Bolt Saga, Volume 2

by Angel Payne

  The harsher jut of his jaw inspires a matching tension in mine. “Orders for what?”

  “To get her ass to New York.” Foley’s mouth thins to a razor’s edge. “Along with every other domestic agent of the Consortium. They’ve been told they’re needed in Manhattan in four days—to send an important message to an ‘escaped angel.’”

  Forget the stripped-wire nerves. Every one of them is an exposed tip of pain, giving rise to the screams of my senses—as Neeta’s stunned whisper serrates the air. “Four days? The night of Emma’s fundraiser.”

  Part 5

  Chapter One

  Reece

  Zoom.

  From superhero to stalker in less than forty-eight hours.

  And damn proud of it.

  Every word of the conviction is a fire in my chest as I shake rain out of my hair and walk into the Midtown Manhattan apartment I’ll be calling home tonight. Yeah, and probably a few more nights to come.

  I refuse to think I’ll be here longer than that.

  Denial is a valuable attribute in a stalker.

  Yeah, I’ve learned that at the speed of light too. Or, if I’m going to be glib, at the speed of lightning.

  Okay, screw glib—because I’ve arrived on this island fully ready to bring the real goddamn lightning. The thunder too, if my hand is pushed. And holy fuck, does part of me want to be pushed. The part, entrenched in my gut like a fucking tumor, that metastasizes a little more each morning of my life. In those few seconds before the relief of consciousness, I’m back there again. Still strapped to a table in a lab, in the middle of an unmarked warehouse, in the middle of a Barcelona suburb, in the middle of the hell called the Source.

  The Source.

  It has a name now—though that knowledge hasn’t made anything easier. I’m still assaulted by crippling memories, followed by the same furious irony. Where’s the karmic payback for whackjob scientists choosing to name their lair as if it’s a spa retreat? Further, where’s the eye twitch I should be battling because that information came from the woman who handed me over to the Consortium in the first place?

  And that’s when more of the irony sinks its teeth in.

  Because right now, Angelique La Salle’s intel is all I have to trust. All I must trust. Yeah, even if it all turns out to be lies and the bitch is just leading me back into another trap that will land me up on another lab table.

  Because not believing her would lead to much worse results.

  Not worse. Unthinkable.

  The Consortium catching Emmalina in their crosshairs. I’m not putting it past the bastards—as smart as they are heartless—who are now aware she’s the key to chopping me short at the balls. More than aware.

  So yeah, underestimating them would be as stupid as ignoring them—and I haven’t shirked on either account, despite how doing so has me here in a rented shoe box off Eleventh instead of checking into a two-k-square-foot penthouse at the hotel I own up the street. But this is me doing my damnedest to give Emma the “space” she demanded while keeping her safe from those crazy cocksuckers at the same time.

  Threading moral needles is also a good trait in a stalker.

  Especially when dealing with a band of scientific deviants who gave up ethics for legacy and never bothered to deal with the shit again. Yeah, the same posse who kept me captive for six months while the whole planet thought I was still just being an irresponsible prick. They even covered up my imprisonment by making strategic withdrawals from my bank accounts.

  Letting them heap trash on my reputation was one thing.

  Letting them think they can touch one hair on my woman—let alone plan some sort of violent vengeance at one of the biggest events of her life?

  Not. Acceptable.

  Which is why I’m now here, dripping and clenched, staring at the Hudson River through rain-spattered windows and struggling to take just one breath not fried by impatience and dread. But knowing I’m going to fail. Recognizing there’s only one thing that will heal this burn. Seeing her again. With my own eyes. Hearing her laugh, watching her smile, rejoicing that she’s in this world…making it a better place for everyone lucky enough to know her…

  So, yeah, kids. I’m sure as fuck owning this stalker shit.

  “Shiiiiit.” Sawyer Foley’s drawl cuts into my internal seethe. The guy adds a low whistle to it while walking in, dropping his duffel bag as if he’s tossing down his surfboard after catching a set of Malibu breakers. His appreciative gawk continues as he takes in the clean lines of the décor, custom-designed to emphasize the space via track lighting, custom blonde woods, and cream-colored furniture. “This is your idea of slumming it?”

