The Extraction

The body swayed slightly in the wind, a grim pendulum against the iron filigree of the Hawthorne gate. Sarah didn't scream. The time for screaming was over. She stared at the note pinned to the fixer’s chest—*TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROCESSED*—and felt a cold, crystalline calm settle over her.

"She killed him," Agnes whispered, her hand clutching the door handle of the truck. "Her own man."

"He failed," Sarah said, putting the truck in park but leaving the engine running. "Elena doesn't tolerate failure."

She looked past the gate, up the long, winding driveway lined with ancient oaks. The estate was dark, save for a single light burning in the guest house. A beacon. Or a lure.

"She's waiting for us," Sarah said.

"She's waiting for *you*," Agnes corrected. "She doesn't know I'm here. She thinks I'm sedated in the back of a medical waste van."

Sarah looked at the housekeeper. Agnes was old, frail, and terrified. But she was also the only person who knew the layout of the guest house better than Elena.

"Can you get in without being seen?" Sarah asked.

"The laundry chute," Agnes said. "It comes out in the utility room. Right next to the guest suite."

"I need you to get to Chloe," Sarah said. "Get her out. Take her to the stables. There's an old service road that leads to the county highway."

"And you?"

"I'm going to the front door," Sarah said. "I'm going to be the distraction."

Agnes hesitated, then nodded. She opened the door and slipped into the shadows of the hedges, moving with a surprising agility.

Sarah watched her go, then took a breath. She checked the gun she had taken from the fixer. Seven rounds left. Not enough for a war. But maybe enough for a negotiation.

She drove the truck through the open gate, the tires crunching on the gravel. She didn't try to be quiet. She wanted Elena to know she was coming.

She pulled up to the front of the main house, leaving the headlights on, illuminating the heavy oak doors. She got out, the gun tucked into the back of her waistband, the diary in her hand.

"Elena!" she shouted. "I'm here!"

No answer. The house remained silent, a looming monolith of stone and secrets.

Sarah walked up the steps. The door was unlocked.

Of course it was.

She stepped into the foyer. It was exactly as she remembered it—the marble floors, the crystal chandelier, the portrait of her father hanging above the grand staircase. But something was different.

The portrait.

It had been slashed. A single, jagged tear running from Thomas Jenkins's eye to his throat.

"Dramatic," Sarah muttered.

"I thought it added a nice touch," a voice said from the top of the stairs.

Elena stood on the landing, wearing a white silk dressing gown that looked ghostly in the dim light. She held a glass of wine in one hand and a remote control in the other.

"Welcome home, Sarah," she said. "You look terrible."

"I've had a long night," Sarah said, holding up the diary. "I brought your book."

"Keep it," Elena said, descending the stairs slowly, gracefully. "I don't need it anymore. The digital copies are gone. The witnesses are dead. And in about ten minutes, this house will be nothing but ash and insurance money."

She raised the remote.

"The gas lines," she said. "I had them modified. One spark, and the whole estate goes up."

"You're forgetting something," Sarah said. "Chloe."

Elena paused on the bottom step.

"Chloe is safe," she said. "She's in the guest house. Waiting for her biological sister to rescue her."

"You're lying," Sarah said. "You're going to kill her. Just like you killed my father. Just like you tried to kill me."

"I'm not going to kill her," Elena said, taking a sip of wine. "I'm going to become her."

Sarah frowned. "What?"

"The transplant," Elena said. "It's not just organs, Sarah. It's bone marrow. Stem cells. With her genetic material, I can reverse the aging process. I can cure the cellular degradation caused by the chimera experiments."

She smiled.

"I'm going to take her life. Literally. And then I'm going to take her identity. Chloe Vance. Heiress. Philanthropist. And you... you'll be the tragic sister who died trying to save her from a gas leak."

"You're insane," Sarah whispered.

"I'm visionary," Elena corrected.

She checked her watch.

"You have five minutes, Sarah. I suggest you run. Or burn. It's your choice."

She pressed a button on the remote.

A hissing sound filled the air. The smell of gas was instant, overwhelming.

Elena turned and walked toward the back door, the silk of her gown trailing behind her like a shroud.

Sarah didn't run. She raised the gun.

"Elena!"

Elena stopped. She didn't turn around.

"Shoot me," she said. "And the spark will ignite the gas. We'll both die."

Sarah hesitated. The gas was thick in her throat.

"Go save the girl, Sarah," Elena said. "Be the hero. That's what Thomas would have wanted."

She opened the door and stepped out into the night.

Sarah lowered the gun. She ran for the guest house.

The smell of gas was stronger here, drifting from the vents. Elena had rigged the whole compound.

Sarah kicked open the door to the guest house.

"Chloe!" she screamed. "Chloe, we have to leave!"

"In here!" a voice cried from the bedroom.

Sarah ran down the hall. The door was locked. She kicked it. Ideally, it would have flown open. In reality, it splintered but held.

"Stand back!" Sarah shouted.

She fired a shot into the lock. The noise was deafening in the confined space.

She kicked the door again. It swung open.

A young woman was huddled in the corner, tied to a chair. She looked up, her eyes wide with terror. She looked exactly like the photos. Exactly like Sarah.

"Who are you?" Chloe sobbed.

"I'm your sister," Sarah said, rushing to untie her. "And we're getting out of here."

The ropes were tight, nylon cords that cut into Chloe's wrists. Sarah fumbled with the knots, her fingers slick with sweat.

"Hurry," Chloe whispered. "She set a timer."

"I know," Sarah said.

She got one hand free. Then the other.

"Can you walk?" Sarah asked.

"I think so."

Sarah pulled her up.

"The window," Sarah said. "It's faster."

She threw a chair through the glass.

They climbed out onto the lawn, gasping for fresh air.

But as they hit the grass, a figure stepped out from the shadows of the garden.

Elena.

She was holding a flare gun.

"I told you to run, Sarah," she said.

She raised the gun.

"Now you burn."

She pulled the trigger.

The flare arced through the air, a burning red star against the black sky. It headed straight for the open window of the guest house. Straight for the gas-filled room they had just escaped.

"Down!" Sarah screamed, tackling Chloe.

The flare hit the house.

The explosion lifted them off the ground.