Payback: Chapters 12–18

But that was medium security, and Rackoff never killed anybody; he just bamboozled them.

Killer. The word reverberates inside my mind.

Sure, there were many deaths from Mickey Seven’s bombings; Yvonne-Marie Delacroix’s daring robberies claimed casualties; Gus Alabaster ordered hits on his gangland enemies; and people were certainly ruined in C. J. Rackoff’s frauds and swindles, even if nobody actually died.

“A lab capable of human cloning might be capable of taking the next logical step—converting female to male.”
“You can do that?” I ask, aghast.
“We’re already talking about rogue science here,” he explains pleasantly.

For example, since there’s you, I deduce that there are others like you.

And not all of them were spliced off a tech billionaire. I’m guessing there were other candidates to donate DNA, and at least some lacked the willpower to say no.

I close the partition so the driver can’t overhear us, and face him across the backseat.

“So are we, like, cousins or something?”
“Actually, I think I’m your great aunt,” I tell him ruefully.

I turn on our attackers, assuming they must be Purple People Eaters.

They toss us in the back of a closed panel truck marked FLARE STUNT SERVICES AND PYROTECHNICS and throw a tarp over us.

And it’s not like there’s somebody I can talk to about it, since I’m the only one it’s ever happened to.
Whatever. There’s no point in rehashing all that.

He got mixed up with the wrong crowd and wound up in prison for a petty theft.

His gender must have been altered in the process—probably Felix’s ploy to keep me from learning the truth if I ever stumbled on the project.

A massive manhunt has yet to turn up any sign of him. It only underscores the feeling that everything from our past has vanished.

With Ms. Dunleavy’s help, I’ve designed an internet bot to scour every media outlet on the planet for the appearance together of two keywords: criminal and DNA.

WEST CAY, BAHAMAS: An investigation into a string of hotel room robberies on this idyllic island has led to a baffling mystery.

Scientists assert that it is impossible for even close relatives to present a genetic match of this exactitude.

They’re more than just the personnel of Project Osiris. They’re the parents who raised us, who loved us in their way; the Purples who kept us in line, and always just a little off balance; the kids we grew up with, including other clones who are still completely in the dark about who and what they really are.

It’s Felix Hammerstrom, his near-black eyes staring at the camera as if he can spot us, pinpoint our location, and dispatch a helicopter full of Purples to Wyoming to scoop us up.

“Same old Felix,” Ms. Dunleavy comments with a wan chuckle.

“The problem is which cops do we call? West Cay is part of the Bahamas. American authorities have no jurisdiction there.”

“Like he deserves to get rich,” Malik broods.

“Amber—” I begin warily. My best friend’s face is red and getting redder.

“He’s got Rackoff bankrolling him now. And if Osiris goes underground again, we’ll never find them. It was a total fluke that we found them this time!”

“Here’s a practical question,” ventures Tori. “West Cay is eighty miles off the coast of Florida. We’re in Wyoming, on the other side of the continent. We’ve got no money, and one of the richest, most powerful women in the world doesn’t want us to go. How are we going to get there?”

How? The same way we managed to break out of Serenity and elude the Purples and find Tamara Dunleavy and break Rackoff out of jail and crisscross the country and make our way to Ms. Dunleavy again.

We tiptoe through the big house, peering fearfully around us for cameras Tori’s scrutiny might have missed.

Just one more theft on my already guilty conscience.

For all his bluster, Malik is very careful backing out and turning the car around.

Only the car’s state-of-the-art halogen headlights show us where the pavement ends, giving way to precipitous slopes and outright cliffs.

“Harder on the throttle!” I shout.
He’s clueless. “Where’s that?”
“The twisty doohickey on the handlebars!”

Still hanging on with one arm, I pivot on the seat in a vain attempt to defend myself.

Suddenly, the pursuing motorcycle begins to wobble and fall away behind us, my attacker’s expression changing from fury to dismay.

There’s a handful of small planes scattered around the tarmac, and a grand total of two cars in the parking lot.

We’ve learned a lot since escaping Happy Valley, but I guess we’re still kind of clueless about what things cost in the real world. So much for chartering a plane for our piddly hundred bucks.

The floor shakes, the seats shake, the bulkheads shake, and the wings shudder as if they’re about to fall off.

“Bad news, you guys. I just heard from the tower in West Cay. Our clearance to land has been revoked.”

Who has more clout than a billionaire?

“If I touch down on that island, I could lose my license. I could be arrested. Brutus could be impounded.”

“I never should have agreed to take you kids,” Shanahan laments.