  I turn around with two scuffing steps. My hands are still jammed in my overcoat pockets. In the right one is a wadded napkin and the last chunk of the protein bar I forced down during the flight from LA. In my left is a more significant package. A velvet box, all but burning my palm…

  Needless to say, having to answer Foley is a fucking godsend.

  “I said it was going to be small,” I murmur. “Not a slum.” But it was the best Neeta Jain had been able to find in Midtown West with a night’s notice—and took her working through the night to do so. Asking the task of the woman, a member of my leadership team at the Hotel Brocade in LA, had been uncomfortable but necessary. Roping anyone else into our small circle of knowledge wouldn’t be dangerous just for them. The more who know our secret, the more links we must add to the chain for finding and dismantling the Consortium—and doing that is already going to take a strong-as-fuck chain.

  “Yeah, well…” Foley strolls back in from the first of the place’s two bedrooms and whistles again. “I like the way you travel, Richards.”

  “Rule,” I correct. “Reilly Rule, remember?”

  “Yeah. Right.” He draws out both words with a narrowed glare. “Though I want to know how you got the cool cover name, and I got the wiener one.”

  “What’s wrong with Felix Faegan?”

  “Besides the fact that it sounds like a wiener?”

  I laugh. Not long and not loud, but I do. Despite the fact that Foley always speaks like we’re in a surfing movie, with the flowing locks and physique to match, he and I have adapted okay to each other. Adapted. I won’t call it friendship. I may be a charmer in any social situation into which I’m thrown, but beneath the wit, I’m still a wary asshole who grew up second-guessing everyone who wanted to have a relationship of any kind. Emma is the only one who broke all my molds.

  And continues breaking them.

  The truth of it can’t be more vivid than now. Leaving “Felix” to struggle with his wiener issues, I round the corner into the bedroom I’ve claimed as mine and crouch in front of my own luggage. The smaller bag has been designed with custom compartments to accommodate high-powered surveillance goggles, a camera, several types of listening devices, and a sizable black box covered with more switches and lights than a gamer’s dream den.

  Without hesitation, I grab the goggles and camera and transfer them to a smaller satchel already containing a black ski cap and more protein bars. I haven’t had an appetite for anything else since Foley barged into my office back in LA bearing the information bombshell Angelique had just relayed to him. The intel that had exploded my world with a couple of huge epiphanies.

  One: Six months as the Consortium’s lab rat didn’t come close to teaching me true fear.

  Two: Sometimes, stalking really is totally justified.

  Despite what the expression on Sawyer Foley’s face is telling me.

  “Daaannng.” The guy peers into my bag, shaking his head like he’s about to watch me lick a flagpole in the snow. “You still think this is the best play for keeping your woman safe, huh? Playing creeper spy on her?”

  Token grunt. “And your own plan would be what, Einstein?”

  “Oh, I don’t know…actually telling her what’s up, maybe? Including her on the new intel…since it directly affects her?”

  “News
flash, Sally.” I toss in his radio code name for ironic fun. “I’m not on the woman’s VIP list right now.” I’m probably not on Emma’s cleaning crew list right now. Not since she learned that even though I retired from public duties as Bolt, I’ve been working in secret with Foley to maintain watch on the Consortium—and yes, if the occasion presents itself, to penetrate even deeper into their defenses. And one day, if we’re lucky, to break out the rest of the victims who haven’t gotten as lucky as me. Who are still being violated on a daily basis in the name of those lunatics’ grand plan of turning human DNA into rechargeable battery matter.

  “She’s a smart woman.” Foley’s statement isn’t just steady with confidence. It’s soft with admiration. I clench my jaw, choosing to ignore the latter—for now. “She knows the grittier parts about your life now, man.”

