Hunter, Healer

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Rowan lifted her hands and examined them in the warm, forgiving light of the bedside lamp. They shook, her fingers almost blurring. “Look at that,” she said. “I'm so brave. What am I doing ?"

  Revenge, the persistent little voice whispered in her head. Revenge. Revenge.

  She settled cross-legged into the creaking mattress, pain cresting inside her fragile, aching head again.

  Something's wrong. Something's very, very wrong. I'm not thinking clearly.

  Just then, the sensitive fringes of her mind registered a touch . It was light and fleeting, simply a brush against the very outer borders of her awareness, as if someone had stepped into a room and hastily stepped back.

  All uncertainty faded. Rowan reached under her pillow for the knife. She wasn't close enough to be sure she would be taken to Zero-Fifteen. There was another installation just thirty miles from here they would probably drag her to. She wasn't even under dampers, was she? She couldn't remember turning any dampers on, and the funny, naked feeling she always had under dampers was gone.

  The knife blade gleamed in the bright electric light. She jammed her feet quickly into her boots and slid out of bed, her jeans rasping against the bleached sheets, then ghosted on silent feet to one side of the door, knife held low and reversed along her forearm. She was sleeping in her clothes, only taking her shoes off and sometimes not even that. She might have to move quickly and couldn't afford the time it would take to get dressed if she was attacked. Adrenaline washed the pain from her head and narrowed her concentration.

  Now she could hear someone fiddling with the doorknob. Air-conditioning washed chill over her skin, and the unit in the window made a racket that would cover any noise she made. Rowan slowly sank down, crouching, wishing she hadn't turned on the light. A dark room for eyes adapted to the light outside in the hall would have given her an advantage.

  The cheap deadbolt was eased open. Someone was very good with a set of lock picks, not everyone could tickle a deadbolt. The chain on the door was almost useless, held only by one flimsy screw. She had left it open. Why? That was a violation of procedure. Even a flimsy chain was better than no chain at all.

  Now the doorknob began to turn, a millimeter at a time.

  Whoever this is, they're going to get a big fucking surprise.

  If it was a Sig, she intended to do some damage before letting them catch her. If it was anyone else...

  The doorknob turned. The adrenaline freeze poured over Rowan's vision, everything standing out sharp and clear—the nap of the cheap bedspread, the horrid beige carpet, the print of a fruit-basket over the useless television, the individual scratches left on the painted wall from other people banging their luggage carelessly around. Rowan's pulse slowed. She was still and quiet as an adder under a rock, buttoned down tightly, not daring to scan outside the door in case the attacker was a psion.

  The door released. The attacker waited a moment before opening it an inch at a time. Chill industrial-filtered air swept across Rowan's body as she slashed, her legs turning into coiled springs, driving a shoulder into the attacker's hard-muscled midriff and spilling them both to the cheap harsh carpet out in the hall. She struggled wildly, her right wrist caught in a bruising grip and locked, twisted mercilessly until the knife dropped. Then he grabbed her other wrist and rolled, effectively trapping her.

  A sharp twisting psychic attack smashed into her already bruised and vulnerable head.

  She shunted the force of the attack aside, not even bothering to turn it back on him. Rowan found her mouth near his shoulder, so she did the only thing she could, training suddenly shoving aside fear. She bit him as hard as she could, thrashing wildly.

  He let out a short barking cry. She brought her knee up swiftly and rolled free as his arm loosened, scooping up the knife as she made it to her feet. She threw a kick, catching the man squarely in the face, and catching a glimpse of blond hair as he collapsed backward. Then Rowan was on him again, the knife sinking into flesh with a solid sound.

  Memory cascaded inside her head. She seemed to remember a blond man clutching her arm as Justin, bloody and battered, raised his hands slowly, one full of a knife blade that glittered through the drugged haze of sedation.

