parked Mustang. The black Cobra R was family, a muscular piece of his past, as much a memorial as the stud through his ear. He had originally bought the used car for his kid brother, back when Duncan believed his future was a spinning orange ball. Cancer finally caught up with Billy at eighteen, taking away forever that shit-eating grin. But the car remained, full of happy memories of two brothers ruling the world, along with grimmer recollections of loss, pain, and good-byes said too soon.
He stalked toward the men by the Mustang, anger building inside of him. Up on his toes, keeping to deeper shadows, he crept until he stood behind them, both clearly stymied by the locking mechanism he had specially engineered for the car.
They remained unaware of his presence—until he cleared his throat.
Surprised, one swung around with a tire iron.
Really?
A moment later, the two were fleeing, bloodied and limping.
Duncan reached to the door’s handle. It unlocked before he touched it, triggered by the tiny glass-encased RFID chip implanted in his upper arm, another bodily addition like his magnets.
While he chalked up all these modifications to professional need, he knew down deep it was something more basic. Even before being approached by Sigma, he had already begun altering his body with tattoos. He knew these changes had more to do with Billy, with the way he died, his body ravaged by cells gone mad. These modifications were Duncan’s way of taking control, of defying cancer. It was his armor against the vagaries of fate, where a body could suddenly turn against itself.
His first tattoo had been a copy of Billy’s palm print. He inked it over his heart and later added the date of his brother’s death. Duncan often found his own hand covering that mark, wondering what twist of genetic fate had allowed him to live while his brother had to die.
The same could be said of his friends who had never returned from Afghanistan, those few who had caught a stray bullet or who were the first to step on a hidden IED.
I lived. They died.
It defined a fundamental constant of the universe.
Fate was a cruel , heartless bitch.
Fired by equal parts adrenaline and guilt, he yanked open the car door, hopped in, and took off. He raced through the outskirts of D.C., zipping through gears, punching past stop signs.
Still, he could not outrun the ghosts of his past—of his fellow teammates, of a kid brother who had laughed in the face of death.
Having survived, he must now live for all of them.
That truth, that burden of responsibility, grew heavier with every passing mile, every passing year. It was becoming too much to bear.
Still, he did the only thing he could.
He pressed harder on the gas.
6:34 P . M .
“You look a bit overwhelmed,” Painter said.
And why wouldn’t I?
Jada stared down at the thick mission dossier on her lap. She sat in Director Crowe’s subterranean office. She felt suddenly claustrophobic, not so much because of the mass of the Smithsonian Castle above her head, but because of the weight of the packet resting on her knee.
And all it signified.
She was about to travel halfway around the world, to search for a crashed military satellite that might hold the fate of the world, or at the very least make or break her career as an astrophysicist.
So , yeah , as the once nappy-headed girl out of Congress Heights who ran home from school every day to keep from being beaten up because she was an honor student and liked books . . . I’m feeling a little pressure.
“You’ll have a good team with you,” Painter promised her. “It’s not all on your shoulders—nor should you let it be. Trust your team.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
She took a deep steadying breath. Painter’s office was spartan, limited to a desk, a filing cabinet, and a computer, but the space as a whole had a worn-around-the-edges warmth to it, like a comfortable pair of tattered sneakers. She noted the personal touches. On
He stalked toward the men by the Mustang, anger building inside of him. Up on his toes, keeping to deeper shadows, he crept until he stood behind them, both clearly stymied by the locking mechanism he had specially engineered for the car.
They remained unaware of his presence—until he cleared his throat.
Surprised, one swung around with a tire iron.
Really?
A moment later, the two were fleeing, bloodied and limping.
Duncan reached to the door’s handle. It unlocked before he touched it, triggered by the tiny glass-encased RFID chip implanted in his upper arm, another bodily addition like his magnets.
While he chalked up all these modifications to professional need, he knew down deep it was something more basic. Even before being approached by Sigma, he had already begun altering his body with tattoos. He knew these changes had more to do with Billy, with the way he died, his body ravaged by cells gone mad. These modifications were Duncan’s way of taking control, of defying cancer. It was his armor against the vagaries of fate, where a body could suddenly turn against itself.
His first tattoo had been a copy of Billy’s palm print. He inked it over his heart and later added the date of his brother’s death. Duncan often found his own hand covering that mark, wondering what twist of genetic fate had allowed him to live while his brother had to die.
The same could be said of his friends who had never returned from Afghanistan, those few who had caught a stray bullet or who were the first to step on a hidden IED.
I lived. They died.
It defined a fundamental constant of the universe.
Fate was a cruel , heartless bitch.
Fired by equal parts adrenaline and guilt, he yanked open the car door, hopped in, and took off. He raced through the outskirts of D.C., zipping through gears, punching past stop signs.
Still, he could not outrun the ghosts of his past—of his fellow teammates, of a kid brother who had laughed in the face of death.
Having survived, he must now live for all of them.
That truth, that burden of responsibility, grew heavier with every passing mile, every passing year. It was becoming too much to bear.
Still, he did the only thing he could.
He pressed harder on the gas.
6:34 P . M .
“You look a bit overwhelmed,” Painter said.
And why wouldn’t I?
Jada stared down at the thick mission dossier on her lap. She sat in Director Crowe’s subterranean office. She felt suddenly claustrophobic, not so much because of the mass of the Smithsonian Castle above her head, but because of the weight of the packet resting on her knee.
And all it signified.
She was about to travel halfway around the world, to search for a crashed military satellite that might hold the fate of the world, or at the very least make or break her career as an astrophysicist.
So , yeah , as the once nappy-headed girl out of Congress Heights who ran home from school every day to keep from being beaten up because she was an honor student and liked books . . . I’m feeling a little pressure.
“You’ll have a good team with you,” Painter promised her. “It’s not all on your shoulders—nor should you let it be. Trust your team.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
She took a deep steadying breath. Painter’s office was spartan, limited to a desk, a filing cabinet, and a computer, but the space as a whole had a worn-around-the-edges warmth to it, like a comfortable pair of tattered sneakers. She noted the personal touches. On
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