next? Could I really be that predictable? Up until this moment, I’ve always seen myself as unpredictable. Not even I know what I might do or say, moment to moment.

Finished, she stands back.

“Now sedate him,” Lyons says.

I lift the leather manacles holding me in place. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Do it,” he says. Despite his elderly appearance, he’s not senile enough to underestimate me.

Allenby opens one of the white cupboards and retrieves a preloaded syringe of who knows what. She jabs my shoulder and shoves the plunger down. As my consciousness begins drifting back toward darkness, I watch Allenby and Lyons leave. She gives me an apologetic glance and then switches off the lights.

Lyons speaks before the door closes fully. “I want him prepped in the morning. I don’t see the point in waiting any longer.”

“I’m not sure he’s ready,” Allenby says.

The man sighs. “I’m not interested in giving him a choice.”

The door clicks shut.

Despite the all-encompassing darkness, my return to wakefulness is sudden. There’s no tingling. No pins and needles. Whatever Allenby gave me, it wasn’t the same substance they put in the food.

Other than the distant hum of the building’s air-conditioning, the room is silent. Even the heart monitor has gone mute. Or has it been turned off? I lay still for a moment, gathering my thoughts.

I’m held captive—restrained and sedated—in a secret facility. The doctor, Lyons, intends to perform some kind of test, or surgery, on me in the morning. For all I know, the sun has already risen. Everyone here is lying to me. Playing me. Controlling me. And because of that, I can’t believe a single thing I’m told. Two courses of action emerge. I can escape, plain and simple. Or I can find out who these people are, what Neuro Inc. is after, and possibly get some answers about myself, since it seems I’ve been here before.

The second option is clearly the riskier of the two, but since I don’t worry about risk, it’s also the only acceptable option.

I lift my arms up, fold my thumbs down and pull hard on the restraints. They’re still fairly tight, but there is just enough wiggle room to pull my hands free. It’s an uncomfortable process, but within three minutes of squirming, I’m free.

Cool air raises goose bumps all over my body as I pull the blankets away. As I thought, I’m dressed in boxers. I feel the elastic waist. It’s tight. New. Someone undressed me. My hand goes to my chest next, feeling that the pendant is still there, somehow keeping me grounded.

With my hands outstretched, I step toward where I remember the door being. I find it in five strides. After gently running my fingers over the door’s surface to confirm there is no window, I feel for the light switch. I squint at the bright light but notice a second door just to the left of the bed. Without a thought, I open the door and find a small bathroom. New toilet paper is on the roll, its band of glue still intact. The whole space is so pristine I’d guess it’s never been used. But the strangest aspect of the bathroom is the clothing that’s folded up atop the closed toilet.

An olive-drab T-shirt. Blue jeans. Black ankle socks. Brown sneakers. All brand new. All my size. Even the extrawide 4E shoe size. I take the apparel as a positive sign that Neuro Inc. expects me to live long enough to need clothing.

I break in the toilet and get dressed. After splashing some water on my face and toweling off, I step back into the mock hospital room and freeze.

“Mrs. Winters,” I say to the blond woman who freed me from SafeHaven by giving me a knife, knowing I’d use it. She’s seated on the far side of the small room.

“Ms.” She stands. “Going somewhere?”

“Yes.”

She crosses her arms, drawing my attention lower. She’s dressed in a black power suit that makes her blond hair appear brighter. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

“Coming here wasn’t a good idea.”

“You don’t know that yet,” she says.

“I’ll know, one way or the other, soon enough.”

She smiles. “That confidence of yours… I wish I knew if it was real or just the lack of fear talking. Maybe we could find out?” She doesn’t quite lick her lips, but I see seductive possibilities in her eyes.

I grin, not because the suggested invitation intrigues me—though it does—but because I know she’s trying to distract me from noticing her left hand, folded under her right arm, sliding beneath the jacket of her suit. She’s after something. Pepper spray. A Taser. Maybe even a gun.

“We can do this two ways,” I tell her. “You can draw whatever weapon you’ve got and I can knock you unconscious—”

The hand beneath her jacket stops moving.

“—or you can get in bed, let me sedate you, and you wake up feeling refreshed.”

She’s thinking about it. Not a good sign.

“You’ve read my file,” I tell her. “You know I’m willing and capable.”

“But you don’t know anything about me, do you?” Her expectant eyes irritate me. She’s digging for an answer, maybe even hoping for one, but I have nothing to offer.

She makes her move, kicking suddenly so I have to lean away from the tip of her solid-looking shoe. By the time I’ve righted myself, I hear the telltale crackling of a Taser. She thrusts the bright-blue arc of electricity at my midsection. Fear or not, if she connects, I’m done.

But I react quickly, or rather my body does. Acting on some kind of body memory, using techniques I have no memory of learning, I catch her wrist with my right hand, squeezing a pressure point. A painful, cold sensation is rushing up her arm. She hisses in pain and drops the Taser, but I’m not done.

With my left hand, I squeeze a second pressure point at her elbow joint. It’s like completing a circuit, doubling the pain and eliciting a shout. But her voice is cut off a moment later, when I release her wrist and give her a backhand slap behind her right ear, striking a third pressure point and once again completing the circuit, overloading her neurology. She drops into my arms, unconscious, just as the door swings open.