Blood spurted out as the tip disappeared into his hand. He gave no reaction.

 

Puller eyed him. “They took away your ability to feel pain.” “They took away

everything that made me human.” Puller said slowly, “They made you…the perfect

killing machine.” “Only they forgot that your target might not always be the

enemy,” said Knox breathlessly. “My enemy became whoever was in front of me,”

said Rogers dully. “I had no control over it.” “Josh Quentin works for Atalanta

Group. That’s Jericho’s new company. It’s in Building Q.” “I got in Building Q

the other night. Climbed one of the walls up to the top.” “How the hell did you

do that?” “I’m just strong. And I have artificial skin on my palms and fingers,

and on the bottoms of my feet, so I can dig into whatever I’m climbing.” Knox

exclaimed, “Why doesn’t anyone know about any of this?” “Because four, or rather

five, women died,” said Puller. “So they buried it.” The next instant the jolt

of pain hit Rogers so fiercely he bent over and threw up. He staggered back,

clawing at his torso. “Paul, what’s wrong?’ shouted Puller. “Can you cut us

loose? We can try to help you.” Rogers tore at his clothes, ripping them off his

body until he stood before them in only his skivvies. Both Puller and Knox

stared at the hideous scars up and down his body. “Omigod,” exclaimed Knox.

 

Rogers was bent double by the agony. He tore at his head, pulling a hunk of his

scalp free. Blood poured down his face.

 

He looked up at them. “They did that to you?” asked Puller, eyeing the scars.