Fatal Strike (23 page)

The other guy, a little further downhill and moving fast in Lara’s direction, was using a different part of his brain, a more animal part. Sniffing, feeling with instincts, using his brain stem. More like the cougar Miles had met up at the Forks than his fellow goon.

One more was farther down the hill. Coercion. Then there was Greaves himself, plus two more, near where the vehicles had stopped.

Greaves was the brightest spot on that topographical grid. A red, toxic throb of energy, battering Miles’ shield like hurricane wind.

Yesterday, he might have hesitated to use deadly force. Seeing Lara on the ground with blood running from her nose had burned that hesitation right out of him. Those evil scumsucking motherfuckers had hurt her, and now they were going to die.

He pulled out his blade, and moved in on them.

 

“Sir? Sir, are you all right?”

“Get your hands off me!” Greaves’ blast of telekinetic energy flung Silva six meters through the air. He thudded to the ground, stunned.

Greaves put his hand on the door handle, dragging himself to his feet. The other hand touched the stream of blood that had burst in his nose, around his eyes, and probably on his sclera, as well, leaving what was sure to be unsightly red spotches in the whites of his eyes.

The sneaky little bitch! She had led him into a trap and suck-erpunched him! He was so angry, he almost squeezed Silva’s hiccuping lungs closed, but that would be wasteful.

Levine stood in the clearing, frozen still, eyes wide. Afraid to speak or move. God, was it always to be his fate to be surrounded by cowards who shit themselves at the faintest whiff of difficulty?

If she did not move or say something in five seconds, he would kill her, too, and never count the cost. Five, four, three—

“A tissue, sir?” She dug in her purse, handed him a packet.

He plucked one out, pressed it sullenly to his bleeding nose.

Lara Kirk and her ogre were on foot. No way could they be outside his range. Which meant Kirk’s shield was fully as strong and impervious as Geoff’s, and that she could lower it and raise it at will.

Greaves did a telepathic check of his enhanced commandos, all drawn from his own elite security squad, the ones who traveled with himself and Geoff at all times. None of them had engaged yet.

He gestured impatiently toward Silva. “Get him up. Get out there and help look for those two. Both of you.”

Miranda’s eyelids fluttered, and her gaze dropped to her houndstooth pencil skirt, the sheer black hose, the costly four-inch heels. Vain, useless bitch. “Me, sir?”

“Of course, you,” he said, pitiless. “Both of you. There’s a lot of ground to cover.”

Silva struggled to his feet. He wore dress shoes, and his Armani suit was somewhat the worse for wear, with mud on his knees and chest. He and Miranda headed into the forest with gingerly steps.

Greaves tried again to scan for Lara Kirk. The flat silence felt like Carol’s punishing silence. Like Geoff’s . . .

Like Geoff’s.
Of course it did. Of course.

He composed himself to stillness, and brought the crazy-making quality of Geoff’s silence clearly to his mind. The heaviness of it, the feeling of constant rebuke. His son’s silence was a mirror, highlighting his father’s sins, flaws, crimes.

It was painful to dwell upon, but he kept grimly at it, until something like Geoff’s shield began to shimmer on the edge of his consciousness. Almost there . . . and he lost it again.

He tried again, making his mind soft . . .

Yes! He’d felt it. Not exactly like Geoff, but similar, and he—

Sir?
It was Miranda, pinging him telepathically.
There’s a—

I AM CONCENTRATING! He punched the sharply articulated thought back at her, together with a punishing stab of mental energy that was liable to affect her sleep and digestion for days. Stupid cow.

He gave in to the inevitable, following the beacon of Miranda’s mental signature. He reached out to monitor the rest of his staff . . .

And found nothing.

He came upon Miranda. She pointed, her face white and stiff.

Mehalis hung from the bough of a spruce tree, from a noose fashioned from the duct tape he had carried on his belt. His arms and feet were taped together. His face looked startled, eyes bulging.

