Sloth: A Fated Mate Superhero Romance (The Deadly Seven Book 4)

by Lana Pecherczyk

“Shut it, Max. I’m here.”

  “You shouldn’t have come. It’s a trap.” He lifted his hand, the one with his thumb trembling over a detonator wired to the bomb around his chest.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Before she unpaused the visual algorithm, she finger-tapped the offending cell phone, just in case she could stop it manually. Nope. Didn’t respond to her touch. Worth a try.

  “Don’t suppose you know the passcode on this thing?”

  “Yeah, sure. Five-five-five, this sucks. How’s that?”

  She snorted, set her jaw, and then unpaused the iPad, zeroing in on the fractal images flashing on her screen. She sifted through them, looking for the identifying pattern that would point her to the timer program on the cell. “I’m hacked into the cell, Max, don’t worry. I’m just looking for the timer program, then it’s a simple thirty-second adjustment. Once that’s done, I’ll disconnect the deadman’s switch. I’ll stop this bitch.”

  While the algorithm worked, a few moments of charged silence passed.

  “Heard about your little mishap with a bus,” he said. “You good?”

  “Let me concentrate,” she snapped. “It’s not the time for idle chit-chat.”

  A few more moments of scouring visual code. Nothing. Her heart-rate picked up and she had the irrational thought that she didn’t want last words to him to be an angry snap. She knew why he tried to make conversation.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she murmured.

  “I’ll always worry about you.”

  “I got this.”

  “I know.”

  Her throat closed up, she held her breath, but she refused to look at him.

  “I came,” she said, words hanging in the air.

  The two simple words made him tear up, she heard it in the tremble of his voice when he replied: “Knew you would.”

  She wouldn’t let him down. Not this time. Never again.

  She wanted to say something to him, to tell him she loved him. That she was going to sit right there and be with him, even if she couldn’t get the timer to stop, but nothing came out. Time was ticking away. Instead, she immersed herself in the patterns forming on her screen.

  Focus.

  And then, suddenly, a recognizable pattern formed before her eyes. An Atari Space Invader. Holy shit. “I think I found something…”

  While she narrowed down the offending code location, following the trail of Invaders, he kept talking, never once letting an iota of doubt slip into his voice. “Been thinking about where we can go after this… Gale told me about this little place down south… few hours away… been saving it… Waterfall…”

  His voice became stilted, his breathing labored. Something was wrong. But Sloan forced herself to keep working. Like a drug, the closer she got to the prize, the harder she worked, the greater the pull. She came alive.

  Three minutes.

  A voice came over the speaker in her hood. “I’m here.”

  Wyatt. Must be close.

  “That timer gets down to twenty seconds, I'm running up and smothering it.”

  “Fuck off, bras,” she growled. “You get near this bomb, and I’ll kill you myself.”

  “I won’t let you die, Sloan.”

  “No one’s dying, drama queen.”

  “What’s the timer say?”

  She shut her mouth. The man had a kid on the way, and he was being a dope. He was bulletproof, yes, but he’d never tested his invulnerability against a bomb. No. She shook her head. Not happening.

  She must have whimpered, must have made a sound, because Max touched her wrist. She met his gaze and a jolt of fear passed through her. His eyes were turning glassy. A sheen of sweat spattered his forehead, wetting his hair. Something was wrong. Something not the bomb. He looked ill.

  “She injected me with something,” he said. “If you can’t get the timer, run. I’m probably dead, anyway.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Her eyes burned. “Don’t start doubting me now, Max.”

  “I love you, Sloan,” he croaked, and then his head lolled on the pole. His body went lax, but his eyes moved rapidly behind his eyelids.

  “Max!” she shouted, but he didn’t respond.

  Two minutes.

  Fuck!

  “You asshole. You asshole. Wake up.”

  I can do this. I can do this. She dragged her eyes back to her screen, heart pounding in her chest. Follow the Space Invaders—look for the gap in the pattern. She scoured through the abstract visuals and then found a gap. The puzzle piece that didn’t fit. That might be it. She dug further. Deeper. Opened up the binary. Hit a few keys, then looked at the cell and held her breath.

