by Regan Black
His lips found hers and the darkness slid back a notch. She could breathe deeply again. Vague, familiar warmth spread over her. Not the heat of blood leaking from her body. This warmth bubbled from her soul.
Happiness, she decided.
At last she felt more than today's hurts and the pains of battles centuries past. She felt joy.
True, timeless, joy.
"You failed."
The evil entity, which had most recently been a judge, stood mute. What could be said? What excuse offered? After a thousand years, the world had been his for the taking and she'd won the final battle. He still wasn't sure how.
"You allowed love to grow. You underestimate its power."
The punishment would be severe, he knew.
"Away from me. There will be another way."
Jaden studied Brian's face as he lay next to her on the hospital bed. "So what did they decide?"
"Officially, it's cardiac arrest."
She chuckled. "Even without a body?"
"A minor technicality. Everyone present holds high level clearances. All trained for silence. I don't think anyone wants to discuss it anyway."
"That bizarre?"
He nodded. "I shot, you dove. The CRIA officers fired a suppression pattern." He shrugged. "I don't get it. He wasn't wounded." His brow creased. "The way you fought. Oh, God. You scared the hell out of me."
"I'm sorry. It was the only way. He had to think he'd win." She kissed the frown off his face. "It's past time to thank you."
The frown returned. "For shooting you?"
She laughed, free and clear and she liked the sound. "No. For making victory possible. You helped forge that sword for me, as a wedding gift...before our lives were so rudely interrupted."
"But how?"
"Love." She whispered the word against his lips. "Pure and simple. The sword carried it and I finally trusted you enough to open my heart." She kissed him soundly. "Love is the only thing evil cannot overcome. Thank you." She kissed him again. She couldn't get enough of him. "Thank you for believing, for loving. For my very life, Brian."
"See. I told you so," Quinn said pointing to Jaden and Brian. "They're all over each other again."
Hovering near the door, Katie rolled her eyes. "Why is he so stupid?"
"He'll outgrow it," Cleveland promised.
Her doubtful expression made Jaden laugh. She patted the bed. "Come here, you two." They hopped up and she enveloped them both in a big hug. "How are the bravest kids in the city?"
Katie blushed and Quinn smirked.
"They're still intrigued with tracking two particular frequencies," Cleveland said with meaning. "Loomis gave them your Trident II."
Brian chuckled, removing the tag he'd planted on Jaden the day before. She did the same and handed them both to the kids.
When the new family departed, Jaden snuggled deeper into Brian's warmth. It may have taken a thousand years, but it was worth the wait. She'd found her way through victim, past survivor, to the brilliant reward in the arms of her soul mate.
The End
Enjoy this preview of Book Two of the Shadows of Justice series, Invasion of Justice:
Chapter One
He forced the lock with a custom security card General Hawthorne would envy–under other circumstances. Pride swelled as the new idea formed. He'd guarantee admiration in the General's eyes before this night was over.
Each silent step brought him closer to the target. His pulse quickened and he paused until he'd harnessed the adrenaline. This was his proving ground and there was no room for error.
At the lab, he swiped the card again and then offered his eye, the modified one, for verification. He tucked the card away and paused to enjoy the soft hiss of the door opening, etching every moment into his memory.
A man only got one first.
He noticed the target's hunched shoulders, glasses pushed high on the forehead, eyes hovering over the microscope. Those cells in the dish were deadly, but not in the way the genetic engineers intended.
He slowed his breathing for the final approach. Damn, he could practically see the black death cloud. His lips curled. He could almost smell the blood. His fingers twitched in anticipation of the slick, sticky feel.
He struck the nerve center on the target's neck, sending him to the floor in a heap, leaving the priceless cells in their dish. Pulling a miniature hypodermic from his pocket, he drew the substance from the dish and injected it into the target. He pressed his fingers to the jugular and waited, counting the prescribed ten pulse beats.
Then, with reverence born of training, he unwrapped the sacred blade and began the fun part. A man should enjoy his work, after all.
Indianapolis, IN May 2096:
She came awake in a rush, her hands fisted and slippery.
"Lights," she croaked, terrified what the light would reveal. She sighed, her first deep breath in how long? Her hands glistened with sweat, not blood. It had been so real.
Too real.
She scrambled to sit up, bracing herself against the cool scrollwork of her mahogany headboard. It wasn't the first time she'd been in the mind of evil and she knew what would follow.
Looking to the phone, a retro 1900's antique landline connected to her modern cell card, she waited.
And waited.
Long enough to wonder if it had only been a dream. She scrubbed at her face and decided the link had been too strong, too nasty to have been a mere nightmare.
When the clunky contraption rang, she jumped for it.
"Petra Neiman."
"Yeah, I've got a tangled mess for you," the caller stated.
That she knew. As if ritual evisceration could be anything less. She wanted the who and where of it.
The nameless voice who made these calls obliged. "Kincaid wants you in Chicago immediately. A dead Jane Doe is likely connected to a solid lead on two recent kidnappings."
She almost corrected him. It was a murder, high profile, with no secondary crime, in a seaside genetics lab. She'd smelled the humid tang of saltwater on the assassin's clothes.