Ten meters away, Biehl too hung, by his feet. Blood dripped copiously from his slashed throat. Greaves walked past Biehl’s dangling body. Twenty yards further downhill, he found Wilcox. Also hanging, suspended, from plasticuffs which held his hands together over a tree bough, three feet off the ground. His neck dangled at a strange angle.

Lara Kirk did not kill those men. All the yoga in the world would not render a hundred and ten pound girl powerful enough to hoist those men into the trees. This was her ogre’s work. Her brawny champion.

A loud rustling and snapping of twigs indicated that Miranda and Silva were joining him. Greaves closed his eyes, scanning for Lara Kirk, using that faint, elusive anti-signature, so like and yet unlike Geoff’s.

He heard the faint, faraway rev of a motor. A motorcycle. So they had a hidden vehicle down on the road. They would have a ten-minute lead by the time they got back down to the road to give chase.

So. This round went to them. Again.

Greaves turned, and started walking back toward the car.

Silva and Miranda hastened to follow. “Sir, what do we do now? Do we—”

“Cut them down,” he said. “Load them up. There are body bags in the car. Get to it.”

Silva and Miranda looked at each other, shocked. “Ah, sir . . . Mehalis was the one with telekinesis, for the heavy lifting. Do you suppose that you could, ah . . .”

“No,” he snarled. “I am not a stevedore. Go get those body-bags, and hurry, unless you want to fill one of them yourself.”

They scurried through the forest to collect the body bags.

The silence mocked him like a smirk, broken only by the
plop, plop
of blood, dripping from the dead man’s hair.

 

lara! haul ass! he’s coming!

Lara jolted out of her startled contemplation of the last hanging corpse, and struggled onward. His sharpness jolted her into a shaky trot. Her rubbery knees and ankles kept giving out on her, making her stumble and slip.

4 the lv of Christ pls less noise change course 20 degrees 2 ur right and fcking HURRY

She didn’t reply, just pushed on. Tears streamed from her eyes. She wasn’t quite sure why. She had no point of contact with whatever feeling had provoked them. She was numb.

A strong arm clamped her from behind. Sticky with blood, to the elbow. She squeaked with terror before she recognized him.

The world swooped, breath whooshed out of her lungs, and they slipped, slid, tumbled together down the last steep slope— and came up short, battered and coughing in the ditch at the roadside among drifts of knapweed and pine needles. Miles was up, hauling his computer bag and the motorcycle from the dark maw of the culvert before Lara even got up onto her hands and knees.

He yanked her to her feet and hoisted the vehicle onto the roadway, draping the computer bag over her back.

“You hold this.” He shoved an assault rifle into her hands. “Move!”

His voice stung like a flail. She swung her leg over the seat, clutched the heavy weapon against her belly, trying to hang on as the bike surged into motion.

Wind battered her face. She pressed it between his shoulder blades. His shirt blew open, flapping, wrapping itself around her forearms. Wet with blood. Thick and viscous, flapping her wrists.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Saw hanging bodies, staring eyes, dripping blood. She dug deeper, trying to find that place in her mind where she felt safe, inside the Citadel. She’d been comforting herself for months in that safe haven, and it had never failed her yet.

But it was different now. The warmth had all bled out of it.

It was the dead of winter in there.

H
e’d declared war.

Miles pondered that with the small part of his mind that was not co-opted by the churning machine. He had thought it was a shield, but now he realized that it was much more than that. The minute he’d opened a door and fired a shot outward, a huge waiting engine had roared into life. The Citadel was not a static wall, not a fortress to huddle inside.

It was a big, nasty, evil motherfucking war machine.

With that war machine’s engine humming, he could let go of scruples and doubts and all his usual monkey-mind bullshit, and just do the job. Going after Greaves’ commando freaks, taking them all out with his knife, for instance. The person he’d been before would not have been able to coolly slash a guy’s carotid artery, hang him by his feet to bleed out like a slaughtered pig, and continue on his way. To kill again.