  The timer stopped.

  A burst of sound came out of her tight throat. “Thank God. Oh, thank fucking God.”

  “You got it?” someone said through the comms.

  “Yeah, I got it. Which wire?” She tugged her knife from her boot.

  “Where the detonator attaches to the main mechanism, there should be two wires. What colors?”

  “Red and green.”

  “Green.”

  Without hesitation, she snipped the green wire.

  Nothing. No bomb. No blast.

  They were safe.

  “We’re good.” She cut the tape around Max’s torso, careful not to move the C4. He was out, completely. “Wait. Something is wrong with Max. He was injected with something. He needs medical attention.”

  “The detective is with an ambulance. Doc is on standby.” Parker’s meaning was not lost on Sloan. If their sister was there, she could commandeer the ambulance, and instead of taking it to the hospital, they could take it to their medical room in their basement headquarters. Grace, Evan’s mate, was an excellent surgeon. But would surgery be what they need to help Max? He wasn’t special like them—the safest place would be where the best quality equipment was...

  “We should take him to the hospital,” she said.

  “Negative. We now have more knowledge at the base.”

  Barry. He meant Barry.

  Sloan ripped the pinned paper note from Max’s shirt in disgust. Fuck Daisy. Why did she have to be like this? If Max died, she’d end Daisy. End that fucking cow... but as the thought formed in her head, she noticed something written on the back of the piece of paper, another sentence scrawled in blue: The answer is in your blood.

  A strange nervous fluttering tumbled in Sloan’s stomach, lifting her spirit. The note was from Daisy. It had to be. Could this be a lifeline? She scrambled the paper and tucked it up her sleeve.

  “Let’s get him back to base,” Parker said, jogging up the steps to meet her, but she was already heaving Max’s limp body over her shoulder in a fireman’s hold. She was strong enough to carry him, and she wasn’t afraid to show it. Not anymore.

  Thirty-Two

  Tony Lazarus waved at the bartender in the nightclub, Hell. P-something-or-rather was his name. Pete? Paul? He couldn’t remember. Too much booze in his system. A few hours ago, he’d been next door in Heaven with Sloan, having a celebratory drink after his latest training session with her. She’d gone to shower, he’d stayed on. Before he knew it, the dinner crowd started filing in, and it got busy. People noticed him. People stared. He moved across the way to the recently opened nightclub where it was less busy.

  Behind the bar, the bartender walked over and raised his under-plucked brows at Tony. “Another bourbon, Mr. Lazarus?”

  “Nope. All good.” Tony checked his Rolex. The blurry watch-face told him it was either ten minutes to five, or ten minutes to… six? Maybe seven? The hand wouldn’t stay still. Wait. It was after nine. That made sense if the nightclub was open. Parker had texted earlier. Something about Max. Didn’t sound like he needed Tony’s help, but he should probably go otherwise he’d never hear the end of it. He should. Maybe one more drink.

  Nah. He should go.

  Tony looked back at the bartender, still waiting for Tony’s answer. The man had a s
mudge of something on his chin. Oh. It was a goatee.

  Don’t look at it. Don’t look at it.

  Tony lifted his gaze to meet the man’s. “I got my marching orders, bud. Time to go. Put it on the tab?”

  P-something nodded and flicked his dark gaze to Tony’s right. “And what about the lady? Another drink for her?”

  Tony blinked. Lady? He looked to his right and, sure enough, a woman sat next to him. He looked at the bar in front of her. French manicured fingers gripped an empty champagne flute. She was pretty. Blond. Typical model type. He’d probably had an entire conversation with her and forgot. He swayed back as he tried to focus on her face. Must be drunker than he realized. No matter. It would burn out of his system in mere minutes. That was the curse—and blessing—of his supernatural biology. He imbibed like a sinner. He also detoxed like a bitch.

  That was Future-Tony’s problem.

  He looked at the woman again. She smelled like Lavender. Did he like Lavender? Forgot her name. God, he was drunk. He blinked again. But she watched him with those eyes. Loved-up-groupie eyes. She knew who he was, and she was up for it. Present-Tony could definitely get on board with that.

