19. Cayenne
Chapter 19
Cayenne
The elevator doors slide open onto a floor I’ve never seen before, revealing a laboratory that looks nothing like the medical facilities above.
“Welcome to the real testing area,” Mona says, stepping out. “Where we fix Finn and break father’s legacy.”
The lab stretches before us, pristine and sterile, with equipment I don’t recognize humming along walls lined with digital displays. Mona moves through the space with the easy familiarity of someone who’s claimed territory, sliding between counters and machines with that chaotic grace that’s uniquely hers.
“Blood test?” I prompt, following her deeper into the lab.
“Among other things,” she responds cryptically, her fingers dancing across a keypad to unlock a secondary door. “Specialized procedure. Many variables. Much genetic complexity.”
The door opens with a soft hiss, revealing a smaller chamber filled with what appears to be medical equipment. Mona gestures for me to go inside, something in her expression making my pulse quicken in warning.
“Sit,” she directs, pointing to a chair in the center of the room. “Need to prepare for the extraction process.”
As I move toward the chair, a shadow shifts in the corner of my vision. My skin prickles with awareness before my conscious mind registers the threat. I turn to find a figure stepping out from behind a partition, and my blood freezes in my veins.
Alexander.
The world narrows to a pinpoint, my vision tunneling as adrenaline floods my system. My body reacts before my brain can process, muscles coiling and releasing with speed I didn’t know I possessed. I don’t think. Don’t hesitate. Just react.
My fist connects with his jaw with satisfying force, the impact jarring up my arm like electricity. He staggers back, surprised by the attack, but doesn’t raise his hands to defend himself.
“You son of a bitch,” I hiss, already swinging again.
The second hit lands on his cheekbone, splitting skin. Blood wells, bright against his pale complexion – the smell of it strangely familiar. Still, he makes no move to block or counter.
“Hello, Cayenne,” he says calmly, as if we’re meeting for coffee instead of violence. “I suppose I deserved that.”
“Deserved it?” I laugh, the sound sharp and bitter as I land a third strike to his solar plexus. “You stabbed me. You held me captive for your sick father. You?—”
This time he blocks, catching my fist mid-swing. “I also helped you escape Aurora,” he points out, his grip firm but not painful. “Gave you the clean formula specs. Held Roman back so you could get to Finn.”
“After months of helping him perfect a virus that almost killed Finn!” I snarl, twisting to break his hold and sweeping his legs in a move Jinx taught me. The connection to Jinx flashes through my mind, my body unconsciously adopting his fighting style.
Alexander’s training shows as he counters, using my momentum to throw me against a nearby table. Equipment crashes to the floor as I roll and come up in fighting stance.
“Left guard drops when you pivot,” he notes, circling cautiously. “Jinx should have corrected that.”
The casual mention of Jinx sends fresh rage coursing through me. “You’ve been working with him, haven’t you? All this time?”
“Not all of it,” Alexander admits, blocking my next attack with practiced efficiency. “He’s been coordinating with me since our first encounter at the Sterling research facility.”
“And neither of you thought to mention it?” I drive forward, landing a solid kick to his ribs that makes him grunt in pain. The first genuine reaction I’ve pulled from him sends a shock of satisfaction through me.
“Intel gathering necessary,” Mona comments from somewhere to my left. The distinct sound of a candy wrapper crinkling punctuates her words. “Infiltration required compartmentalization. Also, strike two inches higher for optimal intercostal impact.”
“Not helping, Mona,” Alexander says, catching my next punch and using the momentum to spin me away from him.
“Wasn’t intended to help you,” she replies cheerfully. “Anatomical advice statistically favors smaller combatant. Basic physics. Also, you deserve punching. Many reasons. Very justified sibling rage.”
I launch a combination that almost breaks through his defense, months of training with the others showing in the fluidity of my movements. He’s good—Sterling-trained good—but I’ve learned tricks from Jinx that no military protocol could anticipate. My awareness has sharpened, tracking Alexander’s micro-expressions and the subtle shifts in his stance that telegraph his next move.
“Throat strike inefficient against current defensive posture,” Mona calls out, now perched cross-legged on a counter eating gummy bears. “Recommend targeting previously injured left knee. Approximately sixty-seven percent chance of structural weakness.”
“Will you stop giving her combat advice?” Alexander snaps, barely avoiding my next attack.
Mona tosses a gummy bear that he instinctively catches in his mouth, the automatic response momentarily distracting him. I use the opening to land a solid hit to his side that makes him stagger back a step.
