by Jaime Rush
Sam rubbed his balding head, nervous at the thought of that man here on the grounds. “Will he be kept secure?”
“Of course. He’ll have a guard posted to him at all times.”
“What is he capable of?”
“You know his heritage. There are several possibilities.” Darkwell smiled with satisfaction. “I’m going to give him a test assignment. Andrus is going to be the turning point in DARK MATTER. He’s going to get rid of the Rogues. That should make you happy.” His smile faded when he didn’t see agreement on Sam’s face. “Was there anything else?”
Sam shook his head and returned to his office. Twenty-five years ago, he had been an idealistic CIA agent drawn into Darkwell’s vision of changing the world. Then things got ugly when he started giving the program’s participants something that enhanced their abilities but not telling them—or even him—what it was. They started showing signs of mental breakdown, but all Darkwell could see were their achievements. When Jack Stoker had gone on his shooting spree, the program was closed down and obliterated from all records.
Then, several months ago, a CIA agent involved in the first program had contacted Darkwell with a concern: One of the subject’s grown daughters was showing signs of the same psychic abilities as her father. Would she also succumb to mental illness?
Darkwell saw only the possibility of the subjects’ offspring inheriting those enhanced abilities. A search for the offspring revealed that they had. He revived the program and hid it under a cover program, even using his own money to fund some of the expenses. He’d dragged Sam back under his control.
Four of their own had died, several injured. Offspring had been killed, too. Lucas Vanderwyck and Eric Aruda were probably dead.
It was all going to go bad, and Sam wasn’t going to get buried under the fallout this time. He remembered Darkwell’s subtle warning when Sam had wanted out before. Darkwell would no doubt eliminate him to protect his program. The man had had his own brother killed, for God’s sake, when he’d threatened to expose the true nature of the program to the director.
He searched his computer for any relevant files and printed them. Sensitive, but not enough to hold over Darkwell’s head should anything suspicious happen to him.
Sam saw Darkwell head down the hallway toward the winding stairs, then watched his superior pull away in his black Mercedes. He returned to the hall and tried Darkwell’s door. It was locked.
Olivia, Darkwell’s assistant, stepped out of her office, startling him. “He’s gone for the day.”
“I gave him a file earlier and realized it contained the wrong papers. You know how he gets when we make a mistake.”
She nodded knowingly. “Hold on, I’ll get the key.” She returned a minute later and unlocked the door. “Go ahead.”
He grabbed up the file he’d just given to Darkwell. “Let me get the other file. I’ll be right back.”
Unfortunately, she was waiting near the door when he returned. He set the same file on the desk, reached around the doorknob, and made the appropriate motion. “I locked it. Thanks. You saved me a browbeating.”
She smiled as she pulled the door closed. “No problem.”
Sweet girl. She had no idea what her father was. She idolized him, always had, so it was no use warning her.
Two hours later, he walked the long, paneled hallway to see who was around. One guard always wandered the interior in addition to the two patrolling the grounds. He doubted the inside guard knew he had no business in Darkwell’s office, but he couldn’t be sure enough to risk his life.
His heart thudded as he turned the knob and slipped inside. The computer would be password protected. His only hope was to find something in the physical files. After checking several drawers, he found the notes on BLUE EYES, the original program.
He turned on the copier and started with the first file. He was halfway through when he heard a noise. Adrenaline shot through him. If Darkwell found him, he’d be killed.
He shut off the copier and cracked open the door. He heard the echo of conversation in the grand foyer, one man’s voice getting louder as he ascended the stairs. The office offered no place to hide. If he didn’t lock the door, and that was Darkwell, he’d be suspicious, especially with Sam loitering in the hallway. Reluctantly, he turned the lock, the file containing his copies tucked beneath his arm, and closed the door.
He headed toward his office, fighting the urge to look back.
“Robbins, what are you doing here so late?”
Cringing, he turned to face Darkwell.
“Just heading home.” He pressed the folder closer to his body as Darkwell’s gaze fell on it.
“What are you working on?”
The blood drained from Sam’s face. “Different ways to look at the statistical data.”
“Really? Let me have a look.” He reached for the folder.
Sam swallowed hard, trying to find some excuse to refuse. That would only pique his suspicions. His trembling hand dropped the folder, spilling the papers on the floor. He knelt and pulled the papers together. “They’re all out of order. I’d better get them sorted.”
Another sound caught Darkwell’s attention. His eyes narrowed at Olivia and Nicholas Braden walking down the hallway in a serious discussion. “We’ll talk later.” He walked up to the two. “Olivia, can we speak in private, please?”
Sam shoved the papers in the folder and headed down the stairs, afraid his wobbly legs would give out and send him tumbling.
All he had to do was send Darkwell a copy of a couple papers and tell him he’d gotten everything. He would get them to his attorney. Then he would make arrangements to disappear. He’d always wanted to go to Croatia.
CHAPTER 7
That evening, Nicholas set a cheese sandwich in a butter-coated pan. He didn’t like eating in the cavernous kitchen, and the dining room was even less welcoming. Most of the time, he ate in his room. His gaze went to the small table where he and Olivia had shared the cake she’d made for his birthday. Damn, that had been sweet. Her proposition had been something else—and infinitely hard to refuse. He could almost forgive her for keeping him from that folder. She was following the rules. She had integrity.
