Shades of Memory

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  I brushed the blood away from my mouth to breathe better, no doubt making a mess of myself. I probably looked like a killer out of a slasher movie. Jason Voorhees’s daughter, maybe, or Michael Myers’s sister. The one he didn’t manage to kill. Some movie magic would come in real handy right about now to get us the hell out of this mess.

  Price still hung by his arm in empty air. Definitely a binder spell of some kind. I couldn’t release him, and the fact that he wasn’t yet riddled by bullets was only because he was caught and Ocho would want him to die slow. I guess I wasn’t as much of a threat. I still had my gun, but it wasn’t going to do me a lot of good against dozens of enemies. Other than that, I didn’t have any magical help on me. I hoped to hell that Touray had a damned good reason for hanging us out to dry.

  Chapter 14

  Gregg

  AT THAT VERY moment, a very pissed-off Gregg found himself being tossed on the back seat floorboards of a Cadillac Escalade, his arms bound to his sides and tape covering his mouth. The thugs who’d taken him had hung a null around his neck to prevent him from travelling. The door slammed shut, and his two captors got inside.

  They’d been waiting for him. How the hell they knew he was coming, he couldn’t begin to imagine, but they’d damned sure been ready for him. He’d travelled to the Diamond City Diner. The security nulls hadn’t been activated, which should have tipped him off, but he was in so much of a hurry to get back to Clay and Riley that he hadn’t paid attention. Gregg had planned to dump the girl off on Riley’s friend Patti and leave. But the moment he’d stepped out of dreamspace, someone had clocked him.

  Gregg twisted over onto his stomach. He braced his head against the floor, gritting his teeth against the throbbing ache pounding through his skull.

  Balancing his weight on his head, he inched his knees up under him. Once he had enough leverage, he heaved upward and flung himself sideways onto the seat. He sat up straight and surveyed his captors. The driver was white, forty or so, with short, stubbly black hair surrounding a bald spot; he had rough skin and meaty hands. He was built like a tank. The passenger was younger, maybe late twenties, early thirties. He was dark skinned with short dreadlocks. If anything, he was bigger than the hulk of a driver.

  The fucker probably had a glass jaw.

  Urgency slammed into Gregg. He’d left Clay and Riley surrounded by an army of thugs. He clamped his teeth, thinking. The null around his neck hung on a heavy chain, the kind you might get at a hardware store. The null itself was an industrial-sized nut. Maybe he could bend down and shake it off over his head?

  He didn’t get the chance.

  Dreadlocks turned. In one smooth motion, he lifted a stun gun and shot it. The barbs caught in Gregg’s coat. Paralyzing fire flashed through him. His back arced, his muscles went rigid. He couldn’t move. His entire body had short-circuited. Dreadlocks watched Gregg impassively as the electricity continued to pump into him, then abruptly let go of the trigger.

  Gregg’s body went from stone to quivering jelly in a heartbeat. He melted sideways onto the seat, gasping to fill his lungs. He felt like a mule had kicked the air right out of him.

  Dreadlocks made a show of shucking the used module and replacing it, then rewound the wires. When he was done, one eyebrow twitched up as if asking whether Gregg understood the message, then he turned back to face the windshield, losing interest in his prisoner.

  Adrenaline pumped through Gregg He didn’t so much hurt as he felt disconnected from himself. After a minute or so, the sensations passed. He didn’t waste time. He scooted forward, dangling his head down over the seat. The null hung down to the floorboards, but the chain caught around the base of his skull. He shook his head, and it rode up behind his ears.

  He jerked his head up and down, trying to work the chain over his head. Before he could, a hand grabbed his collar and dragged him upright, shoving him against the seat.

  Dreadlocks faced around, his expression mildly annoyed. He leaned over the seat, grabbed Gregg by the hair, and yanked him close, then smashed a fist against his jaw. The punch felt like getting hit with a cement bat. Once, twice, three times, and everything went black.

