Page 120 of Whispers in the Dark
Graham crossed his arms. “Alright. We need to shake it off and put our heads down. Say we squeeze Stokes, pin the warden with the child, the visits and the communication coming throughher office, and flip Pratt. Then what? We still don’t have location data on the black site.”
That was the question hanging over all of them.
No one answered right away.
Then Brad spoke. “We need to talk to Elias.”
Ethan turned toward him slowly. “You think he’ll cooperate?”
“He brought Alex back,” Brad said. “He didn’t have to. He didn’t need to. That means something. He wants to see the place burn. That means he knows where it is.”
Ethan thought for a moment, then nodded once. “We treat Elias like an asset. Carefully. Quietly. We get what we can from him and keep Charlotte as the point of contact. He trusts her.”
Noah closed his laptop. “And in the meantime?”
Ethan looked around the table. “We build a war file. Every communication, every transfer of Elias to and from the prison, and, Noah, you and I need to connect with every DC contact to find every shell company tied to black-site funding. The moment we know where it is, we go in.”
Graham cracked his knuckles. “And when we do, we don’t just pull the subjects.”
Brad’s eyes were cold. “We burn it to the ground. It cannot continue to exist.”
Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. This hinges on Elias speaking with Charlotte. We’re still a long way off.
Thirty-Nine
Charlotte never let goof his hand.
Even now, as her back screamed from the stiff hospital chair and her muscles ached with unrelenting vigilance, her fingers stayed locked in his. Alex drifted beneath sweat-damp sheets, his body twitching every so often, eyelids flickering like he was trapped between timelines—memories colliding with commands, words rewritten, erased, forced in.
Charlotte’s phone rested face down in her lap, screen dark, notifications muted. A quiet moment passed before she picked it up, one hand still holding his. She typed with her thumb, slowly, methodically—Still no change. He’s fighting. Love you girls. She added a heart, then tapped send to the group chat: Liv, Sophie, Molly, Izzy, and Ruth. Her daughters. Her anchors.
A second later, the replies began appearing in soft vibrations: We’re here. Tell him we love him. Stay strong, Mom. She didn’t answer—couldn’t just then—but she read each one twice, held them close.
Her thumb moved slowly over his knuckles, memorizing the feel of him like it might fade. Not yet, she told herself. Not now. Not when we’ve come this far.
She didn’t even realize James had reentered the room until the overhead monitor beeped. He leaned over the screen, scrolling through the latest scans from radiology. Behind him stood Tristan, silent but sharp-eyed, arms crossed tight.
Charlotte barely registered the conversation at first. It was noise—distant, like she was underwater. Then Paul came in with two nurses and a younger tech, handing off another tablet. Something in the air shifted. Charlotte straightened.
“Updated CT scan,” Paul said. “We tagged the implants with contrast. They’re not passive.”
James didn’t look up. “They’re mapping every synapse in real time.”
Charlotte blinked, her hand tightening around Alex’s. Mapping?
“Mapping?” Tristan echoed, confused.
James gave a grim nod. “They’re studying him—emotionally, cognitively, physically. Real-time data. Not just control but extraction. They’re building something from him.”
The room stilled. Charlotte felt like the floor had tilted beneath her.
“They’re using his mind as a template,” Tristan muttered.
James looked up. “Exactly. And they’re likely sending him disruptive feedback too.”
Charlotte found her voice. “Is there any way to block them?”
James glanced at Tristan. It wasn’t a casual glance—it was a warning. “We can disrupt the signal, but I have no idea what that will do to him. And if those implants are transmitting his location, which I’d bet they are, he’s a walking beacon.”