“Apparently not,” he mutters, wincing.
“Family obligation,” Mona shrugs, popping another gummy bear into her own mouth. “Sisters before misters. Very traditional value system. Also, you stabbed her. Much justified retaliation.”
The absurdity of the situation finally hits me—I’m fighting my brother while our sister provides combat commentary and snacks. A laugh bubbles up despite my anger, unexpected but genuine.
Alexander pauses, watching me warily. “Something amusing?”
“This,” I gesture between the three of us, still maintaining fighting distance. “What the hell kind of twisted family reunion is this?”
“Unconventional,” Mona agrees, nodding sagely. “But statistically appropriate given shared genetic tendencies toward violence and poor communication skills. Sterling family traits. Very consistent manifestation.”
Alexander straightens slightly, maintaining defensive posture but no longer actively engaging. “I didn’t come here to fight.”
“Then why are you here?” I demand, not dropping my guard. My pulse still drums with adrenaline, body poised for the next exchange. “What could possibly be worth showing your face after everything that’s happened?”
Something shifts in his expression—a crack in the perfect Sterling control. “Your friend,” he says simply. “Finn.”
The name hits like a physical blow, diverting my anger into immediate concern. I feel a tug in my chest, reminding me of Finn lying unconscious upstairs. “What about him?”
“He needs Sterling DNA to stabilize,” Alexander explains, maintaining careful distance between us. “DNA that hasn’t been compromised by the virus.”
I look to Mona for confirmation, searching her chaotic energy for truth.
“Accurate assessment,” she nods, suddenly all business despite the rainbow gummy bear stuck to her lab coat. “Sterling genetic material necessary for formula stabilization. Specific protein sequences required. Cayenne’s DNA compromised by viral exposure. My DNA modified through lifelong counter-agent exposure. Alexander’s DNA optimal source material.”
“And you just volunteered out of the goodness of your heart?” I ask Alexander, suspicion dripping from every word. I’m still tense, unwilling to fully believe a Sterling act of altruism.
His eyes—too much like my own—meet mine steadily. “I owed you,” he says simply. “After what happened at Aurora.”
“You owed me a lot more than blood after Aurora,” I counter, though the edge in my voice has dulled slightly.
“I know.” Something flickers across his face—regret, maybe, or something deeper. “That’s why I killed him.”
The words land like a system crash, every process freezing. “What?”
“Roman,” he clarifies, though we all know exactly who he means. “He didn’t die in the collapse. He was injured but alive when I found him.”
I search his face for lies but find only grim certainty. “You killed our father?”
“Yes.” No hesitation, no qualification. Just cold truth.
“Suffocation,” Mona notes clinically, studying Alexander with unsettling precision. “Manual asphyxiation, judging by specific tension patterns in trapezius muscles when topic mentioned. Very personal method. Much psychological significance.”
Alexander’s jaw tightens. “Your deductive reasoning is as disturbing as ever, Mona.”
“Thank you,” she beams, completely missing or ignoring the criticism. “Also, elevated stress indicators evident in facial expressions. Experiencing post-traumatic stress response. Very normal reaction. Much psychological validity.”
“Could you not analyze my psychological state while eating candy?” Alexander asks.
“Multitasking efficient,” she shrugs, tossing another gummy bear that he once again catches in his mouth with automatic precision. “Also, sugar consumption enhances cognitive function. Very scientific approach.”
I can’t help the startled laugh that escapes me—shocking all three of us with its unexpected arrival. The sound breaks the tension, dissolving some of the hostility between us. “God, you two are definitely related.”
“Genetic confirmation unnecessary,” Mona agrees, nodding solemnly. “Behavioral patterns consistent despite divergent socialization. Very interesting family dynamics. Much psychological research potential.”
“We’re getting off topic,” Alexander redirects, his composure recovered. “I’ve come to provide blood samples for Finn’s treatment. In exchange for my cooperation here—and with the international authorities—I’ve received certain... considerations.”
“Such as not being in prison for helping develop a genocidal virus?” I can’t keep the bitterness from my voice.
“Among other things,” he acknowledges without defensiveness. “I’ve provided extensive documentation on Sterling operations worldwide. Information that will prevent further deployment of the virus or similar designation manipulation technologies.”
“How convenient for you.”
Something flashes in his eyes—frustration, perhaps. “There’s nothing convenient about any of this, Cayenne. My future remains undetermined. Witness protection seems likely, though the specifics are still being negotiated.”
