Smithson turned to the table behind him and lifted a device. It looked like a cross between a nail gun and a scanner. There were injectors all along the side of it. Oz had used one of those when they’d had to prep for the memoriam before. When placed at the base of the skull, it allowed nanites to be injected directly into the shunt of spinal fluid, then onto the brain. Or something like that.
Frankly, the only fucking thing he’d paid attention to in that conversation was the nanites had to be able to access their cerebrum in order to let them interact in the memoriam. The connection of electrical impulses to their natural senses would allow them that freedom once they were inside.
And they’d done a dizzying amount of trial and error. Something Hatch had volunteered for over and over again.
He’d been the first one injected.
They’d repeated the process until, between him and Oz, they’d calibrated the equipment and their own responses.
“You know,” Smithson said idly, reminding Hatch the bastard was in the room. “You are nowhere near as entertaining as you think you are.”
“I’m a bloody riot. Ask my man, Dirk, over there. Stone-faced fucker actually smiles at some of my jokes. That’s like the equivalent of laughing his ass off. Trust me, I’m fucking hilarious.”
He coughed, and blood coated the back of his mouth. His ribs also caught on fire. Fuckers had definitely fractured a couple. He was a right damn mess.
“Sir,” a man said from near the door. “She’s on.”
She.
Hatch flicked a look at Smithson from beneath his lashes, and the man set the device down with a slow smile. “Good. It’s about time she was available for our call. This is what? The fifth attempt?”
“Seventh. She answered this time.”
“Well, well…” Smithson began the process of rolling his sleeves down. “I should go and have a chat with her. In the meanwhile, introduce our guests to the new physician and get them both ready. I want them plugged in before the call is over.”
“Yes, sir.”
Without another look in their direction, he snagged his jacket and headed out.
There was only one ‘her’ they could be referring to. At least to make him look at both of them like that. At the same time, it could all be a ploy. A measure taken to force them into compliance at worst or a trick at best.
Oz and Andreas wouldn’t let Valda contact these bastards. Dirk’s men all had orders. They’d follow them to the letter. His men were loyal without question. They’d defended them for years and asked for next to nothing in return.
Three of the five men in the room left with Smithson.
Two versus two were odds Hatch was willing to risk, but before he could work out a way to free his wrist, the door opened to the hall again.
One of the men returned with a fresh lab coat wearing doctor. Great.
Just what Hatch needed to see. Sudden stillness from Dirk had him cutting his gaze to the side. He couldn’t quite see the fellow, just a flash of his coat, and he considered turning his head. So far, he’d avoided anything more than glib interactions with the doctors and lab workers. Most of them had learned to be afraid of him, because to treat him in any way, they had to get close.
Unlike what they had at the compound, there were no automated assistants here.
“Mr. Smithson wants them prepped and ready for injection before he’s off his call,” one of the guards said.
“So I heard,” came an intensely familiar voice. Dirk’s expression made sense. “However, these conditions are not conducive to injection. They can’t be restrained like that; it triggers adrenaline dumps, which leads to unfriendly conditions for injection to take. Something you clearly have issues with, if the records are any indication.”
Oz walked into view and stared down at him. The distant demeanor and cool eyes offered nothing as he studied him.
“His fingers are broken.”
“He resisted,” the guard answered. “Just do your thing, Doc.”
With a dismissive look at the guard, Oz turned to where Dirk hung. “And his shoulders are likely hyperextended, if not dislocated.” He made a snort of disgust. “Bring him down and cut him loose. We’ll need to move them to medical beds for treatment. They could have—”
“Not happening, Doc,” the guard said. “They’re both lethal. They stay bound where we can control them. Just do your job.”
“I cannot inject them in their current state. Do you understand the definition of insanity, gentlemen? It’s doing the same thing over and over and expecting to get a different result.” Then, as if he couldn’t be bothered, he tossed the digital tablet down on the table nearest Dirk before striding to the doors. “I’m afraid until you do as ordered, your success rate will remain at zero.”
One of the guards cussed and another grumbled, but it was the first who said, “We can’t just free them. They’ll attack and you’ll be dead.”
“Then sedate them,” Oz ordered, and Hatch gritted his teeth.
“Could just knock the bastard out,” said the guard directly behind Hatch.
“And add to the injuries I will need to continue to treat to see him out the other side?” Oz snorted. “Feel free.”
The doc sounded like an arrogant fuck. God in all his wisdom looking down on the peons.
“Make a decision, gentlemen. I have other projects and a hot cup of coffee waiting.”
Fucking wanker. Hatch had his desire to eat under control until he mentioned coffee, and now that was all he wanted.
The hesitation in the room dragged out.
Then something sharp stabbed Hatch in the neck.
Fuck. He jerked his head up to find Oz staring at him steadily, no trace of emotion or recognition in his expression. “I’ll see you on the other side,” he murmured.
And relief flooded Hatch.
He had no idea how the doc was getting them out of this, but what the hell…
Then his senses fell away, and darkness swallowed him.
Chapter 6
“War does not determine who is right—only who is left.” - Bertrand Russell
VALDA
England.
Hatch and Dirk were in England.
They’d been taken halfway around the world, or so Alexander Smithson claimed during the single call I’d accepted from the Blossom Foundry. We’d done it on board the yacht while on open sea away from the island and the Utopia lab. The precaution was one I could agree with, though Andreas was not a fan. Campbell’s ship wasn’t really a yacht, but it was sleek and well-armed. She also cut through the seas neatly, and while the waves offered some sway, it barely dislodged me from where I held my pose on the foredeck.
My muscles protested the position, because I had to maintain vrksasana, tree pose, no matter the ship’s movement as it sliced through the water. The engines had been opened to full throttle, and while there were more than twenty men on board with us, there were even more awaiting us in England.
Campbell had sent a unit ahead to scout and track the actual location. I trusted them to do their job. If he had his way, I would be back in the Utopia bunker. But I refused to stay hidden. I understood the concern. I even appreciated how the man laid out all the ways Smithson and the Blossom Foundry were trying to lure me in. I was the target.