Chapter 16
1019 Words
Chapter 16
ALEX
I thought about Damien's furious words from last night: *I specifically warned you that getting involved with the Snow family would get you killed.* What had the real Marcus learned about my family that had prompted such desperate warnings?
"Alright," I said, the words tasting like surrender and determination in equal measure. "Let's do it. When do we move on Marcus?"
"Team's assembling now. We'll intercept him at the private terminal, quick and clean. I'll text you the location where we're taking him. You should be there—he'll need to see your face, understand that someone's been impersonating him."
"Jensen," I said before he could hang up, "about the rescue staging—how badly beaten are we talking here?"
There was a long pause. "Bad enough to be convincing. Bad enough that Lily won't question why you couldn't escape on your own. But nothing permanent, nothing that won't heal."
I touched my ribs, remembering the brutal beating that had preceded my awakening to these new abilities. The system had healed me then, but the memory of that pain remained visceral and immediate.
"Do it," I said, forcing steel into my voice. "Whatever it takes to sell the illusion."
"Good man. I'll see you at thirteen hundred hours. And Alex? Try to get some rest. You're going to need it."
He hung up before I could laugh at the absurdity of that suggestion.
Rest. Right. As if I could sleep knowing what was coming.
I spent the next few hours preparing, though what exactly I was preparing for remained unclear. I checked and rechecked my emergency documents—the fake IDs Jensen had prepared, offshore account numbers, emergency contact protocols. I inventoried the enhanced abilities the system had granted me, running through mental exercises to ensure I could activate them quickly if needed.
And I tried very hard not to think about Damien Carter's shoulder wound, or the way he'd held my wife, or the growing suspicion that nothing in my life was what it seemed.
At noon, I received Jensen's text with an address—an industrial warehouse near the docks, isolated and anonymous. I took a rideshare there, watching the city pass by through tinted windows and wondering if this would be my last day of freedom before walking back into the trap that was my marriage.
The warehouse was exactly what I'd expected: concrete floors, high ceilings, the smell of rust and old machinery. Jensen was already there with three other men I recognized from his security company—ex-military types with hard eyes and efficient movements.
"Marcus's flight is on approach," Jensen informed me, checking his watch. "We've got a customs agent on payroll who'll expedite his processing and direct him to the private exit where we'll be waiting. Should be quick and clean."
"And if he travels with security?" I asked.
"His usual detail is two men. We'll handle them—sedative darts, non-lethal. They'll wake up in a few hours with headaches and no clear memory of what happened. Happens more than you'd think with private security—they'll probably assume they were drugged by competitors or foreign agents."
I wanted to object to the casual way Jensen discussed drugging innocent security personnel, but I'd long since passed the point where I could claim moral high ground. I'd broken into my own company's servers, stolen corporate secrets, impersonated another person, and was now planning to stage my own k********g and rescue.
When had I become this person?
[System Alert: Subject exhibiting signs of moral crisis. Recommend focusing on end goals rather than immediate ethical concerns.]
"Not helpful," I muttered under my breath.
Jensen gave me a curious look but said nothing. He was probably used to my random comments to the system by now.
An hour later, we got the signal. Marcus Holloway had cleared customs and was heading to the private exit with his two-man security detail.
"Positions," Jensen ordered quietly.
His team moved with practiced efficiency, flanking the exit route while Jensen and I waited in a black SUV with tinted windows. My heart hammered against my ribs as I watched the terminal doors.
And then he emerged.
Marcus Holloway in the flesh, looking exactly like the face I'd worn last night except relaxed and unbloodied. He was talking on his phone, his security detail flanking him with professional alertness, wheeling luggage behind them.
He never saw it coming.
Jensen's team moved like ghosts. Two tranquilizer darts for the security personnel, who crumpled soundlessly to the ground. One of Jensen's men caught Marcus from behind, hand over mouth, while another jabbed a syringe into his neck.
Marcus struggled for perhaps three seconds before the sedative took effect. His phone clattered to the pavement as he went limp.
The entire operation took less than thirty seconds.
We were pulling away from the terminal before anyone could raise an alarm, Marcus Holloway unconscious in the back seat beside me while Jensen's team stayed behind to clean up the scene—collecting the security guards, sanitizing the area, erasing any evidence that Marcus Holloway had ever arrived.
I stared at the unconscious man beside me, seeing the face that I had borrowed face slack with unconsciousness, and felt a wave of revulsion at what I'd become.
"Second thoughts?" Jensen asked from the driver's seat, watching me in the rearview mirror.
"Too many to count," I admitted. "But we're past the point of no return now."
"We passed that point the day your wife tried to have you killed," Jensen said grimly. "Everything since then has just been survival."
Marcus began to stir as we pulled into the warehouse, the sedative wearing off faster than expected. His eyes fluttered open, confusion giving way to panic as he registered his surroundings and restraints.
"What—where am I? Who—"
Then his eyes landed on my face, and he went very still.
"Hello, Marcus," I said quietly. "My name is Alex Snow. And I think we need to talk about why someone tried to kill me last night while wearing your face."
- Writer