  The man swore in a vicious whisper and Rowan stabbed again, the knife sinking in just as Justin had taught her, the shock of blade meeting bone jarring up to her shoulder. Twist it, break the suction of muscle on the blade, good girl. Just like that.

  The man gurgled on the floor under her. Rowan got one foot on the floor, her knee in his midriff. She let out a short, sharp breath. The man was in Sigma gear. They'd found her, all right.

  A small psshht! sound jerked her halfway around, but not before a spear of ice buried itself in her shoulder. Ow! What the hell—

  Comprehension burst inside her head just as the compulsion broke, shattered by its consummation, and Rowan's entire body turned to lead. The drug was quick, the tranquilizer dart loaded with something icy and prickling that flooded her. For one agonized moment before her head hit the floor she understood that she had been trapped like an idiot, and she was very, very grateful Justin was safe back at Headquarters.

  Sigma had her now.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Del watched from the screen of thick bushes at the side of the parking lot as the Sigs carried down two limp forms. One was Rowan, her pale sheaf of ash-blond hair rising on the faint, chill night breeze. Two Sigs carried her to the black van and bundled her in.

  Del's hands turned to ice.

  The second person they carried was a man with familiar blond hair. Andrews. I'd bet anything that's him. A hard, satisfied agony burst in Del's chest, and his arms and legs turned to ice. He drew back into the shadows, but they weren't scanning for him. They had what they'd come for. If he'd been a little quicker he might have saved her, but now it was too late. She wouldn't be served by him getting himself caught too.

  Oh, Rowan.

  The limp male body was Andrews, the bastard recognizable even in death. They bundled his body into the second black van, and more of them carried her duffel and kitbag. It was the off season and the parking lot was empty of everything except a smattering of cars. Not many people came down south in spring or summer when the heat got unbearable. By tomorrow her hotel room would be empty and wiped, no trace left of the woman who had stayed there.

  He had narrowly escaped the Sigs himself in Saint City while following her. She had taken suicidal chances by operating without dampers and doing everything but getting arrested and shouting, "Here I am, boys!" It was a wonder she hadn't been picked up until now.

  Too late, too late, I'm too fucking late. Where are they taking her?

  She'd accessed an old map from the intranet at Headquarters. He could have told her it was out of date.

  There was an old Sig installation near here, but it had been closed for a good five years. That made the closest installation Zero-Fifteen.

  The belly of the beast itself.

  Are you crazy, Delgado? You just escaped from there. There's no way you can go back in. Christ, they'll eat her alive and there'll be nothing left but a husk. They'll break her. Anton will break her.

  Don't do it. Please don't do what you're contemplating. It's insanity. You won't make it out alive.

  He reached out blindly, his hand closing over a juniper branch. He squeezed, hearing the crackle of dry wood under his fingers, strangely removed. Besides, she doesn't love you. She couldn't. She's not that type. She's good, and you're not. What the hell are you thinking?

  The vans roused themselves, purring like beasts. The one carrying Rowan made a short, sharp half-circle in the parking lot, its headlights splashing wetly against other cars. Del ducked instinctively, even though his cover was good and he was sure they couldn't see or sense him. The invisible man, Justin Delgado.

  The receding fire of Zed withdrawal burned under his skin. He felt cold. His legs had turned to solid blocks of ice.

  If they caught him, he
was done for. He was finished . There was no way he could penetrate Zero-Fifteen and get her out. None.

  I'll just have to be careful then, won't I? I escaped once.

  But escaping was not the same as penetrating a high-security installation without backup and bringing out a potentially broken psion. It just wasn't.

  He fumbled for his cell phone. Then he shut his eyes and breathed in the smell of dust and junipers. Here he was crouching in the bushes, looking for a snakebite or worse, dithering. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was that van, carrying Rowan away to a fate she probably couldn't imagine but Del could picture all too well.

