Page 59 of Mimic
Once George let me go and I came to Nebraska, I’d spent a lot of time catching up on movies I’d missed. It was no surprise, given what I’d endured, that I leaned toward the sick and twisted genre. The more fucked-up, the better.
One movie I had watched over and over wasThe Manchurian Candidate.Denzel Washington starred as a soldier who suspected his fellow brother-in-arms had been brainwashed into becoming a sleeper assassin. There was a phrase that, when he heard it, turned him into a killing machine.
“Why don’t you play a little solitaire?” I said, voice barely above a whisper.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Gunner snapped.
I looked at Nav, his eyes wide. Surprise mixed with respect said he knew I’d figured it out.
“What’s the trigger?”
“They’re all different.”
“Hey, Tweedle Dee and Dum, what the fuck are you talking about?” King barked.
“The Manchurian Candidate.”
“The movie with Denzel?” Jack asked.
“Oh fuck,” Colt cursed. “It could be anything.”
“If someone doesn’t fucking explain, I’m going to beat the shit out of all of you,” King snarled, his focus drifting from Nav to me, then back to Nav.
Nav explained the movie. Apparently, one King had never seen. I half-listened as I thought about everything Nav had already told us. There were twelve files, which meant twelve girls.
Twelve girls were out there, hiding in plain sight. Ready to be activated at any moment. Ready to kill on command.
“What are the triggers?” I asked again.
“Poems.”
“What?” Blade asked. “How does it work?”
“The name of the poem is the trigger. Whoever says the phrase has control of the girl,” Nav explained.
“How do you pull her back?” Blade asked.
“By saying the title backwards.”
“Jesus Christ,” King cursed.
Cash’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his cut and swore. Immediately, my body tensed. This was about Rose. Cash answered the call and looked me in the eye. “We’re on our way.”
“Is my sister okay?”
“Your sister is fine,” he said as he stood. “Archie’s got a Death Dog strung up like a turkey over at Audrey’s. He tried to take Indie.”
“WHAT THE FUCK?!” I yelled.
As I leaned against the wall, arms crossed over my chest, I stared at the man tied to the chair in the cell downstairs. I had been given a direct order not to touch him.
He touched what was mine.
Twice.
Dakota’s words swirled around inside my brain. Memories of his taunts. The way he tried to goad me into losing control. He’d hurled insults at me, about me, about my father. In the end, it was the shit he’d said about my mother that had done it.
The day I beat the fuck out of Dakota, leaving him bleeding and unconscious on the mat, was the day George said he would let me go on one condition. That I did as he asked. He’d reminded me that he owned my soul.
