Fatal Strike (6 page)

. . . nothing.

His eyes fluttered open, later. Flagstones, cool against his cheek. Wrought iron table legs. Human legs, in hose and heels, dress shoes.

He turned his head. Leaves against a white sky. Anxious faces swam in his vision. He struggled to put names to them, to himself.

They jolted heavily into place, like train cars coupling. The blur of rust-colored chiffon beside him was Nina. She clutched a bloody napkin to her nose, shaking with sobs. His nose bled, too. Edie passed him a napkin. He plugged the leak, glad for an excuse not to speak.

Oh, man. And he thought his head had hurt before.

“Would somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on?” Aaro snarled, as Kev and Davy hoisted Miles up into a sitting position.

“Oh, God,” Nina whispered, her voice thick. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay,” Miles said. Though of course, it wasn’t.

“What didn’t you know?” Aaro bellowed.

“Shhh.” Nina soothed, patting Aaro’s cheek. “I didn’t know how bad it was,” she said to Miles. “I shouldn’t have done that to you. I don’t know how you’re walking around, with all that going on in your head.”

“Think I should go for the padded cell, then?”

He’d meant it as a joke, but surprise, surprise—no one laughed.

Nina shuddered. “That’s where I’d be,” she said.

“You had a seizure,” Kev told him. “You were yelling. Looked bad.”

“Stress flashback,” Sean said. “Rudd?”

“That’s what happens if I drop the shield. The shield holds it all together.” He glanced pointedly at Nina. “If nobody fucks with it.”

“Sorry,” Nina whispered, abjectly. “Really. Just trying to help.”

He started to shake his head. Stopped, with a hiss of pain. “I’m past help. When you start getting text messages from dead girls in your head, it’s time to call the guys in the white coats with the little van.”

“No,” Nina said. “You’re not crazy, Miles.”

The murmuring stilled. Miles’ mouth was dangling. He closed it with a snap. “Ah . . . how do you figure?”

“I saw a little in there, before the seizures,” Nina said. “I felt some of your memories. You never met Lara, but I did. I know her vibe. And I felt it. I felt
her
. She’s not dead.”

Miles felt that drum roll starting up. Part dread, part compulsion, rumbling ominously inside him. “Nina. Please. Don’t do this to me.”

“She got through the shield, just like I did,” Nina insisted.

“You got through it because I told you the password!” he shouted. “How could she get through? I never told it to her. I don’t
know
her!”

“You didn’t have to tell her,” she said. “She
is
your password.”

Miles struggled to his feet, batting their hands hands away. Batting the whole thought away. Too crazy. Too weird. Blood roared in his ears. His heart thudded, a swift, panicked gallop, even as it slipped into place, with a soft, inevitable “click.”

This explained so much. He clutched his head in his hands, on the verge of total brain meltdown. Trying to process it.

She is your password.
Holy freaking shit. Could she really . . . ?

“You think she’s alive, then?” he blurted. “And locked in a dungeon for real? And the only person she can talk to is me? Just because I put her name into my goddamn password?”

Nina gazed at him steadily. “You put a Lara Kirk shaped hole in your mental shield, Miles. Who better than she could find her way in?”

“This isn’t helping,” Kev warned. “You’re setting him off. He’ll go off on a quest when we should be calling the paramedics.”

“It could just be a hallucination,” Davy said.

“You didn’t feel what I felt,” Nina said.

“Thank God for that, if feeling it comes with a nosebleed,” Tam commented, with distaste. “I hate getting blood on my clothes.”

Miles covered his face with his hands against the overload. Too much. That machine inside him, gears grinding. Doors opening, air rushing in. New possibilities, electrifying him.

“If she’s alive, I’ll find her,” he said.

“Oh, fuck, no,” Sean muttered. “Here we go again.”

He’d already tuned them out. He brushed the dust from his suit. He’d whanged his elbow and knee somewhere, going down. Add those high and low notes to the cocktail of undifferentiated pain.

But as messed up as he was, it was such a relief to give into it. Like he’d been craving something that he knew was bad for him, and now he was like, fuck it. Binge city. “Later, guys,” he said. “I’m gone.”

“Don’t do this!” Kev sounded angry. “You’re not up to it!”

“What else am I good for?” he asked, looking around at them. “Seriously? The shape I’m in? What the fuck else do I have to do?”

Nobody had an answer for that. But he hadn’t expected one.

Tam pulled a ring off her finger. “Take this. I was too busy with Irina this morning to tart myself up properly, or I’d give you more.”

Miles held the delicate thing gingerly. The jewelry Tam designed tended to hide lethal secrets. “Is it poisoned?”

She gave him her most mysterious smile. “I don’t wear pieces treated with poison while I’m with my children. It’s got explosives, though.”

