Legend of Michael (20 page)

“It doesn’t matter what you did,” she said. “It only matters why.”

He cut his gaze to hers. She pretended to understand, but she did not. And he didn’t want her to understand. He didn’t want this world for her. He wanted to get her the hell away from all of this. Safe. Happy. And so he pushed. Pushed hard. Pushed to make her run. “Is that what you would have said if I had killed your father?”

She sucked in a breath, her hand jerking from his arm. “Killing him wouldn’t have solved anything. Adam would still be out there, trying to take over the world.”

“Without the lure of Red Dart to aid his efforts,” he said.

“So, had you killed him at Groom Lake, the world would be a happy place right now?” she challenged. She held up a hand. “Don’t answer. Just don’t.” She narrowed her gaze on him. “Are you
trying
to upset me?”

“I’m simply trying to prepare you.”

She looked stricken, even paler than moments before. She wet her dry lips. “For when you kill him?”

“For whatever the future may hold,” he said. “This is war, and I am a soldier.”

She choked on that. “Oh, I am fully aware that you are a soldier, Michael.” She swallowed hard, shook her head. “No, I don’t believe you’ll kill him. I know you know that isn’t the answer.”

“You know less about me than you think you do, Cassandra,” he promised.

Caleb’s footsteps sounded behind them, and Cassandra squeezed her eyes shut. No matter what her father had done, he was her father. She couldn’t wish him dead. Nor could she bear the idea of Michael killing him. It would destroy her. She would lose everything in one fatal swoop. But she didn’t say that, not now, not with Caleb joining them.

One look at Caleb’s face, and Cassandra backed away, giving the two men space to talk. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

Cassandra rushed down the hall as Caleb said, “The Zodius have retreated for now…” The rest was lost as she turned the corner, seeking her much needed escape.

Once inside the tiny one-stall restroom, she pressed her palms against the cool ceramic sink, letting her head fall between her shoulders. She didn’t need to hear more of Caleb’s report. “Retreated for now” translated too easily to “more bloodshed to come.”

She wanted the bloodshed to end. She wanted to turn back time and do a hundred things differently—to have connected the dots about her father’s motives and taken action. But she could only go forward, however daunting it seemed. Inhaling, Cassandra lifted her head, cringing at the raccoon eyes staring back at her in the mirror, the mud slashes streaking a line down her cheeks. She was still sick, feeling pretty crappy to be honest. But worrying about her stomach churning seemed selfish when people were fighting for their lives.

What rattled her in that moment was not the disheveled image or her personal discomfort, but what was underneath it all. For years, perhaps all her life, her identity had been tied to her father’s in ways that reached beyond biology.

“You can make this right,” she whispered. “You
will
make this right.”

Pulling herself together, Cassandra cleaned up a little and rejoined the men, finding them side-by-side outside the surgery-viewing window. The sight of Michael standing there—legs braced in a V, arms crossed in front of his chest, an unapproachable air rolling off him like thunder—made her stomach clench because she was the cause of his mood.

In a matter of days they’d gone from enemies to lovers, and right now, she wasn’t sure what they were. Truth be told, Cassandra wasn’t sure Michael completely separated her from her father, no matter how hard he might try or how much he might say otherwise.

She lurked behind the men, leaning against a wall, attention traveling beyond the glass as Kelly dropped one green-spiked bullet after another into a glass container. The tension in the waiting area was palpable; the worry that Sterling wouldn’t make it was on everyone’s mind. Michael stood like steel, watching every move the doctor made. Caleb, in turn, fell into pacing. He paced to the point of darn near wearing a hole in the solid concrete floor by the time the doctor finally rounded the corner to give them an update. All three of them rushed to greet her.

“He’s stable,” Kelly announced, eyeing Cassandra with a silent, understanding welcome. Her good news felt like a soft breeze on a hot day. Oh so needed. Kelly continued, “He’s not out of trouble yet. He’s lost a lot of blood. And he’s endured tremendous damage to his body. Whatever those bullets are made of, they do more than penetrate the armor. They shred muscle and tissue. He’s in for a long night of healing, and I’m worried about the healing sickness, considering the extent of his injuries. Though untested, I’m of the opinion that C deficiency is creating the healing illness, so I’ve started a supplement intravenously. That and the fact that he’s shown no healing illness in the past make me hopeful.”

“When will we know he’s out of trouble?” Cassandra asked, before either of the men could inquire.

“A few more hours.” Kelly looked them all over. “You should all go clean up and get some rest.” She motioned to Cassandra. “Not you. I need to examine you before you get away from me. I just need a few minutes to check on the other patients.” She started to turn and stopped. “Oh.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a clear, sealed baggy full of bullets. “Thought you might want these.” She dropped them into Caleb’s hand and left.

