by Jade Kerrion
The house she sought was a Georgian mansion in Fairfax County. She skirted the bright spotlights shining on stately white columns, and entered the house by picking a lock and deactivating the security alarm. Light gleamed and motion rustled on the second floor, but Zara was not concerned; it was only Patrick Seneca’s two young children and the au pair.
Instead, she went to his study and flicked on a lamp before settling in a high-backed chair to wait.
Eighteen minutes later, the front door lock clicked, and the lights in the foyer flicked on. “I hope the kids are asleep,” a woman’s voice said. “I’m beat.”
“I am, too,” a man said.
Zara chuckled under her breath and then spoke aloud. “Patrick.”
A moment passed in startled silence.
“What was that?” The woman’s breathy voice edged with panic.
“Nothing to worry about,” Patrick said firmly. “I’ll take care of this.”
“But who is it?”
“A visitor I’ve been expecting. Just go upstairs and see to the kids. Make sure they’re all right.”
“But—”
“Just trust me, Lindsay. Go upstairs now.”
“Should I—?”
“Don’t call anyone. Don’t do anything rash. Everything is fine, I promise.”
A thin slip of a woman scurried past the study. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, but the motion was so quick and so frantic, she would not have seen Zara sitting in the corner armchair. Patrick Seneca, the U.S. secretary of state, did however, as he stood by the door of the study. Their eyes met, and the corner of his mouth tugged into a faint smile. “If you came here to prove a point, you’ve succeeded.” He walked to the small bar tucked in a corner of the room. “Something to drink?”
“Not when I’m working.”
“And are you? Working, I mean?”
“Always.” Zara inclined her head.
“How did you know?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Someone’s a good guesser.”
“I suppose you’ve come to claim your promised fee.”
Zara pushed to her feet and moved to stand across from him. “I didn’t earn it.”
Patrick’s eyes widened. “The sole survivor says he saw you shoot Klah. The medical report identified both SEALS by their DNA and dental records.”
Zara shrugged.
“Was Klah among them?”
She arched an eyebrow. “What do you think?”
He stared at her for a long moment before throwing back his head and tossing the contents of his glass down his throat. He set the glass on the side table with a vicious clink. “I suppose Danyael Sabre wasn’t motivation enough.”
“Oh, he was, just not in the way you wanted. If you knew Danyael, you would have known that he wouldn’t have accepted the trade. In fact, you picked a poor lever. Danyael is beyond caring about the trade.” Her voice hardened. “It took only months for drugs and torture to tear down what took Danyael years to make of his life. The man I love is gone. That screaming, voiceless creature in ADX Florence is nothing to me. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t care.”
“And Klah does?”
She smiled thinly. “Here’s a new deal for you. Klah is safe and alive. He and his family will stay that way unless you want the details of your involvement with the Beirut fiasco reaching the press.”
“You have no evidence.”
“When has lack of evidence ever stopped me from making stuff up?”
“Who will the press believe? The U.S. secretary of state or a paid assassin?”
“Actually, given our congress’s approval rating, they’ll probably believe me.”
Patrick grimaced and inclined his head, acknowledging the point. “You’ve lost sight of the bigger picture. The sacrifices we make—”
“Are always personal. A Navy SEAL murdered his team to avenge his sister’s rape. A young woman shattered fifty families to avenge her father’s death. I killed them both, and several mercenaries whose only mistake was working for the wrong person. Danyael may not know or care where he is, but I care, and I’ll always have to live with knowing that I chose someone else over him, twice. Don’t talk to me about sacrifice, or I can make yours intensely personal.”
Their eyes met—cool brown against vivid violet.
Patrick broke the silence. “You’re a very compelling woman, Zara.”
“I’m out of your league, personally and politically. I don’t care for the games you play.”
“In the end, all of life is a game.”
“In the end, life is about life. How many did you throw away—how many did I kill—in the past week in your quest to start a war in the Middle East?”
“Don’t hold me accountable for your choices.”
Her chin lifted. “Danyael believes in choice and in accountability. I do, too. Only I prefer to preempt bad choices at the start of the decision chain.”
Patrick froze in the act of pouring his second glass of whiskey.
“Don’t worry.” Zara’s voice dropped to a purr. “You’re not in any danger, for now.”
“Only because you’ve thwarted me.”
“I have no control over what the Venezuelan embassy decides to say.”
“There was nothing subtle or tactful about the credit they claimed for the rescue of the schoolgirls. You’ve made the U.S. military a joke in the region.”
She shrugged. “A talented lieutenant in Hezbollah, a handful of his best men, and a lone SEAL did all the real work.”
Patrick smiled faintly. “I underestimated you. Your files led me to believe that you were a lone wolf, a loose cannon, but you’re not. I didn’t realize how many resources you could summon, and how much you would accomplish through others.”
“In the end, life is about relationships—the ones we choose to keep, and the ones we give up. Well, Patrick. What will it be? I have other things to do with my life, and I want to put a checkmark on this episode and move on.”
“I think we understand each other,” Patrick conceded. “You’ve won. For now.”
