Chapter Eighteen Jonah
The farmhouse smells like hay and old wood, with a lingering scent of pig shit.
I've been here four days. Four days of lying in a bed that's surprisingly comfortable, staring at ceiling beams that have character, and letting my body remember how to function without a hole in it.
Jagger hasn't left my side except to piss. And to make contact with Aurelio to try get information on the whereabouts of Kreiss. Apparently Jagger felt the Don might know where he is.
"You're hovering," I tell him for the hundredth time.
"I'm monitoring."
"Awww, are you going to tuck me in and give me a kiss goodnight?"
"It’s daytime, asshole, and that was one time."
I chuckle and he rolls his eyes, sipping his coffee as he pretends to read something on his tablet. But his eyes keep drifting to me, checking my breathing, my color, the steady beep of the portable monitor Elliot rigged up.
I should find it annoying. Instead, I find it unbearably sweet.
"The doctor said I'm healing well," I remind him.
"The doctor said you shouldn't have been moved at all. Besides you haven’t been checked by a doctor in days. Elliot hardly counts as medical authority no matter how many webpages on gunshot care he’s read."
"And yet here I am. Moved. Healing. Not dead." I push myself up against the pillows, wincing at the pull in my side. "Come sit with me. You're making me nervous, lurking over there like a gargoyle."
"Gargoyles don't lurk. They perch."
"Is that really the point you want to argue?"
He sets down the tablet and crosses to the bed. Sits on the edge, careful not to jostle me. His hand finds mine, and there’s tension in his grip. He's been like this since Geneva. Wound tight, ready to snap at any threat.
"I'm okay," I say softly.
"You got shot."
"And I survived. We both did." I squeeze his fingers. "You need to stop replaying it in your head."
"I'm not—"
"You are. I can see it in your face. Every time you look at me, you're seeing me on the ground. Bleeding out." I tug him closer. "I'm here, Jagger. I'm not going anywhere."
He leans down, presses his forehead against mine. We breathe together for a moment, sharing air, sharing space.
"I thought I lost you," he whispers.
"You didn't."
"I thought—"
"You didn't." I kiss his lips before pulling away. "I'm too stubborn to die. You should know that by now."
A commotion from downstairs interrupts whatever he was about to say. Voices. Jinx's, raised in something between excitement and alarm. Then footsteps, rapid on the old wooden stairs.
The door bursts open. Jinx stands in the frame, holding an envelope.
"You need to see this," he says. "Both of you. Now."
"What is it?"
"Courier just arrived. Asked for Jagger by name. Left this and disappeared before anyone could ask questions." He holds up the envelope. It's heavy cream paper, expensive, sealed with red wax. "There's a crest on the seal. Ring a bell?"
He turns it so we can see. The wax bears an impression I don't recognize, but Jagger clearly does. His whole body goes rigid.
"Bonaccorso," he says.
"Give that man a prize." Jinx crosses to the bed, hands over the envelope. "Figured you'd want to open it. Given your history with the man."
Jagger takes the envelope like it might explode. He studies the seal for a moment, then breaks it with his thumb. Inside is a single sheet of paper, folded around something thicker. He unfolds it, reads silently, and his expression shifts through several phases I can't interpret.
"What does it say?" I ask.
He hands me the letter.
The handwriting is elegant, precise, the kind that comes from expensive education and careful practice. I read:
Harrison—
I know you told me to stay out of Kreiss's affairs. I also know you're not actually in a position to give me orders, so I hope you'll forgive my disregard for your advice.
Enclosed you'll find everything Werner Kreiss kept in his private vault. Financial records, correspondence, asset manifests, and most importantly, a complete list of every Custodian who authorized funding for Project Omega. Names, dates, amounts.
Consider this repayment for the warning you delivered so kindly. You told me to back off. I didn't. But I also didn't leave you empty-handed. The information you need is now in your hands, obtained at no cost to you or yours.
Werner Kreiss will not be troubling anyone further. His affairs have been... settled.
Use the documents wisely. Expose those who built this program. Tear down everything they created. I look forward to watching from a comfortable distance.
I’d also look into moving safehouses. You weren’t difficult to find with a little motivation.
We're even.
— A.B.
I look up from the letter. "A.B. Aurelio Bonaccorso."
Jagger’s face is crunched together, but all I see is the thick stack of papers that fell out with the letter. "Is that...?"
