He was being dragged. And not gently, either.

“Ow…” Striker groaned.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Phantom said.

They stopped in the middle of the back-city alleyway they were in, and Phantom lowered Striker to the ground with his back against a wall. Striker’s eyes were foggy. He rubbed them with the heel of his palm until they cleared.

From the difference in the building architecture and the strength of the sunlight pooling on the dirty asphalt, he knew they were quite a distance from the first alley, and it was much later in the day. The pain along his side was almost gone. All that remained was a dull headache and a memory of lying behind a dumpster in his own blood. He looked up at Phantom, who was looking wearily at his phone, and remembered what else had transpired.

Striker examined his hands. They were intact, albeit smeared with brownish bloodstains. Something about them was different—colder, more rigid. He flexed his fingers.

Stronger.

“The bio-metal,” Phantom said, dropping beside him. “It saved your life. It’s been in your bloodstream for about two hours now, but you don’t have anything to worry about. Not yet, anyway.”

“Bloodstream…” Striker muttered, still staring at his hand. “So all my blood cells are replicating now, huh?”

“Actually, no. Blood cells don’t replicate. Bio-metal doesn’t fuse well with blood cells anyway, since they’re so short-lived. It just uses the bloodstream for travel, then fuses with whatever other cells it can latch onto, like the skin created to cover wounds. From there, replication is exponential.”

“Where’d you learn all this?”

“Research. I knew we might need it one day. Especially with the risks you take.”

Striker flexed his fingers again, then dropped his hands into his lap. He thought of his Charger, all smashed up and waiting to be towed somewhere by the cops. He cursed at himself. It would be pretty easy for them to trace it to the parking garage where he’d been keeping it, and from there, it was only a matter of connecting the payments to his apartment downtown. Maybe he shouldn’t go back to the city after this. It was too bad. He’d left the rest of clothes there, not to mention his mailroom key.

That reminded him that C.D. would be expecting an update soon. Striker fished his phone out of his pocket—the screen was cracked, but it still worked. He hesitated. In this state, he didn’t really want to talk to their haughty employer. At least not until he saw their remaining leverage with his own eyes.

“Have you gotten ahold of Venom?” Striker asked.

“Yes. We’re meeting him at rendezvous point two, as planned.”

“And he has the girl?”

“Yes, although he had to perform some medical aid on her, and apparently she’s still unconscious.”

“Is she dying?”

Phantom shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Then we’d better move fast. When did you contact him?”

“About forty minutes ago. He was closer than we were, so there’s a good chance he’s already there.”

“Then let’s get moving.”

“Can you walk on your own?”

“Only one way to find out.”

***

They made it to the rendezvous point twenty-some minutes later. Striker found he could walk on his own—which was a relief—but every step felt strange, as if his limbs only partially belonged to him. It felt like a coldness was working its way toward his feet. Phantom had said he had nothing to worry about, but if this sensation was any indicator, then the bio-metal was moving a lot faster than anticipated.

At any rate, it didn’t matter now. It was keeping him alive and upright, and that was all he needed.

When they reached the rendezvous point, all was quiet. The site was the basement of an abandoned laundromat they had cleared and stocked with supplies and technology as an emergency backup station. They had set up many similar rendezvous points in most of the cities surrounding their main haunt. Klick even lived in them—she circulated between the sites on a regular schedule to ensure they were still secure and supplied. It was a perfect job for her, the drifter, and it took the burden of worrying about them off Striker’s shoulders.

This place was a good one. It was on a dead-end street that only had a business or two still operating, which kept the neighborhood at a low-profile—but not abandoned—level. Just enough activity to stay undercover, but not enough to attract curiosity.

Striker and Phantom entered through the side door.

Venom was there, and so was Evie Martell. She was lying atop a table, almost mummified in bandages—including her head. But she was breathing well and her wounds appeared to have stopped bleeding. Venom had also applied some bandages to himself. He looked haggard.

“There you are,” Venom said, rising. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t… geeze, you two look terrible.”

“We’re alive,” Striker said. “Is she?”

“For now,” Venom said, glancing to Evie. “She hasn’t woken up since the gunfight, so she might have some kind of head injury. Klick checked her for internal bleeding but didn’t find anything.”

“Where is Klick?” Phantom asked.

“On a medical supply run. We used everything up.”

“It’ll do for now,” Striker said. “Phantom, call Klick and see if she’s close to getting back. Venom, you sit out for a bit while I contact our employer.”

Phantom looked up from his phone. “You’re contacting C.D. without the full set of kids? You don’t think he’s going to be angry?”

“With the state those other men left us in, I’m starting to think he owes us a bit of an explanation,” Striker said. “Anyone who is after Lance Martell can only be from one place, and I’m not sure we signed up for something like that.”

Phantom lowered his voice. “Employers always leave out details. Be tactful when you talk to him.”

“I will.”

“What are you talking about?” Venom asked from where he had collapsed into a rolling chair. “Who is Lance Martell?”

“The father of these stupid kids,” Striker said. “Call C.D.,” he said to his phone.

“So?” Venom asked.

“So Lance Martell is one of the only people to ever make a dent in the Apex Genetics case,” Phantom explained. “They’ve been after him for over a year ever since he leaked the information about bio-metal and mutant testing. Not a lot of people know about it, but he singlehandedly brought the entire Apex Genetics research division out under official investigation.”

“Oh,” Venom said. “That makes sense.”

Striker turned his back on them and walked to the other end of the basement. His phone stopped ringing, and the garbled voice picked up.

“Striker?”

“Yes,” Striker said. “I needed to check in. There have been developments.”

“What kind of developments?”

“Let’s just say it starts with M and ends with –artell.”

A brief silence.

“I see. I figured you would find out eventually. I hope, for your sake, that this has not impacted your dedication to the mission.”

“You tell me,” Striker said. “We’ve had a run-in with Martell’s men. Half my squad is dead.”

“How unfortunate. Do you have the children yet?”

Striker gritted his teeth. “One. The girl. Martell’s men got away with the two boys before we could reach them.”

Another pause.

“It will be enough. Bring her to me. Now that you know where to find me, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Understood,” Striker said. He hesitated. “You’re from Apex Genetics, I know that much, now.”

“And?”

“You’re a… direct developer of the bio-metal, aren’t you? Or you know one, at least?”

C.D. laughed. “Why does that matter?”

“Just curious. We’ll see you in less than twelve hours.”

“Good. I’m glad I picked you, Striker. You are a good hit-man. One who plays by the rules.”

“For now.”

“Hah. Don’t forget to transmit your spacecraft’s code to me before you approach the station. Wouldn’t want to blast you to bits before we formally meet. Oh, and don’t be late.”

The phone line went dead. Striker pulled back and looked at the blank screen. Their mission was drawing to a close.