Double Helix Collection: A Genetic Revolution Thriller

by Jade Kerrion

  “What are you doing?” Galahad released his breath in a hiss of surprise.

  “Blend in,” Danyael ordered in a harsh whisper. “It’s the only way we’ll trace the clones back to their lab.”

  Galahad nodded. He plucked the contact lenses from his eyes.

  The stairs thudded beneath the sound of heavy boots.

  Galahad fisted his hand in Danyael’s hair and swung Danyael around in a single swift motion that sent shafts of pain rocketing through Danyael’s left leg. Galahad yanked Danyael’s head back and pressed the tip of his dagger against the tender hollow of his throat.

  Five clones burst into the room. They froze by the doorway. The scene must have seemed a disaster to them—one of their own dead on the landing, four others in Joyce’s room—but their emotions flickered with surprise, and then relief.

  Behind Danyael, Galahad’s hate flashed into sharp focus. The emotion ripped the breath from Danyael’s throat. Galahad’s grip on Danyael’s hair tightened. The tip of the dagger pierced his skin. A single crimson drop of blood trickled down his throat.

  If Galahad slit his throat, he would not be able to stop the killing strike.

  Trust. I have to trust.

  The dagger pulled away from his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of silver as Galahad tossed the hunting knife up into the air. It spun as it came down and Galahad caught it by its blade. Moments later, a heavy pressure smashed against the back of Danyael’s head, and his world went black.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  T minus twenty-four

  His heart pounded in his chest but his face betrayed no hint of anxiety. Adapt. Learn. Blend in.

  Galahad’s gaze swept over his five clones. The black T-shirt and denim jeans he wore were similar to the street attire his clones wore. They shared an athletic build blessed with abundant natural grace, and a stunning masculine beauty accentuated by the stark contrast between their pale blond hair and dark eyes.

  They were physically whole, of course, not crippled like Danyael, and as a group, they lacked the air of guarded vulnerability that surrounded Danyael. They lacked something else too, though it was hard to pinpoint exactly what the difference was. Galahad frowned. Something about the eyes.

  One of the clones turned to Joyce, a handgun in his hand. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  Galahad threw his hand out between the clone and Joyce. “We’ll bring her with us. An additional life at stake will keep Danyael tractable.”

  The clone nodded, lowering the gun.

  Galahad smoothed the frown before it appeared on his face. Surely it could not be that simple. What had the clones been smoking?

  “Get her out of here, and the two of you take Danyael.” Galahad shoved the unconscious alpha empath into the waiting arms of two clones. “Let’s go.” He fervently hoped that they knew where to go.

  They did. As a group, they left the blood-drenched house and piled into two Mercedes with darkened windows. The clones driving the cars headed southwest, traveling through the city. The cars sped past the bustling business and shopping districts where people went about their daily lives.

  Their obliviousness curdled into a sour taste at the back of his throat.

  Danyael had, mercifully, reset the bio-tracker. Galahad had twenty-four hours to live, twenty-four hours to find the creator of the clones, put an end to the nonsense, escape with Danyael, and reclaim his life.

  No pressure at all.

  The car paused outside a gated estate. The engine of the idling car purred as the metal gates swung back. The car then pulled into the compound and into a garage. The clone cut the engine. Galahad stepped out of the car and looked around.

  The garage had space for four cars, which in and of itself, was exceptional in space-constrained Singapore, but far more amazing, the other half of the garage was an enclosed dock. The concrete floor gave way to a wooden deck. Two sleek ocean-going powerboats, their platforms long and narrow, their planing hulls built for speed, scarcely bobbed on the surface of the water.

  Galahad stood back until the clones escorted Joyce and carried Danyael into separate boats, and then he climbed into the boat carrying Danyael. One of the clones pressed on the remote control to raise the back entrance of the garage. The door rolled up, and a salt-tinged breeze swept through the garage-dock. The water dripping from the base of the dock doors drizzled on Galahad as the boat slowly maneuvered away from the dock and into open water.