Not Danyael. I sacrificed Danyael. Again.
Except that this time, he might have approved.
She left Patrick Seneca to his world of political games and returned to her Georgetown townhouse. The quiet, familiar surroundings welcomed her, and the baby fluttered as she walked upstairs, reminding her of the child’s presence. “Not much longer now,” she murmured as she glanced at her e-mails, which included a reminder of her medical appointment the following day. An abortion—neither quick nor simple—but she would be done with it.
Her thoughts flicked back to Danyael, as they always did. She picked up her smartphone and called her assistant. “I need another flight to Colorado Springs.”
“Overnight?” Karen asked.
“No. Give me a same day return. My doctor’s appointment is the first thing in the morning the next day.”
“Okay,” Karen’s voice was deliberately non-committal. “I’ll send the details to you in about ten minutes.”
“Spit it out, Karen.”
“It’s not my business,” Karen said stiffly.
“It’s never stopped you before.”
“The baby…I mean, you’re almost into your third trimester. Even if you didn’t want her, couldn’t you carry her to term and give her up for adoption?”
“Galahad’s daughter? The daughter of the genetically engineered perfect man?” Zara asked. “What kind of life is there out there for her that doesn’t involve being a freak of some sort? How will she ever get away from the spotlights that pursue her father?”
Karen sighed.
“I’m not a suitable mother,” Zara said.
“People believe that, and then they become parents. Besides, when have you ever not been able to do what you set your mind to?”
I wasn’t able to stop loving Danyael, and I wasn’t able to save him. “Just get me on that flight to Colorado Springs.”
“Right.�
� Karen hung up without saying goodbye.
Zara scowled. Karen was upset, and rightfully so. How many people would abort a perfectly healthy fetus so late in the pregnancy?
Wrong mother. Wrong father. Wrong child. Wrong timing all around.
Her timing with Danyael had been no better.
She glanced at the e-mail from Xin with the files she had requested. Xin was right, of course. It was crazy to plan a prisoner rescue from a super maximum-security prison, especially when the prisoner was mentally, physically, and emotionally damaged beyond salvage.
There was nothing left to save.
Her hand steady in spite of the tears blurring her vision, Zara deleted the e-mail and the accompanying files.
There was only one reason to go to ADX Florence, and it was to say goodbye to Danyael.
27
Zara’s emotions swirled in a mucky tangle when she arrived at ADX Florence the next day. Was the aching mass in her chest a sense of impending loss? Would acknowledging that Danyael was as good as dead and that she had screwed up her only chance at loving him rip that mass out of her heart?
Would she ever fill it with something else or would it stay empty forever?
Logic told her she would get over Danyael, but something else, deep inside her, told her that no one got over Danyael, ever. Who else but an alpha empath would have the ability to stamp his presence indelibly on her heart?
The guards at ADX Florence did not hinder her, and within moments of her arrival, two of them escorted her deeper into the building. Florescent lights blazed down, reflecting off the white tiles. Silence emanated from the doors that flanked both sides of the corridor. Armed guards patrolled the corridors, stopping to look in through the narrow panels of reinforced glass, before moving on.
The guards did not take her to the infirmary. Instead, they led her to a section of the prison that made the other areas seem like a minimum-security prison in comparison. “It’s where we keep the mutants,” the guard explained. The lights were brighter; the security patrols doubled in number and in frequency.
The guard stopped in front of a door. “He’s in here.”
“Aren’t you going to bring him into a visitor’s room?” she asked.
They looked at her as if she were mad.
“What if I want to talk to him?”
One of the guards shook his head. “He doesn’t talk. And he’s dangerous. He can kill if he makes physical contact. We knock him out before we open the door.” He gestured to the door. “You can see him through the glass.”
Her heart pounding, Zara stepped up to the door and looked through the glass panel into a ten-foot-by-ten-foot room. The cell was empty except for a toilet and a thin vinyl-covered mattress on which a figure sprawled facedown, apparently sleeping or unconscious.
Her fingertips pressed against the glass. Danyael.
His shoulder blades jutted out from his back, prominent as arrow points. The cotton, elastic-waist pants he wore sagged around his bony hips as he turned onto his back. Almost against her will, Zara’s gaze drew up to his face. His cheekbones accentuated his sunken cheeks. She swallowed hard through the ache in her chest. She was right; there was nothing left of Danyael. She just had to see it for herself.
It was time to let him go. Time to move on.
She was about to turn away, but a flicker of motion from the cell kept her where she was.
His eyes opened. She jolted at the flare of shock in the dark depths.
Danyael moved slowly, like a man too sick for too long, but purposefully, like a caged tiger, weak, yet not having forgotten its strength. He leaned against the wall and dragged himself upright before staggering forward.
He had almost closed to the distance to her when he convulsed and dropped, shuddering, to his knees. His hands, tensed like talons, clutched at the silver collar around his neck. The electric shock. Every sixty seconds.
