result of weeks of brainwashing, not a signal beamed to his CID. On the other hand, if we couldn’t get rid of his CID, it was unlikely we would make it out of Sector X undetected. The George Washington Bridge was the only way out, and it was equipped with over a dozen rovers.
“It’s now or never,” he said. “We have everything we need: antiseptic, gauze, bandages, good lighting . . .”
My hand shook as I brought my eyes up to meet his gaze. His bright gray eyes were burning with hope, pleading with me.
“All right,” I sighed. “Tell me how.”
Amory cleaned the kitchen table, prepped all the supplies we would need, and tested the sharpness of every available knife we had until he found the best one.
Before sterilizing it, he showed me the proper technique to make an incision. My hand shook a little, but he pretended not to notice. I knew he did not want to shake my confidence.
“If it’s like the last one, they inserted it directly in the center. This one won’t be as deep as yours was because they would hit the skull.”
I nodded, feeling the bile rise up in my throat.
“Just stick the tweezers in and feel for something small and solid.”
I followed him into the bathroom. He was rummaging in the cabinet. “Can you shave the hair that’s covering the scar?”
I nodded, and he handed me a disposable razor.
Amory grinned. “I’m not picky, but a smallish incision would be nice.”
Running the tap, I splashed some warm water on the back of his head and positioned the razor at the bottom of his hairline. I pulled it down, and pieces of his dark hair fell away. I wondered how I hadn’t noticed how short his hair was at the bottom, as though it had just grown over the scar. It looked a little funny, but now I could see the telltale scar where the PMC had inserted his CID. It was no wider than a quarter of an inch across, and it was perfect, mechanical.
Amory ran a hand along the back of his neck, jerking his head to try to see his reflection in the mirror. “Those bastards,” he breathed.
We returned to the kitchen, and he produced a bottle of clear liquid from over the sink.
“We have real antiseptic,” I said, confused when he handed it to me.
“It’s for you.”
I threw him a dubious look before putting the bottle to my lips. The smell of alcohol stung my nostrils, but I tipped my head back and took a swig. The fire shot down my throat, warming my insides.
Without warning, Amory pulled me against him and brushed my lips with his. The kiss was warm and inviting, but the moment felt all wrong. I couldn’t shake the image of him stabbing the carriers with that possessed look in his eyes. I pulled back.
His face was flushed, and his eyes were hungry.
“I need to focus,” I said, managing a weak grin.
Lying down on the kitchen table, Amory watched me pull my hair back into a ponytail and wash my hands. I took my time swabbing the back of his neck with rubbing alcohol, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal. My eyes took a final quick inventory of everything I would need, and I picked up the knife.
Hefting the blade in my hand, I drew an imaginary line over his scar exactly where I would make the incision. I only hesitated for a moment. I remembered Amory writhing on the ground in pain, and the decision solidified in my brain.
I bent over the tender skin of Amory’s neck and placed the tip of the blade against flesh. In one smooth motion, I pressed down and drew straight across his scar. A perfect line of red blossomed at the incision, but Amory did not flinch or make a sound. I quickly traded the knife for the tweezers, pressing the prongs together as I slipped them between the folds of skin.
Blood pooled over his neck, and I felt my breath catch in my chest. There was no going back. I moved the tweezers, releasing more blood, but I couldn’t feel anything. I pushed them deeper, wincing before Amory sucked in a burst of air through his teeth.
My throat
“It’s now or never,” he said. “We have everything we need: antiseptic, gauze, bandages, good lighting . . .”
My hand shook as I brought my eyes up to meet his gaze. His bright gray eyes were burning with hope, pleading with me.
“All right,” I sighed. “Tell me how.”
Amory cleaned the kitchen table, prepped all the supplies we would need, and tested the sharpness of every available knife we had until he found the best one.
Before sterilizing it, he showed me the proper technique to make an incision. My hand shook a little, but he pretended not to notice. I knew he did not want to shake my confidence.
“If it’s like the last one, they inserted it directly in the center. This one won’t be as deep as yours was because they would hit the skull.”
I nodded, feeling the bile rise up in my throat.
“Just stick the tweezers in and feel for something small and solid.”
I followed him into the bathroom. He was rummaging in the cabinet. “Can you shave the hair that’s covering the scar?”
I nodded, and he handed me a disposable razor.
Amory grinned. “I’m not picky, but a smallish incision would be nice.”
Running the tap, I splashed some warm water on the back of his head and positioned the razor at the bottom of his hairline. I pulled it down, and pieces of his dark hair fell away. I wondered how I hadn’t noticed how short his hair was at the bottom, as though it had just grown over the scar. It looked a little funny, but now I could see the telltale scar where the PMC had inserted his CID. It was no wider than a quarter of an inch across, and it was perfect, mechanical.
Amory ran a hand along the back of his neck, jerking his head to try to see his reflection in the mirror. “Those bastards,” he breathed.
We returned to the kitchen, and he produced a bottle of clear liquid from over the sink.
“We have real antiseptic,” I said, confused when he handed it to me.
“It’s for you.”
I threw him a dubious look before putting the bottle to my lips. The smell of alcohol stung my nostrils, but I tipped my head back and took a swig. The fire shot down my throat, warming my insides.
Without warning, Amory pulled me against him and brushed my lips with his. The kiss was warm and inviting, but the moment felt all wrong. I couldn’t shake the image of him stabbing the carriers with that possessed look in his eyes. I pulled back.
His face was flushed, and his eyes were hungry.
“I need to focus,” I said, managing a weak grin.
Lying down on the kitchen table, Amory watched me pull my hair back into a ponytail and wash my hands. I took my time swabbing the back of his neck with rubbing alcohol, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal. My eyes took a final quick inventory of everything I would need, and I picked up the knife.
Hefting the blade in my hand, I drew an imaginary line over his scar exactly where I would make the incision. I only hesitated for a moment. I remembered Amory writhing on the ground in pain, and the decision solidified in my brain.
I bent over the tender skin of Amory’s neck and placed the tip of the blade against flesh. In one smooth motion, I pressed down and drew straight across his scar. A perfect line of red blossomed at the incision, but Amory did not flinch or make a sound. I quickly traded the knife for the tweezers, pressing the prongs together as I slipped them between the folds of skin.
Blood pooled over his neck, and I felt my breath catch in my chest. There was no going back. I moved the tweezers, releasing more blood, but I couldn’t feel anything. I pushed them deeper, wincing before Amory sucked in a burst of air through his teeth.
My throat
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