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As I listen to Colt and Coop, I rub the building tension that hasn’t left the space above my right eye for weeks. “This is a level greater than even we can hack. I can ask on our server. Maybe Q can help,” Colt suggests, and I snort.
“Q isn’t an option.”
The bronze skin of both their foreheads crease as their frosty ice-blue eyes narrow on me through the computer screen. Fucking twin shit. “Why not? Q’s a beast,” Coop says.
I smirk. “Q’s definitely a beast, but we need a different type of hacker for this. We need someone who not only can get into government systems, which we all can do, but also hack into the chip software, which was created by one of the best tech teams the U.S. can recruit.”
Eshe Solomon is one the brightest biotechnology engineers. She’s responsible for some of the most advanced research and technology in the last two centuries. The chip they’ve implanted in Owen is state-of-the-art tech, and short of Samantha giving up the detonator or us getting our hands on Eshe, we’ll need someone to figure out how to hack this shit.
“Fine, we’ll keep working on our end, but we might need to call in a favor from Lycéan,” Colt states.
The dull ache above my eyes expands. I don’t want to reach out to them at all. The Lycéan isn’t a fucking group you call on unless it’s absolutely necessary. “That needs to be our last possible resort,” I state.
They both nod. “We know that. No one wants to ever call in their one favor with the Lycéan. Shit, they’re like the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Each one brings some level of destruction you never want to encounter,” Coop huffs.
A knock on my door has me checking my screen. Owen. “I’ll be in touch soon. Keep working on your end, and I’ll keep working on mine. I’m sure we’ll find a solution between the three of us.” I end the call just as my door opens.
Owen steps into the room, his skin still sallow from the remnants of the bruises that have yet to heal. But it’s not the outward wounds I’m worried about. Owen hasn’t made one attempt to sate his usually bottomless thirst for pain. There have been zero attempts to cut anyone. Shit, he hasn’t been seen with any knife but Lola.
“Hey,” he says, taking a seat next to me. “Find anything?”
“No,” I sigh, “but we’re just getting started. We’ll figure this out.”
Owen looks at a spot on the floor like it has all the answers before turning his hazel gaze on me. The unbridled rage storming in their depths doesn’t match his tone. “And until then, I can’t see her.”
Her. The pained way he says that three-letter word mirrors my own feelings. “No,” I resignedly confirm, recognizing that no is seemingly the only word on repeat in my vocabulary today. “We can’t risk—.”
Owen cuts me off. “I fucking heard you all the first time. We can’t risk you, Owen,” he mocks. “We had to save you, Owen. We’ll get her back as soon as this ends, Owen!” He abruptly stands, “I don’t want to hear it. You all sound like a broken goddamn record.”
“O—,” I try again, but the look he levels me with silences me. I recognize the vacant stare.
“You all should’ve let me fucking die because, without her, I might as well be dead.”
I don’t interrupt again. He needs this. And while I might be raging inside at having to constantly keep it together while just about everyone around me gets to fall apart—now isn’t the time.
Owen pulls something from his pocket, and before I can react, he has the tip of one of his blades pressed into the flesh of his wrist.
“O! What the fuck are you doing, man? Put the fucking knife away,” I snap, springing from my computer chair. I slowly approach him, not wanting my sudden movements to cause him to slice any deeper.
Red-rimmed eyes aim in my direction, but it’s almost as if he’s looking through me.“I fought through hell, and the only thing that kept me going was knowing she was here waiting for me,” he professes.
“I can’t pretend to know what you’ve been through, but I know Ariah wouldn’t want this,” I whisper as I grip his wrist. “She wouldn’t want to be the reason you hurt yourself, O.” It’s like reasoning with someone who’s physically present but mentally somewhere else. I’m not sure he’s even registering anything I’m saying until he speaks.
“It’s too loud,” he murmurs, letting me take the knife from his hand.
“What?” I ask, examining his arm. Luckily the cut is superficial and barely bleeding.
Owen’s focus lasers in on the cut. “She always quieted the noise.”
Spinning, I look for the first-aid kit, spotting it across the room. By the time I reach it, I hear the room’s door click.
I’m alone.
Both Owen and his knife are gone.
I drop in my chair, the pounding in my head rushes back to the forefront now that the adrenaline has worn off. The weight of what’s at stake grips me by the throat and squeezes.
What if I can’t fix this?
