Under the Knife(117)

SEBASTIAN


Sebastian stared at the words scrolling across the phone screen—





SEQUENCE ABORTED


BATTERY DISCHARGE DISABLED


—and relaxed his grip on the phone, not caring why it had taken so long for the message to come through.

Christ. That was close.

“She’s all clear, Doc.”

Wu, laughing like a maniac, seemed to already know that. It was a bit surreal: her kneeling in front of him, caked in mud, soot, and blood, cackling in the firelight. Like she was in some kind of bizarre Satanic ritual or something. He hoped she wasn’t losing it.

She suddenly dropped Cameron’s phone, pressed her hands to her forehead, and stopped laughing, as if she’d forgotten what was so funny.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Shit.” He could see her trembling all over. “Holy shit.”

Yes, he thought. Holy shit indeed.

Fueled by the acetylene explosions and a strong wind, the entire construction site had become a blazing inferno, despite the recent rains. The roar of the fire intermingled with an occasional crash of debris as a floor or wall collapsed. The air was heavy with the smell of smoke. His eyes swept from the fire, to Wu, to the darkness at the southern edge of the park, then back to Wu.

He was itching to get out of here.

But first: one last loop to close. He owed her that, too. Before stuffing his phone in his pocket, he carefully disabled the explosive in Wu’s device—the countdown hadn’t been activated, but he didn’t want it to go off by accident.

“There. And now, Doc, you and I are, I believe, all square.” So you’ll pardon me for getting the hell out of Dodge. “This is where we part ways.”

She was still on her knees, her hands on her forehead, breathing fast. She looked up at him with a hard glint in her eyes. “Those … things. In my head, and my sister’s—what happens to them now? What will they do to us?”

“Nothing. I’ve permanently shut down the bomb in your head.” Her eyes widened. “Yes. Just like your sister’s. As far as the devices go: The particles will slowly dissolve over the next few months. Even the synthetic bits will disperse. Eventually. It’ll be like they were never there. You and your sister are free and clear.”

He turned to go.

“Wait!”

“Yeah?”

“Do you expect me to be … grateful, or something?”

He smiled faintly. “No. I don’t.”

I didn’t do it for you, Doc. I did it for me. And for Alfonso. And for Sammy and Sierra.

And the kid with the AK.

And before she could say anything more, he headed south.

Toward freedom.





RITA


Oh God, she thought, as Sebastian vanished at the edge of the park.

Brain bombs.

Stabbing one of my patients with a scalpel.

Getting operated on awake.

Too much.

Too fucking much.

She took a deep breath.

Situational awareness, lovely Rita.

She got up and went over to Spencer. She glimpsed his ashen face in the firelight. His eyes were closed. His respirations were fast and shallow. She located the radial pulse in his wrist: weak and elevated. Her eyes moved to his injured leg, and she sucked the damp night air.

The wound was far worse than she’d thought: an open fracture, with a segment of jagged, bloodied bone (distal femur, probably) protruding through a rip in his pants leg, like the end of a gigantic candy cane snapped in half. He needed serious medical attention. Right away.

“Spencer. Listen to me. I need to go get help.”

“No!”

He opened his eyes and gripped her arm. His terrified expression seemed out of place and a little absurd—a boy’s frightened face pasted onto a grown man’s body. “Don’t leave me. Don’t ever leave me again.”

“Sweetie.” She kissed his forehead (cold and clammy, he’s going into shock) and held his hand. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just getting some help. I’ll be right back.”

She kissed his hand once and stood up, ignoring his protests and those from her own aching body. She turned the collars of Sebastian’s jacket up against the wind and ran toward the closest building, intending to make her way around the construction zone and to the front of Turner.

It struck her then like a spiked vise closing around every portion of her head at once.

Pain.

Oh, God.

“Dr. Wu,” said Finney in her left ear. “You and I aren’t done.”

She staggered and fell, sprawling out in the mud at the side of the field, near one of the picnic benches, clutching at her head, thrashing and squirming.

THE PAIN.

“No, Dr. Wu,” he whispered into her mind; and the pain, incredibly, grew worse. “You and I aren’t done yet.”





FINNEY


Finney stabbed the cracked screen of his tablet with his finger and sent another pulse of energy into her brain.

Twenty feet away, she splashed about in the mud like a caught fish flopping around on a dock.

He smiled. It hurt, because his lips were cracked and burned. He didn’t care.

He’d underestimated them.