Legend of Michael (9 page)

The instant Adam exited the building he heard the Renegade choppers—to the east, west, and south sides of the complex. He faded into the wind and went west, appearing just as a group of his soldiers were about to fire a rocket launcher at a chopper. Awareness ripped through Adam—the kind he felt only for two people—his Lifebond and his twin.

“No!” he shouted, but not soon enough. The weapon discharged and time stood still. The dreams of a greater world—of his brother joining him to rule a new kingdom—threatened in the shadowy swampland of his brother’s certain death.

A crackle of energy slid over Adam, much like the awareness of Caleb an instant before. Michael stood in the doorway of the helicopter—the wind shifting around him, seeming to take form. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before, nothing any other GTECH could do. Then suddenly, a powerful wall of wind thrust from where Michael stood and forced the missile back at the Zodius soldiers in his pursuit. Adam faded into the wind a second before the missile exploded, one of the few weapons sure to be lethal for a GTECH. He returned seconds later to see soldiers sprawled out on the ground, injured or dead, and the helicopter quickly traveling away. Those who had survived scrambled for their footing, murmuring about both Michael’s betrayal and his ability to control the wind, an ability no one, not even Adam, had known about.

Fucking Michael had power he’d never disclosed. He could control the wind, use it as a weapon. Michael who had betrayed him and made him look like a fool. He sneered. The red rage part of him wanted to start blowing shit up until the government gave him Red Dart.

Adam paced, calming himself down, thinking. If Michael was working for the Renegades, Caleb knew about Red Dart and the government’s intent to use it on all GTECHs. Caleb was smart enough to know that Red Dart in the hands of the government meant his demise as well. This was a race—who got to Red Dart first. Him or Caleb.

Adam grabbed the phone on his belt, hit the two-way radio, and called two of his officers to his side for immediate action. Within seconds, the two men stood at attention before him. Adam stopped, turned to them, his hands behind his back. “If I find out that either of you is working with Michael,” he vowed, “I will start cutting out vital organs. Starting with your fucking eyes. Understood?”

“Yes sir!” they barked together.

He cut a look at Tad, the officer in charge of female recruitment. “How many did we lose?”

“Half,” he responded.

Adam ground his teeth. “Replace them. Quickly.”

“Commander, sir,” Tad replied. “I respectfully request the added duty of killing Michael. Both to prove my loyalty and because I would enjoy drawing his blood.”

“A dead Michael feels no pain,” Lucian, Adam’s third-in-command, countered. “I can give you Red Dart. Then use it to make Michael suffer. You will control him. Make him sit at your feet. Make him bark like an animal if you wish, so all of Zodius City may see.”

Adam turned to Lucian, new interest in the soldier who’d always paled in Michael’s shadow, often seeming weak. He studied the harsh slash of Lucian’s mouth, the turbulent, black eyes set in a handsome face, unlike the doggish hardness of Tad’s features. No one without physical beauty would be a part of his elite upper class. Exactly why the women recruited for their studies were all beautiful. Those who were unattractive would serve, not lead. Tad would serve. Lucian would prove himself to lead.

As for Michael, Adam now knew him to possess a lethal ability to control the wind so powerful he could direct missiles with it. That meant Michael was too lethal to be left alive unless Adam controlled him with Red Dart. “You are that confident in the man you have inside Powell’s operation?” he inquired of Lucian.

“He’s closer to Powell than his own daughter—who he keeps at a distance,” he said. “Easily capable of creating doubt about where Michael’s loyalty may lie.”

Acidy warmth filled Adam as he contemplated a far better option. “If Cassandra Powell were dead, then her father will be distracted enough to let down his guard, which will allow your connection to get his hands on Red Dart.” He sharpened his words. “Make it look like an accident. I don’t want this connected to Red Dart. But I do want her dead.” His lips twisted. “A car accident—the way her mother died. My gift to Powell. His dead daughter. That’s what he gets for crossing me. Kill her. And get me that damn crystal and the method to make Red Dart work on the GTECHs. And I want them both now.”

