Page 50 of The Darkest Half

I keep the gun trained on them both. I cannot allow anyone else into this room, or I will be outnumbered and distracted. But I cannot leave Izabel on the floor to die, either.

“Let me take her to the infirmary,” James Woodard speaks up.

“No. You stay right there. I need your gun on her.”

Until this day, I did not know I had a twin brother. Or a sister named Lysandra. None of this surprises me. It does not shock or astound me or even interest me very much, either. I am well aware of The Order’s breeding program, which is not much different from that of the Shadow Sect, in which Nora Kessler was a product. But I am, however, curious about the genuine possibility of there being more than one other who shares my resemblance. And I cannot have that. Often, artificial insemination procedures, which I am confident we were a product of, result in multiple births.

“Tell me,” I say, “am I the only one? Are there other…brothers who might have been born of the same litter?”

Vonnegut laughs out loud.

“Litter?” he says, surprised. “You are far more coldhearted than I ever gave you credit, Victor Faust. Truly, you should be standing here, wearing my shoes, and holding my power.” His laughter echoes throughout the room. “You are both a born killer and leader—I could only manage one.”

“Are there more?” I insist.

“No,” he answers. “There were only three in our…litter.” He smirks with his use of the word.

Three? I realize quickly, without having to inquire, that the triplet is none other than Lysandra Hollis. I guess she does resemble us, but it was more challenging to put it together with her being a woman and with the love of my life dying on the floor not far from me.

“So, now that you’ve met us,” Vonnegut says, adjusting his position on the floor, “what do you think of having more brothers and sisters? You have met Naeva, right? She was another”—he smiles slimly and looks at the floor to hide it—“well, she also wasn’t cut out. Where is she now, anyway? Last I heard, she was in L.A. somewhere with her Mexican fighter lover. Leo Moreno?”

He is trying to distract me. But from what?

“I have only one brother,” I tell him. “And his name is Niklas Fleischer.”

“But you can think of us as your family,” he says. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, was to bring you in, tell you the truth about everything, and have you join us.” He cocks his head. “It would be so much easier than resisting.”

Izabel. Since she fell unconscious, I haven’t taken my peripheral eye off her. She is still breathing, at least, but her organs are likely shutting down, and I need to get her medical care.

“Call your medic here,” I order Vonnegut against my initial judgment, now having no other choice. “And only your medic. If anyone else comes through that door, you will die.”

Vonnegut makes a slight motion with his head at Lysandra, and she reaches down into the front of her blouse to retrieve her cell phone.

“On the speaker,” I tell her. I know I do not need to warn her to be careful of what she chooses to say into the phone: no code words, just simple, straightforward instructions. Besides, the entire building is already well aware of my presence. No one else has come to this room to protect Vonnegut, and it is clear why.

I cannot kill Vonnegut yet, because his being alive is the only thing keeping all of the other operatives I did not kill on the way in from storming into this room and killing me. And Izabel. And since I do not know where they took Niklas, his life is also tied to Vonnegut’s life. There is no way I can get Izabel and Niklas out of this building alive, unable to walk and on the verge of death.

The Order knows this. Lysandra knows this. Vonnegut knows this. It is why no one else has come.

But he is telling the truth about not wanting me dead. If he wanted me dead, I would already be. Long ago, yes, but even tonight, as I entered this building. I may be skilled, but I am not a god; I am not immortal, and there were more than enough men that I should not be standing here right now. Not one operative raised a gun at me. Some pretended they were going to shoot me, and many shots were fired on their end, but all were terrible shots. And I know The Order—they do not train and mold operatives who cannot fire a weapon with accuracy. Those that are not, as Vonnegut recently put it, “cut out” are, more often than not, eliminated. Others, like Niklas and Naeva, are exiled or put into lesser positions within The Order.

Vonnegut absolutely wants me alive, and this is why although he has in his possession the only two people in this world whom I love, I am the one with the upper hand.

Izabel is my main concern. And I do so hope that Niklas is being treated just as Vonnegut had claimed. But, treated with a gun to his head, I am sure.

Lysandra runs her finger along the screen, and a voice streams from the device a few seconds later.

“Send a medical team with equipment to our floor,” she instructs. “And do it quickly.”

“Is that all you’ll be needing?” the operative asks—code speak for ‘do we need to send more men there with guns?’

Lysandra’s eyes skirt mine.

“Just a medical team with equipment—a small team.” She runs her finger across the screen again, and I see the call end. She drops the phone back into her blouse, eyes blazing with hatred at me.

Her repeat answer could have just as well been code speak for “yes,” but it is a risk I had to take.

Hold on for me, love. I want to look at Izabel, my eyes only on her, but I cannot. Just hold on for a while longer.

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