Instinct, Jason Hough [acx book reading TXT] 📗

almost salivating at the prospect of getting to punch him right in the face. Break his goddamn nose and… a thought occurs to me then. Everyone else here has a broken nose, except for Doc and Ang. And me.

“You will remain calm and passive,” Doc says. “Until myself, or Mr. Ang, say otherwise, you will speak to no one unless directly asked a question. Blink if you understand.”

I blink.

The other man moves around the table and begins to undo the belts on the right side, starting at my arm and then my leg. Finally the strap holding my head back is removed, and the little cup that’s been pressed against my chin is swung aside.

Doc, on my left, is kneeling and working on the leg strap. I could kick him in the face, but then my left hand would still be bound, so I wait.

He stands and leans over to work on the straps on my bound left arm, then pauses.

“Who wrote ‘You need help’ on your hand?” he asks me. Then he adds, “Tell the truth.”

I answer immediately, with the first thing that comes to mind. “Kyle,” I say.

“And why did he do that? Tell the truth.”

The lie had been automatic, coming from seemingly nowhere. Now I have to roll with it. Despite everything, I still don’t want Doc or this other bastard to know the details about what happened in my home the other night, and everything I’ve learned since. Rhod the Biker had been sent by them, of this I’m now sure. Greg had, after all, uttered the same strange words upstairs, apologizing that he couldn’t stop. And his nose…

I try to affect the same tone Captain Tweaker had used earlier, when Doc told him to start the timer on the iPad. Not robotic, exactly, but something close to it.

“A private joke. Kyle wrote it in response to the intensity of our lovemaking the previous evening.”

Straitlaced Doc averts his eyes. “That’s… interesting. Why didn’t you wash it off? Tell the truth.”

“Permanent ink,” I say. This at least is true.

He raises an eyebrow, then nods. He’s blushing a little but evidently satisfied with my responses. He frees my left hand.

“Step out of the chair,” Mr. Ang says.

I lean forward, balling my hands into fists on the armrests. I figure a quick jab to the testicles for each of them should start things off in my favor.

But what would that accomplish? I’m in my underwear, my belt is gone, and with it every weapon I have. I’d be in a room with a doctor and a scientist, neither of whom appear to be carrying weapons, and a house full of who-knows-how-many “henchmen,” I guess is the right word.

As I slowly push myself to a stand I think through what I’ve seen here already. Where’s the nearest door leading to the outside? There’d been floor-to-ceiling windows in the den above us. French doors opening on a patio, or just windows? I wish I’d paid more attention, but that damn timer had filled me with too much worry to put much thought into anything else.

“Follow me,” Ang commands, and turns to leave.

Clearly these people think I’ve been put under some kind of hypnosis. That I’m going to do what they ask. Maybe I can buy some time if I continue to let them believe that. Choose a moment when I can get to my pistol, or the shotgun in my car.

Except my car is miles away and across a steep canyon. So my pistol, then. It could be anywhere, though. They could have tossed it into the trees, or buried it, or anything. So as tempting as it is to beat the shit out of these two, I force myself to calmly comply. I need a way out of here, then I’ll act.

They lead me out of the small room and back through the lab. It takes all my willpower not to stop and study the equipment. I want to gather evidence, memorize all I see here in case it’s important later. But Ang has set a brisk pace, and commanded me to follow, so the best I can manage is a few sidelong glances. There’s a sharps container, and beside it a little stand for holding syringes. I glance the other way. On that table is a machine that barely fits on the surface. It’s blue and has a glass front for viewing the work going on inside. I see only a brief glimpse, but it’s enough. The machine is for making pills. A tray on the bottom holds the bottom half of the lozenges, clear in color. A small robotic arm sweeps across these, spurting a little powder into each. Above, the red top-halves of the pills wait to be pressed down, ready to seal the contents within. A box sitting beside the machine looks to hold about a hundred of the completed product.

Then we’re back through the plastic curtains. Into the elevator, standing around awkwardly as it glides upward. Neither man says a word to me, but they both steal furtive glances. At me. At each other.

“Oral delivery,” Doc mumbles to Ang, almost childishly excited all of a sudden. “It’s finally working!”

“Yes,” Ang replies. More reserved, this one, but there’s a definite note of pride in his voice. “Though the timing is still an issue.”

“So?” Doc asks. “A simple calculation and—”

“Too fiddly. But that’s a hill to climb another day. Right now the important thing is to verify this version and move on to deployment.”

Verify? They’re not convinced of my compliance, I think. Not yet. Not entirely. Hence the test the woman ordered.

I stare straight ahead, doing my best to ignore them. All I have to do is play it cool and take my chance when it comes.

The elevator lurches to a stop. Ang opens the door.

The others are all there when we emerge, with something like regret in their faces. A look of sadness, almost. The look on Greg’s face in particular fills me with a sudden