Page 29 of The Sterling Acquisition (Manufactured Mates #1)

Chapter twenty

Hostile Work Environment

Dante

The SVI research facility felt different this morning—quieter, with skeleton crew staffing.

The building was all hard angles and utilitarian design, fluorescent lighting casting everything in institutional blue-white.

The air carried industrial cleaners and the metallic tang of expensive laboratory equipment.

Dante moved through the lobby with the casual confidence of someone who belonged there, which he did. Corporate exchange privileges had their advantages.

Though I suspect those privileges are about to be permanently revoked.

He badged through the main entrance, nodding to the security guard who barely looked up from his coffee.

Just another Gensyn consultant arriving early for meetings.

The guard probably assumed he was here to check on the vaccine production scaling—the project that hadn’t even come close to perfection and would now be reduced to ash along with everything else.

A pity, really. The biodiversity exchange program had been elegant work, the kind of cross-corporate cooperation that benefited both parties. Gensyn would miss it when flu season hit.

But some losses were acceptable when protecting what mattered.

The thought of what—who—mattered sent an unexpected surge of possessive fury through his system.

The image of Orion strapped to a table while Morrison pumped chemicals into his veins made Dante’s hands clench involuntarily.

His manicured nails dug into his palms, the brief pain helping him refocus on the mission.

Dante took the elevator to the restricted research level, using Duckie Chang’s access codes to bypass the biometric scanning. A few lines of code uploaded through the maintenance port, and suddenly the security system recognized him as Lab Tech Duckie Chang.

SVI’s cybersecurity was competent enough for corporate standards, but it wasn’t Gensyn-level sophisticated. Rather like comparing a child’s finger painting to the Sistine Chapel.

The restricted level was nearly empty—just one lab technician visible through the windows, focused on some early morning analysis. Morrison’s private lab stood empty, waiting for its owner to return from his appointment with chemical butchery.

The white-tiled corridor leading to Morrison’s lab felt longer than it had during his previous visit, each step carrying him deeper into territory that had just become explicitly hostile.

His footsteps echoed on the polished floor, too loud in the hushed morning atmosphere.

The sealed double doors at the end gleamed like the entrance to a mausoleum—sterile, imposing, designed to keep secrets contained .

Morrison’s lab required additional security, but Dante had been preparing for this since Duckie first showed him the research. Corporate security was designed to keep out external threats, not someone with legitimate access and superior training.

The security panel accepted the administrative override codes without complaint, the doors sliding open with a pneumatic hiss that reminded Dante of a serpent’s warning.

He slipped inside, assaulted by the concentrated smell of chemicals, electronics, and the unmistakable antiseptic sterility that all corporate labs shared.

Morrison’s lab was impressive in a provincial sort of way—restraint systems, monitoring equipment, and an examination table fitted with reinforced restraints. All very professional, very thorough.

Also very much a crude imitation of what Gensyn accomplished daily with far more elegance.

That was what made Project Tether so offensive—not the concept of chemical behavioral modification, but the ham-fisted execution. Gensyn’s methods were refined, predictable, and reversible when necessary. Morrison’s approach was like watching someone attempt brain surgery with a hammer.

Dante started with the physical samples—vials of synthesized compounds in climate-controlled storage units, prepared serums in labeled injection cartridges, the actual chemicals that would have been pumped into Orion’s bloodstream.

Each liquid glowed with an unnatural blue-silver luminescence under the specialized lighting—beautiful and lethal, like so many things in corporate research.

Each one went into a specially designed containment unit for transport, while he prepared incendiary devices for the storage areas.

It was amazing how much destruction could fit into such compact packages. Gensyn engineering at its finest .

The research data came next. Morrison’s computers contained terabytes of experimental data, formulations, and implementation protocols.

The monitors bathed Dante’s face in a blue-white glow as he worked, his fingers gliding across keyboards and touchscreens.

He uploaded everything to encrypted drives while deploying data wipes that would corrupt the originals beyond recovery, the machines giving quiet beeps of confirmation as they prepared to destroy themselves.