Miles studied Tam’s striking design. Twists of white and yellow gold tangled around faceted jet. “What’s the trick?”

“Twist it counterclockwise. It’s a tack, and inside is a wad of explosives. The button on the ring band is a detonator. Punch the spike into a car tire. It won’t blow the tire until you detonate it with the ring band. Stay close. It gets unpredictable at over five hundred meters.”

“Ah,” Miles said, doubtfully.

“I’m sure you’ll figure out uses I’ve never even thought of.”

Miles had no illusions about his own potential sneakiness as compared to Tam’s, but it was a nice thought. He tried to put the ring on his pinkie, but it wouldn’t go past his big knuckle. He slipped it into his jacket. “Thanks.”

Edie stepped forward and held out the dessert menu that she had used for her drawing. “Take this,” she offered.

Miles almost dreaded looking at it. “What is it?”

“Haven’t got a clue. You tell me.”

It was a mountain peak, two prongs like lopsided horns, and a downward sloping crest between them, like the bridge of a big nose; a metaphor that came easily to him. Superimposed was a crosshatched pattern, like chain link. The tops of three tall conifers framed the scene.

He looked up at Edie. Shook his head mutely.

She sighed. “Whatever. It was worth a try.”

“Thanks anyway.” Miles shoved the picture into his suit jacket, along with the ring. “I’m gone.”

“I’m coming, too,” Sean said.

“And me,” Kev added.

“Me, too,” Aaro chimed in.

No way,” Miles said. “A mass exodus of all the important guests at Bruno and Lily’s wedding? Stay. Do your duty. I’ll call you later.”

“No, you won’t,” Aaro said.

The pain in Aaro’s voice made Miles pause, but only for a moment. He could not deal with his friend’s hurt feelings right now.

He simply did not have the equipment.

G
reaves gazed at his staff over the rim of the cup, letting them all sweat. He was a benevolent man, who wanted only the best for the people in his charge. But he did not suffer fools gladly.

He placed the empty cup in its saucer. Someone whisked it away. He turned to Anabel, and Jason Hu. “We’ll begin with you two. What progress have you made on the formula?”

“Not a great deal,” Anabel admitted reluctantly.

“Have you taken Lara up to twice a day, as I directed? Upping the doses by three percent daily?”

“Her blood pressure dropped when we jumped from seventy micrograms to seventy-three,” Hu said. “I dialed it back. I’ve been increasing it in increments of .5 percent. Her sleep cycles are disordered, so we’ve been dosing her at night, and sometimes in the early morning, since that seems most conducive to—”

“Next time, do exactly as I direct you,” Greaves said. “To the letter. Do not second-guess me again.”

Hu gulped, his eyes darting down to the table. “Yes, sir.”

He turned to Anabel. “Do you continue to lose contact when she ranges?”

“Her ability to shield seems to be growing,” Anabel admitted. “I hang onto her for a while, but I always lose her at some point.”

“Odd,” Greaves mused. “I had no problem at all monitoring her on the day that she first-dosed. It seems your abilities as a telepath are dwindling. As your other abilities seem to have done, as well.”

She turned mottled red at his reference to her neglected talent for sexual magnetism. “My talent is as strong as ever, but it’s like I told you, sir. Her shield is impenetrable. If she gets behind it, I get nothing, and neither do the other telepaths. I don’t understand how she—”

“There is a great deal that you don’t understand, Anabel.”

“Sir, I—”

“Shut up. I’m done with you for now. Levine, Houghman, Chrisholm, Mehalis. Have any of you had better luck penetrating this momentous shield?”

The other four telepaths on his staff exchanged nervous glances, and shook their heads. Greaves ground his teeth. Lily-livered idiots, all of them. Anabel was the strongest of the lot, and even she was falling short. He was so sick of hand-holding, micromanaging.

“Very well,” he said, through his teeth. “Let’s discuss the telepathic surveillance project, then. How is that proceeding?”

“Fine, sir,” Levine said. “We take six-hour shifts, as you directed. We haven’t detected anyone yet, except in the staged test runs.”

“Sir,” Silva piped up. “I wanted to speak to you about that. It strikes me as a poor use of resources, considering their limited range. They can’t detect anyone beyond, say, forty meters, and—”

“It is an exercise, Silva,” Greaves explained patiently. “One does not extend one’s range unless one is forced to push oneself. Are you familiar with the concept of pushing yourself? Because I am beginning to wonder.”

“Of course, sir, but I think that using just the infrared and motion detectors rather than staff who could be concentrating on complex—”

“I ask you to trust me on this, Silva,” Greaves suggested gently.

Silva subsided. An intelligent decision on his part.

“Continue with the rotations,” Greaves directed. “Has anyone noticed any increase in range?”

