Forged(21)

“It would be ironic if your goal was this establishment,” he says, “seeing as you’ll never leave it.”

I keep my face as blank as possible.

“I will get answers from you,” he snarls, “and it won’t be pretty. Are you sure you don’t want to speak up while you’re still in possession of all your limbs?”

Is this what I sound like when I speak? Harsh? Emotionless? Threats bound to every syllable? I stare up at him, attempting to appear indifferent. I can’t let him see that I’m terrified or he’s as good as won.

“Fine. Just remember that you picked this.”

He winds up and kicks me in the stomach. I’m still coughing when he leaves.


Someone reblindfolds me so that I can be moved. We ascend two levels, but I can’t keep track of all the turns before or after the stairs. Now, with my legs and arms strapped to the corresponding parts of a chair, the blindfold is torn off.

The room is excruciatingly bright, but windowless. One wall is made of mirrored glass, and overhead lights glare, bouncing off it and the honeycombed floor tiles. I blink a few times, adjusting to the brightness. Behind me, I can hear someone shuffling through cabinets, and when I glance at the mirrored wall, I see the back of a white lab coat, its wearer hunched over to study something on the counter. A tray of menacing-looking tools waiting beside my chair catches my attention next. The restraints holding me in place seem suddenly tighter.

Directly in front of me, my Forged counterpart sits with one foot resting against his opposite thigh. A notebook is propped against his bent leg.

“Let’s try this again,” he says. “I want the details of whatever mission you were about to attempt with Badger, and I want the names of everyone involved.”

I say two words to him, one of which is a swear.

“Now really, Gray. There’s no need to be so hostile. Here, I’ll even compromise with you and table that question for now. Fair? Let’s start with something smaller: the location of the press that keeps printing papers with our face on the covers.”

For once, I’m happy Adam kept so much information from me. I can’t answer this question even if I wanted to.

“Nothing?” the Forgery continues. “How about one measly name? An Expat or insurgent AmEast citizen. Anyone you want. High ranking or low. You give me the name, and I’ll jot it down.”

He is so smug, so relaxed. I can tell he’s not going to drop the interrogation. Interrogation. I’m in an interrogation room. The tray of tools at my side becomes much more ominous.

Delay him, I think. Just keep him talking.

“You’re not actually in charge of this place, are you?”

“Of course not. We just thought I might intimidate you most.” He writes something down in his notebook, only to glance up at me in a manner that makes his eyes look like slits beneath his brow. “It’s working, right?”

I grunt, worried that if I speak the truth will be evident in my voice.

“I’m waiting,” he says.

“Well, keep waiting! I’m not telling you crap.”

He waves a hand to whoever is behind me. “Gray’s going to need a little convincing.”

I hear footsteps, the snap of gloves being put on. The bindings on my limbs feel like they are tightening. My fight-or-flight instincts are screaming and yet I can’t even lift my wrist off the armrest.

The white lab coat appears. Sits on a stool on wheels. Slides in front of me. And time slows.

I know this man.

His glasses are different—wired rims instead of thick black frames—but his eyes are the same: dark, a bit vacant, chilling. It’s him, from his brittle-looking build to his slouched shoulders to his gaunt, hollowed cheeks.

“Harvey?” I say, and there is not an ounce of recognition on his face when he looks into my eyes.





TEN


“GO ON, MALDOON,” FORGED ME urges. “Remind him why he should cooperate.”

Harvey’s fingers trail lazily over the tools and the only thought I can form is that this man should be dead. I saw proof of it, a visual projected above Taem the evening I fled back to the Rebels with Bo, Bree, and a Forged version of Emma. Harvey had been strung up like a scarecrow in Taem’s public square, the Franconian emblem painted on his chest. His eyes had even been gouged out.

But the man before me has eyes. They are blinking, surveying his options on the medical tray. Maybe I saw it wrong. Or maybe that visual was a fake.

Has Harvey been alive all this time, stuck working for Frank—a man he hates—because we deserted him?

Harvey selects a scalpel, then switches to a pair of pliers. He pivots toward me, the tool held out.

“Last chance, Gray,” Forged Me says from his chair. “A name. Any name.”

“Harvey?” He lowers the pliers toward my left hand, my pointer finger, the nail itself. My pulse jumps frantically. I start writhing in my seat. “Harvey, you know me, dammit! It’s Gray! We worked with Ryder and the Rebels. We’re friends. I’m sorry we left you, but we’re—” The mouth of the pliers closes down on my nail. “Harvey!”

He looks directly at me, and I realize he doesn’t care. There is no compassion on his face, no sympathy, no trace of the scientist I once knew. This is a man fueled by revenge.