you want?”
“Genevieve’s evidence.”
“That’s all?”
“And your silence.”
I laughed once.
He looked offended.
“You think I’m negotiating with you?”
“Your children have hours before the immune response becomes unpredictable.”
My phone vibrated.
Yates.
I answered.
His voice was strained.
“Lawson, the treatment is working, but something’s wrong.
Their cells are changing too quickly.”
Valez watched me.
He knew.
“What do you need?”
I asked.
“A regulator sequence.
Some kind of molecular brake.”
Valez raised the drive.
I looked through the glass at Genevieve.
She shook her head.
“Don’t.”
“They’ll die.”
“He’ll do it again.”
My children.
Hundreds of future children.
Maybe thousands.
It was the kind of decision people imagine is easy when they are not the ones being asked to make it.
Valez stepped closer.
“Give me the evidence.”
I looked at him.
Then I smiled.
“Already sent it.”
For the first time, his expression changed.
“What?”
