Chapter 72: The Confrontation with Mark

I stared at Mark. The gun was steady, but his eyes were not. They were wide, frantic, the eyes of a drowning man.

"You're bleeding," I said, looking at the purple bruises blooming on his arm. "Just like Leo."

"Worse than Leo," Mark said, his voice cracking. "Leo has treatments. Leo has you. I had nothing. Just Edith."

"She poisoned you," I said. "She made you sick so you'd need her."

"I know!" Mark shouted. The sound echoed in the dead man's study. "I know what she is. But she has the marrow. She has the only match."

"No," I said. "She doesn't. Leo has the match. Clara has the match."

"Clara is old," Mark said. "Her marrow is failing. And Leo... Leo is a child. He can't donate enough to save me."

He took a step closer, the gun unwavering.

"But the baby," he whispered. "Subject 12's son. He's perfect. Edith promised me. If I brought you to her... if I stopped you... she would give me the cure."

"She's lying, Mark," Ben said, stepping forward. "She doesn't want to cure you. She wants to own you."

"Stay back!" Mark yelled, swinging the gun toward Ben.

"Mark, look at me," I said. "We're family. We're the same. We were made in the same lab. We share the same blood."

"That's the problem," Mark said. "The blood is bad, Sarah. It's cursed."

He reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a phone.

"I have to call her," he said. "I have to tell her I have you."

"She's gone," I said. "She's running."

"She's not running," Mark said. "She's regrouping. She's at the airfield. She's waiting for me."

The airfield.

"Which one?" Ben asked.

"Teterboro," Mark said. "The private hangar. She has a jet."

"She's taking the baby," I realized. "She's taking the new heir and leaving the country."

"And she's taking me," Mark said. "If I bring you."

He raised the phone.

"Don't," Lucia said.

Mark ignored her. He dialed a number.

"Edith? It's Mark. I have them."

A pause.

"Yes. All of them. Vance is... dealt with."

He listened for a moment, his face paling.

"What? No. No, you promised."

He lowered the phone slowly. The call had ended.

"What did she say?" I asked.

Mark looked at me. He looked like a child who had just been told Santa wasn't real.

"She said the plane is full," he whispered. "She said there's no room for... damaged goods."

He dropped the phone. It clattered onto the hardwood floor.

"She left me," he said. "She left me to die."

The gun lowered. The fight drained out of him. He sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands.

"She's going to St. Lucia," I said. "To the island."

"She won't make it," Ben said. "We can stop her at the airport."

"We don't have time," I said. "Teterboro is an hour away. If she's already there..."

"I can stop her," Mark said. His voice was muffled by his hands.

He looked up. His eyes were dry now. Cold.

"I know the tail number," he said. "And I know the pilot. He owes me money."

He picked up the phone.

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"I'm going to ground her," Mark said.

He dialed a new number.

"Joey? It's Mark. Yeah. Listen. The flight plan for N455S. Cancel it. No, don't ask why. Just do it. Tell air traffic control there's a mechanical issue. A fuel leak."

He listened. Then he nodded.

"Good. And Joey? If she tries to take off anyway... block the runway."

He hung up.

"She's stuck," Mark said. "For now."

"We have to get there," I said. "Before she finds another way out."

"I'm coming with you," Mark said, standing up. He winced, clutching his ribs.

"You're hurt," I said. "And you're sick."

"I'm dying," Mark said. "But I'm not dead yet. And I want to look her in the eye when she falls."

We ran back to the car. The drive to Teterboro was a blur of adrenaline and fear. We broke every speed limit, weaving through traffic like a missile.

We reached the airfield just as the sun was fully up. The perimeter fence was chain link, topped with razor wire.

"There," Ben said, pointing.

A sleek, white jet sat on the tarmac. A fuel truck was parked in front of its nose, blocking the path.

And standing by the stairs of the plane, arguing with a man in a jumpsuit, was Edith.

She was holding the baby.

"We have to be careful," I said. "She has a hostage."

"I'll draw her fire," Mark said. "She won't shoot me. She thinks I'm still useful."

"She just told you you're damaged goods," I reminded him.

"That's why she won't shoot," Mark said. "She wants to watch me suffer."

He opened the car door.

"Mark, wait—"

But he was already running toward the fence.

"Edith!" he screamed.

She turned. Even from this distance, I could see the sneer on her face.

She said something to the pilot. He backed away, hands raised.

Edith pulled a gun.

Mark didn't stop. He climbed the fence, ignoring the wire tearing at his clothes. He dropped onto the tarmac and kept running.

"Give him back!" he yelled. "He's not yours!"

Edith raised the gun.

She didn't hesitate.

*Bang.*

Mark stumbled. He clutched his chest. But he didn't fall. He kept moving.

*Bang.*

This time, he fell.

"No!" I screamed.

I scrambled out of the car. Ben and Lucia were right behind me. We ran toward the gate.

Edith looked at us. She looked at Mark, bleeding on the asphalt.

And then she smiled.

She turned and ran up the stairs of the jet. The door began to close.

"She's taking off!" Ben yelled. "The truck isn't blocking the wing!"

The jet engines whined to life, a high-pitched scream that drowned out my own. The plane began to move, turning sharply, avoiding the fuel truck.

She was going to make it.

I ran to Mark. He was lying on his back, staring at the sky. His shirt was soaked in blood.

"Sarah," he whispered.

"Hold on," I said, pressing my hands to the wound. "Help is coming."

"It doesn't matter," he said. "I stopped her."

"You didn't stop her," I said, watching the jet taxi toward the runway. "She's leaving."

"No," Mark said. A small, bloody smile touched his lips.

"I didn't call the pilot about a fuel leak," he whispered. "I called the mechanic."

"What?"

"I told him to loosen the lug nuts on the landing gear," Mark said.

I looked at the plane. It was picking up speed, roaring down the runway.

"Watch," Mark whispered.

The jet lifted off the ground. Ten feet. Twenty.

And then, the left wheel detached.

It fell to the tarmac, bouncing harmlessly away.

But the strut didn't retract. It dug into the runway.

Sparks flew. Metal screamed.

The wing dipped.

The tip caught the asphalt.

The plane cartwheeled.

It spun off the runway, crashing into the grass. The fuselage snapped in two.

Fire erupted.

"No!" I screamed. "The baby!"