He looked around, tapping his fingers. No one would meet his eyes. Disappointing, but at least they had better sense than to lie to him. “Very well,” he said crisply. “Moving on.” He flipped through the brief that laid out the research team’s latest results and projections.

“Lewis.” He addressed the team’s head researcher. “You released the aerosolized toxin into the air ducts of the correctional facility for men in Chikala, Utah, six months ago. Summarize what you have observed since then.”

Lewis consulted his notes. “Put briefly, there was no perceivable change in the first two months, but in the third month, incidence of violence went down fourteen percent. By the fourth month, it was down thirty-three percent. Fifth month, fifty-seven percent. The sixth month, sixty-eight percent. There were sixty percent fewer visits to the infirmary this past month, and it appears the inmates’ overall general health has improved, as well. Colds, fevers, infections, all way down. The prison staff is healthier, too. Less absenteeism, fewer complaints and conflicts on the job. Inmate suicide attempts are down to almost zero, for the past four months running.”

Greaves smiled. “Finally, some good news. Thank you.”

Lewis went on, emboldened. “This recreates the results we got on that last two prison trials, almost exactly. This form of the toxin appears to have a calming effect upon the endocrine system. It lowers stress hormone production, and it mitigates, or even reverses depression. And in an odd side note, it seems that drug use is down, too, though that is difficult to measure in a prison population. Even smoking appears to have decreased.”

“Very good,” Greaves murmured. “Go on.”

Lewis fumbled with his papers. “Incidence of sexual violence is down almost sixty-five percent,” he announced.

Greaves frowned. “Only?”

Lewis looked nonplussed. “Ah . . . it was considered a very positive statistic, considering the—”

“Tell that to the remaining thirty-five percent. We must hold ourselves to a higher standard. This is our legacy, Lewis.”

“Yes, sir, of course,” Lewis said hastily. “We will try—”

“Yes, you will most certainly continue to try, if you know what is good for you. I am pleased with these results. We will move on to Phase Three next week. Any questions?”

Dead silence met his query. Shifty eyes. He almost laughed. His staff was getting cold feet. Ridiculous, considering that they were already inoculated against the experimental organism. Which was, in any case, entirely benign, even health-promoting, as the trials had clearly demonstrated for years now. And they weren’t even releasing an airborne version of the microbe yet. That happy day would come next year, after observing the results of Phase Three.

Greaves was a cautious man. Methodical, responsible. If this was to be done, it would be done absolutely right, in every particular.

“Moving on.” He turned to Silva and Chrisholm. “You two. Explain how two professionals at the height of their careers managed to fumble the matter of Matilda Bennet.”

Chrisholm’s throat bobbed. He touched livid scratches on his neck, as if he wanted to hide them. “Sir, she had a can of pepper spray—”

“I did not ask for excuses. I asked for an explanation. A woman of seventy-three, with no professional training outside of secretarial school, and somehow she found us. By following you, Chrisholm, from the museum at Blaine. By following the sales of Lara Kirk’s sculptures to you. And then she followed you here, to our doorstep. It is pure, dumb luck that she told no one about this facility before she died. One hopes, anyway. And no thanks to you.”

“Sir, please,” Silva pleaded. “We—”

“If you open your mouth out of turn one more time, I will make an example of you. You would not enjoy it. Although at this point, I would.”

Silva sputtered. “Ah . . . I . . .” He cut himself off.

Greaves turned to Chrisholm. “I suggested that Bennet have a tragic domestic accident,” he said. “An elderly lady, living alone, multiple health problems. And look what I got. Massive news coverage. A statewide manhunt. Your skin beneath her fingernails.”

Chrisholm leaned forward. “Sir, I promise, we—”

He shrieked as his body rose into the air, chair flung back by his own wildly kicking legs. He hung, suspended over the long, gleaming mahogany conference table, gurgling and flailing. Plucking his throat.

It was hardly fair, to make an example of only one of them for the sins of both but, pragmatically speaking, he could not afford to lose two highly trained staff members right now. And Silva’s talent for coercion was more useful than Chrisholm’s rather mediocre telepathic abilities. So Chrisholm it was.

“The time for promises has passed,” Greaves said. “Silva. Open the French doors, please.”

Silva stared openmouthed at his floating colleague, whose face had gone purple. Chrisholm’s eyes popped. Sweat and saliva plopped down, spattering, marring the perfect sunlit swathe of fine-grained wood.

Silva got up, walked stiffly to the French doors that led onto the terrace. It overlooked a deep canyon. A plunge of three hundred feet onto jagged rocks and trees. He opened it. “Sir, please. We only—”

“Would you like to take his place?” Greaves’ voice was only mildly curious. “I could switch the two of you out. If you preferred.”

“I . . . I . . .” Silva plucked at his collar, blinking frantically.

“I thought not,” Greaves murmured.

