Chapter Eleven Jace
The meeting with Abernathy goes exactly as planned.
He reviews the dossier. Flips through pages of bank records, shell company registrations, handler protocols. His expression doesn't change, but I see the interest sharpen in his eyes when he reaches the section on Moore's offshore accounts.
"This is solid," he says. "Where did you get it?"
"The asset remembered details from his time in Moore's household. I verified through independent channels."
What he told me remains my knowledge only. Abernathy doesn't need to know about Whitmore, about the warehouse, about the nine bones I broke to extract the information. He just needs to see value. I will reveal the rest as I need to.
"The Cyprus accounts alone are worth a full investigation," he continues, setting down the file. "If we can trace the money back to Moore's legitimate holdings, we have the upper hand. Real leverage."
"Enough to justify the asset?"
Abernathy looks at me. Studies me the way I study targets before elimination.
"For now," he says. "I'll keep Webb at bay. But this isn't over, Harrison. You understand that."
"I understand."
"Good." He stands, extends his hand. "Keep the asset functional. Keep producing intelligence. And try not to give Webb any more ammunition."
I shake his hand and leave.
The elevator ride down takes sixty seconds. I use the time to run calculations, assess outcomes, plan next steps. The dossier bought time. How much, I don't know. But time is a resource, and I've learned to use every resource I have.
My phone buzzes as I exit the building.
Unknown number. Encrypted signal.
I answer.
"Hello, Jace."
Webb's voice. Calm. Patient. The same tone he used when he was teaching me how to kill at twelve years old.
"Director."
"I have something of yours."
The words don't register at first. I'm still in operational mode, still running scenarios, still three steps ahead.
Then they hit me.
"What did you say?"
"Your asset. Elliot Rowe." A pause. "He's with me now. Such a fragile thing. I can see why you're attached."
The world goes white.
Not metaphorically. Literally. My vision blanks, my hearing fades, every sense overwhelmed by a surge of something I don't have a name for. It's not fear. Fear is weakness. This is something else. Something primal.
"If you've hurt him—"
"I haven't. Not yet." Webb's voice is pleasant, conversational. "But I will, if you don't cooperate. You know how thorough I can be."
I do know. I've seen his work. I've studied his methods. I've implemented them myself, on targets who were unfortunate enough to require extended persuasion.
The thought of those methods being applied to Elliot makes something inside me crack.
"What do you want?"
"A meeting. In person. One hour." He gives me an address.
Industrial district, east side. The kind of location where screaming goes unheard.
"Come alone. If I detect surveillance, if I sense backup, if you deviate from my instructions in any way, I will activate the collar around his neck and you will listen to him die. "
Collar. He put a collar on Elliot.
My hands are shaking. I stare at them, fascinated by the tremor. I haven't shaken since I was nine years old, since the Foundry conditioned the response out of me.
"One hour," I say.
"Don't be late."
The line goes dead.
I stand on the sidewalk outside the Ministry building, surrounded by people who have no idea what just happened. Civilians. Workers. Lives that mean nothing to me, that have never meant anything to me.
Elliot means something.
I don't know when that happened. I don't know how. But the reality is undeniable: there is a person in the world whose existence I cannot accept losing, and that person is currently in the hands of the man who made me.
I get in my car and drive.
The address leads to an abandoned processing plant on the outskirts of the industrial district.
The building is three stories of crumbling concrete and broken windows. Rust bleeds down the walls in long orange streaks. The parking lot is empty except for two black vehicles with Ministry plates.
I approach on foot. No weapons visible, though I'm carrying six: knife at the hip, backup in my boot, garrote in my collar, two ceramic blades sewn into my jacket lining, and a micro-injector loaded with a paralytic agent strapped to my inner forearm.
Webb will expect all of them. He trained me. He knows my loadout.
What he might not expect is what I'm willing to do with them.
The front entrance is unlocked. I push through into a big space that might have been a factory floor once. Now it's just emptiness and echoes, concrete pillars holding up a ceiling lost in shadow.
Webb stands in the center of the room. Behind him, strapped to a metal table under harsh white lights, is Elliot.
I see the collar first.
