Blindsided (30 page)

Aria moaned, drawing her legs upward, and wrapping her arms around her head like a child curling into a protective ball. His quick inspection yielded a sticky bump just above and behind her ear and a mess of blood from a long cut on her arm. He gave her a little shake. “Aria, wake up.”

She shifted again, this time the pain she was awakening to apparent in the little mewling sound she made.

“It’s okay. You have quite the bump on your head, but I think that’s the worst of it. Anything else hurt?”

She swallowed, moved each arm, then each leg. “Mainly my head.”

“Okay.”

There was a loud thump on the back windshield. He craned his head to see Carthridge and his brother on the other side, the V-10 frowning down at the butt of his gun and shaking his head. Teigan’s face had that tight pinched look of thoroughly-pissed-off that strangely complimented the wild flare of panic in his eyes. Fail-free glass. It could withstand phaser fire, blast guns, armor piercing bullets, and 220 pounds of hard-ass super-soldier. But given how twisted and scrunched the front and left side of the car was, it was probably the best option for getting them out.

Teigan disappeared. A couple moments later he returned with a twisted piece of metal and began prying the liner from the edge where the windshield met the frame. Carthridge pulled his knife and began to help. A minute later there was a pop, and the car, whose other systems seemed to have gone offline—like the damn safety systems—let out an earsplitting wail as the security alarms registered the unauthorized breach.
Figures
.

“She’s got a cut on her head, a slash on her arm,” Garret pitched his voice over the shrill noise as he hefted Aria up and into Teigan’s waiting arms. “I think she’s okay though.”
 

“How about you?” Teigan asked, wrapping Aria against his body, even as his eyes traveled over Garret. Garret imagined he didn’t look too pretty right now, what with the bumps, bruises and blood and all.

“Bumps and bruises.”

“And a broken nose,” Carthridge commented. Garret was reaching for his outstretched hand when Aria all of a sudden became fully animated, squirming, and pushing against Teigan frantically.

“Shh, Aria, calm down.” Teigan attempted to soothe her.

“Willis…What about Willis?” Aria squeaked.

Shit. Willis.
 

Garret whipped around, peering over the front bench seat. He’d been so concerned with Aria he hadn’t thought of the chauffeur slash guard-dog, and the reason he hadn’t noticed him was because the older man had fallen sideways behind the seatback and been invisible from where he and Aria had lain.
 

Now that he saw him, he almost wished he hadn’t. There was no way he could bring himself to tell Aria what he was seeing.

The chauffeur’s left arm was caught between the steering wheel and the crumpled frame, and—fuck—looked to be hanging by the threads of his shirt. Garret blinked and took a closer inspection. No, still attached, he hoped, but torn and twisted at a gross angle to Willis’ shoulder. It was still bad. The wound was leaking like a sieve, drenching his entire torso in blood and his head, bowed listlessly to the side, the salt-and-pepper hair stained dark with blood, was split down the middle as if someone had taken out a hunk of his scalp. The congealing liquid was making its way down the side of his face where it pooled, became heavy, then dripped down in fat drops to land with a heavy drop…drop…drop on the lake of blood coating the passenger side window.

Chapter Twenty

Pain lanced up his left arm, stabbing him all the way into the base of his neck.
Ah, fuck. There goes that hand, too.
The kid had it coming to him. Too bad he wasn’t going to be the one to give it.

Willis propped himself up on his elbows, shook his head, trying to erase the foggy haze clouding his vision. Eight years old and the little shit could beat the crap out of him. The kid was the salt to his wound, the thorn in his foot, a real pisser in his craw. Willis didn’t believe in evil personified. Didn’t believe in God either, not really, but he did believe in Right and Wrong. And there was nothing about the little blond mop-head standing tauntingly before him that was Right.

