Chapter Eleven Jace #2
I know because I have the same weakness now. The same vulnerability. The same point of failure that makes me sitting in this chair instead of fighting my way out.
"There's also a certain poetry to it," Webb continues.
"A broken Reaper sent to eliminate a broken Custodian.
Both of you corrupted by the same disease.
Both of you proof that even our best work can fail.
" He sets down the tablet. "When you kill Briar Harrington, you'll be killing the version of yourself that exists in him.
The part that wanted something it wasn't supposed to want. "
"And if he kills me instead?"
"Then I'll find another Reaper. And your asset will still die." Webb shrugs. "The outcome is the same either way. The only variable is whether you survive it."
I think about the photographs. Briar's face, sharp and controlled, the kind of face that gives nothing away. Landon's face, softer, more open, the kind of face that probably trusted too easily and paid for it.
I think about what it would take to kill them. The planning. The approach. The moment when the blade finds flesh or the bullet finds bone. I've done it two hundred and seventeen times. I could do it again.
But something has changed.
Before Elliot, killing was arithmetic. Input, output, result. There was no weight to it, no cost, no residue that stayed after the job was done.
Now there's weight. Now there's cost. Now I understand what it means to look at someone and see something worth protecting instead of something worth eliminating.
Briar Harrington looks at Landon Thompson the way I look at Elliot.
And Webb wants me to destroy that.
I will. Without a doubt. But I won’t lie and say it won’t affect me in a way that none of my other erasures have.
This isn’t business. It’s personal and Webb knows that. He’s intentionally breaking my conditioning to rebuild it.
"You're quiet," Webb observes. "That's unlike you."
"I'm calculating."
"Calculate faster. Your asset is getting cold."
I look at Elliot again. His eyes are locked on mine, huge and wet, pleading without words. The collar sits heavy on his throat, right over the mark I left last night. My mark, covered by Webb's metal.
Something in my chest ignites.
Not anger. Anger is too simple, too clean. This is something else. Something that burns cold and patient and absolute.
I am going to kill Alfred Webb.
Not today. Not with Elliot's life on a button. But soon. I am going to take him apart the way he taught me to take apart targets, piece by piece, bone by bone, until there's nothing left but meat and screaming.
And then I'm going to burn what's left.
"Seventy-two hours," I say. My voice comes out flat. Controlled. The voice of a weapon.
Webb smiles. He thinks he's won.
He hasn't.
"I knew you'd see reason," he says. "You were always my best student."
"I want proof of life. Every twelve hours. Video confirmation that he's unharmed. He is to eat, drink water and have livable conditions in my absence."
"Reasonable."
"And I want your word that when this is done, the matter is closed. No further action against me or my asset."
"You have it."
His word means nothing. We both know that. But the request is expected, and failing to make it would signal that I'm planning something.
I stand. Webb doesn't flinch. He knows I won't attack him. Not with Elliot's life hanging on a button.
"I want to talk to him," I say. "Before I leave."
Webb considers. Then he steps aside, gestures toward the table.
I cross the distance in four strides. Elliot's eyes track me, wide and wet and desperate. I lean over him, close enough that my body blocks Webb's view of his face.
"I'm going to get you out of this," I say.
"Don't." His voice cracks. "Don't do what he wants. Don't kill innocent people for me."
"They're not innocent. No one in The Silent is innocent."
"Jace—"
I press my finger to his lips. Silence him.
"Listen to me." I keep my voice steady, keep my expression blank for Webb's benefit. "Whatever happens, whatever you hear, whatever they tell you I've done, remember one thing: I will come for you. I will always come for you. Do you understand?"
He closes his eyes. His body shakes with a sob he's trying to suppress.
"I understand," he whispers against my finger. "I just wish you didn't have to."
I lean closer. Press my forehead to his. Feel his breath on my lips, his tears on my cheeks. For a moment, just a moment, the world narrows to this: his warmth, his fear, his trust.
"I'm going to burn it all down," I breathe into his ear. "Every piece of this. Every person who had a hand in taking you. And when the fire's done, I'm going to carry you out of the ashes."
I straighten before he can respond. Turn. Face Webb.
My expression is blank. My posture is compliant. Every external signal says I've accepted the terms.
But inside, something has shifted. Something has crystallized into a certainty I've never felt before.
I am going to kill Briar Harrington and Landon Thompson. One of our own and his chosen.
To save me and mine.
"Seventy-two hours," I say.
"Seventy-two hours." He smiles. "I knew you'd see reason."
