Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

How many of the bodies behind me once lay upon that table?

Lyons is inside, as is Allenby and a third man I haven’t met. While the two doctors are dressed in long white coats, the stranger is dressed in black battle-dress uniform, otherwise known as BDUs. His hair is cut close—I run a hand over my prickly head—like mine is now. A gun is holstered on his hip. This man isn’t a security guard. He’s something else.

I look back at the roomful of green glowing bodies.

He’s the collector, I think, part of some kind of abduction unit, taking these people out of the world and bringing them here. But for what purpose?

I suspect the answers lie on the other side of the door. If not physically, then inside Lyons’s brain. After what I’ve seen, I have no doubt I can get him to reveal everything. But first, a little recon.

I grip the doorknob and twist it slowly. It’s unlocked and well-constructed. When the latch disengages, the door opens an inch without sound. Lyons’s voice is no longer muffled. “We’re moving forward.”

“He’s a wild card,” the stranger says. “He’s dangerous. Unpredictable. You should have told me before bringing him here.”

“You know why we need him,” Lyons says, his face turning red.

“And if he doesn’t cooperate?” the man asks. “If he gets violent? Refuses the treatment?” He makes air quotes with his fingers when saying, “treatment.” “How long are you going to let this go, and will you allow me to do what I need to if he becomes a problem?”

Lyons waves the man off and opens a refrigeration unit. “We will all do what we must.” He reaches inside and pulls out a syringe with a rubber stopper over the needle. It’s full of translucent, yellow-tinged liquid. He holds the syringe with both hands, like it’s the most precious thing in the world, like other people hold newborns. The fridge holds at least a dozen more prepped syringes. Whatever it is, it’s important and rare. He places the syringe into a protective foam holder on the countertop. “It’s taken years and a good number of lives to get this far. If we must resort to force, then we will.”

“Stephen,” Allenby says, admonishing. “You know that won’t work. He’s—”

“Someone upon whom subtlety is lost,” Lyons interjects.

Allenby shakes her head. “People could get hurt.”

The military man plants his fists on the countertop and leans toward Lyons. “This isn’t just business, it’s war, and people are already getting hurt. If a second augmentation makes him even crazier”—he looks at Allenby—“we’ll do what’s needed, whatever that might be.”

They’re talking about me.

I’m the one who might get violent.

He’s right about that, I think. Also about being dangerous and unpredictable, as they’ll soon discover.

“Katzman, please . Just stop.” Allenby paces, eyes on the ceiling, head shaking back and forth. Lyons has a cold streak beneath that grandfatherly exterior, but from what I know of Allenby so far, she doesn’t belong in a place like this. What are you doing here? As I watch Allenby, her head lowers, and her eyes track toward me. She freezes when we make eye contact through the glass, but then she just looks annoyed. “You just couldn’t stop yourself, could you?”

Katzman is fast, but he’s also the closest to the door. As he spins around, gun rising into position, I kick the door as hard as I can. The metal door strikes the gun barrel, twisting the weapon out of the man’s grasp. I’m on him in a flash, but this isn’t like knocking out Winters or assaulting the security guards. This man is a skilled fighter, and he blocks my first three blows, all of which would have ended the fight before it began.

The problem for my opponent is that I’m equally skilled—somehow—but nothing is holding me back. When he begins his counterattack, I dodge the first two punches, but when he launches into a spinning kick, I block it—with Allenby. I take her by the shoulders and rotate her into my position. Katzman’s kick connects with Allenby’s head with all the force intended for me. She slams into the door and falls to the linoleum.

When the soldier sees what he’s done, he reels back in shock. “Shit!” He looks at me. “You motherfu—”

My fist on the side of his jaw cuts him off. Even the most seasoned warrior can be slowed by the sudden realization that they’ve just injured a friend. He spills back onto the counter, knocking the syringe to the floor. The foam case fails to do its duty.

Glass shatters.

Liquid spills.

Lyons shouts, “No!”

I pull my fist back to pummel Katzman into submission, but the first blow did its job. He slides across the counter, pulling a computer keyboard and mouse with him, and falls to the floor.

“What are you doing?” Lyons shouts. He should be backing away from me. He’s not a threat, but he’s standing his ground.

I rub my foot through the spilled liquid. “This is important to you?”

“Yes.” The word comes out as a gasp. He’s clutching his chest, falling back. He slides down against the counter, suddenly out of breath.

I recognize the signs of a heart attack but make no move to help the man. Instead, I open the refrigerator and take out the remaining vials, shattering them on the floor.

Lyons fumbles to open a pill case, which I’m assuming contains medication that could save his life. He stops when I lift up the very last syringe. His eyes go wide. Desperate. Revealing its worth. “Don’t.” I lower the syringe, looking at the liquid within. This is my insurance policy.

When I put the syringe in a protective plastic case and slip it in my pocket, he starts digging for his pills again. He’s not going anywhere fast—maybe nowhere ever again if he can’t get his pills—so I leave him there on the floor. I recover Katzman’s gun and head back into the Documentum room, mentally planning for how I’ll retrieve the Shiloh woman and get us both out.

That’s when the alarm sounds.

The Shiloh woman is still out, despite the blaring, high-pitched shriek of the building’s security alarm. She looks frail. I consider leaving her behind, but it would be like abandoning a wounded bird in the clutches of a house cat—death would only come after drawn-out torture. The bruising and fresh scars on the woman’s arms suggest that she’s been tormented long enough already.

But can I keep her safe during my escape? It seems unlikely, but I picture her floating in green liquid, just another face in the death gallery, and know I can’t leave her behind.

I lean over her, tapping her face. “Hey. Wake up.”

No reaction. Whatever they’ve been lacing her IVs with, it’s powerful stuff.

With time running short, I slip the IV needle from her arm, undo her restraints, and pull the blankets away. She’s dressed in a loose hospital johnny. I lean her up. Her head lulls, but I catch it against my chest. “I got you.” Moving carefully, I scoop her up behind her back and under the knees. She’s light. Maybe a hundred pounds.

I head for the door, leading with Katzman’s gun, which is poking out from under the woman’s knees. The hallway is empty. I head for the distant exit sign, passing the Documentum room. There are voices within—shouting. Sounds like Allenby and Lyons. Katzman is either still unconscious or heading my way. I look down at the woman’s face, soft and peaceful. She doesn’t know it, but she’s depending on me to save her.

Just beyond the Documentum room, on the opposite side of the hall, are the elevator doors. Red numbers above the doors scroll higher. Someone is already on the way up, most likely security of some kind.