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THE TRACKING PINPOINTER was built. Parson had just left to start work which meant Hugh had an hour before he needed to be in the lab. It was time to find and remove the tracking device.
His hand shook as he moved the bucket full of water near his pallet. This wasn’t going to be fun. He snatched a bottle of vodka from Parson’s stash and sat on the floor. He stripped off his shirt and turned on the pinpointer, praying the tracking device would be somewhere he could reach because if not he was going to have to convince Parson to help him. That wouldn’t be an easy sell. The other Almighty might flip out and insist he leave or Parson would expect payment which meant he’d have to finish the prototype. He didn’t want to do that. Anything Conguise wanted had to be bad for the other classes. On top of all that, Meesus had something on Parson and he didn’t trust the other Almighty not to offer this information as trade.
He started on his arms, scanning first one and then the other. Nothing. A wave of relief washed through him but he squashed it down. He had to quit hoping he wouldn’t find it. It was in him somewhere.
He lowered the device over his shoulder and down his back where Meesus had scratched him. He was sure that was where she’d implanted the device but that didn’t mean it’d stayed there. They were known to drift through the body until eventually attaching to something. The more active the person was after implantation, the more the device migrated, and saying he’d been active after his night with Meesus was an understatement.
There was no beep, so he scanned again and then checked the other side. The pinpointer was silent. He ran it over his back once more to be sure and then exhaled in relief, glad he wouldn’t have to talk to Parson about this.
He moved on to his torso. Nothing. The tracking device was functional or he wouldn’t have seen it on the map and he was as sure as he could be that the pinpointer worked. He hadn’t been able to test it, so he wasn’t positive, but the device wasn’t complicated to build. He still had his lower half to check and if there was nothing there he’d have to figure out a way to test the pinpointer.
He put his shirt back on and took off his pants. He skimmed the device down his right leg and stilled at the beep. His heart raced, mixed with excitement over his success and panic over what came next. He took a swig of the vodka before putting the bottle on the floor. He ran the pinpointer over his leg again, slower this time until he heard the beep. The tracking device was several inches below his hip. Thank Araldo it was on the outside of his leg because he wasn’t sure he had the fortitude to dig around near his groin with a knife. He grabbed a pen off the table and marked his leg, using the pinpointer to triple check the location. He tossed the pen aside and tucked a blanket under his hip. He picked up his knife, holding it over his thigh as he poured the vodka, covering the knife and his skin. He lowered the knife and stopped, his hand trembling. Too bad Jackson wasn’t here. The Guard would find this humorously ironic.
He took another gulp of the vodka and leaned his head against the wall, waiting for his senses to dull. As warmth from the alcohol seeped through him, he stuffed a towel in his mouth, biting down. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring and his heart racing as he jabbed the knife into his leg. The pain was sharp and fast, zipping through him like fire in dry brush.
“Son-of-a...” He let go of the knife, using both hands to push the towel tighter against his face to stifle the rest of his scream. His vision blurred. He could not pass out. He inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to clear his head, but the pain continued to slam into him. He pulled the towel from his mouth and took another gulp of the liquor and another. His breathing steadied as the pain subsided into a dull throb.
The knife protruded from his leg, the blade deep inside him. Blood trickled down his thigh. There’d be more when he removed the knife. He took another swallow of vodka and stuffed the towel back into his mouth. As soon as he touched that knife, the pain was going to be white hot again. Sweat soaked his shirt. He had to get this done. Everyone he loved was in danger if he didn’t. His hand trembled above the knife. He breathed heavily through his nose, preparing for the pain. Jackson and the other Guards had gone through this, he could too. He grabbed the knife and yanked it backward, slicing through his skin. His head hit the wall as a wave of sweet darkness swept over him. He wanted to give in and let the blackness take him away, but he couldn’t. He had to think of something else. When he won this war, he’d execute Jason and the Council. He’d find justice for the poor creatures in Conguise’s lab. The pain was like the thrum of his heart, steady and constant. Blackness crept toward him, surrounding him and then he saw her eyes, glowing green in the dark. She had the most gorgeous eyes he’d ever seen—so expressive, so honest and she was his. She may not realize it yet, but they were meant to be together. He’d do this for her. She’d be strong enough to stay awake. She was the strongest person he knew.