  “If you mean having to deceive the media, our friends, and our families, then yeah. But in this case…”

  “When she found you hanging with the coo-coo ex after deep-sixing the romantic stay-cay?” The guy scores points for his sincere grimace. “I am damn sorry about dropping that nuke on you, man.”

  I lift a dismissive hand. “You kept Angelique under wraps for good reason. If you’d asked about bringing her to the meet-up last week, I would’ve told you to go deep fry your dick.”

  “Valid life lessons, the FBI version. Better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

  “Couldn’t have said that better myself.” I roll out a full smile before firmly patting the satchel and slinging it over my shoulder.

  Foley facepalms himself from the figurative corner into which I just painted him. “Fuck.”

  I clap him on the back. “Too slow, gotta go. Sucks to be you, dude.”

  He scrubs a hand over his stubbled jaw. “So you’re really going to do this? You’re that convinced Emma’s not even close to forgiving you now?”

  “Why do you think we’re staying in this dump instead of a penthouse at the Obelisk?”

  He drops his hand. Shuts his eyes. “A dump, he says.” A new snicker bursts on his lips. “Dude, just a couple of hours with the blueprint you’re working from…”

  I copy the chuckle, transferring the box from my right pocket into a more secure place inside my trench. The action is doubly beneficial, since I have the chance to check the same compartment for the key card that’ll get me into the office building across the street from the Hotel Obelisk, where Emma is staying. “You’re hammering with a new crew now, Sally.”

  Foley cracks his neck and tosses a wry grin. “In that case, hand me the nails.”

  “I’d prefer it if you handle the Stingray unit.”

  “Modified Stingray unit.” He grits it out, dropping his volume. “Though I’m sure that won’t stop the right people from throwing us into some deep holes if they learn we even have this bad boy.”

  My new shrug couldn’t be bolder about not giving a shit. “At the moment, my concern is for one right person, okay?”

  Foley grunts while scooping the surveillance box out of its compartment. “Bad guys of the planet, beware the dude with billions to spend and electrons for blood.”

  As he disappears back out into the living room, I whisper for the ears of the universe only, “And a woman in charge of his soul.”

  Only the universe has to know the full truth of it too.

  That it’s not just confirmation…but supplication.

  That I’ll gladly keep admitting that Emmalina Crist commands every corner of my mind, heart, and spirit, as long as fate works with me to take down the bastards who want to end her life.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, we’re tromping down Eighth, heading into a vicious headwind as well as the downpour it’s brought into the city. Though the weather’s a polar opposite to the sunshine and balm we left behind in LA, I’ve never been more grateful for a storm in my life. Beneath my black knit cap and upturned trench collar, I’m just another poor sap having to get around the city in the muck, not my usual existence as one of the world’s biggest paparazzi magnets.

  The weather’s got people so distracted, they don’t even notice how the drops from above are performing a fun acrobatic show of their own when they hit the charged airspace around me. Poor Foley’s taking the brunt of that action, as most of this atmospheric pinball game pings and hits him instead.

  “Guess there was no need to take a shower this morning,” he finally mutters, rain spurting off his lips.

  I snort, owing him at least the semblance of humor.

  After we pace across a subway grate, weave around a newspaper stand, and then dodge three umbrellas, we’re finally walking at a proximity allowing me to speak freely again. “So…you do notice it.”

  Foley side-eyes me. “Notice what?”

  I return the look. “It’s all right, man. You can say it.” I swirl a finger at the drops still popping off thin air, as if I’m the fucking Starship Enterprise with its deflector shields up. “It’s like I’m wearing a body condom of ions. Not exactly a state secret.”

  I hope the joke will relax him a little—since we left the apartment, the guy’s been crawling with as much tension as me—but he just grunts again. “Are you really talking to me about ‘weird,’ dude? You do remember when you were first checking my creds, and I mentioned a little something called six years with FBI special cases?”

  “Right.” I smirk. “Special cases like a guy who changes the polarity of the air and can fully charge your phone with a good finger job?”

  At last the laugh. But just as fast, a sober head shake. “You have no idea, Reecy.”

