"I'll help. That's why I came. But I can't do it alone. I don't know how to make it clean, how to make it permanent. You're the doctor— the scientist. You will know how to make someone pay, properly."
The words seemed to fuel John. His shoulders squared, and a strange, fierce joy flickered across his features—an ugly, very human thing that comes when pain turns to purpose. "I have just the thing," he said, voice tight with something like triumph. "Wait here."
He strode from the room and left the door ajar. Xavier watched the portrait of Leonardo as the old man's footsteps faded into the outer hall. He lowered himself back into the chair, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm on the armrest.
Xavier slipped the buds into his ears and tapped the line to Angel. "How much longer?" he asked in a whisper.
Angel's reply came in his ear like a whisper, efficient and sharp. "Sixty-nine percent. You need to stall for a few more minutes. Don't cut the transfer or alarms will flag. Hold it steady."