Adam faded into the wind.

Chapter 7

Twenty-four hours after Michael had reappeared in her life and turned it upside down, Cassandra sat in the bar of her Washington hotel enduring the final items on her agenda before her return home to Nevada the next morning. She and Lieutenant Colonel Brock West—her father’s closest confidant since her return from Germany—were hopefully wrapping up the first of two press interviews scheduled for the evening.

The press was eager to gobble up details about her father’s new role as special security advisor and about the new facility he’d built eighty miles north of Groom Lake. And despite her best efforts to stay focused, Cassandra kept thinking about Michael and that kiss. God, that kiss. And the envelope with a phone inside that had been left for her—no instructions, no phone call yet—that she knew was the contact he’d promised. She told herself to throw it away. Told herself she didn’t trust him, didn’t want to talk to him, that she should turn him over to her father. But his words, his accusations about Red Dart, had burned like acid in her stomach, awakened more than the reality of her desire for Michael. They had made her feel doubt, made her realize that deep down she still didn’t trust her father either. And truth be told, kissing Michael again, feeling those strong arms around her, had taken her by storm, made her realize why she had not dated. No one had ever lived up to Michael, and she had always secretly hoped beyond reason that there had been an explanation for his actions that was forgivable. Yet, his two years away and his time with Adam more than suggested he was the one not to be trusted, that he was manipulating her to get Red Dart. That idea twisted her in knots, and she shoved it away and refocused on what Layla Cantu, the raven-haired reporter from the
Sun Times
, was asking.

“Why would the army build this new Dreamland military facility less than eighty miles from Groom Lake rather than use Groom Lake?” she queried. “I mean—how much space does all that top-secret research at Groom Lake really take?”

Not liking the direction this was going, Cassandra opened her mouth to respond, officially back in this conversation with full attention, but Brock answered before she could. “Top-secret means top-secret, Ms. Cantu,” he said with the same snotty arrogance he’d used on even her, despite his desire to please her father. He simply couldn’t help himself.

Cassandra cringed, knowing full well you don’t reprimand someone for interest without creating more interest. She eyed Layla and gave her a discreet eye roll that said Brock West—“Brock,” as he’d casually, flirtatiously, insisted that she call him—was a pain in the backside. The eye roll was for show—well, not really. She couldn’t stand the way Brock panted after her father, condescended to her one minute, and flirted the next.

“Groom Lake is a top-secret research facility,” Cassandra agreed. “Secret because we don’t want our enemies to have the upper hand with technology, if Lord forbid, we ever go to war again. Trainees coming and going from that facility would represent a great security risk. And Dreamland is going to be the most amazing training facility ever created. A place where every branch of military, and even nonmilitary law enforcement agencies, will send their very best to make them better.”

Which was true. What she didn’t tell Layla was that they’d be training to fight Adam. Zodius soldiers would be targeted with Red Dart while outside the protection of Zodius City, captured, and brought to Dreamland. How they planned to capture them she did not know, but she planned to find out. The truth was, her father had been hush-hush about the progress with Red Dart—claiming the secrecy was for her own safety. And she hated that Michael was making her question whether that was his true motive for keeping her in the dark.

Layla tapped a pencil on her pad, glanced between Cassandra and West with a look that screamed “I’m not buying it.” “I don’t suppose either of you would like to comment on the rumors that a nongovernment militant group has taken over Groom Lake?”

Cassandra all but gaped at the question, while West maintained his unflinching, stone-faced soldier persona framed by a buzz-cut and lots of attitude. Cassandra managed a reasonably realistic sounding laugh. “Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me those nongovernment militants are big green aliens.”

Layla didn’t laugh. “Are they?”

West
did
laugh, the sound mocking, snide. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Layla visibly paled. “Yes,” she said. “Of course.” She closed her notebook. “Thank you both for your time.”

