Whisper (Whisper #1)(11)
Regardless of the reasons, I’m never going to object to the physically demanding sessions. Not when they make me feel so much better than anything else at Lengard.
As we circle the room, striking out with dummy shots to test each other’s defenses, I catch the look in Enzo’s eyes. He’s enjoying this. Enjoying having Ward as a witness. I don’t know why. I don’t care why. All I know is that I have a point to make. I want Ward to know I’m not some delicate wallflower wearing form-fitting clothes. I’m more than that. More than he could ever imagine.
Aware of my own limitations, I’m surprised Enzo keeps allowing me to make contact. An uppercut here, a leg swipe there, a few well-timed punches in between. True, he lands his own hits as we continue circling, but I know — I know — I’m not as good as he’s letting me appear to be. A glance at Ward reveals his open wonder. But I don’t want to impress him simply because Enzo is holding back.
We’re a few minutes into our match, when I’ve had enough messing around.
Ducking under Enzo’s next strike, I throw a left-right-left combination into the belt of his stomach, directly underneath his rib cage. His tense abdominal muscles protect his internal organs, but there’s still enough power behind my blows for his body to contract in response. I don’t give him time to hit back at me. Instead, I use my swinging momentum to propel my right fist upward and clip him across the jaw — hard. Normally, we have an unspoken rule to avoid aiming above the neck, but right now I want this half-assed match to be over. I’m not above taking cheap shots, and if the approving smile I see on Enzo’s lips is any indication, he doesn’t seem to care.
Knowing for certain now that he’s not even trying, I decide to finish it. I lunge in close, hook my leg around the back of his knee and yank it out from under him, shoving his chest with my hands. I don’t bother jumping on him as he topples to the ground. It’s clear our match is over.
Enzo has the nerve to grin as he hauls himself back up to his feet. Slinging an arm around my shoulders in an uncharacteristic display of affection, he guides me over to where Ward is standing.
“How exactly do you think you can kick my ass if you’ve just had your own handed to you by GI Jane?” Ward asks Enzo, amusement lighting his eyes.
“Consider me a regular Mr. Miyagi,” Enzo responds. “I’ve taught this young grasshopper everything she knows. And hey, if GI JD can take me down, imagine what she can do to you, Lando.”
All right, enough’s enough.
I shove Enzo’s arm off and stalk away from them both, toward the treadmill. No one won this round — not me, not Enzo, not Ward. All I can hope is that I’ve made some kind of point: I can defend myself. I do have some dignity.
I run flat out for five miles before I gather the courage to slow down and glance around the room. Ward is nowhere in sight.
I step off the treadmill and approach Enzo.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, amusement threading his tone. “I didn’t plan that match. But you can thank me later.”
Thanking him is the last thing I want to do, and he knows it.
Annoyed, I blow out a breath and shake off my irritation. What I need is a proper workout to release my frustration. Fortunately, that’s exactly what Enzo has planned, and by the time my session is finished, I’m a panting, sweaty mess, buzzing with endorphins.
Too bad that only lasts for my shower and lunch break, because the moment I step into Vanik’s lab, I feel the usual crushing weight of gloom settle upon me.
“Sit down, Six-Eight-Four,” he says when my escorts depart. “We have much to cover today.”
I move woodenly toward the reclining vinyl chair. Dread wells up inside me when I lean back into the stiff material, but my face remains perfectly blank. I realized early on that Vanik gets a sick sense of enjoyment from seeing me squirm; I no longer give him the satisfaction.
He tugs my hair back and tapes monitoring wires to my skin, starting at my head and working his way down the rest of my body. As he does so, I consider the incongruity of his appearance. His white lab coat and polished shoes are immaculate, the picture of perfect hygiene and personal care. The same can’t be said for the rest of him. His face is covered with a perpetual sheen of oil, his sunken eyes have dark shadows underneath them and his hollow cheeks make him look more skeleton than human. But it’s his hair that repulses me the most, greasy as it is and permanently parted in an unflattering line down the middle of his flaky scalp. For someone who’s supposed to be a genius, I fail to understand why he can’t remember to buy some shampoo.
“We’re trying something different today, Six-Eight-Four,” Vanik tells me when he finishes hooking me up to the various machines positioned around the room. They used to scare me when I didn’t know what their purposes were. I’ve long since realized my fears were justified.
“It’s come to my attention that you may not be with us much longer, so I’ve decided to move up my schedule.”
Vanik doesn’t look pleased by the altered timeline.
“Over our last few sessions, I’ve been pushing the boundaries of what I believe to be acceptable risks, but today we’ll be going even further. I need you to remain as still as possible. We don’t want to cause any … irreversible damage. But don’t worry, Six-Eight-Four. It’ll all be over soon.”