Gensyn would want to study SVI’s approaches, if only to understand their limitations. Academic curiosity about inferior methodology.

The first incendiary device went against the main computer core—compact, sophisticated, designed to generate enough heat to melt every circuit and memory chip.

The backup systems got similar treatment, device nestling against crucial components like technological parasites waiting to hatch.

When they activated, no fragments of Project Tether would survive in SVI’s databases.

The chemical synthesis equipment was next.

Each machine got a device placed in its most critical component, the soft click of placement audible over the ambient hum of laboratory systems. When they went off, the entire wing would be reduced to molten slag, the meticulously calibrated equipment becoming puddles of useless metal.

Morrison’s personal research archive was the crown jewel—decades of work that led to Project Tether’s development.

Physical notebooks in hermetically sealed cases, redundant backup drives in safes, handwritten notes from early experiments preserved behind glass.

The largest device went against the archive’s climate control system, where it would spread fire through the ventilation and consume everything, turning paper to ash and digital media to corrupted plastic.

Forty years of research, reduced to ash in forty minutes. There was something poetic about the symmetry .

Dante was placing the final device when he heard footsteps in the corridor outside—too many footsteps, moving with purpose rather than casual morning routine. The sound pattern indicated at least three people, their gait suggesting security personnel rather than researchers.

He checked his watch. The timers showed six minutes until the first device activated. Plenty of time to leave cleanly, assuming the footsteps belonged to legitimate researchers arriving early.

Though in Dante’s experience, legitimate researchers rarely traveled in groups that large at this hour.

“I know he’s in there,” Duckie Chang’s voice carried through the lab door, tight with desperation and something that might have been fear.

Ah. Duckie had developed a case of buyer’s remorse about their arrangement. Or perhaps gone to Morrison seeking a larger sum. How disappointingly predictable.

His mind rapidly assessed the new variables. Three hostiles minimum. Limited exit options. No specialized equipment beyond what was already in the lab. Timeline now compressed from six minutes to perhaps sixty seconds before confrontation.

The analytical part of his brain calmly catalogued everything in the room that could serve as a weapon—glass beakers, metal stands, chemical compounds, his knife.

Twenty years of training provided an automatic threat assessment, transforming ordinary objects into lethal tools through the alchemy of Gensyn violence management protocols.

“You sure this Gensyn guy is dangerous?” Another voice, probably security. Heavy boots, the subtle click of safety mechanisms being disengaged. “He seemed pretty corporate when I saw him around.”

“Morrison says he’s some kind of operative.

Says Gensyn doesn’t send regular consultants for vaccine work.

” Duckie’s voice was getting closer to the door, the nervous pitch revealing how desperately he wanted to believe he made the right choice.

“Just... be ready, okay? And remember, Morrison wants him alive if possible.”

Alive if possible. How optimistic of Morrison. Though Dante supposed hope was important when facing the destruction of one’s life’s work.

Unfortunately for Morrison, Dante had no intention of being taken alive.

The thought of Orion alone, waiting for rescue that wouldn’t come, filled him with a cold fury that crystallized into absolute certainty.

He would not be captured. He would not fail.

He had an Omega to extract and a timeline that was rapidly approaching zero hour.

The lab door opened with a hydraulic hiss, and Duckie Chang stepped through, followed by two security guards in tactical gear.

Standard SVI security kit—body armor, automatic weapons, and professional training that was adequate for corporate facilities.

The guards’ visors reflected the laboratory lighting, making their expressions unreadable behind reinforced plastic.

“Hands up,” the first guard said, his weapon trained on Dante’s center mass. The man’s stance was textbook corporate security—balanced, professional, confident in his gear and training. “Step away from the equipment.”

Dante raised his hands slowly, noting positions and distances. The guards were competent enough to maintain proper spacing—too far apart for him to reach both, close enough to provide mutual support. Duckie was hanging back by the door, clearly hoping to avoid the violence he’d just enabled.

Smart of him. Pity it won’t help .