Cassandra and Layla shared a few cordial words of good-bye. West didn’t bother. “I have no idea why your father thought I was the appropriate person to meet the press. I can’t stand those UFO chasers.”

“My father wanted you involved because you’re in charge of the training operation,” she reminded him. “And he had to return to Nevada a day early.” Cassandra shifted gears. “Aren’t you even a little worried about her questions regarding Groom Lake?”

He snorted. “Not in the slightest. She was digging for a reaction. If she’d had anything of substance, she wouldn’t have stopped pushing.”

Maybe. Hopefully. She let it go and focused on poaching him for information regarding Red Dart—“RD” for discretion. “The first group of Dreamland troops arrives next week. Reading through the training protocols, there is no mention of RD. The soldiers are being taught the same rapid-fire and heavy weapons techniques already in place to battle the Zodius. I thought Dreamland and RD were about capture and reform.”

“So far the tranquilizers we’ve used don’t work more than a few seconds, so it’s imperative we train our men to survive at all costs,” he said. “Trust me. We have a plan.”

But she didn’t trust him. “I know we have to survive.” She lowered her voice further. “If they can wind-walk past our security gates, how will RD help?”

“Once their blood is bound with the RD chemical, we have weapons and sensors inside the gates that will be automatically triggered when they approach,” he said. “Even in the wind.”

That sounded dangerous, like an accident waiting to happen. “So it only works if they are tagged with RD,” she said.

“That’s true,” he said. “But RD is a painless laser, easily used in confrontation. And it permeates their armor. We’ll get them all tagged and captured in no time.”

“When exactly will RD be officially launched?”

“Soon,” he said.

“In time for the training?”

“Soon,” he said again. “You know your father doesn’t want you involved in RD. I’m not supposed to be telling you any of this.”

Oh she knew. And she knew he wouldn’t be telling her now without an agenda. “Then why are you?”

He leaned closer. “He’s too protective, Cassandra. He underestimates you.” His voice was low, seductive. His eyes hot. He wanted her. He’d made that clear on more than one occasion. “Why don’t we finish up here? We’ll go to dinner and talk. Plan a strategy to convince your father to ease up.”

She recoiled inside, barely containing a tart response. He didn’t want to help her. He wanted into her pants and further inside her father’s good graces. If she were a vicious person, she’d tell her father. But she wasn’t. So she didn’t.

His hand slid over hers. “Perhaps if I promised to keep you safe.”

Awareness rushed over Cassandra, her skin heating, her senses tingling with lethal warning. Michael. Michael was here. And she didn’t know how she knew—but he was most definitely, angry, possessive, ready to rip Brock apart. And Cassandra was scared, not for herself, but for Brock. She yanked her hand away from him at the same moment that a bosomy waitress appeared at the table to refill their coffee mugs. Cassandra vaguely welcomed a refill, trying to calm her racing pulse, to get a grip on the whirlwind of emotions assailing her. The conflicting parts of her that both reveled in Michael’s silent claim over her and felt angry that he dared flex a role he’d left behind two years ago.

The lieutenant colonel chatted with the waitress who was flirting outrageously with him. Cassandra took the opportunity to escape and pushed to her feet. “I’m going to freshen up before the second wave of press arrives.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She had no idea what Michael might do if she didn’t go to him. The government might not fully understand the lifebond connection, but she did. She knew full well how possessive, how consuming, that bond could be.

With quick steps and a racing heart, Cassandra walked toward the bar and asked for the location of the restroom. Then she walked toward the lobby knowing Michael would follow her, that he would find her. She entered a hallway, stepped toward the women’s restroom. She hesitated before entering, pressed her fist to her chest, and drew a deep breath that did nothing to calm her. She shoved open the door. The instant she entered, Michael was there, stealing the very breath she’d just taken.

The door slammed shut behind her, her back suddenly pressed against the hard surface, his big body fitted over hers, a rough palm rasping over her thigh as he lifted her leg to his hip, and good Lord, settled his cock between her thighs. Heat rushed over her, fire like she had not felt in the two years since his departure, lust that threatened to consume.

