But on the inside, I was screaming.
I’d messed up. Years of training for covert operations—not exactly like this one but similar enough that it shouldn’t have been an issue—and I’d hesitated.
In that last moment before climbing into the vehicle, I’d frozen. Just for a millisecond. Long enough for a deeply buried survival instinct to rise up and shout, “Are you freaking kidding me with this?”
It was only human. At a time when I could least afford to appear so.
That would never have happened to Ford.
I could feel sweat forming under my arms, at the base of my spine and in little pockets where my hands rested against my knees. God, what if a trickle ran down somewhere visible, like down my cheek or neck? What if they noticed I was sweating when I got out of the car? Who knew what they’d been told to watch for and report?
I could hear my breathing picking up pace and falling out of sync with the others.
Next to me, a tremor ran through Carter and his hands squeezed into fists. He kept his expression steady, though he seemed to grow paler.
On my other side, Nixon’s leg began to jounce, as though he were trying to run in place.
They were feeling the effects of separation. Suddenly, my worries about my mistake seemed insignificant. If they couldn’t keep it together in the car, we were so very dead. Or caught. Either way, the same thing.
Keeping my gaze fixed straight ahead and my hand low, I reached over and clamped down on Nixon’s hand, pressing down to stop his leg from moving.
To my surprise, he flipped his hand up, catching my palm in his and squeezing tightly. His expression never changed—never had, in all the time I’d been watching him—but there was someone in there. Nixon was very much at home. Not the empty shell he appeared to be.
Carter edged closer until he was pressed against me in a solid line. Then his hand wiggled under my elbow until his fingers latched hard around my arm.
They were using me as a touchstone, maybe. A weight to keep them from drifting back to Ford.
I watched both of them as carefully as I could without looking at them, sick with dread that one of them would reach for the door handle and throw himself out to return to Ford. I might be able to hold them in place with my ability, but for how long, especially with two of them struggling against one of me?
“Everything okay today, kids?” Lando asked casually, lifting his gaze to the rearview mirror.
Was I, as Ford, expected to answer as leader? Or would Ford’s disdain for humans keep her silent, ignoring the question? I didn’t know. This wasn’t one of the scenarios I’d covered with Ford during our brief consultation.
I couldn’t breathe; all I could do was sit there, my heart beating so hard I shook with it.
The silence in the backseat dragged on and on. Maybe five seconds, but it felt like centuries. And it was too long.
Lando frowned—I could see the wrinkle in his forehead in the mirror—and started to turn around.
Then Carter rallied. “The day was within acceptable parameters, thank you,” he said. He might have been a little more breathless than I’d ever heard before—and his fingers were tight enough on my arm to cut off circulation—but Lando didn’t seem to notice.
Lando nodded, those piercing eyes now fixed on me.
I did my best to look like Ford. Bored, impatient, tired of these humans.
After a long moment, Lando’s gaze flickered and then dropped away.
And it took everything I had not to sag back in relief. I’d been worried about dying inside Laughlin Integrated; now I was wondering if we’d survive the trip there.
Forcing myself to concentrate, I listened to the roar of the tires on the road until my breathing slowed. I stared through the windshield, unfocusing my eyes until the trees all rolled together in a green blur, broken only by bright sparks of light—sunshine reflecting off passing cars.
I wasn’t connected to Carter’s and Nixon’s minds, and they’d never given any sign of hearing my thoughts, but if anxiety was contagious, so was relaxation. They’d pick up on it through my body language, if nothing else. I wasn’t Ford, but I could still try to lead. They were trusting me.
By the time the SUV approached Laughlin Integrated Enterprises—a glass and concrete tower with shiny, reflective windows that made it look like a bit of hardened sky—and rolled down a ramp and past security gates into an interior garage, Nixon’s grip on my hand had eased, and Carter was breathing easier. And my panicked sweating had mostly stopped, leaving me damp and uncomfortable against the leather seat but far more in control. Yay.
Agent Blonde opened the door this time, and Carter exited first. I stepped out onto an immaculate concrete floor, double glass doors just ahead and to the right.
All kinds of security blinked and flashed next to those doors: key card slots, palm scanners, intercoms, and a freestanding device with a various mechanical arms—some of which had pointy ends—and a metal cuff to hold an arm in place. Blood test, maybe? Scary.
But according to Ford, I wouldn’t need to worry about any of those.
Head straight for the doors, then right, right, and left until you reach the end, she’d said.
The end of what? I’d asked.
But she’d waved my concern away. You’ll know.
Nixon got out and, after a brief hesitation that almost stopped my heart dead, led the way to the entrance. I followed, hoping Carter was paying attention behind me. Looking back wasn’t an option, obviously, unless I wanted to announce in not so many words that I wasn’t who I was supposed to be.
Pretending to be linked to Nixon and Carter was a hell of a lot harder than I’d ever imagined.
It wasn’t just knowing someone well enough that you could predict what they would say or do, it was literally becoming a part of them. One organism with many limbs. You didn’t have to think or hesitate or confer any more than I had to look at my arm and tell it to move.
I watched Nixon ahead of me, listened to the sound of Carter’s footsteps behind me, and tried to adjust accordingly, but the echoes off the concrete walls made it almost impossible.
Fortunately, Agent Blonde and Lando, their transportation/guard duties complete, were seemingly absorbed in the discussion of a game from television the night before and the possibility that the referees had been bribed.
Nixon didn’t hesitate on approaching the doors, and neither did I, determined not to make the same mistake twice. As if sensing that, the doors slid apart while he was several feet away, granting us immediate access. I didn’t even have to slow down.
Someone was on the ball with the button pushing somewhere. I wanted to look around for the camera but didn’t dare.
The doors whooshed closed behind me, presumably once Carter had cleared the threshold, and we were in a small entryway with another set of closed glass doors ahead of us.
A cool rush of medicinal-smelling air surrounded me, lodging an immediate and familiar throb of dread in my stomach. I knew that smell. Sure, here there was dark gray carpeting and ash-colored walls instead of Dr. Jacobs’s all-white, all-the-time theme, but it was still a lab. It still held the scent of antiseptic, overheated plastic from the computers, and a hint of formaldehyde (a.k.a. failure).
I kept moving behind Nixon, and the second set of doors opened, just like the first.
Past those doors, the air warmed slightly and potted plastic plants and trees appeared along the walls at a regular basis, between closed office doors, along with a sanitized version of corporate art. Nothing like the luxury Dr. Jacobs had surrounded himself with.
I’d accompanied my father to the dentist once for a procedure that inhibited his ability to drive. It reminded me of this. Impersonal but worse for the attempt to make it seem like something else. The plastic plants and “art” only called attention to what they were trying to hide. The sterile confines of GTX had, at least, been honest in their nature.