He didn’t even know the guy who had done that. Lara didn’t think she knew him either. He could feel it in her trembling arms against his belly. He could still feel her inside his shield, but it wasn’t the usual happy glow. There was tension, frozen uncertainty.

She was afraid of him now.

It had been sort of like that back when he started using the shield, but in a smaller way. People had complained about his coldness, his distance. It was that phenomenon, taken to its natural, inevitable conclusion. The possibility of becoming a stone-cold monster didn’t register so much as a blip on his emotional sensors right now.

No, he was just fine with it. All his energy was dedicated to the tasks of keeping Lara safe, and grinding that dickhead Greaves and his lackeys into pink slime. Chill, steely purpose. Nothing else.

He headed into the maze of orchards that opened up in the valley, following random impulse, since he had no other compass. He ached to get onto the biggest, fastest road he could find and just fly, but they had no helmets, he was soaked in blood, and Lara was clutching an assault rifle to her bosom. Plus, he wasn’t sure if Greaves’ reach extended into the net of videocameras that were thick on the ground in all populated places. Their passing would be recorded dozens, if not hundreds of times in any town they went through, and if anyone on earth could find a way to smoothly commandeer all these electronic eyes, it was Greaves.

The orchard grid gave way to foothills again. A sign leading up a mountainside indicated that it led to Herald Lake, twelve miles up into the mountains. Remote, high altitude. He needed a place to park Lara, warm her up, let her rest. A place to do some thinking, plotting. Or rather, to let his new war machine do it for him, since it was far and away better at the task than he, Miles, had ever been.

The road became a sharp uphill grade of rough, rutted gravel that Val’s fancy-ass bike was most definitely not built for, but it labored gamely on. There were houses on the road. He used the extension of his senses that he had employed in the recent fight in the forest, slowing down near each dwelling and sending his perceptions outward to gather information, organize it on a spatial grid, feeling for bright points that indicated people. The first house was currently inhabited. The second had no bright points, but it looked inhabited, and had a sense of fresh energy. Someone had left the place recently and meant to return soon. Some were derelict, with no human energy at all, but that was no good either, if he wanted to forage for food, clothes for Lara, maybe even a hot shower and some sleep. He needed a middle ground.

More torturous climbing. Lara vibrated against his back, violent, convulsive shudders as her body sought to warm itself. Night was coming on. If she went into shock from exposure, he was so fucked. It was surprising she had not already done so. She was as tough as nails.

Still, he laid on the gas.

The lake itself came into view. Smallish, shallow, surrounded by waving marsh grasses and encircled by a dragon’s spine of dead white skeleton trees peeking up through the younger green conifers. There was a rough road around it, and some small cabins.

One caught his eye. He slowed down, pulled in close.

It was small, simple, a roughly built A-frame. It had exactly the vibe he was looking for. No vehicles outside, but the house looked intact and well kept, not abandoned for more than a couple of months, based on the drifts of pine needles that had blown up against the door.

The McCloud Crowd’s training in lock-picking came in handy, with the emergency pick set in his bag, a Christmas gift from Sean years ago. He defeated the knob lock and the padlock both in less than three minutes. This was the first time he’d tried to pick a lock with his new, enhanced senses. A whole different experience. He could sense the inner mechanism now, the guts of the lock, shifting pins and tumblers.

Inside, the air was stale. There was a small living room with a fireplace, a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom in the back. A bedroom was upstairs, in the loft. Electrity that functioned. A gas stove, and a propane tank, all good. He went looking for blankets.

He wrapped her up in a tattered wool army blanket, like an olive-green burrito. Plopped her on the couch, and fished for the burner phone Aaro had gotten him. He punched in Sean’s number, let it ring.

Sean picked up instantly. “Yeah?”

“It’s me,” he said.

“Yo. Glad to hear your voice.”

“You guys okay?” Miles asked.