  GREGG CAME BACK to himself as he was being dragged backward through a doorway. Dreadlocks and Ham-Hands gripped him under each arm. His heels bumped across the threshold and slid over black marble floors. He blinked away dizziness, but someone seemed to be drilling a hole down through his skull. He lifted his head groggily. His teeth felt loose, and his lips and jaw were swollen. Breathing through his nose was nearly impossible. Thank goodness someone had removed his tape gag.

  They passed through two more doorways before the two thugs dropped him onto wooden armchair. The impact jolted through his head and sent a railroad spike through his ear. He bit back a groan, refusing to give his captors the satisfaction of seeing him suffer.

  Instead, he made himself sit up and examine the room around him. The place was elegant and masculine, with modern steel and glass furniture, gray wallpaper, and a white-and-black patterned rug. A black and crystal chandelier hung overhead. An ebony desk sat opposite to him with an abstract painting in the colors of an impending summer storm hanging just behind. Sitting at the desk was Jackson Tyrell.

  He didn’t look as powerful or menacing as he should, as he was. In fact, he looked a lot like a butcher or baker awkwardly clad in an expensive suit. He had a round, jowly face with thin gray hair combed over his bald pate, broad shoulders, and a well-tended stomach. He sat back in the chair, a cup of coffee held in a pudgy, thick-fingered hand, watching Gregg through the steam. His eyes were calm and clever. He got right to the point.

  “I have an offer for you.” He frowned. “Are you able to comprehend what I’m saying, Mr. Touray? Your brain isn’t scrambled, is it?”

  “No more than yours is,” Gregg said, the words slurring through his swollen lips. He watched Tyrell steadily, his right eye not fully opening. He had no doubt that whatever happened in the next few minutes would determine whether he walked out of here alive or dead.

  Tyrell smiled. It did nothing to warm the chill of his eyes. “Good. I’d rather not have to find a replacement for you.”

  Gregg lifted his brows “Do tell. I wasn’t aware that I might need replacing.”

  “The pieces on the chessboard can’t know the plans of the master who moves them.”

  “I don’t play chess,” Gregg lied.

  “Not everyone has the mind for it.”

  “Why am I here?” Gregg couldn’t help the anger heating his tone.

  “The delay necessary to politely arrange a meeting wasn’t acceptable. Time is of the essence.”

  “Is it, now? And me with such a full schedule.”

  For the first time, Tyrell took real notice of Gregg, his eyes narrowing. “Your calendar has been cleared,” he said. “You are entirely at my leisure. Time is of the essence,” he repeated.

  That repetition told Gregg that despite his calm exterior, Tyrell was stewing. It would almost be worth it to tell the bastard that he had all the time in the world, but Gregg suspected that he didn’t. Not if he gave the wrong answer to the other man’s so-called offer.

  “You know who I am?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Good. I won’t need to convince you of my sincerity or willingness to take action.”

  Gregg said nothing in response to the none-too-subtle threat.

  Tyrell continued, not expecting a reply. “I am taking a stake in the Diamond City trade. You’re going to head up operations for me, beginning with uniting your business with that of Savannah Morrell and establishing order. You will have immediate access to ample resources, but I expect prompt results. Do you have any questions?”

  The similarity to Brussard’s offer was striking, except this was no offer. It was a do-or-die order. But why? Why Diamond City
and why now? He wondered what Brussard would do if Gregg took Tyrell’s offer. The man claimed to have serious resources. Could they compete with Tyrell’s? Maybe Gregg could pit them against one another and cut them both down while they were occupied with each other.

  “What’s your endgame?” Gregg asked, pleased at the flicker of respect that flashed in Tyrell’s eyes.

  “It is of no relevance to your task.”

  Gregg hadn’t expected any real answer. He was playing for time—enough to think of a way out of this.

  “Time line?”

  “With the resources I will give you, five days should be sufficient to unify the businesses. A bonus to you if you succeed before that.”

  “Should I expect obstacles from the outside?” Enemies that Tyrell brought to the table. Brussard, maybe.

  The other man’s mouth flattened. “A smart man always expects obstacles.”