“Blood extraction required immediately,” Mona interrupts, suddenly all business. Her movements become more focused, fingers tapping against equipment with rapid precision. “Optimal window for treatment closing. Need three vials minimum. Much scientific urgency.”
“Wait.” I hold up a hand, needing to understand more before we proceed. I’ve relaxed marginally from fighting stance, though wariness remains. “Why kill him? Why turn against Roman after everything you did to help him?”
Alexander is silent for a moment, weighing his answer. When he speaks, his voice lacks its usual clinical detachment.
“Because he was never going to stop,” he says quietly. “Aurora was just the beginning. He had facilities we haven’t even identified yet. Research programs that would make what you’ve seen look humane by comparison.”
“And you just suddenly grew a conscience?” The skepticism in my voice cuts like glass.
“No.” His honesty is unexpected. “I recognized that his vision had become fundamentally corrupted. What began as legitimate research into genetic enhancement devolved into obsession with control.”
“You mean he went crazy and you got scared.”
“I mean he was willing to sacrifice anything—and anyone—to achieve his vision of perfection.” His gaze holds mine, unflinching. “Including his children.”
The truth of it sits heavy between us, undeniable despite our complicated relationship to it. Roman Sterling saw his children as experiments first, people second—if at all. The realization creates an unexpected current of empathy between us.
“Blood extraction window narrowing,” Mona reminds us, tapping her watch impatiently. “Emotional resolution can continue during procedure. Veins still accessible during significant psychological processing.”
Alexander extends his arm toward her with resigned familiarity. “Take what you need.”
I watch as Mona prepares the extraction equipment, her movements quick and precise despite her chaotic energy. There’s something almost gentle in how she handles Alexander, suggesting a history I know nothing about.
“How long have you two been in contact?” I ask, suspicion rising again.
“Seven years, four months, three days,” Mona answers immediately. “Intermittent communication. Mostly antagonistic. Occasionally productive.”
“You never thought to mention you two were on speaking terms? You made me believe you two hated each other.” I direct this to Alexander as Mona slides the needle into his vein.
“I believed you were better off not knowing,” he replies, watching his blood fill the vial with detached interest. “It simply wasn’t safe.”
“That wasn’t your decision to make.”
“Perhaps not,” he concedes. “But it seemed the most logical course at the time.”
“Does it haunt you?” I ask suddenly. “Killing him.”
He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes.” A single syllable, heavy with meaning. “Not from remorse, but from recognition.”
“Of what?”
“That despite everything, he was still our father.” His gaze meets mine, something almost vulnerable in its depths. “And that makes me question what parts of him live on in us.”
The question hits closer to home than I want to admit. It’s the same fear that keeps me awake some nights—that Roman’s DNA isn’t just in my cells but somehow embedded in who I am at a fundamental level.
“I’ve been thinking about that too,” I admit, the confession easier in this strange space with siblings who share the same burden. “Whether being a Sterling means being destined to become like him.”
“Genetic determinism fallacy,” Mona interjects, carefully filling the second vial. “Environmental factors and personal choice are statistically more significant than genetic predisposition in personality development. Much scientific evidence.”
“She’s right,” Alexander says, watching the procedure with clinical detachment. “Roman believed designation was destiny, genetics was fate. His entire worldview was built on that premise.”
“And yet he spent his life trying to change designation,” I point out.
“The irony wasn’t lost on him,” Alexander confirms. “He viewed it as correcting nature’s mistakes rather than contradicting his own ideology.”
“Like us,” I say quietly. “We were his mistakes.”
“Some more than others,” Alexander’s gaze shifts to Mona, who’s labeling his blood samples with meticulous care. “Though some disappointments were more useful than others.”
“Utility subjective concept,” Mona responds without looking up. “Scientific contribution is objectively measurable. My research cited four hundred and seventeen times. Yours?”
“Government classified,” he counters smoothly.
“Military applications are overrated. Pure research superior. Much scientific integrity.”
“Your scientific integrity nearly got you killed on three separate occasions,” Alexander points out.
“Worth it,” she declares, capping the third vial. “Also, you tried to kill me twice. Very inefficient attempts. Much room for improvement.”
“I never tried to kill you,” he corrects with what appears to be genuine offense.
“Budapest. Prague. Accidental survival both times. Very embarrassing execution failures.”
