Page 86 of Hunted to Be Mine
“It’s right here. Right in front of me, and I can’t see it.”
“Take a picture. Don’t read it. Photograph everything and bring it back.”
I grabbed my phone. My hands wouldn’t steady. The screen swam.
“Can’t focus.”
“Listen,” she said, steady and close. “Your conditioning is triggering a neurological response to stop you. The pain is a failsafe.”
“How do I stop it?”
“You can’t power through. That could trigger a seizure. Try this: don’t look at the name. Shoot the whole page, eyes unfocused.”
I lifted the phone and took several shots without focusing on the text.
“Got it.” I pocketed the phone. The ache kept pulsing.
“Now put everything back exactly how you found it. We have what we need.”
I started reassembling the records. Another box caught my eye: JD-24601-MED.
My file. Medical history.
I lifted the lid. Inside, clear liquid in foam cutouts. Labels on each vial: PSI-317.
“Found something else.” I took one vial. “Samples of the compound they used on me. The memory suppressor.”
“That’s exactly what we need,” Selina said, urgency threaded with hope. “We can reverse-engineer it. With the agent, we might be able to build a counteragent and a real therapy.”
I pocketed two vials, shut the lid, slid the container back.
“I’m coming back,” I said, thinking through the haze. “Got what we need.”
“Hurry. And Specter? You’re close. We’re so close to finding who you really are.”
A shadow moved along the far wall.
I went still. Not a regular patrol.
“Someone’s here.”
“Get out. Now.”
I stayed in the dark and watched Blackout appear at the end of the aisle. His movement was too controlled to be a random sweep. He knew.
Too late for subtle.
He moved without any noise. His gear swallowed the light. Another shadow among the racks.
I eased backward into a narrow gap between shelves. The stolen papers pressed against my ribs. A rustle. I stopped breathing.
“Status?” Selina asked, voice low and coiled.
I couldn’t reply. Even a whisper was too loud in this quiet. I couldn’t tell her that I knew for sure it was Blackout.
I checked the ceiling. A ventilation duct ran fifteen feet up along the back wall.
Blackout paused at the row’s end, head canted, listening. The warehouse went quiet except for the far hum of lights.