  That was a ringing yes. Gregg didn’t bother asking what would happen if he refused. He’d be rotting in a landfill before lunchtime. Nor did he ask what would happen if he betrayed Tyrell or fucked up. At the very least, he’d get to witness the death of Clay and all his friends , and then he’d end up in a chamber of horrors somewhere getting tortured and begging to die. Tyrell’s reputation preceded him.

  Gregg eyed Tyrell, keeping his expression neutral. The swelling helped. “All right,” he said, because there was no other way out of the room, no other way to get the damned null off his neck. Or back to Clay and Riley. How long had it been since he left them? Were they even alive? If they weren’t, Tyrell and his goons had bought themselves a one-way ticket to hell.

  The other man’s eyes narrowed. Gregg had given in too quickly. He was expecting more of a fight. But Gregg wasn’t done.

  “I’ll run your Diamond City operation, but the city belongs to me. I get the last word on what happens here and no interference.”

  Tyrell sipped his coffee and set it aside again, nodding. “So long as my needs are met, I see no issue with that.”

  “You find a way to wipe every law-enforcement file clean of my brother and the Hollis family—from local LEOs to Homeland Security and everything in between. I want them left alone. Permanently. No one bothers them—not you, not the cops, not the government.”

  A tip of the head. “I can do that.”

  It was a risk, telling Tyrell he cared enough about certain people to protect them, but there was a strong likelihood he’d assume it had everything to do with Riley’s talent and the Kensington artifacts, which wasn’t entirely wrong. And Tyrell would already know about Clay.

  Tyrell continued to wait, his flat gaze picking Gregg apart. He was expecting more. Probably money demands. Gregg wasn’t interested in money. He owned his own diamond mines, plus many other lucrative ventures.

  “Shut down the Sparkle Dust trade,” he said, watching Tyrell to gauge his reaction.

  A flicker of something. Knowing. Irritation. “I’m afraid that’s out of my reach. I have no stake in the SD trade.”

  A lie, Gregg was sure of it, but it helped gauge the extent of Tyrell’s desire to hire him, though hiring wasn’t quite the word Gregg would use. Forced labor was more like it.

  “All right, then. How about you tell me exactly how your men knew where I was going to be travelling to and when?”

  Tyrell smiled approval. He leaned back, reaching for his cup and stroking invisible wrinkles from his crisp gray shirt with the other hand.

  “I’ll tell you what. You get the consolidation done within seventy-two hours, and I’ll give you the details.”

  That was a point in his favor. Gregg had expected an out-and-out refusal.

  “Nothing else?” Tyrell asked.

  The question felt like a test, like there was something he was leaving on the table, something Tyrell expected him to demand, maybe even wanted him to. But what? If he didn’t get his shit together, Tyrell would make him regret it. The man didn’t respect weakness.

  He considered. Tyrell was playing chess, a game of strategy. What if Gregg played into Tyrell’s lowest expectations? He wanted Gregg to be smart and interesting in the game, but what if that didn’t happen?

  “Ninety percent of revenue from Diamond City operations,” he said.

  Tyrell’s expression didn’t change. Nonetheless, Gregg felt his disappointment and disgust. Money was so prosaic.

  “Ridiculous. You can take thirty percent. That’s more than fair.”

  Gregg shook his head. “Ninety or nothing.” The demand was absurd, and he knew it. Once again, it gave him a chance to learn things about Tyrell.

  Interest gleamed in Tyrell’s eyes. “Do you think you’re worth it?” he asked.

  “Doesn’t matter if I do or not, does it?”

  “I like a man who knows how to measure himself.”

  “I like a man with ambition,” Gregg said. “A man who spends his time playing with yardsticks doesn’t push the boundaries.”

  “A measuring man also gets the job done.”

  “Then go find one. I know how big my dick is.”

  Tyrell smiled again. “I also like a man who is confident. I hope you aren’t exaggerating your worth.”

  “You kidnapped me,” Gregg pointed out. “I didn’t apply for this job. If you don’t know who and what I am, that’s on you. You don’t like my terms, then find someone else.”

