UNDERGROUND
1584 Words
CARTER
I woke up to the smell of antiseptic and the sound of angels arguing.
"—told you, he needs actual medical attention. That eye could have permanent damage—"
"And I told you, the second we walk into an ER, we're dead. Or did you miss the part where every cop in America is looking for us?"
Definitely not angels. Angels wouldn't bicker like an old married couple.
I forced my eyes open—well, eye. The right one was still playing hard to get. I was lying on a bed in a room I didn't recognize, IV in my arm, bandages covering most of my torso.
Two women stood at the foot of the bed: Maya, looking pissed off and gorgeous, and another woman I didn't know. Asian, late twenties, doctor's coat over tactical pants. Her hands were covered in my blood.
"He's awake," the stranger said, noticing me. She moved closer, shining a penlight in my working eye. "Pupil response good. How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck, reversed over, then hit again for good measure."
"Accurate assessment." She clicked off the penlight. "I'm Dr. Eliza Moon. Maya called in a favor."
"A big favor," Maya added, arms crossed. "Eliza's risking her license being here."
"License?" I croaked. "Try risking her life. They're hunting us."
Eliza shrugged. "Maya saved my life once. We're even now." She started checking my bandages. "Three broken ribs, second-degree burns, severe contusions, and a concussion. You should be in a hospital."
"Can't exactly check into Mount Sinai right now."
"Hence why you're in my basement." Eliza finished her examination. "The IV is antibiotics and fluids. You'll live, but you need rest. Real rest, not whatever macho bullshit you're planning."
Maya snorted. "Good luck with that."
I tried sitting up. Bad idea. My ribs screamed bloody murder, and the room spun like a carnival ride.
"Or you could lie down and not be an i***t," Eliza said flatly. "Novel concept."
I lay back down. "Where are we?"
"Brooklyn," Maya answered. "Eliza's place. It's secure—ish. We dumped the Honda six blocks away, took surface streets, doubled back three times. If they tracked us here, we've got bigger problems."
"They found the warehouse in under an hour."
"I know." She looked troubled. "Which means they either have incredible intel or..."
"Or what?"
"Or we're tagged somehow." Eliza pulled out a scanner that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie. "Which is why I'm checking. Hold still."
She ran the device over my body, watching the readout. After a minute, she paused at my left shoulder blade, frowning.
"What?" I asked.
"You've got a subdermal tracker. Military grade, probably implanted during a routine medical check at some point." She looked at Maya. "You too. Right hip."
Maya's face went white. "What?"
"CIA and NSA both use them for their operatives," Eliza explained. "Most agents don't even know they have them. They're activated remotely when you become a liability."
"Can you remove them?" I asked.
"Yes, but it's going to hurt like hell, and you're not exactly in peak condition."
"Do it anyway."
Twenty minutes later, I had a fresh wound in my shoulder blade and a tiny piece of tech the size of a rice grain sitting in a dish. Maya's extraction had gone smoother—she'd barely flinched.
"Told you I was tougher," she said, pressing gauze to her hip.
"You weren't tortured for three days first."
"Excuses, excuses."
Despite everything, I found myself almost smiling. Almost.
Eliza disposed of the trackers in a way that involved hydrochloric acid and a lot of precautions. "That should buy you some time," she said. "But you can't stay here long. A day, maybe two."
"Understood." Maya checked her phone—one of several burners she'd picked up. "We need information. Someone's orchestrating this, and they've got serious resources."
"The Zodiac files," I said. "That's the key. Whatever they are, someone thinks we have them."
"But we don't."
"Right. Which means we need to find out what they actually are and why everyone's so hot to get their hands on them."
Eliza perked up. "Zodiac? That's a weird name."
"You know something?" Maya asked sharply.
"Maybe. I worked at a CDC facility a few years back, mostly infectious disease research. But there was a black project in the sub-levels, totally classified. Called it 'Zodiac Protocol.'" She frowned, remembering. "Never knew what it was about, but the researchers who worked on it were... twitchy. Paranoid. One of them, Dr. Reyes, she—"
I sat bolt upright, ignoring my ribs. "What did you say?"
"Dr. Reyes. Elena Reyes. Geneticist, brilliant woman. Why?"
My heart was pounding. "That was my mother's name."
The room went silent.