  He stood up. “Nightcap—my place?”

  The instant the words came out, he regretted them. He’d never invited anyone back to his place. It was too personal. Too encroaching. But it was literally around the corner. Lazarus House was between Heaven and Hell.

  Purgatory. He snorted. Sounded about right.

  She jumped up, firmed her jaw and widened her babydoll eyes. She collected her clutch from the bar and curved those lips into a smile. “Absolutely.”

  Tony scratched under his ear. Right. Suppose he should live up to that reputation of his. He gesture-waved at the bartender. “We’re out of here. See you next time, bud.”

  Tony curled his arm around the woman’s shoulders and half leaned on her for support. One step. Two steps. He’s all good.

  Straight line.

  Head outside. Eyes wide, he forced his vision to focus on the exit—a blast of soft light in the gloomy nightclub. Damn Parker for installing so many levels to this place. The architecture was set out like an amphitheater for the nine circles of hell. Steps everywhere. Not too many patrons this early in the night. His sense of gluttony was dulled from his own intoxication, but he felt the people in the club as they imbibed—like a worm wiggling in his gut.

  He stepped. Wobbled. But he got it. He was good. Light shone from the vestibule of the exit, acting like a beacon for him. The vestibule led to the coat room. The coatroom connected to the street.

  “The leg bone connected to the… something bone,” he chuckled to himself, singing. The model giggled.

  Of course, he was hilarious.

  Sobering fresh night air blasted him in the face and he inhaled deeply. Purely. Heavenly. It was night. Sirens blared from somewhere. The city was coming alive. This was what he’d waited for. He paused and took a minute to appreciate the atmosphere. It was his city. He knew every dark street, every alley corner, and every filthy secret the underground had to offer. Some time later tonight, after his alcohol had burned off—mostly—Future-Tony would be trailing the shadows, wearing his Deadly battle gear, looking to pick a fight. And he’d get it. And he’d win.

  And nobody knew he was Tony-fucking-Lazarus.

  That’s what he called heaven.

  Cars whizzed by on the street, pulling his mind from the clouds.

  People lined up to get entrance into Hell.

  Customers walked in and out of the restaurant Heaven. A couple in love caught his eye. A short man and a tall woman. Strange combination, but they made it work. They held hands as they crossed the street to the taxi stalling for them on the other side. They smiled at each other and something in Tony’s chest tweaked.

  This amount of activity, it must be the weekend. He must have leaned on the woman too hard because she giggled flirtatiously and buried into him. He tensed. A bright flash popped—stupefying him—and then his brain caught up to why she’d suddenly become extra noisy and cuddly. The paparazzi.

  Slowly, more sobering awareness crept in. Four men with cameras were camped on the sidewalk between a city trash can and a tree. From the looks of them all rugged up for the night, they’d been camped for a while and were prepared to wait longer for their payday. They knew he’d been in Hell. And now he was here, caught with this no-name woman, canoodling. Bitterness rolled in his gut, and he wanted to be annoyed, but this was his public persona. This was who the world thought he was.

  “Tony!” one of them shouted. “Give us a grin. Show us The Smile.”

  Goddamn it. He winced, cursing under his breath. The Smile. That’s how he’d been known in the media. Elle Macpherson was The Body… he was The Smile. If you asked him, his body was better, but whatevs. He was lucky he hadn’t been duped The Diva, like a certain co-star he currently worked with. That would be rough.

  He should have taken the secret backdoor from Hell to the neighboring Lazarus Apartments. Should have forgotten about the blond model and just gone home. It’s what he usually did anyway, but for some reason, tonight he didn’t want to be alone.

  He winked brazenly at the paparazzi—decidedly didn’t smile—and dragged the woman toward the Lazarus House lobby between the two establishments. The place was secure, had a doorman and you could only access it from the inside, or with facial recognition. Lazarus Industries also had the security firm situated across the street on retainer. Their apartment complex was a safe haven.