The revelation startled her. Not even she maintained a sense of smell during a dream.
"Ms. Neiman? Are you there?"
"Yes. How long until the car arrives?"
"Thirty minutes."
"I'll call my assistant."
"Um...Special Agent Kincaid insists you come alone."
Special Agent Kincaid should get a hobby that didn't contradict her needs. "Then I'll need a videographer."
"He says whatever you need will be on site."
"Fine. I'll be ready." There was no point in beheading the messenger. She dropped the receiver back into the cradle and stared at her ceiling.
Yes, she'd be ready. But she knew she was only marking time until the call from the coast came in.
* * *
The flight into Chicago was uneventful, but Petra's talents were nearly overwhelmed upon landing. Almost as soon as the wheels settled, a heavy darkness pressed in on her. She had to disagree with her new assistant's opinion; having "evil radar" was not the ultimate asset.
In the government-issued black transport van Petra closed her eyes and opened her mind. The city vibrated with a nasty presence that didn't mind being known.
She shivered. Awareness at this level was a two-way street. The malevolence fueling the criminal Kincaid sought knew Petra was in town.
As the transport pulled up, she prepared herself for the known and unknown of the process. She would read the crime scene, interview witnesses, and gently tap their emotions for details they didn't often realize they'd left out. But even expecting to uncover the weird or surprising didn't always mute the shock.
"Thanks for coming," Kincaid said with a smile. The Special Agent in Charge of the Central Region Investigation Authority looked past her into the van. "Where's Kelly?"
Petra held her expression in neutral, but sent Kincaid a meaningful look. "Out tracking down real glazed donuts. Where's the videogr
apher you promised?"
Kincaid's eyes narrowed, but he too reserved comment for later. "There's someone on site that can help us, I'm sure."
Petra nodded and took her first hard look at the area. The Hammond Street docks had once thrived with cargo train activity. Now, the prime location for loading and unloading boats and trucks was a deserted, nightmarish collection of worn and rusting parts.
Except the tracks. She walked closer to the original-style double rail and ties. The rails gleamed, even in the poor evening light. "I've heard of train collecting, but not true to life models."
"My thoughts too. This is some operation we've bumped into."
Petra looked at the old diesel engine sitting frozen on the tracks with three disconnected cars behind it. Petra walked inside the now empty area and just absorbed the lingering energies.
Fury. Fear. Survival. Salvation.
She took the electronic data pad Kincaid offered and checked his notes. Jane Doe was dead and three other men, all refusing to speak, had apparently watched it happen. Those three sat propped against the train wheels, awaiting her questions.
Mentally she ticked off her interview goals. She wanted to know which of them knew how to drive the antique diesel engine. She wanted to know the contents of the three cars. Evidence crews had found random hairs and prints and a half dozen sterling armbands in an infinity pattern.
"Need some help with a video?" a man's voice asked.
Petra whirled around, startled that anyone had slipped under her senses. She thought she'd seen him before, but couldn't put a name with the face.
"Have we met, sir?"
"Nope. I'm Gideon Callahan," he said.
She stepped back from the smile that didn't reach his eyes and the extended hand she couldn't accept. "A pleasure to meet you," she lied, through her most professional smile. "I'll pass on the video." She slid the data pad into her tote and withdrew a spiral notebook and pencil. "This'll do for today." She climbed up into the engine and opened herself to the residual feelings.
Gideon followed her. "So what the hell happened here?"
Petra began to put words to her thoughts and impressions. "This was quite a struggle. A battle for more than life." She crossed to the side wall where scratches marked the progress of the Jane Doe's attempt to escape her bonds.
Here was the fury. Complete and violent fury that the mission had gone off course.
"But whose course?"
"What?" Gideon asked.
She ignored him. "Two opposing forces determined to win. Why didn't the men struggle? Why didn't they help Jane Doe?"
"Cat fight."
"I beg your pardon?" Petra turned at last to study the man who wouldn't take the hint and disappear.
He had dark hair that would curl if not for the strict cut, straight boned features, a Van Dyke beard and deep brown eyes that didn't evoke warmth, but warning. She didn't need the warning from his eyes as his aura hummed with an evasive quality she didn't trust. And she'd never liked bearded men.
"Haven't you seen the autopsy report?"
This time she took personal blame for the irritation she felt with this man. She flipped pages, but couldn't find a hard copy. Pulling out her palmtop, she scanned the official email from the coroner via Kincaid.
"Give it up. The words don't do it justice. Take a look here."
Forcing herself to remain calm, she lifted her gaze to the holographic display open in his hand. The coroner's clinical voice detailed every injury Jane Doe earned in her final fight. Scratches, offensive and defensive, lacerations and the blade strike that ended it. Even in death, the woman looked wild and intimidating. Well over six feet with extreme musculature that made it easy to believe she'd been juicing.
"See," Gideon persisted, "cat fight. I don't know a guy that'll jump between two women out for blood. Especially juicers. Not sure I wanna see the bird who won."
I do. The thought came unbidden and nearly escaped verbally. She wanted, needed, to know more about the second woman she'd sensed here. The connection felt deeper than any other she'd felt before–including the link she shared with her only sibling, her brother Nathan.
