Stacey Kade - The Hunt

“Let me see.” I took the key ring for a closer inspection. The plastic tag advertised U-Store-It. The first key was just a plain silver, but it was clearly too big to be for a house or a building. A smaller gold key hung below it on the ring. “Yeah, I think you’re right.” My father really had prepared for every contingency. Getting out of Wingate undetected would be impossible without a clean vehicle—one unassociated with me or my father.

“So, then, where’s the car?” Zane asked.

That was an excellent question. The parking lot in front of the building was completely empty. I’d checked it before sliding under the Dumpster. And there certainly weren’t any vehicles back here. An anemic patch of forest with massively overgrown weeds ran up to—and now over—the edge of the concrete behind the abandoned building. “I don’t know.” I took a closer look at the key ring. “Possibly in a storage locker.”

But at which facility? There were probably a half dozen in and around Wingate, and at least a couple of them had to be U-Store-Its. At least from what I could recall. Not that I’d ever paid that much attention. Who pays attention to storage lockers?

The trouble was, we didn’t have time to waste checking them out, especially without a car to get us there.

“Maybe there’s something in there?” He nodded at the envelope that I was clutching.

I glanced down at the letter, having almost forgotten it was in my hand. “Maybe.” But I still didn’t want to open it.

He hesitated, then asked, “Do you want me to—”

I shook my head. “No, I’ll do it.” He was right. If there was something in here about the car, we needed to know. With GTX nipping at our heels, getting a vehicle had to be our top priority. Besides, avoiding the letter was foolish, emotional—my human side holding sway over the rest of me. Because the fact was, even if the letter was years old, it might yet contain useful information mixed in among all the eviscerating details I’d learned in the last day.

I handed Zane the keys and then, steeling myself, I slipped my finger beneath the flap on the envelope and tore it open, the ripping noise sounding absurdly loud in the postmidnight air.

“Your dad is kind of a badass. You know that, right?” Zane said, repacking the bag carefully.

I didn’t respond, my attention caught by my name in my father’s painfully familiar handwriting.

Ariane—

I have to assume that, if you’re reading this, our situation has been compromised and I’m either dead or unable to help you. I don’t know how much I had a chance to tell you, and I’m sorry for the abruptness of what you’re about to read.

I was surprised to find tears stinging my eyes. His weariness and regret permeated the page.

First, you are not free. You never were. GTX and Dr. Jacobs have known where you were the entire time. You’ll never know how sorry I am for my role in this deception. Please know that I did it for reasons that seemed honorable at the time.

His daughter. The original Ariane. Jacobs had promised the latest experimental treatment for her cancer in exchange for my father taking on the job of looking after me. She’d died anyway, but Mark had stayed on, hoping the research they were doing with my “amazing” immune system would save other children from the same fate.

I wanted to hate my father for it. He’d loved his daughter more than he’d loved me. But then again, he wasn’t supposed to care about me at all. I was a job. And yet, this bag was full of proof that I was more than that to him. I was caught between gratitude and the bitter pinch of self-pity. It’s hard to know you’ll never be enough just because you’re not someone else.

“You okay?” Zane asked.

“Yeah.” I wiped under my eyes. “I just—” I stopped, my attention caught by a chilling phrase that leapt out from the next paragraph.

Second, there’s a tracking chip embedded on the right side of your T4 vertebrae.

My head whirled, trying to rearrange the squiggles into other words with a different meaning. But the sentence remained.

It’s an older model, with very short range. But don’t take the risk; disable it. According to my research, demagnetizing it should work. You’ll find what you need in the bag.

“Ariane?” Zane sounded alarmed. “What’s wrong? You look—”

“Is there a magnet in there?” I asked in a strangled voice. A tracking chip. It made a sort of sick and horrible sense—if my father had lost control over me during my years of “freedom” and I’d bolted, GTX and Dr. Jacobs would have needed a way to find me and bring me in. I hadn’t even attempted to run, though. I’d believed their ruse.

“A what?” Zane frowned up at me.

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my panic under control. “A magnet, probably a big one.” My father had never mentioned, never even hinted at such a thing, not even during our good-bye, which would have seemed like an opportune time to mention something like GTX spyware in my spine. Had it been active this whole time? Or was it something they could turn on and off at will? Were they on their way here right now?

I felt ill.

Zane rummaged deeper in the bag, beneath the clothes. “This?” He produced a flat metal circle about the size my palm.

I nodded, feeling my neck creak with tension.

“What’s going on?” Zane asked warily.

“I have…there’s a tracking device,” I said.

He dropped the magnet and yanked his hands away from the bag.

“No.” I gave a harsh, humorless laugh. “Not in the bag. In me.”

His eyes widened, but he nodded. “What do we do?”

We. What had I done to deserve him? He should have been home right now, reviewing lacrosse plays and studying for chemistry.

“I can do it myself,” I said, though I wasn’t quite sure how without some significant contortions or lying on the ground, neither of which seemed like a good idea when time was of the essence.

But Zane rallied, standing up with a determined expression and the magnet in hand.

I turned away so he wouldn’t see the deeply pathetic amount of gratitude I was feeling.

“Here.” I shed my father’s jacket and reached up to the back of my neck to point to where the last cervical vertebrae jutted out slightly. “Start here and count down about four. T4 should be between my shoulder blades.”

The air shifted slightly as Zane moved closer, and I shivered.

“How do you know that?” he asked. “About T4. I wouldn’t have the faintest clue.”

I smiled tightly. “Years of studying human anatomy, remember?” He was already getting a front-row seat to my freak show, why not remind him once again that I was created to be a killer?

His fingertip lightly touched my neck at the point I’d showed him and moved down my spine, tripping over the fabric of my tunic.

“Ariane,” he began. “I’m not sure which—”

I understood his hesitation and—well, at this point, was it really a good idea to let modesty stand in my way?—grabbed the back of my shirt and yanked it up past my shoulders, exposing my skin to the night air. That would make counting vertebrae a lot easier.

Zane sucked in a breath.

“What, can you see it?” I twisted around, trying to look, cursing my years of naiveté. I should have known GTX—Jacobs, specifically—would do something like this. If I’d searched myself, maybe I would have seen the chip before. A little bubble under the skin near my spine, like a malignant tumor just waiting to cause chaos later.

“They did this to you.” It was a statement, but I could hear the question in it.

I thought he was talking about the tracker, until his finger touched my shoulder blade, tracing the letters and numbers emblazoned on my skin. The GTX logo and my project designation: GTX-F-107.