“If he touches you, I’ll kill him.”

If you stop touching me, I might die.
“You don’t get to decide who touches me, Michael,” she hissed, the desire he provoked downright frightening.

He stared down at her, his long, dark hair wild around his face, passion harshly edged in his dangerously beautiful face. “You are my Lifebond.”

She shivered at the possessiveness of his words, aroused when she should have been outraged. And damn it, she hated how he stole her control, how he could make her melt no matter how much time had passed. “Don’t call me that,” she proclaimed defiantly, reminding herself of his betrayal, telling herself this was nature at work, not Michael. She was over him. She would not fall for him and be hurt again. A hiss slid from her lips. “Don’t act as if the mark gives you some claim over me. You don’t have any. Not anymore.”

“Ah, but I do,” he said, his eyes alight with anger. “And we both know it.” His free hand ripped open her blazer, his hand sliding beneath, palm branding her side as little silver buttons flew through the air, clattering to the floor. He tilted his head down and rested his cheek against hers. The heat of his chest framed hers, rushing over her like a warm, erotic blanket.

Her hands closed around his arms, muscles flexing beneath her touch. “Michael,” she whispered desperately, a plea to stop, a plea to continue. “You can’t just show up again and…”

His lips brushed her ear. “Your words deny me, but your body does not.” Possessively, a man confident of her body, his hand swept up her side, fingers stroking her breast, teasing her nipple into a stiff peak. She should demand he let her go, but she said nothing for fear she would instead beg him for more.

“I remember how sensitive your nipples are,” he whispered, a strand of his silky raven hair brushing her cheek, and she shivered with the featherlike erotic sensation even as he pressed onward, pressed her further under his spell. “Remember how much you like them licked and sucked.” His warm breath touched her mouth, teasing her with the possibility of a kiss. “I remember everything.”

“I don’t want this,” she whispered.

“Liar,” he purred, nipping her bottom lip with his teeth, but denying her the taste of him she craved. She was lost in that craving, in her need for him—helpless to stop his hand traveling up her thigh and firmly covering her backside.

Cassandra gasped as he shoved aside the thin strip of her thong and ruthlessly sought the proof of her burn for him, stroking the sensitive flesh beneath. “Already you are slick and ready for me.” His fingers slid along her core as little darts of pleasure shot through her body, her hips arching into his of their own accord. Arrogantly, he promised, “I can make you come right here and right now.”

Yes. Please do
. She grabbed his shoulders. Told herself to shove him away. She didn’t have the will. She should hate him—she did hate him—yet, she wanted him, desperately wanted him. “Someone is going to find us,” she offered weakly.

“Ask me if I care.” Steel laced that statement; magic laced his fingers. She gave up, let her head fall against the door, let the pleasure roll over her. Allowed those nimble fingers of his to intimately explore, deftly pleasure. Let the waves of passion rush over her, the possibility of discovery set aside. “That’s it, my sweet,” Michael murmured, his lips dragging along her jaw, her neck. His finger slid inside her, caressing her. She was hot, aching with need. Her nipples tightened, her core gushed. The rise of release came on her quickly, embarrassingly so, but she could do nothing to stop it, nothing to hold back. Not with Michael, she could never hold back with Michael.

Cassandra tightened her hold on his shoulders, buried her face in his neck. She felt her core clench at his fingers a moment before she shook with the intensity of her release, waves of pleasure rushing over her, born of years of needing, fantasizing, longing.

When finally she calmed, the heat from her body flooded her cheeks. She didn’t want to look at him, didn’t know what to say. Michael eased her leg to the floor, but held her close. His hand slid over her hair, gently, tenderly, reminding her there were two sides to him, reminding her of the lover and the fighter.

She didn’t want to remember. She didn’t want to feel these things. Slowly, she lifted her head, tilted her chin upward to look at him, and defiantly lashed out. “This changes nothing. It proves nothing.”