Beyond Ecstasy (Beyond #8)

by Kit Rocha

  Ryder hesitated, then pulled up a photo on the tablet. It was decades old, older than him, from a time before the Flares. It had been copied from device to device more times than he could count. One bad transfer had corrupted the image, left the upper right corner a mess of gray blocks instead of the vivid hues in the rest of the picture.

  But he could still see the faces of the three people featured in the photo, and that was what mattered. Two young men, beaming and regal in their crisp blue uniforms and white gloves, flanked a smiling woman in a simple, flowered dress. His father. His mother. And Jim.

  His father stood on the left, his dark skin a sharp contrast to his white shirt and the golden braids decorating the shoulders of his uniform jacket. He looked so damn happy, proud to be wearing that badge. Ryder's mother had tried to explain it to him, how there was a time before the Flares when the military and the police had been separate entities, but he could barely wrap his head around the idea.

  How would they have reacted if someone had tried to tell them, on that pleasant spring day, that the world would end in less than two years? Laughter, maybe. Disbelief, certainly. Anger, that anyone would dare suggest their reality was so fragile that it could be ripped away at any moment.

  Over the years, Ryder had tried to see pieces of the people he knew in this picture. He didn't bother with his father—he'd only ever known him secondhand, through stories and fond reminiscence. His mother, that was easy. She never lost that spark, her belief that good would always prevail. She even looked the same—the smooth, unlined cheeks were the ones he'd kissed as a child, the ones he'd watched grow sunken and hollow as she neared the end of her life.

  Jim was the opposite. The carefree glint in this young man's eyes was foreign to Ryder. His earliest memories of Jim were of a harsh man—not unkind, exactly, but hard, like tempered steel. Surviving the power shift after the Flares—and the death of his best friend—had cost him the contented ease that shone from this photograph. He became a man ruthless enough to survive, and broken enough not to bother.

  Except he had. Ryder asked him why once. Why did he fight so hard, work so much, when he didn't really care if he lived or died?

  It had taken him a long time to answer. When he did, it was in a gravelly voice thick with memories. “Because I made a promise. And I plan to keep it.”

  A promise to Ryder's mother, or to the father he resembled but never knew? And was it a promise to see this uprising through to the end, or to prepare Ryder to do it? Whatever those answers were, Jim had taken them to his grave.

  Ryder locked the tablet screen and tossed it aside. His men would be gathering soon, and he needed to be there to explain the situation, and to fight alongside them.

  Because he'd made a few promises of his own—and he planned to keep them.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Pain dragged Hawk out of the darkness, kicking and screaming.

  Everything hurt. His arms. His back. His ribs—damn his ribs. The last time they'd ached this badly was the summer he'd slipped while reshingling the barn roof and fallen twenty feet to the ground. His head throbbed with the beat of his heart, and when he parted his lips, he tasted salt and metal.

  He'd swallowed enough of his own blood after a few rounds in the cage to know that taste.

  But this wasn't the soreness that came after a good fight or even a sound ass-kicking. And Hawk knew, he knew he wanted to linger here in the physical pain, caressing every twinge like a lover, savoring it. Because if he kept going, if he remembered—

  Something vast and terrifying waited for him beyond the pain. Horror and guilt and loss and—

  Fire.

  No, it was better here, where idly trying to squeeze his hands into fists shot off bright flashes of color behind his eyes. Like fireworks, like—

  Flares against the night sky.

  His breath rasped loud in his own ears. Faster. Panicked. Because it was coming for him, whether he wanted it or not. Consciousness. Memory. The truth, speeding toward him at a hundred miles an hour—

  Metal crunching. Jeni's scream.

  The denial rose in his throat, caught on terror. Came out as a name. “Jeni.”

  “I'm here.”

  Joy exploded, better than fireworks. For a few seconds, the pressure on his chest eased. Even the pain wasn't so unmanageable.

  She was alive.

  But her voice was hoarse. Not the warm, husky rasp that followed a long night in bed, but ragged, shredded. Hawk tried to force his eyes open and hissed as the agony returned, stabbing into his skull.