  “Reecy?”

  “If I have to be Sally and Felix”—he pauses and thrusts his neck like a cat ready to hurl a hairball—“then yeah, you’re Reilly and Reecy.”

  The next second, I don’t care if he calls me Engelbert. Or, for that matter, Mouth Breather—which is what I am now that the ocean of umbrellas has parted, opening a clear line of vision to the multi-use commercial building we’re headed for. It’s a straight shot across the boulevard from the Obelisk, the iconic hotel my family has owned for nearly twenty years. I’ve seen this view in thousands of ways since my childhood—but I’ve never had it scorch every nerve ending in my body, making me blink and growl, fighting back a fog of dread like this.

  Because it’s never included the scenario unfolding on the sidewalk fifty feet ahead.

  “Yo, dickface. Where’s the ghost?”

  Foley answers his own wisecrack with a violent unnggh, relaying the sentiment from my own gut. Laying eyes on a ghost would be a hell of a lot better than what I witness now.

  The building in which Neeta’s helped me lease an empty office is also home to a gym, from which my girlfriend and another female have just exited. The sight brakes me in place, jolted as if it’s been a decade instead of a week since I last saw her. No. It’s like the first time I met her, when her presence on the air was just as significant as mine and she’d sent my senses to another galaxy of comprehension, a cosmos of zero gravity. I’d been terrified of her effect on me, with her angel blond hair and her honest enormous eyes, and even that little sway to her hips, betraying the vixen beneath the seraph…

  Yes, from the start, she’d possessed the power to unhinge me—as she does now, stopping and turning as someone bursts out of the gym, calling for her to hold up.

  Not just any someone.

  She and the mystery woman are joined by a guy.

  And goddamnit, does he have curb appeal. Biceps on top of his biceps. Neck as thick as his head, but the face on that head belongs on a Russian prince. He’s the fucking love child of brawn and beauty.

  And he’s touching my woman.

  He encases the top of her shoulder with a beefy hand and adds a flashy movie-star smile, uttering something that makes Emma laugh. Her workout buddy is also all giggles—until she steps out of Emma’s sightlines. As soon as she does, pretending to smooth the bloodred hair that’s already pulled into a ballerina bun, her
charm falls away. She replaces it with a calculated stare, shooting that scrutiny up and down the street before zooming it back to the Russian prince. He acknowledges her cue but is smooth and subtle about it, even during his casual follow-up. While laughing at something Emma’s just said, he “shuffles” two steps to his left, even farther into the rain, compelling Emma to follow.

  A fist forms in my gut. Then two more at the ends of my arms. “What the fuck?”

  Foley turns, pressing against my side. “Easy, tiger.”

  “In another life,” I snarl. Despite my raised hackles, I force myself to keep breathing—and to keep looking at every nuance of every movement the prince and his partner make. “Something’s not right, damn it.”

  “Course it isn’t,” Foley mutters. “There’s a side of beef making a play on your girl. Good news is, he’s probably not the first to try it, and Emma’s a smart woman.”

  I shake my head. “He doesn’t worry me.” I mean it. In another lifetime, that might’ve been a different story, but I don’t have time for jealousy right now. Not with the apprehension now clutching more than my belly…

  “Then what? Well, fuck.”

  Foley’s first two words might as well have been you’re paranoid. Then the last two? Okay, maybe you should be. Especially when it’s clearer with every passing second that the prince is just the distraction for Emma. The one assigned to keep her engaged, with his patrician smile and courtly charm, while Madame Blood Hair performs the crucial tasks.

  Of what?

  What the hell is their game with her?

  Thank fuck, Foley finally hops on the bandwagon of belief too. “What is going on?”

  I’m not able to answer because Emma peers up the street, brow furrowed. I duck into the shadows created by some construction scaffolding, yanking Foley with me. Have I gotten too close? Can she feel me here, even half a block away? The charged awareness between us has only strengthened over the last three months, though we’ve never even wanted to test its range. There’s a distinct possibility that she can already sense me, even from this far.