  The clone at the helm gunned the engine. The boat shot forward, a low spray of salt water in its wake. Galahad glanced over his shoulder at the second boat, where Joyce sat, tiny and frail, among three of his clones.

  One more person to keep alive. I should have let them kill her.

  Danyael wouldn’t have though.

  Galahad glanced at the alpha empath who lay unconscious, slumped on the floor of the powerboat. He seemed frail too, pale and thin compared to Galahad’s physically robust clones, the slash of his high cheekbones accentuated by the weight he had lost.

  Danyael had never been in prime health—it was impossible for someone who healed through absorption of sickness and injury—but he had been physically stronger and healthier when Galahad had first met him nearly three years prior. Since then, Lucien had crippled him, and the fourteen months Danyael spent, drugged and tortured, in a maximum-security prison had further damaged his health. In fact, more often than not, the alpha empath seemed tired; no, he was more than tired. Danyael was obviously deeply fatigued even though he rarely used his healing powers and seemed to eat and rest more than usual. Galahad read exhaustion in the weary slump of Danyael’s shoulders when he thought he was alone, and wistfulness in the distant gaze that, more often than was usual, stared out at nothing.

  Galahad often wondered what went on inside Danyael’s head? How could Danyael, who could kill with far more ease than both Galahad and Zara, be so fervently committed to saving lives at the expense of his own health? No one else wielded as much power, as much as deadly power, with as much compassion.

  Perhaps it was fortunate that Danyael controlled the countdown on the bio-tracker. Galahad would have trusted no one else with his life.

  Nothing, though, changed the fact that he hated the alpha empath. Danyael embodied everything that Galahad could not understand, everything that was insane—the jarring juxtaposition of death and life, of incredible power and the refusal to use it. How was Galahad supposed to make sense of the world? How could he find his way when the parameters of success varied from one person to another, when the promise of love he hoped to find always chose Danyael over him?

  But fear no longer clouded his mind or paralyzed his willingness to challenge Danyael. Galahad fisted his hands and turned to stare at the approaching islet. It promised answers to the cloning issue, but that problem paled in comparison to the one need that consumed him. He had to remove the bio-tracker in his chest. Once it was gone, he could disentangle his life from Danyael’s without fearing the repercussions. He would be rid of Danyael. It would simplify his life and give him access to Zara and Laura. Everything I ever wanted.

  Galahad stood as the two powerboats pulled up at a narrow dock. One of the clones guided Joyce with a firm hand against her back. Another clone threw Danyael over his shoulder and carried him off the powerboat. As a group, they headed to a building set fifty feet from the dock. The building seemed unguarded, but security was tight, requiring biometric signatures from three of the clones. The reinforced steel doors slid back and the group entered the building.

  It was little more than an extremely large room. Along three of the walls, heavy machinery and electronic equipment glowed and hummed quietly, inaccessible, protected by bulletproof glass. In the center of the room, metal rails framed a large elevator shaft.

  Galahad and the clones stepped onto the open platform. The elevator jolted to a start and descended with increasing speed. He had to swallow hard to dispel the pressure building in his ears. Seconds turned into minute
s. The polished steel walls of the shaft gave way to crudely hewn rock.

  He counted each passing second. A full six minutes passed before the elevator came to a stop in a room not unlike the one he had last seen. He stepped off the elevator and turned to give the clone a hand with the unconscious Danyael.

  Behind him, the door slid open. Footsteps tapped on the tiles. A voice, Danyael’s melodic tenor polished with a hint of a British accent and cracked with age, spoke softly. “I see you have been successful in your mission.”

  Blend in.

  His heart pounding in his chest, Galahad turned around slowly.

  A man surveyed the group. The sculptured perfection of his facial features was not diminished by the wrinkles upon his brow and around his eyes and cheeks. His eyes were dark, and his mahogany hair was a shade lighter, as was his goatee. The color, Galahad knew, was not natural.