  The vision of the empty room, Rowan's room, rose again. Drenched in sunlight, he could almost feel his pupils contract against the force of that light. The scarves thrown across the bedstead glowed in rich blues and greens. The plants grew green and lush, healthy, and the bookshelves were jammed full. The French door to the small balcony was open a little, wind stirring the curtains as they hung. He took a deep breath, smelling Rowan's skin.

  I missed you. Her voice, soft and vulnerable, the feel of her hair under his fingers, and the weight of her head on his shoulder.

  It didn't fucking matter if it was impossible to get her out of there. Nothing mattered except finding her and freeing her.

  He opened his eyes, faintly surprised to find himself still crouched in the bushes. The second black van idled with its side door open. They were coordinating in there. It was against procedure to have the side door open, but being in there with a dead body probably meant they wanted a little ventilation. It was a picture-perfect opportunity. He slid the cell back into his pocket and eased out of the shadows, sliding the knives free of their sheaths.

  Hold on, angel, he thought. I'm coming to get you.

  There was really no other choice.

  * * * *

  The push left him in a scalding wave of fire, slamming over the top of the driver's mental defenses. There were three in the van: driver, handler, and Zed-wiped psion. Blood dripped down Delgado's face. He ignored it in the cresting agony of his talent as he rammed through walls and false trails, breaking the driver's mind and taking what he needed. His hands shook as he held the garrote, a simple thin piece of wire with wooden handles. No other Society op carried this. It was his own little secret. He yanked back, keeping the pressure on and hearing the crackles as the small, deep bones in the throat snapped.

  The driver was like Andrews, a complacent psion, a military man used to unquestioning obedience.

  Del kept the pressure on, and the man's hands flailed wildly. One hit the window with a hollow sound.

  I am not a very nice man, he thought, with a kind of dark hilarity. The push rang inside his head. Behind him, the Zed-wiped psion moaned.

  The driver's mind broke in a shower of psychic sparks. Del coughed, his injured shoulder throbbing.

  He'd made sure Andrews was dead by sinking another knife into the man's throat and wrenching back and forth. Andrews's body laid half-in, half-out of the van, his head dangling out toward the pavement.

  Have to pull him in and get that door closed.

  His fingers ached as he released the garrote. Rowan. She wouldn't like this at all. No, she would be horrified. Suppose it's a good thing she can't see, right?

  He pulled Andrews back in and closed the side door. Then he settled back against the side of the van, his head resting against a small console. This van, like any other Sigma workhorse vehicle, was stuffed with electronic equipment, screens glowing green, strings of code flashing across two monitors. The small space available for humans was taken up with bodies. In the very back, the psion moaned again. He was handcuffed to a console to keep him out of the way. Del scrubbed at his face with his hands. He needed a plan. Deep, even breaths , he reminded himself, as if he was talking to a trainee. If you can't breathe, you can't think.

  Breathe, Delgado. Just keep breathing.

  It took a while to get the limp body out of the driver's seat. Thank God, the van was still in “park.” The last thing he needed was to be in an uncontrolled vehicle with three dead bodies and a moaning, handcuffed idiot. Del slid into the seat and spent a few seconds looking at the steering wheel, trying to remember how to drive. Goddammit. Stop it. You're not in shock. Rowan needs you. Get your ass in there.

  "Section 511, report in,” a voice crackled from the radio on the dash. He almost jumped. The smell of death was thick and rank in the close confines. He thought briefly, longingly, of opening the window.

  “Section 511, report. Zero clear?"

  He reached for the radio, the information he'd wrenched from the driver's mind sliding fresh and bloody into place. “511 reporting,” he said into the handset, in what he hoped was a normal voice. “511 is zero clear. Proceeding as planned, over."

  "Ten-four. Over and out.” Apparently satisfied, the voice retreated.

  Del closed his eyes. I need a plan.

  Trouble was, he didn't have one. He buckled the seat belt, slipped the van into gear, and coughed rackingly. First he had to get rid of the bodies.

  Then he was going to call Henderson.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Darkness. Soft, forgiving darkness. Burn of a needle in her arm.