  He tried to lift a hand to rub at his head, but his hand jerked to a stop a foot from the floor. Cold metal dug into his wrist, accompanied by the soft clink of chain.

  All of the joy fizzled, but something more useful rose in its place—resolve. Fighting through the pain, he cracked his eyes open and blinked until the soft blur across the room turned into Jeni.

  Blood splattered her torn clothes. Her hair was tangled around her face, matted with blood and darkened by soot. Her eyes were so red—as if she'd been crying forever. And wide metal cuffs circled her delicate wrists, each attached to a chain fastened to the floor on either side of her.

  Hawk's chains jerked tight again, setting off a screaming pain in his shoulders, and that's when he realized he'd tried to move. Tried to get to her, to touch her and reassure himself she wasn't harmed.

  Only ten damn feet separated them, and she might as well have been on the other side of the world.

  But she knew what he needed. “I'm okay. I'm not hurt.”

  He slumped back against the wall and winced as the rough brick dug into the bruises on his shoulders. “What happened?”

  “Someone hit us.” She smiled, but it was a forced thing, tight and painful to look at. “They must have known they couldn't outrun you.”

  Us.

  The cell wasn't that big. Fifteen by fifteen at most, and bare except for the hooks on the walls and the chains holding them.

  Holding the two of them.

  Dread contracted into a tight knot. There was no direction to turn that didn't end in pain. The farm, in flames. Shipp on the ground, his dead eyes staring blankly past Alya's screaming face.

  Only two of them in the damn room. “Luna?”

  Jeni's face crumpled. “I'm sorry, Hawk.”

  He clenched his teeth until the room swam and Jeni blurred again. He squeezed his eyes shut and regretted it when the memory formed. Luna, only four or five years old. Fearless, even though the other younger kids had been skittish around the older brother who'd roared back into their lives to turn their world upside down.

  Not Luna. She'd fixed those eyes on him, big and brown and full of mischief, and he'd known that coming back was the right thing to do. No one would beat the curiosity out of her, bury her under harsh words about her own worthlessness until that sweet little face with the pointed chin turned pinched and hard and empty of hope.

  Hawk had been twenty-five years old. So damn young to feel so fucking old—but Luna's smile had healed him a little. Made him feel like he'd done something right, maybe for the first time.

  “How?” he asked, not recognizing his own voice. Not really wanting to know. “Was it—?”

  “It was quick.” Jeni breathed out a ragged sigh. “She didn't suffer.”

  Maybe not, but she'd died scared and hopeless, all because Hawk hadn't taken two fucking seconds to hug her and tell her she'd be okay. The guilt of that hurt worse than his ribs, but not as much as knowing he had to lock it down. Forget Shipp, forget Luna.

  If he didn't pull himself together and think like a damn soldier, Jeni would be next.

  He forced himself to breathe. Deep and even, three slow inhalations and exhalations. Then he opened his eyes and focused on Jeni. “Where are we?”

  “You're in the dungeon,” a man answered. “Civic Building. City Center.”

  Hawk turned his head as much as he could without setting off a cascade of stabbing pain. Bars made up
the left side of the wall, like something out of a pre-Flare movie—not just ancient rusting metal instead of shining steel, but theatrical. Menacing and raw, all naked threat. The room they were in was like those spies fried on the wall and left as a message—psychological torture.

  The hallway was dark, but he could make out a vague shape through the bars on the other side. Shaggy hair. An unshaved face. A white dress shirt and dark slacks that disappeared into the shadows. Bare feet and ankles wrapped in chains.

  “Hawk, meet Nikolas Markovic.” Jeni could have been making polite introductions at a party if she hadn't sounded so goddamn scared. “Dallas's missing councilman.”

  The one Lili had sworn she had a feeling about. Hawk didn't know if he wanted to laugh or break down in fucking tears. Because if whoever had seized control of Eden had the power to throw a councilman in a goddamn dungeon—

  We're all fucked.

  He wouldn't say it out loud, not with Jeni listening and already terrified. “Good. A councilman can tell us how to get the fuck out of here.”

