“Oh, they will? Because they always stop the villain? They may try, and they might even believe they’re doing the right thing. But they’ll have to realize that I’m the one working for the greater good here. And they’ll have to get through you to get to me.”
“That’s never worked for anyone else.”
“I’m not anyone else, am I?”
She wriggled her hands, strained her arms, but the tape held tight, pinching her skin in the process. This was wrong, all wrong, like some kind of tabloid headline gone astray. The son of the Destructor and the daughter of Captain Olympus—but Paulson didn’t know. She had to assume that the mayor had never learned who his father was. He was as wrapped up in the history of this experiment as she was.
She shook her head. “You’re just like everyone else. I’ve heard this all before. I’ve seen it all before. No one who’s ever tried to destroy Commerce City like this has ever succeeded.”
“I’m not trying to destroy the city—”
“But you might succeed anyway. Your father would be so proud. He was always trying the direct approach.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your biological mother was a technician in this lab fifty years ago. She was present when the accident happened. Your father, Simon Sito, was also present. It begs the question: What mutation did their genes pass on to you?”
He laughed nervously. “I think you’ve just crossed the line into madness.”
“I looked up the adoption records.”
He stopped his pacing, his gloating over his accomplishment, and stared at her. She might have played the card too early. Distracted him at the wrong moment. But she had to buy time. She had to trust that someone would come get her. Her lack of fear, all the times she’d been in situations like this and been able to hide her fear—it hadn’t been out of indifference, or boredom.
She’d always believed her family would rescue her.
Nothing to do but keep on. “Haven’t you ever wondered about your real parents? Haven’t you ever wanted to find the records? You’re the mayor, you could have seen the files whenever you wanted.” When he didn’t reply, she kept on. “You’
re like me. You inherited the mutation from both sides of the family. But what did it do to you? You have to ask yourself that now, don’t you? What has the mutation done to Mark?”
He went to the table, found the roll of duct tape, and cut off a piece. Returning to her, he slapped it over her mouth. Didn’t bother securing it all the way. It didn’t matter—she couldn’t open her mouth at all.
She couldn’t gasp through her nose; she tried catch her breath and to stay calm. Maybe she could scoot the chair over to the electrical outlet and pull the cord out with her feet.
Her cell phone rang. It was still in her front pocket. She hadn’t turned it off. She’d done stupider things in her life, she supposed.
Everyone in the room—except Paulson—checked pockets and belts. Paulson looked at her, then came over. Checked her out, found the pocket. Moving to stand behind the chair, he reached forward, almost embracing her, and worked his hand into that pocket. He didn’t bother trying to be quick about it, or gentle. He moved slowly, searching, kneading along her hip. If her phone hadn’t been in the way, he’d have done more, reaching as far as the pocket would allow. Her skin crawled. She looked over her shoulder at him. Glared, trying to catch his gaze. The bastard was groping her and wouldn’t even look her in the eye.
He finally pulled out the phone, with enough time to answer before the ringing stopped.
“Hello? Who is this? Mark, hi! This is your father. Yes, she’s here, but she’s a little tied up at the moment.”
Why did people think that was funny?
Celia wished she could hear Mark’s reply. He wasn’t shouting, which was probably good. Was he here? Outside the building? Had he found the car, traced it to West Corp, and guessed it was hers?
Paulson continued his side of the conversation. “No, I haven’t hurt her, except maybe her pride. Hopefully the situation will stay that way—”
He lowered the phone, regarded it thoughtfully for a moment, then clicked it off and tossed it on a nearby table. “Oh well. Weber, how close are we?”
“I’m still not sure we can draw enough power—”
“You’ve been working on that problem for weeks.”
“Yes, I know sir, and I swear we’ve done everything we can—”
“It’ll have to be enough, won’t it? We’ll probably have some unwelcome visitors shortly. We have to do this now.”
Now. Now the Olympiad would crash through the doors, flames bursting and a wind buffeting in their wake. Her mother would come to her first, rip off the duct tape, and start crying.