Chapter 93: The Living Will

Senator Reeves didn't ask questions. He didn't argue. He just sent a helicopter.

We met it on a private airstrip in Montauk, a ribbon of concrete hidden between the dunes and the ocean. Lucia carried the green-eyed baby—Generation Five. I carried the blue-eyed baby—Generation Four.

Ben drove the SUV into the hangar and covered it with a tarp.

"This feels wrong," he said, watching the chopper descend. "Trusting these people."

"We're not trusting them," I said. "We're using them."

The helicopter touched down, kicking up a storm of sand and grass. A man in a flight suit jumped out and opened the door.

"Ms. Sterling?" he shouted over the rotors. "We have orders to take you to the secure facility."

"Where?" I asked.

"Undisclosed location," he said. "For your protection."

I climbed in. Lucia followed. Ben hesitated, looking back at the dark road.

"We can't go back, Ben," I said. "There's nothing left."

He nodded, a sharp, painful jerk of his head, and climbed in beside us.

The flight was short. We landed on the roof of a building in Manhattan. Not a hospital. A corporate tower. Glass and steel, piercing the night sky.

We were escorted down a private elevator to a floor that didn't exist on the building directory. It was a medical suite, state-of-the-art, silent.

Senator Reeves was waiting for us. He was younger than I expected, with the polished look of a man who had never done a day of manual labor.

"You brought the package," he said, eyeing the babies.

"I brought the leverage," I corrected. "Where is the team?"

He gestured to a glass wall. Behind it, a team of doctors was prepping a surgical theater.

"The best money can buy," he said. "Discreet. Efficient."

"And the marrow?" I asked.

"The police released it an hour ago," he said. "A 'clerical error'. It's being prepped now."

He looked at the babies.

"Which one is mine?"

I hesitated. I didn't know which investor had paid for which experiment. But I knew what he wanted to hear.

"Neither," I said. "They're mine."

Reeves laughed. "You have spirit, Ms. Sterling. But you don't have ownership. We paid for the research. We paid for the incubation."

"You paid for a crime," I said. "And I have the receipts."

I held up the hard drive.

Reeves's smile faded.

"You think you can threaten me?"

"I think I can destroy you," I said. "And everyone else on this list. Unless you do exactly what I say."

"And what is that?"

"Save my son," I said. "And leave us alone."

Reeves stared at me for a long moment. Then he nodded.

"Done."

He signaled to the doctors.

They took the babies. They took the marrow.

We watched through the glass. It was a delicate dance of tubes and needles. They extracted marrow from the babies—just enough, careful not to harm them. They mixed it with Leo's sample. They spun it. They refined it.

And then, they infused it into Leo.

It took hours. We sat in the waiting room, silent, watching the monitors.

Finally, the lead doctor came out.

"It's done," he said. "His body accepted the graft. The cell counts are already rising."

I let out a breath I had been holding for days.

"And the babies?" I asked.

"Stable," the doctor said. "We're monitoring them."

"Good," I said. "We're taking them."

"Now wait a minute," Reeves said, stepping forward. "The boy, I understand. But the prototypes... they are property of the Board."

"The Board is dead," I said. "Or buried."

"The investors remain," Reeves said. "And we expect a return on our investment."

He blocked the door. Two security guards stepped up behind him.

"You're not leaving with those assets," he said.

I looked at Ben. He tensed, ready to fight. But we were outnumbered, outgunned.

"Fine," I said. "Keep them."

"Sarah!" Lucia gasped.

"Keep them," I repeated. "But you should know something."

"What?" Reeves asked.

"They're flawed," I said. "Clara told me. The genetic sequence... it degrades. Rapidly. Without the stabilizer... without the specific enzyme she developed..."

I pointed to the babies.

"They'll be dead in a week."

Reeves paled.

"You're lying."

"Am I?" I asked. "Look at the monitors."

He looked. The heart rates were steady. But the oxygen levels were dropping. Just slightly. But dropping.

"I have the formula," I lied. "In my head. Clara gave it to me."

Reeves looked at me. Then at the babies. Then at the hard drive in my hand.

"What do you want?"

"I want legal custody," I said. "Of all three children. Leo. And the twins."

"Twins?"

"We're calling them twins," I said. "And I want a new identity. For all of us. A clean slate."

Reeves gritted his teeth.

"And the hard drive?"

"It stays with me," I said. "As insurance. If anything happens to us... if anyone comes looking... it goes public."

Reeves looked at the guards. He looked at the doctor.

He knew he was beaten.

"Fine," he said. "But if you're lying about the formula..."

"I'm not," I said.

He stepped aside.

"Get them out of here."

We took the babies. We took Leo, still sleeping on a gurney. We took the elevator down to the loading dock, where a new van was waiting.

As we drove away, Ben looked at me.

"Do you really have the formula?"

"No," I said. "But Clara gave them a shot of the stabilizer at the cottage. It should last a month."

"And then?"

"And then we find a real doctor," I said. "One who isn't bought."

We drove into the night. We were free.

But as we crossed the bridge, heading south, my phone buzzed.

Not a text. A call.

From a number I didn't recognize.

I answered.

"Hello?"

"Sarah Sterling?"

It wasn't Edith. It wasn't Clara. It wasn't Subject 12.

It was a lawyer's voice. Professional. detached.

"This is the executor of the Edith Sterling estate," he said.

"Edith is dead," I said.

"Yes," he said. "But her will... it has a contingency clause."

"I don't want her money."

"It's not about money," the lawyer said. "It's about medical directives."

I felt a chill.

"What directives?"

"Regarding the care of Clara Sterling," he said. "In the event of Edith's death, and in the absence of a next of kin..."

"I am the next of kin," I said.

"According to our records, you signed away your rights," he said. "And Clara Sterling is currently... unavailable."

"Clara is missing," I said.

"Actually," the lawyer said, "she's not."

"What?"

"She was found," he said. "Washed up on the shore of Staten Island. An hour ago."

"Is she...?"

"She's alive," the lawyer said. "Barely. She's in a coma. At St. Jude's."

I gripped the phone.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because of the Living Will," he said. "Edith filed it yesterday. It states that in the event of Clara's incapacitation... she is to be terminated."

"Terminated?"

"Taken off life support," he said. "Immediately."

"You can't do that!" I shouted.

"It's legal, Ms. Sterling. Unless you can prove the will was coerced. Or unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Unless you challenge it in court," he said. "In person. Within twenty-four hours."

I looked at the road ahead. Freedom. Safety.

And then I looked back at the city skyline.

Clara was alive. And Edith was trying to kill her from beyond the grave.

"I'll be there," I said.