Toys - James Patterson [61]
But my body felt better than I had any right to expect, and I cranked up my speed until I was flying along in smooth, ten-yard strides.
There was hardly any traffic along the narrow lake road—one of the reasons I liked it here. A delivery vehicle with the logo of Ultima Medical Supplies zipped past me, and a few minutes later, I saw that it had pulled into a service area ahead.
When I got there, the driver was leaning into the rear door, struggling with what appeared to be a large machine for delivery.
I slowed to a trot. “Need help?” I called. This was the kind of thing that Lizbeth hated about me—what she called my “mindless do-gooder impulses.”
“Would you mind? Damn thing slipped off its tracks,” called the driver—a female worker, as it turned out.
Her voice set off a tiny tick in my mind—like maybe I’d heard it before. But the sound was muffled, and where could I have run into this particular delivery person? I dismissed the thought as another one of my recent quirks, exactly what Lizbeth had warned me about.
As I walked closer, she hopped inside the vehicle and began moving her fingers expertly across the machine’s controls. As I looked on, the machine came to life with little clicks and whirs, the monitor readouts flashing.
“That’s an impressive piece of equipment,” I said. “What’s it do?”
“Oh, it’s an ultrasound scanner—uses sonic waves to destroy foreign objects in the body, like kidney stones or blood clots,” she answered.
Then the delivery person swung around and looked straight at me.
“Or the tracking chip that effing Lizbeth planted in your brain,” she said. “Hello, Hays.”
Chapter 81
IN THAT INSTANT, I recognized both the face and the voice. She was the terrorist who’d led the attack on Lizbeth and me after the president’s party.
I lunged toward her—but an electronic jolt slammed into my eyes and immediately pierced through to the back of my skull.
Then came a loud pop, and I felt as if I were getting smashed with a hammer on the inside of my head.
I spun away in agony, clutching my temple. Then I felt her hands catch my shoulders.
I managed clumsily to grab hold of her, determined to take her down too.
But the female terrorist didn’t fight or pull away—just held on to me, almost in an embrace.
“Calm down, Hays,” she soothed. “You’ll be all better in a few seconds. Trust me.”
When she spoke my name, a powerful whirlwind of images erupted in my memory—all the things that had really happened during the days when I thought I’d been lying unconscious in an Elite hospital. Stunned and confused as I was, I understood immediately.
“Lucy?” I said hoarsely.
Chapter 82
“OF COURSE IT’S me. Are you strong enough to stand on your own?” she asked. I nodded, and we moved apart.
Like she’d promised, the viselike grip of pain in my skull was easing, and my thinking seemed clearer already. Suddenly, I remembered a whole lot of things that had happened after the motorcycle crash—Russia, England, France, Lucy, the murder of my parents by Jax Moore.
“Lizbeth planted a chip in my brain?” I groaned, lowering my face into my hands. “Is that true, Lucy? Careful now, I don’t think I can handle too many more lies.”
“Poor Hays. I started suspecting the worst when the Elites kept following us, and the MI7 confirmed it during that phony interrogation in London. That’s why Sir Nigel sent you to the meeting in France.”
“What?” I jerked my head up and stared at her. “He wanted to get the resistance leaders killed? That’s insane, Lucy. Even if there is a war going on.”
“Take it easy, Hays. He wanted the Elites to think they’re dead,” Lucy said. “So we set up a ruse, a very clever one. Those were just clones at the château. No one died. The real leaders are in hiding, and still hard at work. Desperate measures for desperate times. This is a war—to the death. Hopefully, not ours.”
I exhaled slowly, trying to grasp all that I was hearing now. I’d suspected Lucy of treachery at first, but the real informant was me. And Sir Nigel had played me like a piano. As an ex-agent,