  “Right.” Markovic laughed, harsh and loud. “I'm still here because I like the view.”

  Hawk clenched his fists and tested the strength of the chains. “Maybe we have different skill sets.”

  “Aren't you the optimist?” A door clanged down the hallway, and Markovic leaned into the dim light, his hollow face changed, alight with fury and intensity. “String them along. If they think they'll get nothing, if you have nothing, they'll kill you.”

  For one blissful second, the advice didn't make sense. Then Hawk remembered the hooks high on the wall. The perfect height for some good, old-fashioned torture. And as the footsteps drew closer, Hawk whispered a silent prayer that they were some good, old-fashioned torturers, too. The kind who would look at Jeni and assume a woman couldn't know anything worth telling.

  Because if they laid a hand on Jeni, Hawk might tell them everything.

  Lex

  The message from Ryder was terse. It's begun, with no explanations or details. Nothing but their own imaginations, fueled by the thick smoke rising in the west.

  Dallas paced the conference room, his gaze constantly swinging back to the display on the wall that showed a tactical view of Eden and the sectors. “We'll have to send Bren and Cruz to Five,” he said finally. “That's where they'll hit next. The reservoir keeps them from going straight for Eight, but it keeps us from coming in behind them easily, too.”

  Lex placed both hands flat on the table to keep from clenching them into fists. “Ryder was anticipating a full assault on his sector. Maybe even looking forward to it.”

  “That's what I'm worried about.” Dallas stopped across the table from her and mirrored her pose. “We should send Finn, too. He's the only person who knows Ryder well enough to notice if he's starting to crack under the strain of all that revenge he's after.”

  “Agreed. I have my theories, but it would be nice to know for sure.” Acid burned in her gut. “This isn't defense, Declan. It's war. Whoever we send out might not come back.”

  “I know.” He shoved off the table again, pacing out his worry. “We need to get Dylan and Jyoti over here to arrange the first squads of medics. And make sure we have transport ready for the serious injuries. We can—”

  Footsteps pounded in the hall outside, and Lex reached for the pistol strapped to her thigh. But it was only Jasper who pushed through the door, his face set in a concerned mask. “Alya's here.”

  Lex rose. “Is Shipp with her?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  Fuck. “Show her in.”

  Alya walked in. Her body told the silent story of Shipp's death in dedicated detail, from the blood dried on her hands and arms, on her jeans and her tank top, to her reddened eyes, flat and grim in an expressionless face.

  She was a walking worst-case scenario, and Lex was ashamed of herself for wanting to look away. Alya deserved better. If it was ever, Christ forbid, Dallas's blood on her hands—Dallas gone—she'd want her unthinkable loss acknowledged. She'd want people to face her down—horrified but unflinching—and see what she'd given for the cause.

  Lex stepped forward and held out her hand. “I'm sorry, Alya.”

  Her grip was hard, maybe even desperate. She clung to Lex's hand, as if drawing strength from having her pain recognized.

  Then the moment passed, and she let go. “We stopped at the girls' farm at the edge of the sector. Everyone arrived there safely, but they said Hawk and Jeni must have come straight here.”

  The churning in Lex's stomach worsened. “We haven't seen them.”

  The man who'd come in with Alya stepped forward and curled one huge hand around her shoulder. “I took a long route. They should have beat us here.”

  Dallas exchanged a look with Lex, the helpless fury in his eyes eclipsing her own. The best possibility was two of their people trapped behind enemy lines. The worst wasn't even death, but capture—Jeni and her perfect recall in Eden's hands, at Eden's nonexistent mercies.

  And there was nothing they could do about it. Nothing. “If they were cut off, could Hawk have gone to ground somewhere?”

  “Maybe,” Alya said. “He knows those roads better than anyone.”

  It wasn't enough. There were too many variables, too many possibilities where the bad outweighed the good, and Lex's hands wouldn't stop shaking. “Jas.”

  He stepped into the room, his hands folded behind his back. A soldier awaiting his orders.