I walk toward the door. Every step feels like walking through water, like my body is fighting against itself. The animal part of me wants to turn around, wants to tear out Webb's throat, wants to burn this building to the ground with everyone in it.
But the collar is still around Elliot's neck. And Webb's thumb is still on the button.
So I keep walking.
At the door, I pause.
"Webb."
"Yes?"
"When this is over, one way or another, I'm going to kill you. Not quickly. Not cleanly. I'm going to do to you everything you taught me to do to others. And when you're begging me to stop, I won't."
I don't wait for his response. I push through the door into the grey afternoon light.
Behind me, I hear Webb laugh. A soft, satisfied sound.
He thinks it's an empty threat. He thinks his collar and his button, and his seventy-two hours have made him untouchable.
He's wrong.
I start planning.
Seventy-two hours.
Two targets.
One impossible choice.
I don't go home.
The apartment is compromised. Webb's people were inside, which means they've planted surveillance, maybe traps, maybe both. Going back would be stupid, and whatever else I am, I'm not stupid.
Instead, I go to Jagger.
His place is across the city, a converted warehouse in the arts district that looks abandoned from the outside and is fortified like a bunker on the inside. I use the emergency access code, the one we established years ago for situations exactly like this.
He's waiting when I enter. Standing in the middle of his living room, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"I know," he says before I can speak. "Webb sent a courtesy notification to Design. Harrington is officially a target again with you listed as the Disposal."
"You knew?"
"I knew the order was coming. I didn't know he'd use Elliot to force your hand." Jagger's jaw tightens. "That was clever. Even for Webb."
"I need options."
"There aren't any." He crosses to a table covered in screens and documents, gestures at the spread. "I've been running scenarios since the notification came through. Every path leads to the same place: either you kill Briar and his civilian, or Webb kills Elliot and reconditions you."
"There has to be another way."
"There isn't." Jagger turns to face me. "But there might be a different version of the same way."
I wait.
"Briar knows he's back on the radar. I warned him an hour ago." Jagger pulls up a file on one of the screens. "He's already moved Landon to a secure location. He's preparing for an attack. What he doesn't know is who's coming."
"You want me to tell him."
"I want you to work with him. Pool resources. Find a way to eliminate Webb and the threat he represents instead of eliminating each other."
"Webb will kill Elliot the moment I deviate from the plan."
"Then you don't deviate. You make him think you're following orders right up until the moment you're not." Jagger's expression hardens. "It's what I would do. It's what any of us would do. Brooks is a good man, despite what he’s done. I vouch for him."
I think about it. Run the scenarios. Calculate the odds.
They're not good. But they're better than the alternative.
"Set up a meeting," I say. "Somewhere secure. Somewhere Webb won't expect."
"Already done." Jagger hands me a slip of paper with an address. "Tomorrow night. Midnight. Briar will be there. Your plane leaves in an hour."
I pocket the paper. Turn to leave.
"Jace."
I stop.
"Whatever happens, we're with you. Jinx and I. We're not going to let them take you apart."
I don't know how to respond to that. Gratitude isn't an emotion I have practice with.
"There's something else," Jagger says. He pulls up another file on his screen. "The folder Elliot mentioned. The one in Moore's archive. The one with our name on it."
I turn back. "You found it?"
"Not yet. But I've been digging." His expression is grim. "There are references in the Custodian records. Sealed files that mention House Harrison in connection with something called Protocol Omega. It dates back twenty-three years."
"What is it?"
"I don't know. But whatever it is, Moore has documentation. And the Custodians are very interested in making sure that documentation never surfaces." He meets my eyes. "I think that's why Webb wants Briar dead. Not because of Landon. Because Briar's been asking questions about the same files."
Twenty-three years ago. Before I was born. Before any of us were born.
"Keep digging," I say. "Whatever's in those files, I want to know."
"I will." Jagger pauses. "And Jace? Don’t contact anyone except me and Jinx."
I nod once and walk out into the night.
Seventy-one hours now.
Two targets who might become allies.
One weapon who might pull this off.
And somewhere across the city, in a building full of pain and cold metal and flickering lights, Elliot is waiting for me to save him.
I think about what I said to him. About burning it all down. About carrying him out of the ashes.
I meant every word.
The Silent made me into a weapon. They taught me to kill without feeling, to destroy without remorse, to eliminate anything that threatened the order of things.
But they made a mistake.
They gave me the skills to tear apart their entire operation, and then they gave me a reason to use them.
Elliot Rowe is my reason.
And for him, I will become something worse than a weapon.
I will become a reckoning.
Whatever it takes.
Whatever it costs.
I will.