  The man appeared to be in his late sixties or early seventies, about right for a clone born two and a half years prior and aging twenty-five times faster than normal. He walked up to the two clones who supported Danyael between them. With a smile colder than Galahad had ever seen on the two most heartless women of his acquaintance, Zara and Xin, the man tipped up Danyael’s face. He traced the almost invisible scar that cut across Danyael’s right cheek from cheekbone to chin. “So, this is where perfection began.” The man jerked his head at the door. “Take him to the cell.”

  The clones complied, dragging Danyael out.

  The man’s dark eyes darted to Joyce. “What is she doing here? I told you to kill everyone in the house.”

  Galahad cut in. “Danyael killed five of us. He stopped only when I threatened to hurt the woman.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed, but his face was otherwise impassive.

  Galahad’s heart raced. Had he blown his cover by interceding for Joyce? He held his breath.

  “You may have done the right thing,” the man conceded finally. “Put her in his cell.”

  The clone holding Joyce nodded and pushed her out of the room.

  The old man shook his head, his breath pulsing out in a sigh. “Five. Damn.” He turned and walked out of the room, his stride brisk and strong. Galahad followed, as did the remaining clones. The room exited into an external corridor that encircled the perimeter of a large circular chamber.

  Galahad’s breath caught. It wasn’t a chamber. It was a large shaft a hundred feet in diameter that appeared to rise to the surface and plunged thousands of feet into darkness. Narrow walkways, unprotected by rails, crossed the shaft, intersecting with other walkways to create a network of bridges and staircases that connected the external corridors over the three floors of the underground laboratory.

  The rooms of the laboratory were built into the walls of the central shaft, and the lights within glowed like a noose. A cursory glance through the windows suggested that some of those rooms were living quarters and others were research stations, stocked with technology and equipment that Galahad did not recognize.

  A brisk breeze rushed past him. The air drawn from the surface carried the scent of sea salt, relieving the claustrophobia associated with being thousands of feet underground and surrounded by steel walls several feet thick.

  Technicians in white lab coats scurried past, though far fewer than he had expected considering the size of the complex. They paid Galahad and the younger clones little attention, but snapped straight when the older clone spoke to them. “We have the alpha empath. He should regain consciousness in a few hours. Make sure the telepath’s ready. We’ll start as soon as Danyael’s awake.”

  “Yes, Gage.” The technicians nodded and hurried away.

  Galahad traced their progress across the walkways to the external corridor that encircled the third floor of the laboratory. They stopped outside a closed door and tapped a code into the security console. When the door opened, they entered the room. The door sealed behind them. Hazy figures moved about in the room, but it was too far for him to make out faces.

  His clone, Gage, was clearly in charge of the operations at the laboratory, and it appeared that he had a telepath imprisoned too.

  Galahad’s face tightened. He braced against a shiver that ran down the length of his spine. He knew exactly what could be accomplished with the potent combination of an alpha empath and a telepath. Did Gage know too?

  As soon as he could break away without raising suspicion, Galahad climbed up the staircase to the third floor. His natural balance and strong nerves allowed him to traverse the narrow walkways with confidence, though it helped not to look down or up. He walked along the external corridor, his fingertips tracing the smooth steel walls, and stopped in front of the telepath’s room.

  The door was locked, protected by an electronic security code, but Galahad spared a quick glance through the window as he slowly walked past. The room was a teenager’s haven, decorated in jarring colors as a tribute to adolescent rebellion. A young teenaged girl slouched on the bed, idly swiping through an electronic tablet. Her blond hair was gathered in a neat ponytail, and she wore the standard faded denim uniform of most American teenagers.

  She was not much older than twelve, and she did not appear to be in any distress.

  In fact, she glanced up as Galahad passed, as if she had sensed his scrutiny. Her features were delicate and somehow hauntingly familiar. Her lips tugged up into a smile, at once knowing and mocking.

  Her mind brushed against his. Hello, Galahad.

