Page 7 of Hunted to Be Mine
“He did.” Dawson’s fingers drummed once against the table, the only tell he’d given me. “Specter made a calculated assessment. In his position, surrounded by compromised law enforcement, he had three options: silence until Oblivion reclaimed him, cooperation with local authorities who’d sell him back, or…”
“The lesser evil.”
“Precisely.” Green locked onto mine. “He chose the organization least likely to return him to Dresner and most likely to help him even if he doesn’t trust us. SENTINEL may not be benevolent, Dr. Crawford, but we’re predictable. Transparent in our self-interest.”
The honesty surprised me more than the content.
“He traded his freedom for protection from something worse.”
“And for leverage.” Dawson pulled back. “The intelligence he provided has already been of use. He’s valuable, which means we’re invested in keeping him functional.”
Functional. Not safe. Not protected.
Just useful enough to preserve.
He touched a hidden panel, and the wall screen came on. The footage showed Specter, eighteen months ago according to the timestamp, moving through what looked like an embassy. Each movement was economical, lethal. Three guards down in four seconds. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
“Complete skill implementation without conscious learning.” His tone stayed neutral. “Total compliance without moral hesitation. The perfect deniable asset.”
“Until now.”
“Until now.” His attention sharpened. “When he contacted us, he said the conditioning was breaking down. Said he wanted to remember who he was before that outfit rewrote him. That’s why I want you to heal him.” The sincerity in his statement was either genuine or masterfully performed. “These men were taken against their will, erased, rewritten. They deserve the chance to reclaim themselves.”
I studied his face, looking for the lie beneath the nobility. Found none, which worried me more than obvious deception would have.
“I’ll need complete autonomy with the patient. Unrestricted access to all files. And my reports go directly to you, no filters.”
“Demanding.” But he smiled, genuine this time, appreciating the negotiation. “Your terms are acceptable. With one addition.”
I waited, refusing to fill the silence.
“If I determine the risk to you, to him, or to my facility becomes unacceptable, I terminate the project immediately.”
The euphemism hung between us. We both understood what “terminating the project” meant.
“Understood.”
He stood, buttoning his jacket by habit. “Dr. Prieto will arrange your access. What we have on Specter, the network, and Project Marionette.”
He crossed toward the exit, then paused, turning back with studied casualness that was anything but casual.
“One more thing, Dr. Crawford.” His tone shifted, silk over steel. “I want you to be careful. I’ve seen the feed and how he looked at you, and how you…”
“Patient-doctor confidentiality…”
“I don’t give a fuck about ethics.” The profanity cracked like a whip, designed to shock. “I care about results. And your safety.”
He stepped nearer, invading my space with deliberate intent. This proximity allowed me to smell his cologne, something expensive and sharp, like winter forests and gun oil.
“Specter isn’t just lethal because of what they made him.” His statement dropped to an intimate register that raised goosebumps on my arms. “He’s a threat because even broken, he knows exactly how to find your weaknesses. How to make you want to save him. How to make you want him.”
“My professional judgment…”
“I’m trying to keep you alive.” Another step, forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain contact. “Men like Specter, like us, we don’t love the way normal people do. We possess. We consume. We destroy the things we want most.”
The confession hung between us, too honest to be anything but the truth.
“Is that a warning or a threat?”