  "It's not Zed,” the voice said. Male, slightly whistling, familiar. “Calm down. It's not Zed. It's just a little cocktail to keep you calm while we discuss things."

  Rowan's eyelids fluttered. Light slowly, slowly flooded into her aching head. The drugs took effect quickly, wrapping her in a warm blanket. She could not move, but she was upright somehow.

  Justin. Where's Justin?

  Her head pounded dully. Her eyelids were heavy, so heavy, and she was strapped against something hard. Her head lolled to the side. “Whaaaa...” It was a long, slurred word. Her mouth wouldn't obey her.

  "Just be calm,” the familiar voice said, and uttered a high whistling giggle of glee. “Nice and calm. I've waited a very long time for this. Shame we couldn't have done it earlier, before the testing was complete."

  I know that voice. I know that voice. Where am I?

  But she knew. Sigma had her.

  With that revelation came a flood of memory and the strength to lift her head, even through the blurring disorientation of the drugs.

  What greeted her was obviously a lab—long bare counters, different apparatus set at intervals, and two monitors at the far end blinking with screens of data. She was strapped to a chair, leather restraints around her wrists and ankles, as well as her knees, elbows, torso, and throat. The effect was almost total immobility, though she could wriggle a little and loll drunkenly from one side to another. Wires dropped from her forehead, probably attached to electrodes. She could see an IV pole, some kind of drip.

  Sedation? Maybe.

  The lighting was clear and low, obviously turned down, and she blinked as a familiar face swam into view. Moist, dark eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses, thin cheeks and sawlike cheekbones, liver-spotted hands trembling as he raised one and shoved his glasses higher on his nose. He wore a rumpled white lab coat, and recognition slammed into her.

  "Jilssen,” she breathed. The traitor who had shut down the security grids and let Sigma into the old Headquarters was standing right in front of her. Justin had mentioned seeing him again and confirmed that he was the one responsible for the carnage. It was small consolation that Rowan's instincts had been right about the good doctor all along. If only she'd known what her instinctive response to him had meant , she might have been able to avert the massacre. But even Justin hadn't been able to find anything at the old Headquarters. Jilssen had covered his tracks too well.

  "Hello, Rowan!” He beamed at her, as if she was a prized specimen. His yellowed, strong, crooked teeth almost glowed. “It's so good to see you again, without any interference."

  "Traitor.” Her mouth wouldn't work quite right, and her head seemed too heavy for her neck to hold up.

  She sagged against the restraints. “
Traitor."

  He shook his head, his smile dimming a little. “You'll soon see things in a different light, my dear. There's important work for you to do. You'll be serving your country, and that's very important. You should feel proud."

  She could see a rack of test tubes, and wires leading off to something. The air smelled like chemicals and burned insulation. There was another faint pervasive stench—human pain and desperation. Wherever this place was, several people had suffered here. Suffered terribly. “What ... What are..."

  "When the Colonel gets here, we'll begin. You see, Rowan, Sigma is just the first step. We've been trying to create something very important, a physical bulwark, as it were. Several years ago...” He muttered something, scooped up a clipboard and checked it. “He's late. Dammit, it's not like him to be late."

  The Colonel. Adrenaline flooded her, fighting the sedation. It became a little easier to think. Anton?

  Maybe. Where have they taken me? How long have I been out? If the Colonel's here, I can...

  The dream of revenge faded, replaced by a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  The blind man had buried something in her head, something deep and foul, pushing her through the maze until Sigma could scoop her up. He'd distracted both Justin and her with pain and slipped the fishhook in, neat as you please. Rowan hadn't recognized or felt it because she'd been too busy worrying. Useless, frantic worry. She should have listened to Justin. She should have...

  Well, too late for that now. Her head was clearing rapidly. Her freakish talents did that, burned up pain medication and tranquilizers much faster than normal. She tested the straps, taking care not to make any sudden moves.