  Camera flashes reflected on the glass sliding doors before him as he walked up to the lobby entrance. For a split second, he was blinded. Then his eyes adjusted and saw someone waiting in the Lazarus House lobby. Someone not the sixty-year-old doorman. She wore a black pant-suit that failed to hide her luscious curves, although, from the masculine cut of it, she’d hoped to go for that look. Brown skin. Brown hair. Plump lips. Sexy, burning hot eyes narrowed on him.

  Yes, please.

  His pulse hammered. He couldn’t look away.

  The woman at his side made a movement, reminding him she was there.

  “Um. Babe?” He untangled himself from the model. “Maybe we do this another night.”

  She pouted and ran a grabby palm across his chest. “Aww, honey, you don’t mean that.”

  Now that pissed him off. “Yeah. I do. Forgot I had a thing.”

  Then he stepped away from her, waved at the doorman inside the lobby—Gus Magnus, a balding black man dressed in a bellhop uniform—and walked inside the air-conditioned lobby once the doors whooshed open.

  Tony nodded at Gus, then made his way toward the elevator where the woman stood. Clearly, she wanted to talk to him.

  He shot her a megawatt grin, eyes dancing over her face. Plump lips pursed. Her nose crinkled. She took a deep breath, then spoke. “Where have your people taken Max?”

  Every cell inside him froze. “I’m sorry?”

  “Max. Maximillian Johnson. Tell me now, or I swear to God I’m calling the police.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She paused and narrowed her eyes again. God, he liked that. Was that bad of him? Was he mad to be thinking about her lips and eyes when she was clearly upset?

  “Do you even know who I am?” she asked, hands on hips.

  His grin widened. “That’s my line.”

  “Ugh!” She threw her hands in the air and opened her mouth to say something else, but he cut her off.

  “Of course I know who you are,” he said, voice smooth, eyes darting down to the Nightingale logo on her suit breast pocket. He nodded there. “Nightingale Securities. You work with Max. You’re female, and there’s only one female in his employ, so you must be Bailey.”

  She jerked back, as though surprised. “So why are you being obtuse? Where is Max? I saw him on the news. He’s not at the hospital. He’s not—”

  Tony frowned and held his hand up. “Wait. Rewind. What are you talking a
bout? Why would he be at the hospital?”

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  Unease trickled in, casting a dampener on his drunkenness. His immediate thoughts went to his sister, Sloan. Was she okay?

  “It was all over the news. They found Max in the municipal district—outside the courthouse with a goddamned bomb strapped to his chest. The Deadly Seven came in and deactivated it, but—” Bailey shook her head. Her eyes turned glassy. “Something was wrong with Max. They took him. I want to know where.”

  The blood drained from Tony’s face. He pulled his cell from inside his jacket pocket and checked. No one had contacted him since that first text from Parker. He opened the message, just to see if he’d missed a reply, or another message on the thread. Sometimes he did that.

  Nothing.

  He met Bailey’s eyes. “You said the Deadly Seven took him. Why would I know anything about that?”

  She stared at him, unblinking. That mind of hers revved a million miles an hour, and Tony knew in that instant, this woman was smart. Clever. Perceptive. She was cataloging every minute behavior of his and filing it away for another time. A distant memory came forth, reminding Tony of the conversation he’d had with Sloan about one of Max’s staff being ex CIA. Not that Bailey’d officially told anyone else. That knowledge was supposed to be on the down low.

  Well, Tony straightened. Bailey wasn’t the only one who was perceptive. She wasn’t the only one who flew under the radar. He knew how to appear not as he was too. He made sure to sway a little, slur a little, and even added a burp when he said, “Say that again. I may or may not have been thinking about your… b—” he glanced down at her chest pointedly. “Bootiful skin. S’really nice. What moisturizer do you use.”

  Bailey sighed laboriously. “Obviously, I was mistaken coming here. I don’t expect you to know anything. I just know Max was on contract for Parker doing something top-secret. If you see Parker, please tell him to call me.”

  Tony nodded.

  Bailey walked away. She smiled softly at Gus and he let her out.

  Tony watched her stride across the street until she disappeared in the darkness. He stood watching for long moments and didn’t know why.