Jinx is already spreading them across the bed, sorting through pages with quick, practiced movements. His whistle is low and impressed.
"Holy shit," he breathes. "This is everything. Bank transfers. Shell company registrations. Minutes from Custodian meetings going back fifteen years." He holds up a page. "Look at this. Authorization for Phase Two funding. Signed by three Custodian lines. And someone else. Oh… fuck."
He reads the names aloud.
"Edmund Holloway." Already dead. Jagger killed him.
"Victor Harrington." I recognize that name. One of the old families. Connected to everything.
"And Alfred Webb." Also dead. Very dead.
"That’s weird. We don’t have a Chen holding power, but there’s one listed here. A Margaret Chen." My blood goes cold. Chen. My name.
"Two down," Jinx says. "Two to go."
Jace takes another stack, flipping through them. "Facility locations. Six total. Four active, two decommissioned. Geneva, Singapore, Buenos Aires, Johannesburg. The closed ones are in Ukraine and Thailand."
"Children's numbers?" Elliot asks, his voice tight.
"Manifests here." Jace pulls a page. "Current count across all active facilities is... Jesus. A hundred at least.”
A hundred kids… manufactured and raised as weapons. Living the same childhood that created the man sitting beside me.
"Ages?" Jagger asks.
"Ranges from infant to sixteen. The oldest cohort is scheduled for Foundry transfer in six months."
"Then we have six months to get them out."
Jinx has found another folder, this one thicker than the rest. "Personnel files. Dr. Elena Andros—she's listed as Chief Research Director for the Geneva facility. And look at this." He holds up a photograph. "Staff photo from 2019. Recognize anyone?"
The image shows a group of people in white coats, standing in front of a building I recognize from our research. In the center is a woman with dark hair pulled back from her face. The woman from my memories.
"Andros," I say. "That's her."
"Current status: active. Last known location: Geneva facility." Jinx sets down the photo. "She's still there. Still running the program."
"Not for long," Jagger says quietly.
More documents. More evidence. Wire transfer receipts showing millions flowing from Custodian accounts to facility operating budgets.
Correspondence discussing "subject viability" and "optimization protocols" in language so clinical it takes a moment to realize they're talking about children.
A memo from Victor Harrington himself, approving the expansion of the Buenos Aires facility to accommodate "increased production demands. "
Production. Like they're manufacturing products. Like the children are inventory.
"This is enough," Jace says finally. "This is more than enough. With these documents, we could bring down the entire structure."
"Not could," I say. "Will."
But I'm not listening anymore. I'm staring at the name on the page, trying to process what I'm seeing.
Margaret Chen.
"Jonah?" Jagger's hand is on my arm. "What is it?"
"Chen." My voice sounds far away as a memory from my childhood slams into me. "Margaret Chen. That's... that was my grandmother's name."
The room goes silent.
"Your grandmother?" Jace has appeared in the doorway, Elliot behind him. "Are you sure?"
"My mother's mother. Margaret Chen." I'm shaking now, something cold spreading through my chest. "She died when I was young. Before my mother. I barely remember her. But that name..."
Jagger takes a paper from Jinx, one listing the Custodian lines involved. "Margaret Chen. Custodian seat holder from 1985 to 2019. Deceased. Heir: Deceased. No living viable seat holders.."
"She was a Custodian?" The words don't make sense. Can't make sense. "My grandmother was part of this?"
"It's possible the name is a coincidence—"
"It's not." I know it's not. I can feel it in my bones, in the memories that have been slowly returning. Fragments. Pieces. My mother's face when I asked about when grandma and grandpa were coming to visit again. The way she changed the subject. The fear in her eyes.
"She knew," I whisper. "My mother knew. That's why she never talked about her family. That's why she was so careful about what she told me."
"Jonah—"
"That's why they targeted me." The realization hits like a second bullet.
"I wasn't just a journalist who got too close.
I was a loose end. Margaret Chen's grandson, digging into Project Omega.
They didn't just want to silence me. They wanted to erase any connection between the program and her family. "
Jagger's grip on my arm tightens. "We don't know that for certain."
"Don't we?" I laugh, and it sounds bitter even to my own ears. "My grandmother helped fund the program that manufactured you and when her grandson started asking questions, they erased his mind rather than let him expose the family connection."
"That doesn't mean—"
"It means everything." I pull away from him, ignoring the pain in my side. "It means I wasn't just collateral damage. I was targeted. Specifically. Because of who I am."