Chapter 41 - Cold Synthesis
Marcus’s heart seized. Even under the paralyzing influence of the neurotoxin, the child possessed a subconscious neurological resonance with the girl in the pod. The medical files he had stolen from Boston General suddenly flashed through his mind: *Neuro-synaptic synchronization via shared mitochondrial DNA.*
They weren't just clones. They were biologically entwined. Eleanor hadn't just created an organ donor; she had created a living mirror. If the original died, the duplicate's central nervous system would crash. If Chloe died on that table, the cryogenic specimen in the pod would suffer irreversible brain death.
Eleanor hadn't poisoned Chloe to kill her. She had poisoned her because the frozen original in the pod had begun to degrade! Eleanor had injected Chloe to induce a synthetic biological crisis, intending to extract Chloe’s fresh, warm antibodies to inject them into the frozen child before refreezing both of them.
Marcus spun toward the locked console drawers. The biometric scanner was asking for a genetic match. Eleanor was Chloe's grandmother. Marcus was the biological father of both girls. His DNA was the key.
Marcus pressed his thumb hard against the glass plate of the scanner.
The laser sliced across his skin.
*PROCESSING BIOMETRIC SIGNATURE...*
*MATCH FOUND: VANCE, MARCUS - CLASS 1 BIOLOGICAL PARENT.*
*ACCESS GRANTED.*
A heavy hydraulic click resonated through the desk. The bottom drawer slid open with a soft, mechanical whoosh. Inside lay three pre-loaded spring-loaded auto-injectors labeled in Eleanor’s unmistakable, sharp cursive: *INVERSION PROTOCOL.*
Marcus grabbed the first injector. But as he turned back to the table, the steel staircase behind him shuddered. Heavy combat boots hit the metal treads.
Marcus dropped into a crouch behind the console, shielding Chloe’s body with his own.
Two men in black tactical gear and full-face respirators stepped off the stairs, their submachine guns raised, sweeping the room. Behind them came the tapping of a cane against the diamond-plated floor.
Eleanor Vance stepped into the light of the subterranean vault.
She wore a dark cashmere trench coat, her silver hair pristine, her diamond earrings catching the flickering amber emergency lights. In her gloved right hand, she held a silenced semi-automatic pistol.
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"You always had a terrible habit of ruining family legacies, Marcus," Eleanor said, her voice smooth, composed, and chillingly devoid of motherly warmth. "Step away from the table. Both of those children belong to me."
***