Caleb let them rest in his palm and stared at them. They all did. As if they were the devil in design. And after seeing the other men bleeding to death because of them, perhaps they were.

Abruptly, Caleb did something Cassandra had never seen him do. He lost it. Totally, completely lost it. He blasted out a curse and then flattened one fist against the cavern wall beside the glass, his big body tense, thundering frustration rushing off him.

Cassandra cringed as blood oozed from his knuckles and quickly backed away, hugging herself, unsure of what to do. Not sure there was anything she could do. Caleb had lives in his hands, perhaps the world’s future. The pressure had to be immense.

“Adam has soldiers on our perimeters,” Caleb growled. “Waiting to unload those damn bullets in every one of my men. And what do we have to beat them back? Nothing. Not a damn thing.”

“We can fix that,” Michael offered. “Let’s go get Powell’s stock of Green Hornets now, tonight.”

Caleb ran his uninjured hand over the back of his neck, tense, but seemed to calm. “The location is on that encrypted hard drive, and I’m not trusting anyone but Sterling to read it. Finding the bullets without that information would be like finding a needle in a haystack.” Caleb leveled him in a stare. “Can you get them from Taylor?”

A muscle jumped in Michael’s jaw. “I assume Sterling told you my mother is providing Powell with Green Hornets and that I believe she is helping him with Red Dart. If I’m right, and I show up and do what I have to do to get those bullets, then we’ve alerted her and Powell with her that we know what they are up to.”

“I’m pretty sure we’ve done that already,” Caleb muttered foully. “We need those bullets.”

Long, tense moments passed. Michael’s expression was unemotional, indecipherable. But Cassandra could feel the emotion rolling off him, the tension eating away at him from the inside out. He did not relish seeing his mother. In fact, he dreaded it.

But he was that soldier he’d reminded her he was—he was going to do it. She knew that even before he finally said, “I’ll need a team at the Taylor Facility ready to go the minute I give the coordinates. If they leave with me now, I can get them out of the canyon under the cover of wind.” Caleb gave a short nod of approval, and Michael’s gaze shifted to Cassandra. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

A futile desperation rose inside her. She wanted to yell at him to stay. This night needed to end. The war had already cut too deeply, taken too much from them. But she could do nothing but nod. “Be careful.”

His eyes darkened, a flicker of emotion in their depths so fleeting she almost thought she’d imagined it before he turned and started walking. And she realized she feared he was never coming back. That every time he walked away, she would always fear he wasn’t coming back. But not because he was a soldier. Not because they were in a silent war. Because he was Michael.

Chapter 18

“He’s assimilating ‘Grade 2’ serum well, despite the rapid introduction into his system,” Dr. Chin reported, his patient lying in bed a few feet away.

Powell received this report with limited enthusiasm, regardless of the scientific progress that had modified the three-month transformation process and turned it into a few days. He’d watched 209 soldiers transform into GTECHs at Groom Lake before the White House forced him to pull back. But creation wasn’t his goal at this point. He’d proven he could create, and he’d stockpiled enough serum for another hundred soldiers, which the government had no idea he possessed. Alignment with the government had given him the men he needed, but it was Jocelyn who would give him the missing element that allowed him to use his new GTECHs—control.

“As it stands,” Chin continued, “he’s at 70 percent absorption. We should have—”

Suddenly, West jerked, his eyelids peeling back so wide it was as if needles threaded the lashes and stretched them outward.

It was a familiar look, one Powell had seen in the battlefield moments after a soldier was injured, seconds before death. He lifted an eyebrow at Chin.

“It’s an unavoidable side effect of the rapid change,” Chin explained.

“Oh my,” Jocelyn said and rushed to Brock’s side, reaching for the face mask on the portable table. “It must be the light.” She leaned over, and Brock jerked again.

“Holy hell, Jocelyn,” Powell cursed. “You’re going to get hurt.” Brock was tied down, but he was still wild. “You’re not a damn nurse.”

Powell cut Chin a warning look that demanded he act. Powell didn’t give a crap if West was in pain, but Jocelyn didn’t like to cause other people pain, contrary to what one would think about someone who built weapons of mass destruction. That company hadn’t been the same since her husband had died. She could kill indirectly, but couldn’t stomach it up close and personal, and it showed in financial performance. She was annoyingly female, but he humored her sensitivity simply because he didn’t need her doing any last-minute soul-searching, which would do nothing but complicate things.

“Put the damn mask on the man before he ends up hurting her.” Indignation flashed in Chin’s face that said he wasn’t a damn nurse either, but it only served to agitate Powell. “Do it.” The order was low, curt. Chin went into motion, placing the mask over Brock’s face. Instantly, he calmed.

