Chapter 87: The Second Attempt

Ben turned the siren on. It was illegal, reckless, and the only thing cutting through the mid-morning gridlock on the FDR.

"He sent you a selfie?" Lucia asked from the back seat, her voice tight with disbelief. "With a kidnapped baby?"

"He's not hiding," I said, staring at the photo on my phone. The road signs in the background were blurred, but readable. *I-95 South.* "He's taunting us."

"He's heading for the ports," Ben said, swerving around a delivery truck. "Or the airport. Just like Edith."

"No," I said. "He's not leaving. He said *Long live the builder.* He's not running away. He's setting up shop."

I zoomed in on the photo. Subject 12's face was calm, almost bored. But in the reflection of his sunglasses, I saw something.

A logo on the steering wheel.

Not a rental car. Not a stolen sedan.

It was a vintage emblem. A winged horse.

"Is that a Pegasus?" Lucia asked, leaning over the seat.

"It's a Packard," Ben said. "They haven't made those since the fifties."

"A Packard," I repeated.

I thought about the garage at the Estate. The rows of classic cars Edith kept under dust sheets. Archibald's collection.

"He didn't steal a random car," I said. "He stole Archibald's car."

"So he went back to the Estate?" Ben asked.

"No," I said. "The Estate burned. The cars were moved."

I remembered a conversation with Edith, months ago. Before the fire. Before the truth. She was complaining about storage fees.

*"The city garage is bleeding me dry. I should just move them all to the Warehouse."*

"The Warehouse," I said. "In Red Hook. It's where she kept the overflow. The things she didn't want in the house but couldn't bear to throw away."

"Like babies," Lucia whispered.

"No," I said. "Like equipment."

I looked at Ben.

"He's not going to the airport. He's going to the Warehouse. He needs supplies. Incubators. Freezers."

"He's going to rebuild the lab," Ben realized.

"And he has the seed," I said, looking at the baby in the car seat.

We exited the highway, tearing through the streets of Brooklyn. The Warehouse district was a maze of brick and rust, abandoned factories looming like tombstones.

"There," I said, pointing to a nondescript building at the end of a dead-end street. It had no sign, just a heavy steel door and security cameras.

And parked in front of it, gleaming in the gritty sunlight, was a black 1955 Packard.

"He's here," I said.

We pulled up behind the Packard, blocking it in. I grabbed the tire iron from the floor. Ben took a hammer. Lucia, still limping, picked up a heavy flashlight.

We approached the door. It was locked.

"Stand back," Ben said.

He swung the hammer at the keypad. Sparks flew. The lock disengaged with a groan.

We pushed inside.

The Warehouse was vast, a cavern of shadows and dust. It was filled with crates, furniture, old paintings. The detritus of a dynasty.

But in the center of the room, a space had been cleared.

And in that space, a mobile lab had been set up.

Portable generators hummed. Folding tables were covered in equipment. And in the middle, a single, portable incubator.

Subject 12 was standing over it.

He wasn't wearing the suit anymore. He was wearing a lab coat. Edith's lab coat. It was too big for him, the sleeves rolled up.

"You found me," he said, not looking up. "I'm impressed. Edith said you were persistent."

"Where is the baby?" I demanded.

He pointed to the incubator.

The baby was inside. Sleeping. Hooked up to a monitor.

"He's fine," Subject 12 said. "Better than fine. He's thriving."

He picked up a syringe.

"Step away from him," Ben warned, raising the hammer.

Subject 12 laughed.

"You think you can stop this with a hammer?" he asked. "This isn't a construction project. It's a revolution."

He turned to me.

"You destroyed the past, Sarah. But you can't destroy the future. The data is backed up. The samples are secure. And I..."

He tapped his chest.

"I am the proof of concept."

"You're a clone," I said. "A copy."

"I am an improvement," he corrected. "I don't have the weakness. I don't have the morality that holds you back."

He walked toward us.

"Edith was right about one thing. The world is messy. Chaotic. It needs order. It needs... us."

"We're not 'us'," I said. "We're not a species. We're a family. And families don't use each other for parts."

"Is that what you think this is?" he asked. "Using him?"

He gestured to the baby.

"I'm saving him. From you. From the mediocrity of a normal life."

He raised the syringe.

"I'm giving him a purpose."

"No!" Lucia shouted.

She threw the flashlight.

It hit Subject 12 in the shoulder. He staggered, dropping the syringe.

Ben charged.

Subject 12 met him with a kick to the chest that sent Ben flying into a stack of crates.

He was strong. Enhanced.

I swung the tire iron.

He caught it with one hand.

He looked at me, his blue eyes cold.

"Disappointing," he said.

He wrenched the iron from my grip and threw it across the room. Then he backhanded me.

I hit the floor, tasting blood.

Subject 12 walked back to the incubator. He picked up another syringe.

"Now," he said. "Where were we?"

He reached for the baby.

But then, a sound cut through the warehouse.

A siren.

Not police.

A perimeter alarm.

The steel door we had entered through slammed shut. The bolts engaged with a deafening clang.

Red lights began to flash.

*lockdown Initiated.*

Subject 12 looked up, confused.

"I didn't do that," he said.

"Neither did I," I whispered.

A voice echoed from the speakers overhead.

"No," it said. "I did."

It wasn't Edith. It wasn't Martha.

It was a man's voice.

Dr. Thorne.

"I told you I saved something," the voice said. "I saved the override codes."

The vents in the ceiling opened.

Gas began to hiss into the room.

"Sleeping gas," Thorne said. "You're all going to take a nap. And when you wake up... the police will be here."

Subject 12 snarled. He grabbed the incubator.

"I'm not going back in a cage!" he yelled.

He ran for the loading dock doors.

"They're sealed," Thorne said. "It's over, Twelve."

Subject 12 didn't stop. He pulled a small device from his pocket.

A detonator.

"Not again," I whispered.

"If I can't leave," Subject 12 shouted, "no one leaves!"

He raised his thumb.

"Drop it!" I screamed.

I scrambled to my feet. I didn't run at him. I ran at the incubator.

I grabbed the handle.

Subject 12 hesitated.

"Let go," he warned.

"Blow it," I said. "Blow us all up. Destroy the legacy. Destroy the future."

I looked him in the eye.

"Prove you're just a broken copy."

He stared at me. His thumb hovered over the button. The gas was getting thicker, a white fog descending from the ceiling.

His hand shook.

"I am the builder," he whispered.

"You're just a boy," I said. "A lonely, angry boy."

He lowered the detonator.

"Take him," he said.

He shoved the incubator toward me.

Then he turned and ran.

Not for the door. For the office in the back.

He smashed the window and climbed through.

The gas was heavy now. My eyelids felt like lead.

I looked at Ben. He was slumped against the crates, unconscious. Lucia was on the floor.

I looked at the baby. He was sleeping, safe in his plastic bubble.

I sank to my knees.

The last thing I saw before the darkness took me was the flashing red light of the alarm.

And the empty window where my brother had been.