I turned to Owen for information, and his voice was low enough to reach only my ears: “Meera.” My brows drew down in confusion; there was an odd disconnect between my associations with the name and what confronted me now. When I had met Meera, she had been the cook at the facility. I hadn’t really gotten to know her—in fact, I had only met her once. The rest of the time I had been either in the hospital area, training the boys, or holed up in my room, most of my meals brought to me by Violet while I worked on their lessons.
I turned back to the door, curious as to why she was the one who had answered, and saw that Meera was glaring at Amber, her eyes full of malice.
“You have a lot of nerve showing up here,” her voice spat through the speakers, and I blinked at its vehemence.
Amber pressed her face close to the window. “Meera, please. You know us! You know we aren’t traitors. Desmond is lying to you!”
“You’re the liar,” Meera retorted, her face becoming more livid, even through the wavy glass. “You betrayed us!”
“Never,” Amber said more softly, her hand coming up to the window. “I would never betray you, Meera. You’re my friend. I care about you. I’ve… I’ve missed you. It’s why we’re here—we have proof that Desmond has been lying to you. If you just give us a chance…”
Meera’s drawn face did not lose any of its suspicion. But even in her voice, I could sense more than anger—a deep weariness, undercut by pain. “To what? Come in here and kill us all? Try to find Desmond so you can kill her? Go back, Amber, or I will shoot you. I will shoot all of you.”
I turned to Owen, keeping my voice low so the woman behind the glass wouldn’t hear. “What else do we know about Meera? What else can we use to get her to give us a chance?”
Owen’s eyes moved back and forth. Then he gave me a strangely reticent look, and said, “Solomon is her son.”
That was all I needed.
Like a gunshot, I was off, striding for the door. I gently pushed Amber out of the way and pressed my face to the window. “We have your son,” I told her.
Meera’s eyes grew wide, then narrowed. “You’re lying,” she hissed.
“No, I’m not. He was being kept with Thomas in Patrus, right? Let me ask you… did Desmond tell you Thomas defected?”
The woman opened her mouth and then hesitated, and I smiled. “It’s not a hard question. I figure she had to, in order to justify changes in your security for your handhelds, right? What did she tell you, Meera, about Solomon?”
Meera’s lips quivered slightly, and then she pressed them together in a thin line. It was enough to make me guess Desmond had told her that he was dead—no doubt that Thomas had killed Solomon as he was escaping, or something of the sort.
“He’s alive,” I told her. “Violet begged Thomas to get him out. She didn’t forget your son and the sacrifice he made for her. He’s still in the same condition, but he’s alive, and as healthy as can be expected.”
Meera took several deep breaths and then looked over my shoulder at Owen, apprehension battling the suspicion on her face. “Is it true?” she asked, her voice thick.
Owen gave her a gentle nod. Meera stepped away from the glass and disappeared from view. My heart pounded in my chest, and I wondered if I hadn’t just made a mistake mentioning Solomon. What if Meera was like Desmond—willing to sacrifice her son for what she considered the greater good?
A few moments later, Meera was back. The area under her eyes was puffy and the sclera around her irises were bloodshot. I realized she had stepped away to cry. Thank God, Meera wasn’t like Desmond. She was a mother who genuinely worried about her son. Finding out he was alive after being told he had died… I couldn’t imagine what she was going through at this moment.
Still, she bore it well. Her face had returned to a hard mask, but the viciousness had softened considerably. “What do you want?” she asked.
“Before I can tell you, answer this question for me. Is Desmond at this base right now?”
Meera hesitated, then shook her head. She looked guilty, but seemed to push it aside.
“Good,” I told her. “You asked what we wanted, and all we’re asking for is this: twenty minutes alone with you and your leadership, with a promise that you’ll watch this video first.” I held the case with the chip up to the window for her to see.
“What kind of video?” she asked, revealing nothing.
I paused, not entirely sure how to answer her question. I turned to Owen for help, and he took a step forward, one hand up. “It’s better if you watch it first, and then ask questions,” he told her. “Just… please, trust me. The last thing I want to do is hurt you, or anyone inside. We all feel that way.”