Jocelyn’s brows furrowed with concern. “This is so painful to watch.”

“The cornea should fully adjust in the next few hours,” Chin assured her.

Jocelyn’s concern shifted into a hint of excitement as she pushed off the bed and quickly joined the two men. “Does that mean we can implement the Red Dart application in a few hours as well?” Jocelyn asked, clearly redirecting her sympathy for West into progress. As a scientist and weapons expert, there was no question she wanted to see her work succeed.

“The transformation is the serum’s super-powered effort to rid his body of all weakness,” Chin reminded them. “We have no idea how adaptable it is during that time. We don’t want to risk it building up immunity to the formula you’ve created. Let the transformation fully complete.”

“Cut to the chase, Chin.” Powell wasn’t in the mood for his long explanations. “How much time?”

“Twenty-four hours.”

“Make it twelve,” Powell stated.

Chin shifted uncomfortably. “There’s still a question—”

“Then go find the answer,” Powell sniped. “
Now
.” Chin nodded sharply and headed for the door.

Powell had provided all the resources that Chin had utilized at PMI, despite the size limitation of this facility, which was tucked beneath Jocelyn’s home and hidden with military-grade technology. A far cry from the state-of-the-art PMI facility, but it allotted a certain element of discretion he deemed necessary for Jocelyn’s involvement. He only involved those he knew he could control, those he’d gathered ammunition against. He’d certainly ensured he knew Jocelyn’s weaknesses. “Pull it shut behind you,” Powell ordered as Chin reached the door.

Powell had kept things all business with Jocelyn, entertaining his sexual appetites elsewhere, but he no longer found those outlets satisfactory. They shared something that reached beyond the Red Dart program. Michael Taylor had disgraced him—slept with his daughter, and damn near sliced his throat. The man had turned his back on his country as he had on his mother and his family years before. Yes. He and Jocelyn both hated Michael. It was a hatred that had become… arousing.

His gaze raked her curvy figure, traced the line of her hips, the swell of her breasts. He skimmed back to her heart-shaped face. “I do believe it’s time we opened that bottle of champagne we’ve been saving to toast our success.”

“I thought you didn’t consider us a success until Red Dart was implemented?”

He smiled his approval. “Then we will toast the years of brilliant collaboration it took to get us to this point.” He held out his hand. “What do you say?”

She hesitated an instant more, but the resistance slid away, her features softening with the promise of submission. Her lips parted, her eyes glossing over. She lifted her hand, her fingers sliding against his palm. Their eyes met, simmering with the familiar, shared attraction, deepened by the promise in the air—he would have her tonight.

Powell led her several feet away to a leather couch and chairs, a desk in the far corner. This was her workspace, and unlike the adjoining rooms down the hall, he’d taken care to add comfort here.

He urged her to sit on the couch. Tentatively, she sat on the edge, watching him with a heavy-lidded stare, her black slacks hugging slender thighs. He walked to the hutch against the wall and pulled out the bottle of champagne and two glasses, filling them. Joining her, he sat down beside her and offered her a glass.

“To us,” he murmured softly, and what his words did not say, he ensured that his eyes did.

Her lips parted, cheeks flushed. She touched her glass to his. “To us.”

They sipped the bubbly liquid, savoring it. He took her glass and set them both on the table. “Tell me, Jocelyn,” he said, boldly resting his hand on her leg. “Does saving the world turn you on as much as it does me?”

***

Brock floated into consciousness with the sound of voices in his head; heavy shadows blocking out the bright light were the last thing he remembered. When was that? Minutes ago? Hours? He blinked several times, tried to focus, felt the heaviness pressing against his face. A mask—he had on some sort of mask to cover his eyes.

He opened his mouth to speak, to call out, but his throat swelled with the effort. He dragged air into his lungs to prove that he could. Pushed it back out. He wasn’t dead. A familiar voice pierced the fog. No, they were moans. Female moans.

“General,” came the whisper. “
Oh my, General
.” More soft moans and pants. A guttural male growl.

Reality sliced through Brock’s mind, possessiveness coursing through his veins. He had no idea why—no understanding of the reason it had to be—but Jocelyn was his. He tried to sit up. Tried to scream out—Jocelyn!—but there was no sound.

Jocelyn’s voice carried through the darkness. “General, wait. General, stop.” Brock drew a breath and forced himself to calm, clinging to the shattered pieces of her voice. “General, wait!” she repeated. “Brock is awake. General, please stop! He’s awake.”

The General grunted. “I don’t give a damn right about now, Jocelyn.”

“We should check on him.”

“How about I make you come, and then you check on him?” The sound of kissing followed. “How about that?”

“He can hear us,” she whispered.