As though he’d summoned her, he heard her voice at the entrance. “Mm, something smells—” Her expression darkened when she saw him. Though he had never personally betrayed a woman, he so clearly saw the pain of betrayal on her face. She continued to walk over, her mouth in a tight line. He liked that mouth much better when it was soft, pliant.
“I can’t believe you were snooping through his files!” she said in a harsh whisper.
Her personal investment in what he’d done told him she was way too emotionally involved with him. He’d made the right decision. Though perhaps that involvement had kept her from telling Darkwell.
“Darkwell invited me to ask questions the other day, then didn’t answer them. The folder I had in my hand had my father’s name on it. He worked with Darkwell twenty-four years ago on a program that sounds a lot like this one. Darkwell never mentioned that they’d worked together. In fact, he lied about how he’d come to know him. Why?”
She shrugged. “I know there was a program he had some success with, but that’s about it.”
He believed her. “My father was killed while he was in that program. Someone came in and shot up the place.”
Her hand touched his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
He had the strange urge to console the grief she felt for him. “I don’t really remember him.”
“That doesn’t make it any less painful.”
He nodded in agreement, seeing a deeper knowledge of that on her face and remembering she’d lost her mother. Lost. The need rose up in him, but he squelched it.
She let her hand drop. “Your father’s death…I’m sure it was just being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He leaned against the counter. “Maybe. Maybe not. I have a right to know what my father did with Darkwell b
ecause it affects me in ways I can’t explain to you. But aside from that, this is about my father, a man I never got to know. Wouldn’t you want to know everything you could about your mother? What traits you’d inherited?”
“That’s cruel, comparing my situation with yours. Using what I told you against me! My mother’s records aren’t classified.”
He leaned closer. “But wouldn’t you do whatever you could to find out? Wouldn’t you, in fact, try even harder if they were classified?”
Despite the situation, he found her reddened cheeks charming. She turned away and snatched a prepackaged sandwich from the enormous fridge.
He plucked it from her hand, eyeing the wilted lettuce. “This thing’s past due, and it probably wasn’t good when it was fresh. Sit.” He tilted the pan and turned the sandwich onto the plate. “Have a grilled cheese sandwich.” So much for distancing himself from her. Now he was feeding her! He started another sandwich.
“You betray my trust, and now you want to make me dinner? I don’t think so.”
But she was eyeing the sandwich, perfectly golden on top, three different cheeses oozing out between the slices of bread.
He lowered his voice. “You know you want it.” Her gaze flicked to him, obviously picking up the sexual connotation. Which was really not a good idea. “You can hate me, but eat. You look hungry.”
She leaned against the counter. “I did forget to have lunch.”
He fired up the gas stove and took the pan he’d just used. “Eat. It doesn’t mean anything.”
She took the sandwich and tore a big bite out of it, rolling her eyes. After swallowing, she said, “I haven’t had one of these in years. Sometimes I’d bribe the nanny into making me one.”
Nanny? Well, of course, now that he knew she came from Darkwell money.
“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you,” she said, nodding toward the sandwich she was devouring.
“It’s probably better if you don’t.” After starting to grill another sandwich, he pulled out the blender and dumped in the ingredients he’d set aside earlier: pistachio pudding mix, peppermint extract, milk, an egg, and a scoop of spirulina, which turned everything green when he blended it.
“What are you making?” she asked.
“A protein shake. I have one every day.”
She wrinkled her nose as he poured the green mixture into a glass.
He held up the blender container. “Want some?”
“No, I’ll stick to the sandwich, thanks.”
“Just keep remembering the terrible guy who forced you to eat it. I’m pushy, too.”
Her mouth twisted in a wry grin. “You’re not pushy enough.” She quickly changed the subject. “What’s the green stuff?”
“Spirulina. It’s the cyanobacterium that gives stagnant ponds the green color.”
“Oh, yum.”
He took a swig of the shake. “Did you know that in India, it’s considered healthy to drink your own urine? One of the guys I worked with is a bodybuilder, and he swears by it. He’s failed to convince me.”
“Oh, now that’s just yuck.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re just trying to distract me from being angry at you.” She nodded to the sandwich. “Maybe soften me up so I won’t tell Darkwell.”
He grabbed another plate and flipped his sandwich onto it. “So you didn’t?”
“No, but don’t go in there again. If he knows you’re snooping, he’ll fire you. I won’t cover for you next time.”
Nicholas lowered his voice. “Would he do more than fire me?”
“My father can be hard. Dogmatic. Tough. He’s fought in wars, and, though I don’t like to think about it, I’m sure he’s killed people. But he’s a good man. He loves his country. I trust that what he’s doing here is for the good. I hope you will, too.”
His mouth opened to say no way in hell but held his words. Sometimes neither a lie nor the truth worked.
He finished his sandwich as she popped the last bite of hers into her mouth and licked the butter off her fingers like a child. Oh, but she wasn’t a child. As he looked at her mouth, which he was doing too much, he couldn’t help but remember how soft her lips were, how adventurous her tongue.