Chrisholm’s twitching form floated to the back of the room, then sped forward as if flung from a catapult. Out the open window, over the railing. Legs scissoring madly.

Cold wind swirled into the room, making Lewis’s notes fly up into the air. Lewis groped for them. Paper crinkled in the silence.

Greaves contemplated the open window, saddened. But a leader could not hesitate when an unpleasant task had to be done.

He made a gesture toward the window, and the presumed mess below. “Deal with that,” he said, and turned his gaze on Anabel and Hu. “Bring me the girl. I’m ready for her now.”

 

Lara sat on her cot, crosslegged in the dark, in a state of profound concentration. Today, her coping technique was a mental walk through room after room in the Uffizi, the art museum in Florence, looking at the works of the great Italian masters. She’d paused at Botticelli’s
Birth of Venus
, dredging up every remembered detail when lights jolted on.

Anabel and Hu burst in, as if propelled. She had to scramble to keep her feet beneath her when they yanked her into the corridor.

Something was up. Something different, big. They hustled right on past the usual torture chamber and into the tiny elevator. Lara’s eyes skittered away from her reflection on the metallic wall. That hollow-eyed girl with the big snarl of dark hair could not be her.

The elevator rose two floors, and opened onto a different world. The place they kept her was dank, ugly. Stained concrete floors, cinder block walls, exposed insulation. This floor was plush. Bland, neutral colors, like a luxury hotel. Hu opened a door. Her eyes stung, dazzled.

She’d been sitting in pitch darkness ever since the last drug trip, breathing stale, fetid air. In here, cool air swirled, smelling of trees, earth, sky, sun. French doors were flung wide, to the same view she got from her chain-link hole. The horned hill. She stared at it hungrily as she sucked in lungfuls of scented air, and sensed a person behind her.

She turned. The man had positioned himself in a ray of sunlight. His snow-white hair glowed like a halo. He wore a white shirt, perfectly pressed gray trousers. His teeth were insanely bright. He hurt her eyes.

Behind her, a server scurried in with a tray. The rich, buttery smell assaulted her nose. Anabel and Hu kept pulling, but her feet were rooted to the ground. They yanked. She thudded to her knees.

“Anabel,” the man chided, his voice velvety and deep. “No need to be rough.”

Lara struggled up, onto wobbling legs. “Who the hell are you?”

Whack
. Anabel hit the back of her head, knocking her onto her knees again. “Speak when you’re spoken to, you snotty bitch.”

“Anabel, that will do. Go stand next to the door.”

“Sir, be careful,” Anabel told him. “She’s unpredictable. Just two weeks ago, she bit Hu’s hand when we were—”

“Do you really think that I need protection?” His voice was gentle, but Anabel gasped and stumbled hastily back, clutching her throat.

He turned to her. “Lara. So glad to meet you. I’ve been following your progress. Please, sit. Coffee? Some scones?”

Progress?
Scones?
She gaped at his angelic smile, his beckoning hand. “Your timing’s off,” she said. “After all this time sitting in a hole, your good cop/bad cop routine is not going to work with me.”

“I would be disappointed if it did,” he said serenely.

She stared at the open window, the canyon beyond. That attractive expanse of beautiful, empty air.

“Ah, ah, ah.” The man shook his head. “Don’t even let the thought form in your head. You would not get a single step.”

Right. Probably not. She breathed down the crazy urge.

“Sit. Lara. Really,” he urged.

She simply could not play party games with this asshole, whoever he was. Fuck his coffee and his scones. “So you’re the big boss?” she asked. “I have you to thank for my quality of life these past few months?”

“Not exactly,” he replied. “I inherited you, you might say. Your abduction was a choice I would not personally have made, but it was made, and there it is. We have to live with the consequences. Harold Rudd, the man who abducted you, did so to control your mother.”

“So I was told,” she said. “They said her death three years ago was faked. That she died just a few months ago.” Her gaze flashed to Anabel and Hu, and back to the white-haired guy. “I don’t believe it. My mother would never have let me think she was dead for three years.”

“Not if she had any choice.” The man’s tongue clucked. “So sad.”

Her ears were starting to roar. “So you did to her what you’re doing to me?”

“No. Not me,” he said, his voice soothing. “Calm down, Lara.”

“Hah.” She was breathing fast, face hot, hands clammy. “How stupid is that, to drive me out of my mind, and then tell me to be calm. So it’s true, what they said? That my father was murdered, too?”

His face was impassive. “Yes, Lara,” he said. “I am sorry. It is true. He died the day after your mother.”

She believed him, for some reason, though she had no idea who this self-important bozo was. She had no reason to doubt Anabel and Hu, either, but she’d still been hoping on some level that their jibes were just psychological torture. That Dad was alive and safe, smelling of pencil dust and Scotch. Still loving her. The last one around who did.