"She fights but she doesn't juice."
"Not anymore." Gideon flipped off the hologram. "But women haven't looked like that since the days of the Amazon."
"Not the Jane Doe. The other woman." Petra stomped on her frustration. This issue could wait. "Bring in the witnesses, please."
"Okay, but they won't talk."
"I wish the same could be said of you," she muttered. His bark of laughter told her he had ears like a bat.
Putting Gideon out of her mind, she calmed herself with breath as she watched the witnesses file in. All three were nervous, but the first man was the target of hostile energy from the other two.
She didn't need them to talk as much as remember and feel. When she tapped those feelings, conversation would follow.
According to her notes, they'd been found less than twenty-four hours ago, along with the decaying Jane Doe. Men or not, she didn't think she'd have trouble getting a read on their emotions.
"The lady here wants to know why you didn't help your girl," Gideon blurted.
The men stared back at him with one surly expression in triplicate.
Petra knew her expression differed. If Gideon bothered to spare her a glance, he'd see the unruffled calm she practiced to perfection. But inside she plotted how best to remove him from the investigation–preferably in tiny pieces.
She walked, wishing she could swagger, to the testosterone-heavy end of the engine. "The lady here wants to know why the three of you are working on a decrepit railroad."
Reading the body language of all three, Petra quickly identified and mentally tapped the man the other two didn't respect. His sense of failure went deep and was mixed with a healthy dose of fear and insecurity.
Her prodding produced the expected result.
"J-just a job."
The other two groaned, but Gideon kept them from moving on the talker.
"We got nothing else to lose," he said to his associates. "We just h-hauled cargo."
"And where is that cargo now?" Gideon demanded before Petra could speak.
"W-we, I mean I, don't know. Just gone I guess."
"Drugs? Juice? Caffeine?" Gideon demanded. "That sort of cargo would need legs to just go anywhere."
"Women," Petra interrupted. "Girls and women." She felt Gideon turn to stare at her, but she kept her eyes on the three other men. "Hauling females to a slave auction." She sighed. Kincaid's instincts were right on target–as usual. Maybe they'd finally recover and close some of their stalled kidnapping cases. "Okay. Considering you're all undereducated, I can see the lure of the money here."
Beside her, Gideon shuffled and seethed. Well, he clearly needed a lesson in role reversal. It was past time for her shot at these thugs.
"But what happened? Who released your prisoners?" she continued.
The expressions on the two sterner faces flickered. And Mr. Talkative went pale.
"Sit," Gideon ordered the three men.
She saw the benefit. By sitting, they'd be closer to re-enacting the recent fright. She followed his lead. "A woman breaks free of the cargo hold and overpowers four guards?"
"Who was driving?" Gideon added.
Not one answered verbally, but Petra knew. And she knew her big picture was off. "None of you can drive this thing. The engineer went with the cargo. With the women. And you," she knelt in front of Mr. Talkative, "You're glad the Amazon's dead."
"'Course he is. She woulda killed him next," one of the others muttered.
Petra kept her eyes on the chatty guard. "Then I guess I owe someone my thanks. Who?"
"W-we don't know. She stormed in, took my weapons, and tazed me. When I c-came around we were all t-tied up."
Gideon coughed into his hand, but the expletive was clear enough.
"Think you coulda done better?" the biggest thug said with a clear challenge t
o Gideon.
"Yeah, I believe I coulda done better than the sorry group of you three combined."
"Awright. Come prove it." The third man surged to his feet, snagged Petra's arm and spun her so her back landed against his hard chest. His thick forearm clamped over her throat, locking her in place and allowing her just enough air to stay conscious.
But the instant, unexpected physical contact provided a connection Petra never risked without preparation. And she wasn't anywhere close to prepared for the onslaught of this criminal.
It felt like being sucked into a whirlpool. His memories circled her, recent and not, and drowning seemed preferable to the rush of anger and fear washing off him and over her.
She heard strident male voices, but Petra couldn't sort out any actual words. If only she could latch onto one specific memory amidst the torrent and gain control. As if her thought and his actions summoned it, she seized on his recollection of the Amazon's last battle.
Here too was strangulation–the Amazon had the neck of a smaller blonde woman wrapped in the chain of her handcuffs. Petra watched, then mimicked the blonde's escape by pushing her fingers under the man's arm and letting her legs give way. The upward push combined with her suddenly dead weight threw her attacker off balance and she dropped to the floor and rolled out of the way.
Gulping air, leaning against the wall of the engine, Petra waited as the rest of the memory played out–all the way through the victorious slide of the blonde's dagger into the Amazon's ribcage.
And when the blonde turned to the man who owned this memory, Petra saw through the bravado to the pain hidden deep in the woman's green eyes. Here was the face that matched a dream she'd been having since childhood.
A sister. My sister. The knowledge bubbled up from a depth of awareness Petra had never known–not even with Nathan.
"Hey? You okay?" Gideon asked.
Petra shut him out, curling into a tight ball. She wanted to remain with the memory, to explore all she could of this new connection before dealing with the reality at hand.