“Then he can get off when we do,” he said. Brock jerked at his armbands again, fighting through the pain thrusting its way up his arms.

The General silenced her with what sounded like more kissing. And more. The sighs and moans tortured Brock far more than the needles in his veins. Wildly, he fought the restraints, fought to break free and stop those moans and sighs until a sharp pain pierced his brow, and he could fight no more. He was forced to lie there and listen to Jocelyn cry out in pleasure, forced to listen to the slap of skin against skin. It went on for long, torturous minutes until finally, silence fell in the room, and Brock imagined with graphic explicitness that they were lying there naked, wrapped around each other. In that moment, he knew he would kill Powell, hunt him down, and make him pay for everything he had done to him. He wrapped his mind around that vow until a loud siren sounded and then turned off.

“Who would be at my front door at this time of night?” Jocelyn said, a scurry of activity following her words, as if she were dressing.

Door? That wasn’t a doorbell, Brock thought remotely. Where the hell were they?

“I’ll check the monitor,” Powell said. “You get dressed.”

The sound of a keyboard being punched… followed by Powell’s low curse.

“What?” Jocelyn said. “What is it?” She gasped, and Brock imagined she was looking at that monitor. “Oh, my God. My son is here. Michael is here.”

***

The minute his mother opened the door, the scent of sex lanced Michael’s nostrils, replacing the storm now fading into the distance. While his keen sense of smell had proven useful in battle, today it turned his stomach. Because there was more than sex mixed with that smell. There was something familiar he couldn’t quite identify. Something that screamed of menace and lies, a promise that this meeting was going to prove everything he expected it to be—that she was every bit as malicious as his father had ever been. That she would do whatever it took to be on top, including aligning herself with Adam.

“Hello, Mother.”

Jocelyn Taylor stared back at her son with the same crystal blue eyes he’d once possessed himself, with the kind of welcome reflected in their depths that one might give a tiger in the wild—a façade of regal indifference meant to show no fear that masked an underlying desire to bolt. He had no doubt that he looked like an angry tiger, ragged from battle, battered by the rain. But he’d come here with a feeling of urgency, out of some sense of obligation to her as her son to confirm whether she was guilty or not, before exposing her to the Renegades. The minute she appeared at the door, he already knew his answer—she was guilty. She’d always been just as guilty as his father.

“And here I thought you’d forgotten I existed,” she replied shortly.

“I’m sure you hoped as much,” he said dryly. “We need to talk.”

She tilted her head, studying him for several long seconds. The years had been kind to her, despite the demands of leading Taylor Industries—a task she’d begged Michael to undertake. But then, she had plenty of money to ease the effects of age.

“Come in,” she said finally, stepping back into the foyer to allow him entry. He entered the house he’d once called home—expensive Italian marble beneath his feet, etched, plate-glass windows lining high ceilings—and wished like hell he didn’t have to be there.

“This way,” she said.

He followed her down the hallway to the kitchen, a room he’d loved as a child, a place where cookies and milk had awaited him after school and holiday meals had been festive. But age had dispelled fairy tale families, and he’d discovered that his mother had been playing house at the expense of right and wrong, ignoring the immoral business practices of her husband, practices that had permitted that fantasy life. Apparently, she’d decided she was willing to take over where her husband had left off.

In a defensive posture, she placed the eight-foot, navy-blue, kitchen island between them. Neither of them bothered with a barstool.

Michael wasted no time getting down to business. He slapped the bullet on the tile counter. The color drained from her face.

“I see you finally managed to make Green Hornets market-worthy,” he said.

“Where did you get that?” she hissed.

“Dug it out of my rib cage,” he said. “I see you’re up to Dad’s old tricks, selling weapons to whoever will buy them regardless of consequence.”

“That’s impossible,” she countered.

“I promise you it’s not,” he said. “And I have friends, good men fighting for their country, who are now fighting for their lives because of those bullets. I want names. Who you sold them to, when, and in what quantities.” He wanted to know how the hell Zodius had even known that Green Hornets existed before they’d approached his mother. But then, Adam was always one to cover all his bases. He’d become like the mob—someone in every operation that might serve his needs.

She laughed without humor, crossed her arms in front of her chest. “That list is short. The U.S. Army. Period. There is no other customer. So if you’re shooting each other up with them, that’s not my problem.”

“You’re lying.” She could barely look him in the eye, but then, it had been a long time since she could—maybe all the way back to after-school cookies. She wasn’t that woman anymore—the perfect housewife and mother—if she ever had been.

She glared at him. “Don’t you dare come in here and pretend honor while you judge me, because we both know you’ve plenty to be judged on yourself. And your day is coming, Michael.”

“I want names,” he demanded, his tone dogmatic, harsh by design. “Who did you sell the Green Hornets to?”