“Those were extraction operations, not elimination protocols,” he insists, pressing a cotton ball to his arm with more force than necessary. “If I had wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t be here to critique my methods.”
“Debatable. Your tactical approach lacks creativity. Very predictable patterns.”
“Says the woman who has used the same backdoor access codes for seven years.”
“Intentional. Tracking your monitoring attempts. Much data collection.”
Their bickering continues with the rhythm of a debate they’ve had many times before, layers of history I can’t begin to untangle. For the first time, I see them not as Sterling’s children or as potential threats, but as siblings with their own complicated dynamic that predates my entry into their lives.
“Blood processing complete,” Mona announces, holding up the vials with scientific triumph. “Formula stabilization protocol ready for implementation. Need to return to the medical suite immediately. Optimal efficacy window closing.”
“Will it work?” I ask, the question directed at both of them. I feel a tug toward my pack waiting upstairs.
“Probability high,” Mona answers. “Sterling genetic markers specifically designed to interact with formula components. Alexander’s uncontaminated DNA provides an optimal stabilization template.”
“It should work,” Alexander confirms. “Though there may be... side effects.”
“What kind of side effects?” Alarm spikes through me.
“Unknown,” Mona admits with disconcerting cheerfulness. “Formula interaction with Sterling DNA is highly individualized. Your development of enhanced sensitivity unique adaptation pattern. Finn might experience different modifications.”
“You didn’t think to mention this before?”
“Irrelevant to immediate survival concerns,” she shrugs. “Also, side effects are likely beneficial given previous interaction patterns. Finn already met Alexander at Sierra facility. Biological compatibility previously established.”
I remember then—Finn encountering Alexander during our infiltration weeks ago, the brief interaction that seemed insignificant at the time but might now be saving his life.
“I should go,” Alexander says, already angling toward the door. His posture shifts subtly, creating distance while maintaining dignity.
“Thank you,” I force out before he can move. The words feel foreign on my tongue. “For helping Finn. And for...” I struggle to name it, “...for stopping Roman.”
He inclines his head slightly, accepting the gratitude without comment.
“What will you do now?” I ask, unexpected curiosity slipping through my defenses.
“That depends on the authorities.” His expression reveals nothing, perfect Sterling control reasserting itself. “Witness protection seems most probable. New identity. Relocation.”
“Will you disappear completely?” The question carries more weight than I intended.
His gaze meets mine, searching. “Would it matter if I did?”
The honest answer surprises even me. “Yes. It would matter.”
Something shifts in his expression—the barest softening around eyes that mirror my own. “Then perhaps not completely.”
It’s not forgiveness. Not reconciliation. But it’s something—a door left deliberately ajar rather than locked and barred.
“We should go help Finn,” I say, the urgency of the situation reasserting itself. I feel the pull toward my pack upstairs growing stronger.
Alexander nods. “Tell him... tell him I hope it works.”
“I will.” I hesitate at the threshold, caught between worlds. “Alexander?”
He looks up, waiting.
“Be careful out there.”
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly—not quite a smile, but the closest I’ve seen from him. “You too, Cayenne.”
As Mona and I leave him standing among her scientific equipment, I realize I’m no longer sure how to feel about my brother—not friend but no longer entirely enemy, caught in the complicated gray area that seems to define everything about being a Sterling.
What matters now isn’t Alexander or Roman or the tangled web of Sterling legacy.
What matters is Finn, waiting upstairs, and the blood that might save him—the same blood that flows through my veins, transformed from curse to potential cure.
The elevator carries us back toward my pack, and I take a deep breath, preparing to explain the unexpected reunion that just unfolded. I’m already leaning toward the floor where they wait.
“You set that up,” I say to Mona as the floors tick by. It’s not a question.
“Obviously,” she confirms without a hint of remorse, already unwrapping another lollipop. “Family confrontation statistically inevitable. Controlled environment optimal for emotional resolution. Much psychological benefit.”
“You could have warned me.”
“Warning reduces authenticity of emotional response. Compromises data integrity. Very inefficient approach.”
I can’t help but laugh, the sound startling us both. “You are absolutely terrifying, you know that?”
She beams, taking it as the highest compliment. “Thank you. Significant effort invested in cultivating optimal scientific intimidation factors.”
The elevator doors open, and I step out with my sister beside me, carrying Alexander’s blood—our shared legacy transformed into something healing rather than harmful.
My pack is waiting. I can feel them before I see them, their presence washing over me, pulling me home.