  Tyrell nodded slowly. “Very well. Ninety percent. That should more than suffice for you, I should think.”

  Tyrell wasn’t in this for the money, just as Gregg had suspected. He was up to something more in Diamond City. But what? And why now? And more importantly, what would the effect be on the city? Tyrell wasn’t going to let any cats out of any bags, so Gregg would have to find out on his own.

  “What does this have to do with the Kensington artifacts?”

  Tyrell’s brows rose, and a faint look of avarice flickered across his expression and vanished. “It depends on how things play out.”

  Gregg scowled. “And if you decide you want them?”

  “We will talk.”

  Which meant making Gregg cough up the artifacts. “And if we can’t reach an agreement?”

  “I’m confident we will.”

  “Are you, now?”

  Tyrell smiled, this time with his teeth showing, like a shark. “Quite. Now then, you have little time, so we’ll get you on your way.” He tapped a button on his desk. A moment later, the door opened, and Gregg’s two captors reappeared.

  “From now on, Bruno and Randall will accompany you and follow your orders as well as guard you from harm.”

  “I have bodyguards.”

  Tyrell laughed. “Not good ones. First Savannah takes you, then I do. You need looking after and Bruno and Randall are second to none.”

  Gregg didn’t bother to tell him he’d walked into Savannah’s trap on purpose.

  “Now then. There’s one last thing to do before you leave. Please pardon my barbarity.”

  Before Gregg could ask what he meant, Tyrell took something out of his desk drawer and came around in front of Gregg. He held a weapon, somewhere between an ice pick and an upholstery needle, the long point about six inches long. He held the wooden bulb end in the palm of his hand and as Bruno and Randall gripped Gregg’s shoulders, Tyrell drove it down through Gregg’s thigh. It hit bone. Fire erupted. Gregg lunged upward, only to be pushed back down by Ugly and Uglier.

  “Jesus fuck! What the hell?”

  Tyrell took a tissue from a box on a nearby table and wiped off the steel, dropping the bloody tissue in the trash. He bent and again touched the console on his desk.

  “Yes?” came a male voice over the speaker.

  “Join us in the rehab room.”

  Tyrell turned back to Gregg. “It’s
necessary that there be a clear erasure point for the dreamer. No worries. I’ve a healer on standby to take care of it. He won’t be able to deal with your other wounds, of course. You would wonder why they didn’t exist but didn’t remember being healed.”

  “Dreamer?” Gregg repeated, his mouth going dry. “Erasure point?”

  “Yes. To facilitate our dealings, a dreamer will implant certain compulsions. One will be to report your progress to me daily, though it will seem like your own idea.”

  “What else?” Gregg demanded, steel bands tightening around his chest. Fear.

  “Nothing you need to worry about. You won’t remember any of this conversation when you’re through. Let’s go.”

  Tyrell’s thugs hoisted him up onto his feet. Blood stained his jeans and trickled down his leg. He limped along, his mind racing. This mind fucking was going to happen. He had no way out. The only way to fight it was to make himself ask questions later—to make himself account for something that he couldn’t remember. That would create enough suspicion for him to get himself checked out. He just had to do it without Tyrell knowing. He was always wary of dreamer tampering, and had planned to get checked out following his release from Savannah. No doubt one of Tyrell’s compulsions would stop him from doing just that.

  Gregg started by biting his tongue hard enough to bleed. It wasn’t enough. He might chalk it up to getting bashed in the head by Randall. Or Bruno. He wasn’t sure which asshole was which.

  His wrists remained bound behind him, and he still wore his jacket. Sweat stuck his shirt to his back. He tried to gouge a wrist under his coat sleeve, but his nails were too short to do more than make a scrape.

  All too soon they arrived outside a steel door. Tyrell typed into a keypad on the outer wall, and the door slid open on a windowless room. Inside was a metal table with straps hanging along the edges. Gregg’s stomach twisted at the sight. He threw himself backward, twisting and kicking. Bruno and Randall picked him up and shoved him inside. He sprawled onto the floor. The door slid shut behind.