He opened his eyes and leaned forward, picking up the pinpointer. He had to be sure the skin around the device was cut. If he pulled out the knife, he didn’t think he’d be able to stab himself again. He moved the pinpointer over his leg careful not to bump the knife. The device beeped. He dropped it and grabbed the knife, yanking it from his body. He slammed his head backward as he bit down on the towel, muffling his scream. He knocked his head against the wall again and again, anything to distract him from the waves of agony tearing through his leg. He grabbed another towel and jammed it over the wound as he slid down the wall into a fetal position, his body shaking. As the pain subsided to a throbbing beat, he forced himself to sit up. The room spun and nausea threatened. He closed his eyes, fighting for control.
When he was breathing somewhat normally, he opened his eyes. The towel on his leg was soaked in blood. There was no way he’d cut an artery, no way. He pressed the cloth harder against his thigh as sweat poured down his face. His heart slammed in his chest and his mind pleaded with him, coming up with every excuse to stop, but he couldn’t. He tossed the towel aside. It was stupid to staunch the blood now. He still had to dig out the device. He took another swallow of vodka. The bottle was almost empty. Parson was going to be pissed. Finally, an upside to all of this.
He leaned his head against the wall again and focused on the gray chipped paint. He didn’t think he’d manage to stay conscious if he watched himself dig through his own flesh. He stuck his fingers inside the cut, gasping. It felt as if red hot pokers were jabbing into his leg. He breathed through his nose, short and steady pants to keep oxygen coming to his brain. Stay awake. It’ll be over soon. He moved his fingers, searching. Just a little more. All he had to do was find this piece of shit and he’d be done. His fingers grew sticky with blood and his stomach churned, threatening to revolt. He closed his eyes, panting to stave off the nausea. Every twitch of his fingers sent shards of lightning through his body. The device had to be there. Then he felt it, or something. He prayed it was the tracking device. If not, he’d hack off his leg. It had to be less painful. He touched it again. He was pretty sure it wasn’t bone. He hooked it between his thumb and fingernail and pulled. He shoved his other arm into his mouth, biting down to stop his scream.
As the pain lessened he dropped his arm, breathing in great gasps of air. He kept his eyes closed as the nausea and darkness continued to wage war inside him. As soon as he was sure he wouldn’t pass out, he opened his eyes. His hand was covered in blood and there was tissue under his fingernail. He dropped whatever he’d dug out of his leg into his other hand. It was small like a piece of rice. He picked up the towel and cleaned off the object to make sure he hadn’t chipped off a piece of his bone. No, this was the device. He closed his hand around it and then picked up the locator. He had to make sure it was completely gone. He scanned his leg again and there was no sound. He wanted to drop to his side and pass out but he had to stop the bleeding. He pressed some rags onto his leg, holding the tracking device between the fingers of his other hand. He’d invented this little piece of shit. He started to throw it across the room but stopped. He was sure The Victor was monitoring his movements but even if he wasn’t, Meesus was cautious. She’d check on him periodically, if not daily. It’d be better if she didn’t find out he’d removed it until he was ready to tell her. He slid it into his shoe and began tending his wound.
When he’d finished bandaging himself and cleaning up the room, he hobbled to the lab. He was half-drunk and his leg was killing him. Tonight was going to be miserable. He wouldn’t be able to sneak anymore of Parson’s vodka so it’d just be him and his pain.
Parson looked up from his work. “Where’ve you been and why are you limping?”
“Twisted ankle.” He started emptying the trash and stumbled almost falling. He wouldn’t make it long on his leg without passing out. “I’m calling it a night.”
“You have to clean.”
Sweat poured down his face. He was going to puke if he didn’t lie down. “I’ll be back later to empty the trash and pick up.”
He hobbled back to the room, dropped onto his bed of blankets on the floor. He wanted to kill Meesus. Their deal was done. She’d put him at risk. She’d put everyone he was near at risk. Anyone with basic knowledge of his tracking device system could’ve found him. He gritted his teeth as another wave of pain pounded through him. He pictured Trinity. It was the only thing that brought him relief. As soon as his leg was healed, he’d leave. He missed her, everything about her—talking to her, arguing with her, and especially kissing her. This time he wasn’t going to let some childish crush of hers get between them. He’d prove to her that he was the man for her, not some foolish dream of a boy.