  And she and Dallas had to be the ones to give them. “Tell Noah to drop whatever he's doing. I want him monitoring Eden's traffic for troop movements. Tell him I want to hear about any mention of captures. Sector prisoners.”

  “Yes, ma'am.” He turned to go.

  Dallas stepped forward. “We can find you a bunk here, but we've already set up secure communications with the farm if you need to go back. Either way, you'll be kept in the loop.”

  The fear of a mother and the demands of leadership fought a brief, painful battle across Alya's face. Lex wasn't surprised when the leader won. “They need us. And we can organize volunteers. When you need them, you'll have drivers.”

  “Good. We can use them.”

  They turned to go, every step Alya took stiff and careful. The big man followed her out, hovering protectively, but there was nothing anyone could do to ease Alya's pain.

  Lex took a deep breath. “If they're not hiding somewhere—”

  “I know.” Dallas closed the door and leaned against it, sagging as if the strength had gone out of him. “Goddammit, Lex. I shouldn't have let her leave the compound.”

  “She wouldn't have stayed, not if Hawk was going.”

  “She would have if I'd locked her ass up,” he snarled, exploding away from the door. Pacing turned to prowling as he crossed the room. “She's loyal, Lex. She's fucking loyal. You know what that means.”

  It meant that no matter what her captors did to her, no matter what threats or torment they dished out, she wouldn't betray the O'Kanes. She'd die first—or she'd want to. “She and Hawk are smart, Declan, and they're strong. Don't give up on them yet.”

  “It feels like I already have.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I hate this. I fucking hate this. It's why I avoided this fight for so long. We're the fucking O'Kanes, Alexa. Nothing was ever supposed to be more important than having each other's backs.”

  “That goes both ways.” She slipped her arms around him and rested her cheek on his shoulder. “You get what you give, Dallas. Your people—they're not just fighting for you anymore. They're in it for each other, for themselves. This whole thing is so much bigger than us now.”

  “It is.” He covered her hands with his. “I guess there's one benefit to outright war.”

  “What's that?”

  “We don't have to hold back anymore.” He turned in her arms, his helpless expression gone. Instead, plans were forming behind his eyes. “We still have a few friends on the other side of that wall.”

  Cha
pter Eighteen

  Jeni thought she'd seen awful things—the wanton destruction of Sector Two, Hawk's family having to burn down their own homes. Shipp's blank eyes. Luna's dying moments.

  Nothing was worse than watching two MPs try to beat Hawk to death.

  The interrogator stood to one side, watching stone-faced as they carried out their work. He hadn't asked a question in minutes, minutes that seemed like hours as Jeni bit her lower lip until she tasted nothing but blood, willing herself not to scream.

  Finally, the interrogator lifted one finger. The men stopped immediately, leaving Hawk swaying from the chains that stretched his arms above his head.

  He caught his balance and spit blood from his mouth, then grinned when his gaze locked with hers. “Don't worry, darling. They don't hit half as hard as Flash when he's had a bad day.”

  She wanted to laugh or say something lighthearted, reassuring. She wanted to play his game, but if she unclenched her jaw long enough to reply, she'd start screaming.

  Without altering his expression, the interrogator pointed to Hawk's feet. One of the MPs kicked them out from under him. His body dropped fast and jerked hard when the chains drew taut. Jeni's shoulders ached in sympathy, but Hawk just sucked in a breath and hung there.

  “You won't be able to enrage us into killing you, you know.” The interrogator circled Hawk and studied the blood slicking his skin and the rising bruises. “Even if I wanted to vent my temper on you, I could call someone to repair the damage and start fresh. But regeneration technology isn't magic. Your body will still hold on to every bit of the pain.” He paused. “I can make you feel like you've died a dozen deaths.”

  Hawk got his feet under him slowly. As soon as he straightened, the MP kicked them out again. He flinched this time, but his smile didn't falter. “Only a dozen?”

  “Defiance won't deter me, either.” The interrogator crossed his arms over his chest. “The ones who bluster always break the hardest. So I'll give you one more chance, and then I'll let my men crush as many of your bones as they can without killing you. Who do the communes answer to now?”