I set my jaw. Not happening.
I couldn’t. Not right now.
Brock moved around his desk with unhurried confidence, ignoring my weapon entirely. The massive windows behind him framed the São Paulo skyline, casting his shadow long across the floor.
“I’m impressed you made it this far.” He adjusted a cufflink, the gold catching light. “Though you’ve complicated matters unnecessarily.”
My heart hammered against my ribs so violently that I could barely hear him. The gun weighed heavier with each passing second, my muscles burning from the strain of keeping it leveled.
“Stay back,” I warned, trying to inject steel into my voice.
Brock’s mouth curled into a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Or what?” He took another step. “You’ll shoot me?”
I readjusted my sweaty grip, the weapon wavering. Behind Brock, Ronan struggled visibly, tendons standing out in his neck as he fought whatever invisible torture Brock had unleashed.
“I said, stay back!” The words cracked between us.
Brock continued moving toward me, each step measured and deliberate. “Journalists,” he said with disdain. “Always believing words are enough. That exposing the truth matters.” He gestured toward the scattered glass on the floor from whatever confrontation had happened before I arrived. “Truth is whatever the powerful decide it is.”
“You son of a...”
“You have no idea what you’ve stumbled into,” Brock interrupted me. “What forces you’re toying with.”
I drew a steadying breath, forcing my racing thoughts to slow. I thought of Xavier, of what they did to him. Of Ronan, fighting his programming with everything he had. Of all the lives destroyed by this man and his organization.
“I know enough,” I managed. “I’ll bring you down, along with this entire goddamn organization.”
Brock stopped, barely an arm’s length away now. The barrel of my gun almost touched his pristine shirt front. His eyes—cold, calculating, entirely unafraid—studied me like a specimen under glass. He didn’t seem to take my threat too seriously.
“Do you know how to use that thing?” Brock whispered his question like a secret, gaze flicking to the tremor in my hands.
“Point and pull the trigger,” I said, swallowing hard. “Seems straightforward enough.”
Behind Brock, Ronan’s fingers clawed against the floor, each ragged breath he took twisting something primal inside my chest.
Brock followed my gaze and smiled. “Fascinating, isn’t it? To see such a powerful man rendered helpless.”
I needed to keep him talking. Give Ronan time to fight through whatever Brock had done to him.
“What did you do to him?” I asked, muscles screaming from the strain of holding the gun steady.
Brock turned toward Ronan, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. He moved with the confidence of a man who believed he’d already won.
“You’re looking at the culmination of decades of research.” Pride colored his voice. “The human mind is just electrical impulses. Change the pathways, change the person.”
Ronan’s jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. His eyes met mine for a fraction of a second—clouded with pain but still aware. Still fighting.
I gave him the smallest nod, hoping he understood.I’m here. I haven’t abandoned you.
“The trigger words are like strings on a puppet. One pull and he dances.” He mimed pulling something from above. “Simple, elegant control. The Director wanted implants, tech solutions… but I demonstrated that words alone could create the perfect failsafe. Our little Reaper here was my proof of concept.”
My stomach turned. “You’re sick.”
“I’m revolutionary.” Brock tapped his chin, thinking. “Your brother’s neural maps, for comparison.”
Xavier’s name on his lips ignited rage in my chest. “Stop!”
“Xavier was so much easier. Perfect soldier material.” Brock’s voice carried genuine appreciation. “He no longer remembers you ever existed. What a shame.”
