Page 117 of Lethal Vengeance

“What about a compromise?” Zane suggests. “If you and I are frequently seen together, he’ll still be able to covet you, but he’ll target me first.”

An idea sparks. “We may be able to speed things up.” I look at the man across from me. “If he thinks we’re dating, it will incentivize him to hit sooner rather than later.”

Zane breaks out a rare smile. “That can be arranged.”

The other three scowl.

“If he doesn’t get here soon, I’m going hunting,” Raider mutters.

Cruz and Sterling shoot Raider a look that clearly states their wholehearted agreement.

Zane stands. “I’m headed to the warehouse in an hour.”

“I’m coming with you,” I confirm, much to his surprise. “If I stay here, I’ll drag my laptop out of the dresser and lose myself. Sterling thinks my brain needs to be retrained by shifting my focus to something besides Sophia. The warehouse seems like a good place to start.”

Zane darts a glance at Sterling, then clears his throat. “Sounds good.”

* * *

Zane explainson the way to the warehouse how it was necessary to group everyone when they got here. It allowed them to move them through the system more efficiently, based on whether they needed to be transported home or given new identities.

Those who just needed transportation home were placed in Group One. Once they were gone, they grouped individuals according to where they wanted to live after they left here. The foundation’s resources are strongest in the United States, but with technology, there isn’t a place they can’t reach.

When we get there, the stations are already busy. People are filing through each one to get what they need. Zane introduces me to the first few stations and lets them know I’ll be working with each station today to learn what they do and help them out.

He drops me off at the first station and heads back to his desk.

I hold my hand out to the woman manning the station. “Hi, I’m Quinn. What can I do to help?”

She clasps my hand briefly and hands me a stack of cards. “Martha. Hand one of these to each person and ask them to write down their clothing sizes. I’ll need you to add a note or two on height to help us figure out which clothing will be best for them. Clear?”

For the first hour, I help everyone get clothes. By the time I move to the second station, which is shoes, most of the group is already through that one, along with the one for necessities. I move to the fourth station.

I introduce myself to Bill, who explains that this station takes down personal information—hair and eye color, height, weight, date of birth, country of origin, languages spoken, and preferred exit country.

“Everyone grabs a ticket. You call them up one by one.”

“Exit country?” I ask.

“Where they want to go from here,” he explains. “We’ll call up the first few together until you get the hang of it, then I’ll set you up on your own, okay?”

With a smile, I sit down, and he calls the first number.

The young woman who comes up answers each question quickly. I write them on Bill’s form but stop when she gives me a couple of answers that aren’t correct.

“I’m sorry. I believe you gave me the wrong height,” I tell her, showing her the answer she gave to me. “You said five feet ten inches.”

“Yes, that’s correct,” she replies.

“At best, you’re five feet eight inches,” I inform her.

“I know how tall I am,” she states angrily.

Bill leans over. “What’s going on?”

I explain the situation.

“A couple of inches doesn’t matter,” he says, bewildered by my insistence.