The dark patches in his vision were spreading as Junior stood over him. Damn, the kid looked exactly like him at twenty-three—not just his face but his posture, the way he held his weapon. Henry even recognized the mix of emotions on Junior’s face as he watched the target dying. Clay Verris had literally turned him into his own worst enemy. That was all kinds of wrong.
His thoughts faded as a new feeling took hold of him, a sensation of loosening, becoming untethered, like a boat that had been untied from a piling and was starting to drift, except the movement was upward.
This really was it, Henry thought. He was wheels up on his last flight, the one you took without a plane. Junior could finally go home and tell Daddy he’d taken out his old self.
In the distance, Danny was saying, Please, please don’t do this! And Baron was yelling, Breathe, Henry, breathe! His old friend didn’t know he was already catching an updraft.
Then somebody stabbed him in the arm.
The pain pulled him back from the edge of unconsciousness. The floating sensation was gone; he felt the hard ground under him again. He could breathe more easily now. It was a tremendous effort to open his eyes but when he finally forced his lids apart, he saw a face above him, so close it filled his vision. His own face but younger.
“Epinephrine,” his younger face said with his voice. “And an antihistamine.” Henry felt another sharp pain. “You’re going to be fine.”
Henry’s breathing was almost back to normal now. On his left, Danny started to cry with relief. He wanted to tell her not to do that, there was no crying in assassination, not even when someone was trying to kill you. You were supposed to suck it up, tough it out, walk it off. But when he rolled his head around to the other side, he saw Baron’s face was wet, too.
“Hey,” he croaked at Baron.
Baron nodded at Danny. “What she said.”
Danny laughed through her tears as she and Baron helped him sit up. A few feet away, Junior sat on the ground in front of him, long legs folded. Henry had a moment of envy; his own flexibility wasn’t what it had once been. But he was still alive, thanks to his clone’s sudden attack of conscience. The kid looked like a man who had awakened from a troubling dream to find himself in unfamiliar surroundings—unsure, bewildered, and lost. Henry could relate.
“I’m sorry,” Junior Hitman said after a bit, and Henry knew he wasn’t only apologizing for trying to kill him. He was sorry about being a clone and not knowing it, sorry the world had gotten one over on him, sorry for things he didn’t even know how to articulate yet. Henry had seen the expression before in the mirror.
“It’s all good,” Henry told him. “All this shit’s been pretty hard to accept.”
The kid looked up at him, wary.
“So, you came here to kill me with bee venom,” Henry went on. “But you also brought the antidote with you?”
The clone gave an awkward shrug. “You said you were allergic; I figured maybe I was, too, and I ought to start carrying an EpiPen, just in case.”
“You decided that when—tonight?”
Another awkward shrug.
“Guys, I hate to break up the kumbaya of it all,” Baron said. “But how the hell did you always know where we were?”
His younger self hesitated. “Do you trust me?” he asked Henry.
The question jerked an incredulous laugh out of Henry. “Damn, you’ve got nerve.”
“Yeah, I wonder where he got that,” Danny said, amused.
The clone produced a combat knife from an ankle sheath and held it up in a silent question.
Henry nodded. He did trust the kid. Strangely, he felt like he’d always trusted him.
Junior Hitman got up on his knees, took hold of Henry’s left bicep and pushed the point of the blade into a spot a couple of inches below the curve of his shoulder.
“Jesus!” Danny said, flinching; even Baron caught his breath. Henry held still. It didn’t tickle but it wasn’t the most painful bit of impromptu field surgery he had ever endured. It wasn’t even the worst thing that had happened to him tonight. Danny was rummaging around in her burn bag and Henry knew she was looking for something to use as a bandage. Ms. First Aid to the rescue.
After almost half a minute, Junior sat back and showed Henry a small black square on the tip of his knife. “They chipped you,” he said. “Remember that surgery on your torn bicep, three years ago?”
Danny was already painting the incision with something cool that stung slightly. “I feel stupid,” she said as she wound a strip of cloth around his arm and tied it. “I should have guessed. It’s so obvious.”
“ Everything’s obvious if you know,” Henry said darkly. He plucked the chip off the end of the knife and flicked it into the darkness.
“Verris—” Baron started.
“You know him, too?” The kid looked at Baron in genuine astonishment.
“We served in the Marine Corps with him—Panama, Kuwait, Somalia,” replied Baron. “Can you take us to his lab?”
The kid nodded. “Sure, but why?”
“We need to shut him down,” Henry said. “You and me, together.”
Junior Hitman nodded. “I’m parked on the other side of the runway.”
Junior’s heart beat faster as he drove toward the Gemini compound. He glanced at Henry beside him. Henry was so sure of himself, so steady and focused, a man who always knew what he was doing. Clay Verris had raised him to be like that but he could never quite get there, no matter what he did.
Like now—he knew he was doing the right thing, throwing in with Henry and the other two. He had been lied to and used and it had left him feeling wobbly and precarious. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen when they got to the Gemini lab. What was he going to do? Or maybe the real question was, what would he be able to do?
Everything had always been so clear when he had trusted his father and believed in him. Any time he was confused, his father would straighten everything out. Not any more. He’d never be able to turn to his father again for answers or clarity or reassurance or anything else. But Henry seemed to have faith in him. He could tell even though Henry had never said so.
He wanted to ask what Henry expected of him, what they were going to do not just when they got to the lab but afterwards, for the rest of their lives. But what he heard himself say was, “You grew up in Philly, right?”
Henry raised his eyebrows, a bit surprised by the question. “Hunting Park,” he said. “A place called The Bottom.”
“‘The Bottom?’” Junior frowned, unsure of what to make of that. Henry’s life was completely beyond his experience. He was quiet for few seconds, then decided he had to know. “Who was my—our—mother?”
“ Helen Jackson Brogan,” said Henry with pride in his voice. “She was the strongest, most capable woman I’ve ever known. Worked two jobs for forty years.” Pause. “And she spanked the hell out of me.”
“Did you deserve it?” Junior asked, honestly curious.
Henry chuckled. “Usually. Does being angry and stupid and never trying at anything mean you deserve it? I don’t know.” His voice turned thoughtful. “My—our—father wasn’t around much. He left when I was five.” Pause. “I could never shake the feeling that when she looked at me, she saw him. So I went off and joined the Marines, grew up, made some friends—real friends, not Badlands punks whose biggest accomplishment when they grew up would be making parole. I found something I was good at and I even got medals for it. By the time I got out with all my shiny medals on my chest, she was gone. And I became… this.”