"Your mother was dead," Maya said slowly. "You said she died when you were three."
"That's what they told me." My mind was racing. "But what if they lied? What if—"
"Wait." Maya's voice had gone strange. "Eliza, this Dr. Reyes. What did she look like?"
"Um, Hispanic, I think? Dark hair, green eyes. Pretty. Why?"
Maya pulled out her phone with shaking hands. She navigated to an NSA database—how she still had access, I didn't want to know—and pulled up a file. A photo appeared on screen.
Dr. Elena Reyes. Dark hair. Green eyes.
The same green eyes staring at me from Maya's face.
"Holy s**t," Eliza breathed.
I looked at Maya. Really looked. The bone structure I'd noticed before, the strange familiarity. The Spanish lullaby we both remembered.
"We need a DNA test," I said. "Now."
MAYA
This couldn't be happening.
Eliza had the equipment—of course she did, because apparently my friend was prepared for every possible medical emergency including impromptu paternity tests. Or in this case, sibling tests.
She drew blood from both of us, her hands steady even though mine were shaking.
"It'll take a few hours for results," she said quietly. "Maybe you two should talk while we wait."
Talk. Right. What the hell was I supposed to say?
Carter and I sat in Eliza's living room, separated by three feet and possibly a lifetime of lies. He looked as shell-shocked as I felt.
"The lullaby," he said finally. "You remember it too?"
I nodded. "I always thought it was just a dream. Something I made up because I wanted to believe someone loved me once."
"Same." He ran a hand through his hair, wincing at the movement. "They told me my mother died in a car accident. Father unknown. No family."
"They told me my parents abandoned me at an NSA facility. No records of who they were." I laughed bitterly. "We're both orphans of the state, raised to be weapons."
"Maybe that's all this is," Carter said. "Coincidence. Similar backgrounds, similar training. We're reading into—"
"You don't believe that any more than I do."
He didn't argue.
My phone buzzed. I checked it, then cursed. "Marcus Reid just sent me an encrypted message."
"Who's Marcus Reid?"
"Aries. Zodiac codename. He's a Marine—well, ex-Marine. Dishonorably discharged for 'reasons.'" I pulled up the message. "He says he's been tracking the Zodiac Protocol for six months. Says there are twelve of us."
"Twelve what?"
"Operatives. Each one tagged with a zodiac sign." I kept reading, my blood going cold. "Carter. We're both on the list."
I turned the phone to show him. There it was, in black and white:
ZODIAC PROTOCOL - ACTIVE SUBJECTS
Subject 10: CAPRICORN - Carter Reyes (alias: Stone)
Subject 8: SCORPIO - Mira Reyes (alias: Cross)
Carter's face had gone pale. "Mira. That's... that's a name from my dreams. I thought I made it up."
My vision blurred. "Carter, that's my real name. Mira Reyes. I haven't heard it in twenty-three years."
The room tilted. Carter was there suddenly, his hand on my shoulder, steadying me.
"Breathe," he ordered. "Just breathe."
I did. In and out. In and out.
"They took us from her," I said, the pieces clicking into place. "From Elena. They took us and renamed us and made us into—"
"Weapons," Carter finished. His jaw was tight. "The Protocol. It's not about files. It's about us."
Eliza appeared in the doorway, tablet in hand. Her face was grim.
"Results are back," she said quietly.
We both stood, moving toward her like condemned prisoners approaching the gallows.
"Just tell us," I said.
Eliza took a breath. "You share fifty percent of your DNA through maternal markers. Same mother, different fathers." She looked between us. "You're half-siblings."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Carter sat down hard. I stayed standing because if I sat, I'd never get back up.
"How long have they known?" I asked. My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else. "The CIA, NSA, whoever's running this. How long have they known we're related?"
"Since the beginning, probably," Carter said. He sounded hollow. "They separated us deliberately. Raised us in different agencies. Made sure we'd never know."
"But why? What's the endgame?"
"I don't know. But—" He pulled out his phone, accessing something. "Marcus sent more files. Subject profiles."
I moved to read over his shoulder. There were indeed twelve subjects, each tagged with a zodiac sign. Each one recruited young from tragic circumstances. Each one molded into a
perfect operative.
And at the bottom of the file, a single line that made my blood freeze:
PROTOCOL
- Writer
