And soon Dixie would join them, and that would be the end of the Mason family.
He stepped into the room, head buzzing faintly from the lingering traces of the gas used to make sure House stayed unconscious until they were long gone. Greg had cleared away most of it, but there was still residue.
Moving over to a wide stretch of clear floor, Dixie laid out a tarp. He then went to the bed, yanked the blankets off, scooped House up and carried him over to the tarp. Unzipping his bag, he swiftly set up lights, not wanting to waste time or risk anything messing with the house system.
He turned back to House and quickly got his shirt off and out of the way. Flipping him over, Dixie then dug out another tool kit and set to work.
Anyone given a Mason Chip first underwent the same surgery Dixie had endured, though where they all got one port and very limited system wiring, he had three (better grade) ports and full system wiring. Picking up a scalpel, Dixie swiftly slit House's neck open right along the scar left behind. Greg came up then, face twisted in a grimace but stubbornly set, and he took care of the blood while Dixie swapped scalpel for tweezers.
He carefully extracted the chip, set it aside, and drew out a dummy chip that would convince the Mason System that all was well for a little while. Any momentary blip would be attributed to an error, and it would hopefully be hours yet before anyone realized House's chip was not where it should be.
Dixie exhaled raggedly, then set to work patching House up and doing his best to delay how long it would take him to notice something was wrong. He'd probably notice immediately no matter what they did, but any edge they could give themselves, the better.
When he was patched up, Dixie got him back in his clothes and dragged him over to his bed. Greg threw the blankets back over him while Dixie broke down and cleaned up their work station, stowing the bloody instruments and rags in a special bag.
The Mason Chip was gently stowed in a special case that went in the pocket right over his heart. Mason Chip in hand, on our way to you.
Well done, Byron replied.
Throwing his bag over his shoulder, Dixie led the way back downstairs and out of the house, eye flashing as he locked everything up tight again and triple-checked all his delay tactics were in place and ready-steady.
Byron and Leland waited for them on the landing pad, and Byron looked a little too evil mastermind pleased with himself. Dixie lightly cuffed his shoulder. "Stop looking so smug. The helicopter was the easy part."
"Let's see you summon a helicopter with a trustworthy pilot to the middle of blizzard, fucknowhere when we're conducting acts of a dubious nature."
"Shut up," Greg groaned. "I'm cold and you're using too many words."
Byron bowed and motioned to the helicopter. "Into the chariot, kitty cat."
Greg gave Byron a kick as he passed.
Byron's levity faded as he met Dixie's gaze. "So we finally have it."
"Yep."
"Dixie—"
"Let's get moving, the clock is ticking." Dixie hustled into the helicopter and took the seat opposite Greg. Byron slid in next to him, and Leland next to Greg. A couple of minutes later, they were in the air. "Glad we beat the storm."
No one replied, but he didn't particularly care. Months and months of planning and it was over in a flash. All the things that could have gone wrong, hadn't. Ordinarily, he'd be ecstatic at a job so goddamn well done.
But ordinarily he wasn't successfully stealing the chip that was probably going to kill him.
And he didn't know what to think about the fact he was more upset about hurting Greg than his own pending demise. Well, no, he didn't want to die. He wanted to live more than anything. But he'd long ago grown as resigned to his own death as anyone could. He'd known this was how it would end from the moment he'd made the choice to escape the G.O.D.
Leaving someone hurting though… That he couldn't stand. He remembered how it felt to be the one left behind. Not that he thought he and Greg were anything like his parents…
But he liked too much thinking that maybe they could have tried to be. Stupid as that was. Pointless as that was. They were fighting against the G.O.D.—they were all going to wind up dead eventually.
Maybe Matt and Karl had had the right of it after all, enjoying what they could while they could and ignoring the consequences.
And maybe his dumb ass should have admitted that sooner. What was done, was done, though, as his mama used to say. You got the sense of a drunk butterfly, boy. Now let's get this mess cleaned up before your father comes home.
He reached up reflexively to touch his cheek, where he could feel the ghost of a thousand motherly kisses before she ran her fingers over his hair and then swatted his butt playfully to send him on his way to the cleaning closet.
Letting his hand fall, he settled back in his seat and dozed off because he was going to need all the brain power he could possibly muster.
The lack of noise woke him a short time later, along with a gentle shake of his shoulder. Dixie dragged his eyes open and stared into Greg's eyes, a soft, warm brown he never grew tired of. "Arrived already?"
"It's been almost an hour," Greg said with a faint smile that faded when Dixie didn't say anything. "Are you okay?"
Dixie forced a smile. "Just discombobulated. It's been a long few months, and now everything is going a hundred miles an hour. And I ain't been in the Mason System for a long time. But I've dawdled enough, huh? I'm sure Byron is about ready to drag me inside
