“It’s all moot. We don’t have two months.” Conner rubbed his temple. He felt a headache coming on. “We have Rook and Rapture, but he has Rendition. Without it, we can’t complete the Looking Glass. Two thousand years of work will go down the drain, and the entire human race with it.”

The older scientist leaned back in his chair. “We could cut him loose and allow this to play out.”

“Play out?”

Anderson nodded. “Hughes clearly has some sort of backup plan. It’s tied to specific events or locations, or some signal that will activate his memories via the implant. So, what if we let him recover those memories? Then we collect him.”

“That’s a lot of assumptions, Doctor. The biggest being that we can simply ‘collect’ him when we’re ready. Bagging him in the first place wasn’t a walk in the park. When he recovers his memories—when he realizes what he’s capable of—it’ll be nearly impossible.”

“Then I’m afraid that leaves us with no options.”

“On the contrary. We have a very good option, gentlemen. And I’m going to take it.”

Chapter 41

Chapter 41

The soldiers were rough when they jerked Peyton and Hannah out of the back of the SUV. Hannah’s screams didn’t slow them one bit. They placed black bags over their heads, bound their hands, and marched them to a helicopter, where their feet were bound as well. In the darkness, the drone of the engines and rotors was deafening. The helicopter landed some time later, and they were dragged out, lifted up, and tossed onto the flat metal bed of a truck.

The drive was brutal. The truck bounced along ruts in the road, slamming them into the bed. And with their hands and feet bound, there was nothing they could do to protect themselves. It was like being blindfolded and left to tumble in a drying machine on an endless cycle. Hannah sobbed periodically.

Peyton lost all sense of time. The pain ebbed after a while; perhaps the nerves in her body simply stopped responding to the pounding. She wondered if any permanent damage was being done.

At last the truck came to a stop, and she heard canvas flapping. A ray of sunlight beamed across the black bag, only partially seeping through.

Someone gripped Peyton’s feet, pulled her out of the truck, and caught her as she hit the ground. Her legs were weak, wobbly. Hands moved across her body, grabbing in places they had no right to. Peyton twisted, turned her shoulders quickly, trying in vain to fight them off. The action sparked loud voices, speaking in what she thought was Swahili. Laughs erupted.

She heard Hannah scream as they dragged her out.

“Don’t touch her!” Peyton yelled. “She needs medical attention. A doctor.”

A man responded in African-accented English. “She won’t be needin’ nothin’ soon. Take them.”