“Not exactly.” Sean’s voice was flat. “We stopped in Salem. Davy’s being prepped for emergency surgery. Cerebral aneurism.”

Sub-zero cold pierced his flatlined calm. “Fuck me,” he whispered.

“Pretty much. They put him in an artificial coma. We’ll see how it goes. He’s a tough bastard.”

Miles’ mind was blank. He wished he could think of something encouraging to say, but he didn’t have any access to the part of his brain that might be up to a task that emotionally complex.

“How about everyone else?” he finally said.

“Fine. He only put the squeeze on Connor and Davy and me. Connor and I both have bitching headaches. Val and Tam took off to collect their kids from Sveti and Zia. I have never seen Tam that pale.”

“You guys should get checked out,” Miles said. “I’ve had this kind of brain damage, so trust me on this. You’re in the hospital already, so get some testing right away on your—”

“Yeah, whatever,” Sean said curtly. “We’re on it.”

“Right.” Miles swallowed, his hand fisting, opening, fisting again. “How about Margot? She holding up okay?”

“She’s on her way down now, with Jeannie and Erin and Kevvie. They left the little ones with Lily and Bruno in Portland. Should be here in about an hour.” Sean hesitated. “Did you engage with him?”

“Yeah,” Miles said. “It was no fun. But we’re alive.”

“Wow. Intense. Oh, hey, there’s one of Davy’s surgeons. Gotta go.”

“Okay. Later, dude. Good luck.”

He thumbed it closed, slipped the thing into his pocket. “Davy has an aneurism,” he told her. “They’re operating now.”

Her eyes closed. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” he muttered.

Appalled silence spread. She stared up from beneath the shadowy cowl of the blanket, shivering and blue-lipped. Clutching it beneath her chin with a scratchy, muddy hand. Her dark, fathomless eyes seemed to stare straight into his brain.

Anger flared inside him. She shrank back.

“What?” he snarled. “What’s with the look?”

Her gaze flicked down. She shook her head, mutely.

“You look like you think I’m going to hit you,” he said.

She wouldn’t look up. “That’s how angry you seem.”

Stating it out loud seemed to roll a rock off it. It roared up, inflamed and huge and horrible.

“Yeah, I’m fucking angry.” His voice cut through the darkness. “What you did? Jesus, Lara. Throwing yourself in front of him like that? What the
fuck
were you thinking?”

“That too many people have already died trying to protect me,” she said. “My parents, Matilda, Keiko, and Franz. I didn’t want Nina and all your friends to die, too. And you. You, more than anyone! You were supposed to leave me and run, Miles!”

“Right. Like I’m going to do that, in this lifetime. In this universe.”

She pulled her knees up and wiggled her arms out of the green wool to hug them to her chest. “Cold,” she whispered.

He leaned to turn on the lamp next to the couch. To his surprise, it flicked on, a sickly, flickering, yellow glow. “I’ll try and get some heat going in here.”

“No. I mean you,” she said. “Inside, outside. Even in the Citadel. It’s never been like that in there before. It scares me.”

His teeth ground. “Yeah, well. Slaughtering people does a real number on the warm fuzzy vibes. So does having my girlfriend offer herself up like a sacrificial goat to a psycho maniac. Real mood-killer.”

“Don’t be sarcastic!”

He snorted. “That’s like asking me not to breathe.”

“Then hold your breath!” she said flatly.

He stared at her, fighting for control. Teeth grinding. “If you don’t like me this way, avoid forcing me into situations where I have to kill large numbers of people to protect you.”

“Stop it!” She covered her face with her hands. “I can’t stand it!”

“I am what I am. If it sucks, take some goddamn responsibility for what you’ve made with your own hands.”

“Me? You think I’m responsible?” Her eyes widened, outraged.

“Yes, you! This passive human sacrifice schtick pisses me off! It’s not enough to just waft around looking wounded and ethereal! Fight, goddamnit! For your life, your future! Strike a blow, get off your ass!”