Willis stumbled to his feet once more—
fucking embarrassing to keep on having to drag myself up like this
—hands limp at his sides, broken, useless. He knew he should just lie down, give up. That’s what the kid wanted. To win. To be the best. Too bad surrender wasn’t a word Willis had ever fully comprehended.
 

He tipped his head, staring his killer down. And the kid
was
a killer. First ants, then birds, then rabbits and cats. It had only been a matter of time before the kid went for larger prey.
 

Looked like today was the day.

A trickle of blood worked its way past Willis’ eyelashes and into his eye, coating his vision red. He blinked instinctively, and when his eyelids opened, he barely had time to register the outward strike of movement before the foot smashed into his knee, crumpling it.
 

Fuck. Goddamn!
He crashed back down onto the mat.
 

The kid crouched, head tipped to the side so their gazes aligned. “Give up, old man?”

If he had any energy left, he would’ve taught the little shit some respect for that. Forty-four was not old. He licked his lips instead, trying to create enough saliva so he could whisper his answer…never. But his throat was as parched as his mouth and his mind was so foggy he could barely think the word, let alone utter it.

“Willis?” A feminine voice, filled with sparkle, echoed in the hallway outside the large training room.
 

No! Not Aria. Not now. She shouldn’t see this. Shouldn’t be here.

“Willis! Byron, what happened to Willis?”

He forced his head back, his cheek scraping on the rough mat. Aria was running across the gym toward them, her chestnut waves streaming out behind her, her pretty face twisted in agony.
 

Go back…

“Willis!” She slid down beside him, her arms cradling his head, stroking his hair despite the blood. “Stay with me, Willis, stay with me. We’re going to get you help.”

The light blared down from above, haloing her wispy hair. She was so perfect, so sweet. An atheist from the daily hell he’d once lived on the dirty streets of Quito, Willis looked into her radiant eyes and almost believed there could be a higher power; and that
she
was
His
instrument of good in the world.
 

The thought faded along with the light. He felt his eyes drifting closed, his breathing evening out, becoming easier as he let it slow down toward nonexistent.

“Don’t you dare give up! Stay with me.” Her voice cracked like a whip, forcing him back from the brink.

No… He didn’t want to leave her, she was his Angel. But damn, staying hurt so fucking bad.

A figure loomed behind her, casting shadow over his Angel. Though his hair was light, the figure’s face was hidden in darkness, but it wasn’t so dark to hide the malevolent smirk on his face.
 

Maybe there
was
evil in the world. And it stood right before him.

“I swear to God, Willis—”

“Don’t swear,” Willis managed to say. “Not very lady like.”

She laughed, a hopeless mix of tears and joy.

Why? Because he’d scolded her?
Shouldn’t scold Miss Aria. She’s an Angel.

Willis’ eyes strayed to the figure behind her. The kid frowned, his eyes narrowing into a scowl. His gaze traveled from Willis to his sister, back to Willis; then finally settled on Aria once more.
 

Don’t even think about it, you little shit!

Little fucker cracked his knuckles and smiled. “What do you think, old man?”

Willis knew what he thought:
Over my dead body.

***

Byron cupped his hands under his chin, watching the feed from his confiscated suite of the 22
^nd
floor of the Liasion where the Idyllis Annual charity event had been held. He’d missed the real action. Stuck near the front of the packed, hotel ballroom, he hadn’t managed to get out until after the fireworks were over. By then a crowd had gathered and it was too risky to push his way to the front. He’d hurried back here, knowing it was a risk, knowing his source wasn’t to be trusted. But he’d needed to see. Needed to know.

Too bad the results hadn’t been as spectacular as he’d been promised.

Byron sat back in the chair, barely watching as the EMT’s loaded the old man into the back of the ambulance. No body bag. No sheet. Even the fucking
human
wasn’t dead…yet.

Give it time.

Chapter Twenty-one

August 7
^th
2104: 0003 EST

Teigan paced the hall outside the makeshift waiting room. He now knew what was in the core of all those subterranean levels of the Agency. A lab. A fucking huge one. Six floors, a good 15,000 square feet each floor, that was 90,000 square feet of playground for the government’s top secret doctors and scientists to pretend to be God in.