Seconds passed. Zara counted every single one of them, and released the breath she held when he began moving again. Blood trickled down the side of his mouth where he had bitten through his lower lip. Up close, she could see his body tremble, although from cold or from pain, she couldn’t tell. Their eyes met; she had always thought of his eyes as an occupational hazard—a sneak peek into an empath’s soul. At that moment, his dark eyes swarmed with turmoil she could not tease apart.
His hand pressed against the panel, their fingertips aligning on either side of the glass. His lips moved, but she could hear nothing. She stared, trying to read his lips, but the sudden terror in his eyes distracted her. What could he be saying? Out? Please?
Their fingertips disconnected as he curled his hand into a fist. He pounded it against the glass. He shouted but no sound made it through the door.
“He’s agitated!” one of the guards shouted into his radio. “Turn it on.”
In Danyael’s cell, it began to rain. Water poured out of the sprinkler heads mounted in the ceiling. He glanced over his shoulder as the first drops of water hit him. His throat worked as he swallowed visibly. Zara’s breath caught. The look in his eyes screamed with dread.
Within moments, he was drenched. He pounded harder on the glass with both fists. He was screaming but the shape of his lips didn’t match any words that she imagined he would be saying other than “out.” Of course, he wanted her to get him out.
She hadn’t even believed that he was still who he was, that he wasn’t already lost to her, driven out of his mind by drugs and torture. She had dismissed him for dead, when he wasn’t.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, heedless of the single tear that trickled down her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Danyael.”
The terror grew in his eyes. His motions became more panicked, more desperate as he pounded on the panel and screamed at her.
Suddenly, he arched and stiffened. The consciousness in his eyes blinked out in an instant.
A whimper tore from her throat when she realized why. The electric current from his collar would have sent a brutal surge of agony through his soaked body. Her horrified gaze remained locked on him as he crumpled to the floor and lay unmoving in puddles of water.
“He’s going to be out for a few hours,” the guard said.
“Is it…” Her voice sounded shaky even to her own ears. She drew a deep breath. “Is it always like that?”
The guard shook his head. “The collar activates every sixty seconds, but he usually lies on his mattress all day. We rarely need to turn on the water. This is the first time we’ve seen him get up and try to communicate with someone outside. We’ve never seen him get so agitated. Sorry about that.” He sounded sheepish.
“Are you able to hear what’s actually happening in his cell?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Do you want to see the recording?”
“No,” was on her lips, but she nodded. “Yes.”
She followed the guards to the security control room located in a separate section of the prison. Monitors lined the walls, each providing an eternal window into the cells. The guard spoke to one of the technicians, and moments later, the screen flashed to an overhead view of Danyael’s cell. The passionless video recorded his unsteady progress to the door.
“Zara,” he had whispered. His voice was little more than a harsh croak, but the words were still distinct, still audible. The incredulity and raw emotion in his voice stunned her. He placed his palm against the panel, aligning his fingertips to hers. “Zara,” he breathed again.
Love? No, she could not possibly have heard love in his voice. Not after everything she had done to him.
“What are…? No!” His hand curled into a fist. “Get out. Please. Run. You have to get away.” Flesh pounded against steel, the sound unrelenting, the impact unforgiving.
Tightness clenched Zara’s throat. In his confused mental state, had Danyael thought that she was a prisoner too?
He hadn’t pleaded for his freedom.
He had pleaded for hers.
And that was when she heard it—unvarnished a
nd unconcealed. Love. Danyael screamed it with every panicked order to her to flee, to run, to save her own life, even if it meant leaving him behind.
She finally understood the terror and dread in his eyes when the water soaked him. It was the panic of impending unconsciousness. He knew he would never know if she had gotten away. “Run!” His shouts, little more than harsh croaks, increased in volume and intensity until that shattering moment when the electric current tore through his body and ripped away his consciousness.
Zara turned her back on the screen. Would he remember her when he regained consciousness, or would he dismiss his memories as delusions of a drugged mind?
Did it matter?
The question plucked at her all day and kept her sleep fitful that night. Gritty-eyed from lack of rest and her mood more soured than usual, she arrived on time for her medical appointment.
Dr. Maria Hill looked up as Zara was shown into her office. The doctor’s tight smile did not tug up the lines at the corner of her eyes. “Have a seat. We just need to complete some paperwork before we check you into the hospital and begin the procedure.” She slid an electronic tablet and a stylus across the desk to Zara. “The personal and medical forms have been filled out with the information we had on file. You should read them over to be certain everything’s correct. You’ll have to sign the consent forms, of course. And then there’s the acknowledgment form that we usually like the father, if available, to sign.”
“I don’t need his permission to abort the child.” Zara snapped the words out.
“It’s an acknowledgment form, not a consent form. It’s just that, in late-term abortions, there may be legal grounds for the father to sue if he wasn’t informed of the pregnancy. Given that Danyael’s in prison for life, it doesn’t really matter. I’ve made a note of it on the form. You’ll need to initial and sign—”
Zara’s hand tightened on the stylus. “You said…Danyael?”
“Yes, the fetal blood test—”
“You said it was to test for genetic abnormalities.”
“Yes, it was for a full genetic screen, including identification of parents, if the parents’ genotypes are available.”
