Griffin asked just our crew.
Brady said.
Layla asked, presumably a rhetorical question.
They are fucktards, that is what they are. At least we know it now.
“It’s time to take them to the institute,” Alexis told the scientists before glancing at us. “I take it you know exactly what I’m talking about?”
“Sure do,” Layla answered.
“How ’bout you disable our tracking chips before we go?” Hunt said. “Or are they kill switches?”
When Alexis tried to look away, he took a step closer so she couldn’t easily avoid his stare.
“Mom,” he said. “Are they kill switches?”
The woman who was ever so cool under pressure visibly swallowed. “Celia will disable them.”
Brady whistled in disbelief. “Yo, you guys are some ice-cold fuckers. You put kill-switch chipsinside your kids? I hope those Nobels are worth it to you, ’cause once we get through this, you’ll never see us again.”
“Truth,” Layla said.
Celia had been looking at her phone, presumably to disable our kill switches—yay. Now she took a step away from Porter and toward us.
“You don’t understand. It’s not like all that.”
“Well,Mom,” Brady said. “I don’t believe you, ’cause here I am wondering how I’ll even trust you to actually disable the kill switches instead of lying to us about doing that too. It’s pretty handy to be able to kill us at the touch of a fucking button, huh? What kind of psycho science mom would wanna give that up?”
I didn’t have to look to sense the savagery peeking out from Brady’s eyes; it vibrated in his voice.
Celia extended her hand toward him; the other gripped her phone. “Brade, honey, I would never—”
Brady crossed his arms defensively, as if that would do a thing to prevent the damage they’d so easily caused us. “Save it. I don’t wanna hear it.”
“Neither do I,” Layla said curtly. “I think we’re done here for now. Am I right, guys?”
“Definitely,” Griffin said.
“We’ve had a long fucking night, actually helping the people we love.” Layla’s eyes grazed the side of my face. “We’ll meet you at the gate to the institute in two hours sharp. Be there”—she shrugged—“or don’t. Either way, we’ll know what to do from there.”
When Layla cut a swath around the dead body and through the stunned lie-rents, I scrambled to grab my nearest shoes—a pair of well-worn high-top Chucks—and jogged after her. Our guys and Bobo were on our heels.
Brady slammed the door shut behind us hard enough to rattle the hinges.
Whatever was coming next, things would never be the same again. That much was certain.
As far as I could tell, it was the only thing that was certain at this point.
Our fates surely weren’t.
23
Don’t Bring a Knife to a Gunfight
Magnum’s fancy institute—whatever the hell he might be calling it in this current iteration—was carefully concealed from view of the street. No sign indicated the turn, and the towering entrance gate didn’t loom, grand and formidable, until beyond the first swooping bend in the drive, perhaps half a mile from the city road. Dotted with dense brush and old-growth trees, Ridgemore’s lush foliage provided the perfect cover.
Magnum also had cameras everywhere—he must—monitoring the vast chunk of land that housed the institute, ensuring nothing happened outside of his control. And we couldn’t forget his zealous band of ready guards and shooters, all with eager trigger fingers, twitchy with their need to obey his every unhinged command.