You won’t be saying that if they can pull a miracle and save Willis.

So much blood. It had become apparent almost immediately that Willis’ chances were less than slim. The shaken EMT hadn’t needed to say it was hopeless; the sentiment was plain on his face. Garret had been the one to suggest the facilities under the Agency.

It was a risk, a big risk. But given the alternative…

Teigan used his ID to commander the ambulance and they’d raced to the Agency. Teigan prayed the whole way that Whitesman had forgotten to remove his clearance and they could get in and access the labs Garret claimed were there. Better to beg forgiveness, than ask permission. He’d storm the place at gun point if need be, but there was no way he was going to just let Willis fucking die.
 

He needn’t have worried. The chip planted under the V-10s’ skin worked like an all-signs-point-to-yes pass and they’d slipped in the back door and down a hidden lift with hardly any commotion at all. Not that it would last. It was only a matter of time before Whitesman learned they’d “convinced”—with a whole lot of bravado and four glaring V-10s standing over his shoulder—two of his best doctors and three scientists to make the attempt at saving Willis’ life. And as soon as the director learned about the misappropriation of products and funds, Whitesman would be down here looking for someone he could skin.
 

Teigan was
not
looking forward to that confrontation. Beyond exhausted, he was the proverbial dead man walking, but that didn’t seem to have any effect on the jitters that hit his system over an hour ago. He hated waiting. The only thing worse than pacing and waiting was sitting and waiting while watching Aria cry.
 

So he paced, his footfalls trying to outpace the images of the accident that kept on replaying in his head. He’d never forget the sound of the multiple car collision, the initial view he’d gotten of the crumpled and broken shell of the black Lincoln. He’d seen Garret first. His brother had been awake by the time he’d rounded the wreckage to look in the rear window. He’d been holding a limp Aria. After that it was all a blur. Aria covered in blood. Aria waking in pain. Aria trying to break free of his hold. Aria screaming. Aria in the ambulance stroking Willis’s blood-stained head. Aria weeping, weeping…weeping. He didn’t think he’d ever be absolved of the sight of her tears.

Shit.
He spun, throwing a fist into the cement wall beside him.

His mission. His fault. If Willis didn’t pull through this surgery there was no way she’d ever forgive him. No way he’d forgive himself.

A door opened down the hall. Teigan lifted his head to see his brother step out of the waiting room and turn down the hall toward him. A couple paces away Garret stopped, folding his arms and leaning against the wall with his shoulder, feet crossed. “Hard wall.”

Teigan grunted, stretching his throbbing fingers open. “I noticed.”

“Pounding on flesh wouldn’t hurt quite so damn much,” Garret stated philosophically.

Teigan cocked an eyebrow. “You offering?”

“If it would make you feel better?” Garret shrugged his shoulders. “Sure.”

He would offer. Prick. It would be more tempting if Garret didn’t already have a motley of bandages and bruises—Teigan flexed his hand again—and his fist didn’t already hurt like hell.

“Maybe another time.” Teigan leaned his back against the wall, staring at the stark white cement across from him. Garret had been down here before. Many times. His brother had been in the same fucking building and Teigan hadn’t even known. “I need to find out who their decorator was. They did a stellar job.”

“Home sweet home. It has a certain charm, doesn’t it?”

“You’d think they’d be worried about staining.”

“White takes well to bleaching. And the training grounds are on the lowest two levels. They’re painted black on a routine basis.”

“Ah.” Fuck. Teigan bounced his head against the wall a few times, hoping the mild pain would make his brain stop functioning. He didn’t want to think about Garret’s early years. Didn’t want to think about the surgery going on past the double doors at the end of the hall. Didn’t want to think about Aria and the blood matted hair and bandaged arm, sitting in the cramped little room…weeping.