Doctor Angela Fallow squinted through the rain-streaked windshield, struggling to catch a glimpse of her subject in the lengthening gloom. A few minutes ago the streetlights had flickered into life, but despite their yellowed glow, shadows still clung to the house across the street. Tall hedges marked the boundary with the neighboring properties, while a white picket fence stood between her car and the old cottage.
Leaning closer to the window, Angela held her breath to keep the glass from fogging, and willed her eyes to pierce the twilight. But beyond the brightly-lit sidewalk, she could see nothing but darkness. Letting out a long sigh, she sat back in her seat. There was no sign of anyone outside the house, no silent shadows slipping closer to the warm light beckoning from the windows.
At least, no sign that could be seen.
Berating her nerves, Angela turned her attention to the touchscreen on her dashboard. She had no wish to see a repeat of the casualties her team had suffered in Sacramento. She cursed as the soft glow of the screen lit the car, before she remembered the tinted windows made it impossible for anyone to see inside.
Angela pursed her lips, studying the charts on the screen one last time. It showed a woman in her early forties. Auburn hair hung around her shoulders and she wore the faintest hint of a smile on her red lips. The smile spread to her cheeks, crinkling the skin around her olive-green eyes.
Margaret Sanders.
Beneath the picture was a description of the woman: height, weight, license number, last known address, school and work history, her current occupation as a college professor, and marital status. The last was listed as widowed with a single child. Her husband had succumbed to cancer almost a decade previously.
Shaking her head, Angela looked again at the woman's eyes, wondering what could have driven her to this end. She had a house, a son, solid employment as a teacher. Why would she throw it all away when she had so much to lose?
Idly, she wondered whether Mrs. Sanders would have done things differently if given another chance. The smile lines around her eyes were those of a kind soul, and her alleged support of the resistance seemed out of character. It was a shame the government did not give second chances—especially not for traitors of the state.
Now both mother and son would suffer for her actions.
Tapping the screen, Angela pulled up the son's file. Christopher Sanders, at eighteen, was the reason she had come tonight. The assault team would handle the mother and any of her associates who might be on the property, but Angela had other plans for the son. Like the rest of her subjects, he would need to be taken alive—and unharmed.
His profile described him as five-foot-eleven, with a weight of 150 pounds—not large by any measure. Her only concern was the black belt listed in his credentials, though such accomplishments were rarely relevant when it came to a real fight. Particularly when the target was unarmed, unsuspecting, and outnumbered.
Then again, the girl had given them more trouble than anyone had expected.
Forcing her mind back to the present, Angela tapped the screen again, and a picture of her target popped up. A flicker of discomfort spread through her stomach. His brunette hair showed traces of his mother's auburn locks, while the hazel eyes must have descended from a dominant bey2 allele in his father's chromosome. A hint of light-brown facial hair traced the edges of his jaw, covering the last of his teenage acne. Despite his small size, he had the broad, muscular shoulders of an athlete, and there was little sign of fat on his youthful face.
After a long moment, Angela flicked off the console. She hoped this would be her final assignment. For months now, she had overseen the collection of subjects for the new trials, and the task had not gotten any easier with time. The children she'd taken haunted her at night, their accusing stares waiting whenever she closed her eyes. Her only consolation was that without her, these children would have suffered the same fate as their parents. At least the research facility gave them a fighting chance.
And looking into the boy's eyes, she knew he was a fighter.
Angela closed her eyes, and shoving aside her doubt, she pressed another button on the car's console.
"Are you in position?" she spoke into the empty car.
"Ready when you are, Fallow," a man replied.
Nodding to herself, Fallow reached beneath her seat and retrieved a steel briefcase. Unclipping its restraints, she lifted out a jet injector and held it up to the light. The stainless-steel instrument appeared more like a gun than a piece of medical equipment, but it served its purpose well. Once her team had Chris restrained, it would be a simple matter to use the jet injector to anesthetize the young man for transport.
Removing a vial of etorphine from the case, she screwed it into place and pressed a button on the side. A short hiss confirmed it was pressurized. She eyed the clear liquid, hoping the details in the boy's file were correct. She had prepared the dosage of etorphine for Chris's age and weight, but a miscalculation could prove fatal.
"Fallow, still waiting on your signal?" the voice came again.
Fallow bit her lip and closed her eyes. She shivered in the cold of the car.
If not you, then someone else.
She opened her eyes. "Go."