Oliver and Mark headed to the break room, where Whyte, the BEPs, and Emeryl were gathered around a television, sitting on sofas and folding chairs. Mark grabbed a chair next to Heather as a news anchor shuffled his papers. The tagline read “Rising Terror Group: Children of the New Age.”
“Our top story is the stunning video that has been released by the radical group, Children of the New Age,” the anchor announced. “Until recently, only considered a small anarchist cell, the group recently attacked City Hall in Fairfax, Virginia, and have now released a video claiming responsibility for two more attacks.”
The screen switched to a figure sitting behind a table, his face in shadows, but wearing the group’s symbol on his shirt. His voice was filtered into a warble. “The common people have suffered too long the corruption of their government, whose only interest is securing their own positions of power. These attacks are a warning to those vile, festering sores of this country. You are not safe, and there will be no rest until we have usurped your throne of decadence and broken it in two over your head, as you break the backs of the people you claim to represent.”
The anchor returned. “The video goes on to claim responsibility for a recent attack on a government facility in Michigan and an earlier raid on a federal convoy, which authorities originally believed to be perpetrated by the Overwatch private military corporation. Authorities had been searching for the owner, Roland Whyte, to question him about his organization’s connection to the attack. According to a spokesman for the company, Mr. Whyte has offered to help authorities in any way possible. He apologized for his absence, explaining that he had been personally investigating the matter.”
Another anchor at the desk took over. “Initial reports from the company claim that two facilities operated by their clients, but stocked with Overwatch equipment and weapons bought from the PMC, were raided and many items stolen, including those used in the attacks. The spokesman said that Whyte himself would issue a public statement as soon as Overwatch had the results of their investigation and would cooperate fully with the government in this matter.”
A brief video of the bespectacled spokesman played, as he faced a crowd of photographers and reporters. “We are deeply saddened by this event, and our thoughts and prayers go out to the families of the victims. We will work nonstop with the United States government to bring justice to those involved in these heinous crimes.”
The story ended there, and Valerie spun her head around to Emeryl. “You’re a terrible actor.”
“The script wasn’t great either,” he said. She threw a hand at him and it flicked his ear.
“Wait, what?” Mark asked. “That was you?” Emeryl nodded and Whyte shut off the television. “But the Children of the New Age—”
“Are no more,” Whyte finished for him. “We dumped the last members in the Cave. They are now defunct.”
“A scapegoat,” Heather murmured.
“The perfect problem to alleviate everyone’s worry with the new formula. Which should be ready this week.”
Mark pieced the rest together. A way to cover Overwatch’s involvement. Shift the blame like they had for other terrorist groups in foreign countries. With everyone fearing the Children of the New Age, Whyte could swoop in with his upgraded mercenaries, providing the kind of protection the public would crave. And if the people had his back, there would be little to stop him.
Whyte clapped his hands together. “But there is something else that is ready now.” He looked pointedly at Heather, and Mark sensed her shift in her chair. He couldn’t blame her. He didn’t like Whyte’s too-friendly expression either. “I believe I have an end of a deal to hold up.” He curled his finger to a lab technician at the door, who handed him a long metal pen case.
Inside lay a syringe with an opaque, gray fluid. He thanked the technician and held out the syringe to Heather. She and Mark gawked at it, and the boy believed she had the same severe doubts he had. This couldn’t possibly be what Whyte hinted at.
“Your cure,” Whyte said.
All eyes were on her now and she swallowed, her bulging scarf swelling. “What about Mark?” she asked.
“I said, ‘I’ll think about releasing him.’”
“And?”
He twirled the syringe in his fingers. “I’m reluctant to let him go, but if all goes well with the formula, he’ll be obsolete, won’t he? No sense keeping him around. Kind of redundant.”
She tapped her legs. Mark knew she didn’t trust Whyte and was stalling, seeking a way out. He was, too, although there was no option open. The door was shut and Lionel hovered near it.
“I have your word?” It was a useless question. His word was no better than anyone else’s in the room. More time. They needed an exit. Mark cursed his not bringing the C4 with him. However, Whyte had probably already anticipated every move they would make.
“Yes,” he said, coming closer, the syringe outstretched. “Here.”
Emeryl placed an arm on her shoulder, firmly. Oliver did the same to Mark, and his eyes burned bright with orange flame. Everyone else seemed coiled like a spring, ready to leap up at a moment’s notice. She exchanged a quick look with Mark. That same sympathetic look she had given him at Leonard’s house right before leaving him.
No, he shook his head.
Heather grabbed Emeryl’s arm, twisted it until there was a pop!, and circled around behind him. She lifted the pistol fused to his hand and aimed at Whyte. She fired rapidly, and he dipped and weaved around every bullet, coming closer to her with every shot. Finally, he was on her as the gun clicked.
She opened her mouth wide, the hint of black smoke wafting to her teeth, but Whyte quickly stabbed her bubble throat with the needle, injecting the fluid inside. She gasped and the smoke died at her lips.
“No!” Mark yelled, pushing against Oliver’s hands. Valerie teamed up with Oliver, detaching her arms and legs. The legs twisted around Mark’s own, preventing him from kicking, and the arms locked his behind his back. “No!”
Whyte held the needle in until the last drop, then ripped it out. Heather fell over, releasing Emeryl, and gagged, holding the hole in her throat. “What?” she managed before devolving into short, constant wheezes.
Lifting the syringe, Whyte said, “The only cure for you: your lethal gas in fluid form. Now you know what your victims go through. How does it feel?”
She scratched at his legs and he stepped back. She rose to her feet, the smoke returning, and grabbed his shirt for a full blast to his face. He stabbed her throat again with the syringe, then in another spot and another until he snapped the needle off. She clutched her throat, and a faint wispy smoke, a light gray color, escaped between her fingers. A trail of blood flowed behind it.
“No!” Mark screamed at the top of his lungs. The hands and legs holding him slackened and he dove to Heather’s side, cradling her, never minding the thin gas already dissipating. He held her propped on his knee, checking the stab marks, smearing the crimson stains for a better look. Her neck was rapidly deflating and her eyes dulled and faded.
Her hand fumbled around his shoulder and hair. Shaking and using the last of her strength, she rested her chin on his shoulder and pressed her lips to his ear as if to share some secret. He strained his ears, but all he heard were her dying gasps. She gave up and dropped her arms around his torso, squeezed weakly, and became limp.
Mark braced himself against her lifeless stare. She was gone. Heather was gone. He snorted and buried his face in her chest, staining her shirt with tears. She couldn’t be gone. They were supposed to escape together and leave all this far behind. Now the last bright spot in this miserable place— in his life—floated away like the last of the gray smoke. He was back to square one, surrounded by enemies and without her.
A shadow loomed over him. “Why?” Mark asked without looking behind him.
“I’m not willing to take the chance that her third betrayal would be the charm,” Whyte said. “And why take the chance when I have Lionel? It would make h
er rather redundant.” He turned his head, saying, “You two, get rid of her.”
Valerie and Emeryl tore Heather from his hands. Mark clung to her waist, refusing to let go. It took Oliver’s holding Mark down and Valerie’s prying off his fingers before they could drag the body out of the room. “Any longer with her and you would’ve been in the same boat,” Whyte said. “You still have time to convince me you deserve a second chance. At least before Sullivan and Yonkers are done.”
“And I become redundant?” Mark growled.
He picked up the empty syringe and handed it to the technician on his way out. “Precisely.”