Black metal band around his throat, studded with electronics, small lights blinking in sequence. The same model they used on assets in the Foundry when we needed to ensure compliance. Low settings cause pain. Medium settings cause paralysis. High settings stop the heart.
Then I see his face.
Pale. Tear-streaked. Eyes wide with terror and hope when he sees me.
"Jace." His voice is raw, scraped out. "Don't—"
"Quiet." Webb doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't need to. He holds up a small device, thumb resting on a button. "The collar is set to medium. One press and he loses the ability to breathe. Two presses and his heart stops."
I stop walking. Ten meters between me and Webb. Twelve between me and Elliot.
"I'm here," I say. "Let him go."
"Not yet." Webb gestures to a chair positioned in front of the table. "Sit. We're going to have a conversation."
I sit. The metal is cold through my clothes.
Webb circles me slowly, the way he used to circle during training exercises. Looking for weaknesses. Testing responses.
"You were my greatest success," he says.
"And now?"
"Now you're proof that we failed." He stops in front of me, disappointment carved into his gaunt features. "Something went wrong. Some flaw in the conditioning that we didn't catch. And it manifested in the worst possible way: attachment."
"I'm not attached."
"Don't insult my intelligence." He nods toward Elliot.
"You claimed an asset outside protocol. You hid him in your house.
You tortured a civilian for information that would keep him alive.
And now you're sitting in this chair, because I threatened to hurt him.
" He shakes his head. "That's not operational behavior. That's sentiment."
I don't respond. There's nothing to say. He's right.
"The question is what to do about it." Webb pulls a tablet from his coat, taps the screen, shows me what's displayed. "I've prepared a proposal. A way for both of us to get what we want."
The screen shows two photographs.
Briar Harrington. Landon Thompson.
I recognize Briar immediately. House Harrington, Ministry of Design. One of Jagger's colleagues. We've never worked together directly, but I know his reputation: smart, ruthless, loyal to the family.
The other face is unfamiliar. Young, nervous-looking, glasses perched on a thin nose. The file beneath his photo identifies him as an accountant. Former forensic auditor. Currently employed by Briar through the Ministry.
"What is this?"
"A test." Webb sets down the tablet. "And an opportunity."
"Explain."
"Briar Harrington is a liability. His recent.
.. attachment to Mr. Thompson has raised concerns among the Custodians.
Sound familiar?" Webb's smile is thin. "The man who was supposed to be eliminated as part of a routine cleanup operation is now living in Brook’s Alpine retreat. Eating his food. Sharing his bed. He bought himself time with his escape and subsequent bigger issues, but I’m demanding retribution"
I think about Elliot. About the marks I left on his body. About the way he’s starting to trust me. It sounds a hell of a lot like Briar and Landon.
Do I want to erase them to save Elliot?
Without a doubt. I’d destroy my own kin to save him.
"What does this have to do with me?"
"Everything." Webb leans closer. "The Custodians want the problem resolved. Quietly. Permanently. And they want you to do it."
"Kill Briar Harrington."
"And Landon Thompson. Both of them. Make it clean, make it untraceable, and make it look like an accident or an outside attack.
" Webb straightens. "Do this, and I release your asset.
I destroy the evidence of your deviation.
I report to the Custodians that your conditioning is intact and you remain operational. "
"And if I refuse?"
Webb's thumb moves to the button on the collar controller.
"Then I activate this device, and you watch the only thing you've ever cared about die in front of you. After that, I take you back to the Foundry and we start the reconditioning process. By the time we're done, you won't remember his name. You won't remember anything except the mission."
I look at Elliot. He's shaking his head, tears streaming down his face, trying to say something but unable to form words.
I look at Webb. At the calm certainty in his eyes. At the thumb resting on the button.
I look at the photographs on the tablet. Briar Harrington. Landon Thompson. Two people I've never met. Two people whose only crime is finding something in each other outside of The Silents directives.
Two people who are just like me and Elliot.
"Why them?" I ask.
"Because they're the same kind of malfunction you are.
Because eliminating them proves that the conditioning can be corrected.
Because it sends a message to anyone else who might be developing.
.. feelings." Webb picks up the tablet, studies the photos.
"And because you're the best person for the job.
You understand the target. You understand the weakness.
You know exactly how to exploit an attachment. "
He's right. I do know.