She took the plates and set them in the sink, where the kitchen fairies would come and clean them, or at least it seemed that way.
“Thanks for the sandwich,” she said, as they walked out of the kitchen.
“Thanks for not saying anything.”
Did Darkwell kill curious mice? At this point, Nicholas didn’t care about losing the job. The question was, would he die because of leaving or staying?
They turned the corner to the hallway where his suite and the offices were. Sam Robbins was picking up some papers on the floor, looking more uptight than he usually did. No wonder, with Darkwell hovering over him.
That eagle-eyed gaze turned toward them. At that moment the cell phone the Rogues had given him vibrated in his pocket. His chest tightened. Time to make a decision. He had thirty minutes.
Darkwell stalked toward him and Olivia. For a disconcerting moment, Nicholas thought he might know about the phone. His gaze riveted on Olivia, and he forced the polite phrasing: “Olivia, can we speak in private, please?”
Without a glance back at Nicholas, she followed. The man had her under his thumb, no doubt. He thought about poor Uncle Gus.
Sam Robbins hurried down the stairs like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.
Nicholas exited the house, needing a drive for the fresh air as much as the real reason for his escape. He headed down a road, the cool night air blowing through the vehicle, and feeling, for the first time since his meeting with the Rogues, able to really breathe.
Twenty minutes later he pulled off to the side of the road and waited for their second call. He answered on the first ring.
Rand said, “You were able to sniff around?”
“Enough to think you’re on to something. And that I don’t want to be part of the program anymore.”
“You need to be very careful. If Darkwell suspects, you may be taken out. You’ll have to play along until we can get together and talk.”
“When will that be?”
“After you’ve proven you’re not setting us up.”
He understood, but it still irritated him. “What do I need to do?”
“You’re the master locator. Give us Sam Robbins’s home address.”
That took Nicholas back. “What do you want with him?”
“We just want to talk. He knows a lot about the program, then and now, and I think he’d be willing to part with that information.”
Nicholas’s voice lowered. “If I give it to you…I don’t want him hurt. I won’t be part of your violence.”
“He won’t be touched. When Lucas and I were prisoners, he was the only person who was nice to us.” Rand let out a soft breath. “And I understand your antiviolence stand, but you are going to find yourself in a kill-or-be-killed situation one of these days. You’d better be ready.”
He’d felt a dark foreboding for several days now, and Rand’s words weren’t helping.
“I’ll work on Robbins’s address. Give me a few minutes. He left a half hour ago, so I’ll try to do a locate on him.”
Nicholas disconnected and sat back in his seat. He brought an image of Robbins to mind. He hoped to hell Rand was telling the truth. He wanted nothing to do with killing anyone. Even Darkwell.
He saw Robbins in his home running papers through a fax machine to make copies. He looked anxious, a large stain beneath the armpits of his dress shirt, his brow shiny.
The man always seemed nervous and not particularly happy. Now he looked even worse.
Nicholas moved back, hovering over the house and the surrounding neighborhood. He moved higher and the word came to mind: Alexandria, Virginia. Then Robbins’s house number. The street name. He came out of the trance and jotted it down, his hand weak, eyes heavy.
He sat in the seat for several mo
re minutes, reorienting himself as he always did.
The phone rang, and he answered with, “I have an address. I’ll give it to you on one condition: You tell me when you’re going to talk to him. I want to remote-view, see what’s going on.”
“Deal.”
Nicholas tapped his cross pendant twice and gave them the address.
A harsh male voice said, “If this is a trap, know that we’re coming for you.”
Nicholas asked, “Who is this?”
“Eric Aruda.”
The guy who’d coldcocked Olivia.
Rand said, “We’ll be in touch. And remember what I said: Be careful.”
Yes, he would have to be very careful. He was now Darkwell’s enemy. And he knew how the enemy was treated.
CHAPTER 8
Late the next day, Nicholas stepped out of his room but stopped at the sight of the man going into Darkwell’s office. Olivia was in the hallway, watching the man with curiosity. She gave Nicholas a nod as she was about to head to her office, but he put his hand on her arm to stop her.
“That man.” He couldn’t believe he was there. His mind swam with possibilities, none of them good. “The man who just went into Darkwell’s office.”
“You’re going to ask who he is, and I don’t know.”
“His name is Pope, I know that much.” He felt a tightness in his chest. “Does he work with Darkwell?”
She hesitated, obviously weighing how much to tell him. Finally, she stepped closer and lowered her voice. “My father called him when the Rogues broke into the asylum. All he told me was that he wasn’t officially CIA and that he cleans up messes to preserve the classified nature of projects. I saw him at the asylum once but never before that. How do you know him?”
She’d given him information, so he’d reciprocate. “I’ve done salvage work for the FBI, classified recovery missions as a contractor. At least I thought it was the FBI. Top secret experimental stuff, and even though I saw the pieces, I couldn’t tell you what they were. Pope was the one—the only one—who approached me, supervised my search, and paid me. In cash. I only know him as Pope.”