  The voice was the same one he had heard so many times before in his mind and in his nightmares, the voice that had screamed Danyael’s name before she died. Galahad’s eyes widened. Miriya?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Zara was too practiced, too experienced to give in to panic. The palms of her hands remained dry, but her pulse skittered, her heartbeat erratic. She pulled into the driveway of Joyce’s home, leapt out of her car, and stalked up to the police barricade. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “Miss, this is a crime scene—”

  Zara scanned the crowd and caught a glimpse of Amanda through a window on the second floor. “Amanda!”

  The telepath showed no signs of having heard her.

  Zara flung her thought out. Amanda!

  Amanda spun around and looked out of the window. She gestured to the policeman, and he stepped aside to let Zara through.

  Zara entered the house. Her narrow-eyed gaze flashed across the bloodied bodies carried out on stretchers. Seven…no, eight. Two full SOF teams. She took the stairs two at a time to the second floor and stepped over five sheet-covered bodies. “What happened?” she demanded. “Where’s Danyael?”

  Amanda turned around, her face pale and grim. “Gone. The house was attacked. The two SOF teams on duty were killed. Joyce is gone too.”

  “My clone?”

  “Dead. Killed as she was sleeping.”

  “And Galahad?”

  Amanda sighed and swallowed hard. “We found his facial prosthetic, and five bodies that could be him.” She gestured at the sheet-covered forms.

  “Damn it!” Zara spun around. She knelt and flipped back the sheet. Her jaw tightened as she stared into Galahad’s face.

  “Can you tell the difference between Galahad and one of his clones?” Amanda asked.

  Zara shook her head. “Not really, and Galahad himself has no identifying marks that I know of. This wound is self-inflicted, though.”

  “Two of the five committed suicide; Danyael probably helped them along. Galahad likely took out the other three, if he’s not one of the three. Did you find Sharma? Did he give you any leads?”

  Zara inhaled deeply. “Yes and no.” She walked out of Joyce’s bedroom and into the guest room she had shared with Danyael. His cell phone was on the table. She picked it up; it showed her missed call. “Any clue when this happened?”

  “Not really. SOF was alerted fifteen minutes ago when the team failed to call in their hourly report.”

  “Danyael didn’t pick up when I called him
forty-five minutes ago.” Her hand tightened around his cell phone. “Damn it, I should have realized that something was wrong. Didn’t the neighbors see anything?”

  “The police are checking now, but nothing so far.” Amanda shook her head. “I can’t reach Danyael either. He’s not responding.”

  “He’s probably unconscious. If he’s dead, we’d have known from the empathic supernova.”

  “Right.”

  Zara ground her teeth. Anger bubbled up, and she spun around. “Damn it, where were you? Why weren’t you here protecting him?”

  “I was working with Chloe, following some of the other leads she had found, while you were off playing secret agent.” Amanda did not retreat when the assassin stalked up to her. “And he was protected. The SOF team has telepaths, telekinetics—”

  “What good were they? Danyael’s gone.”

  Amanda glared at Zara. “Danyael’s a goddamned alpha empath. He shouldn’t have needed protection. When he fought Sakti, he took out five hundred people—”

  “What did you expect him to do here? Drop his psychic shields and drive the entire country to suicide?” Zara balled her hands into fists and turned her back on Amanda. “Damn it!”

  Amanda released her breath, a trembling sound. She sank into a chair and looked up at Zara. “What did you find out?”

  Zara opened her mind to the telepath and mentally revisited her conversation with Suresh Sharma. Amanda’s psychic touch glided like the whisper of butterfly’s wings across her mind. Their gazes met across the room, over the bustle of police officers and SOF agents.

  Amanda swallowed hard. “We’ll find Danyael. We’ll get him back.”

  The weight on Zara’s chest eased. She had never been particularly friendly with Amanda—chalk it up to a subliminal competition for Danyael’s affection—but in that moment, she was grateful for the telepath’s commitment to Danyael. She nodded. “Someone has to know about the Galahad clones, someone other than the clones themselves. We know that the lab is in the area. It must have other employees—technicians, cleaners. We have to find them.” Before Danyael breaks.