The blanket fell as she jolted up. “That’s not fair. I am grateful that you protected me, but you are being a dickhead!”

“Can you promise not to do that again? Or will you just rip my guts out again, anytime you like, no warning?” he yelled back. “How can I trust you? What can we have together under those conditions?”

“I don’t know,” she retorted. “Probably not much.”

A glass-framed poster on the opposite wall suddenly fell to the floor. The crash of broken glass jarred them both.

“So that’s your position,” he spat out. “You’ll just throw yourself in front of a bus, no warning for me, no collaboration, no working together to find a solution—”

“There was no time! You know I’m right. You’re just throwing a childish tantrum! You can’t fault me for what I did.”

“Yeah? Watch me, Lara. Memorize it. This is me, faulting you.”

The lightbulb in the lamp popped, bulb exploding in a high pitched, tinkling shower all over the lamp stand, the floor.

“What the fuck is going on?” Miles growled.

Lara put her hands over her ears. “Ouch,” she hissed. “Stop that.”

He was bewildered. “Stop what?”

“That thing you did, in my head.”

“I didn’t do anything except yell at you. And I was justified.”

She gave him a long, level look. “Uh uh. It hurt. I’ve been yelled at plenty, and it didn’t ever feel like that, even when Anabel did it. That’s coercion, Miles. Like Greaves. Don’t do it to me again. Ever.”

“So now I’m like Greaves? That is such
bullshit!
”

Crack.
The long mirror that hung on the door that led to the kitchen cracked down the middle. A triangle of mirror glass tumbled out of the frame, fell to the floor, shattering into four smaller pieces.

“Oh, for God’s sake. Would you please stop it?” she snapped. “It’s immature, and it’s stressing me out.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he roared. “I didn’t!”

She gestured at the lamp, the picture, the mirror. “Bad enough that we’re breaking and entering. Do you have to trash the place, too?”

“But I didn’t . . . that wasn’t . . .” His voice trailed off. He stared at the remaining shards of mirror. He was reflected in it, distorted, broken, jagged. “I can’t do that stuff,” he said. “Any of it. You’re wrong.”

She sighed. “Refusing to face reality wastes a lot of vital energy,” she said wearily. “Not to preach, or anything. Try to calm down.”

Calm down, his hairy ass. He backed away, breathing hard, and stared at her slender form, silhouetted against the last of the fading light sifting through the trees outside. And even now, underneath his distress was the pounding drumbeat of his awareness of her body, her scent, her sex. So slim and straight. Strong.

He wanted to shove her down onto the couch, rip off the muddy clothes. Pin her into the cushions beneath his weight and go at her like a rutting wild animal. He wanted to plunder and pillage and possess all her secret girl parts, with hands and tongue and cock, until she’d forgotten how pissed she was at him. Or was too exhausted to care.

But his anger was draining away, leaving sickening dread behind. His back hit the fireplace mantle. “I’ll just, ah . . . go do something useful with myself,” he said. “Before I fuck up again.”

“Miles, please,” she called, but he stumbled into the kitchen.

There were no words for how horrified he was. He had to concentrate to steady himself. Light worked, check. Hot water heater turned on, check. He had to scrounge for clothing for her. Some food. See if there was propane in the tank to power the range. Procure some wood for a fire. That was the plan. Warm her. Feed her. Try not to hurt her, or scare her to death.

He was mortified. Coercion? Like Rudd, like Greaves. He felt like an evil spirit had possessed his body and slugged her in the face. It was exactly that bad. Hurting an innocent, injured girl, half his size. Holy fucking shit.

He started rummaging in the shelves over the stove, behind some dusty blue gingham curtains. They yielded a can of turkey vegetable stew and a box half full of stale crackers. Now for a can opener. Some rattling in drawers with his grimy, shaking hands found him one, but when he pulled the drawer, he accidentally ripped it out of the credenza, scattering its contents over the floor with a rattling crash.