They were dying.
52
Lisa was growing increasingly tense.
Not only tense. She was angry at herself.
Bitter, even.
Daniel had stopped acting normal days ago, keeping secrets and telling half-truths. And he was always on that computer.
Something was up.
She’d tried to watch him closely but it’d led nowhere and finally she’d gone to her room, planning to keep tabs on him as best as she could. Maybe if she were out of sight, he might give up a clue. But nothing happened. And her eyes grew heavy.
She didn’t know what woke her up that night, until she heard the whisper of the apartment door close.
Her heart racing in her chest, she dashed out into the living room— noticing the empty computer chair along the way—and looked one-eyed through the peephole in the front door.
Just in the far periphery of her sight, she saw Daniel hobbling onto the elevator.
She had to follow.
Heading into the hall and taking the second elevator, she pushed the button for the ground floor, assuming Daniel, in his condition, wouldn’t be heading to the garage.
The elevator door opened onto an empty lobby. Through the glass front windows, she saw plenty of pedestrians and vehicles; the city was illuminated by multitudes of streetlamps and a flood of evening traffic. But no Daniel. Yet he’d have to have headed outside.
She pushed through the lobby doors and stepped onto the sidewalk. The noise of the city rushed at her. It had been so quiet of late. One sound in particular caught her ear. A crash as if a trash can had been tipped over. It had come from the alley to the side of the building. She crept to the building’s corner and peeked around.
Standing there on his crutches, about forty feet away, was Daniel, speaking forcefully to two very large, very . . . capable-looking men, who wore dark leather jackets and skull caps. Most startling of all was that Daniel appeared to be in no danger. Quite the contrary. The men were listening intently to what he was telling them . . . then staring intently at the thick bundles of money he’d placed in each of their hands.
What was going on?
Was he no better than Hannah? Was he something far worse?
No, that was nuts.
Lisa ducked behind a bush just as she spotted the three of them headed her way. She watched as the two bigger men turned and walked away from the building, while Daniel painstakingly hobbled his way back inside.
Devastated, she dragged herself inside and up the stairs to Grant’s apartment instead of her own.
But Grant was still gone, and Daniel hadn’t returned, either, apparently going back to their apartment one floor down. The apartment was empty.
The computer.
Daniel spent an awful lot of time on Grant’s computer.
She crossed the room and sat down at the desk, flicked on the PC’s monitor, and began digging through hidden system files for a keystroke log.
53
Payton’s first thought when he began to come around was that something was burning in the oven.
And it might’ve been him.
He drunkenly thought back . . .
He had been talking to Fletcher, who panicked about something or other, and then . . .
And then came the blast so loud he’d thought the world itself might have exploded.
Payton finally opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by flames. The asylum was roaring, consumed in fire and heat. Horrified screams came from all directions. Unmoving bodies lay about, and smoke was pouring everywhere, running into his eyes and making it hard to breathe.
So much fire . . . It couldn’t have spread this fast . . . Where did it come from?
He was vaguely aware that his head was thundering in pain. And something wet was running down his right arm. A lot of something wet.
But there was no time for that now . . .
‘‘Morgan!’’ he shouted when he spotted her through the haze. She seemed to be having trouble waking up, jerking lazily there on the floor, up against the wall. Something had blown her clear across the room . . .
She had several nasty cuts and her shoulder didn’t look quite right . . .
Payton quickly regained his bearings and stood to see what was happening.
Fletcher was helping people up, appearing to have taken only a few scratches from the blast . . .
Hannah was rising from the floor by the couch, looking all around, tears pouring from her eyes . . .
His eyes met hers from across the room. There was no gloating in her face. Only despair. She had known something was coming. And he wouldn’t listen.
She turned and began helping others get up . . .
But some of them could not be roused.
In the distance, entire sections of the building collapsed, causing deafening rumbles.
How did this happen? It was too fast, much too fast . . .
Reflection would have to wait. Payton joined in the escape efforts as the building’s girders groaned and creaked above him. The building wouldn’t—couldn’t—remain upright for very long. The survivors gathered and Hannah and Fletcher began leading them out of the Common Room, toward the facility’s back door.
Payton got close enough to see that Morgan’s shoulder was indeed out of its socket, as he’d suspected, but she appeared to be ignoring the pain.
If she even felt any.
She merely watched her people and her surroundings, all burning.
The asylum would be a total loss in a matter of minutes.
Morgan couldn’t look away from her dream dying, no matter where she turned. He grabbed her by the arm and steered her after the others.
Several hallways were completely blocked off, and they were forced to find new routes more than once.
And as they ran, they encountered more residents. Burning and bleeding.
Crying.
Grieving.
Some of them were on fire even now, motionless on the ground.
But there was no time . . . no time to stop and help . . . no time to think . . .
They soon had gathered the remaining survivors into a pack, all racing toward a rear entrance, the front hallway having caved in from the blast that had undoubtedly come from something rigged to Payton’s motorcycle.
Morgan stopped in the rear hallway to check another body on the ground, which was wrapped hideously around a free-standing pillar in the middle of the corridor. Whoever it was, they weren’t moving.
Payton carried two survivors—one over each shoulder—but stopped next to her as the ceiling groaned again.
‘‘She won’t hold together long!’’ he yelled over the roar of the flames and the collapsing building. With that, he was gone, faster than she could see.
Others passed by as Morgan continued to check for signs of life.
Hannah hobbled by, half-walking, half-dragging another limping resident.
From high above them, a great, terrible crack reverberated, so loud it drowned out all else.
The post Morgan knelt by began to fracture and crumble . . .
‘‘MORGAN!’’ Hannah shrieked.
Before Morgan could react, she felt herself being shoved, as a violent crash shook the foundations of the entire building.
She looked up to see that the entire pillar had come down. It had brought much of the ceiling and this part of the building down with it, but she was clear and unscathed. Wiping debris off her body, she sat up and gasped in horror.
Trapped under the largest remaining section of the pillar was Hannah.
Unmoving.
Grant drove his scratched, dented blue Corvette faster than he’d ever dared before, blazing a lightning trail down the evening highway. Traffic was building, the closer he got to L.A., but he zoomed around everyone in sight.
Flashing red-and-blue lights appeared in his rearview mirror, but he ignored them, seeing only what was in his mind’s eye.
Seeing it all.
Grant flinc
hed as various sections of the asylum collapsed. A few times, he felt the unique light in his soul dim as another ring-wearer fell. And another.
He could feel them. Falling. Fading away.
He was already too late, he was at least another hour away . . .
I wasn’t there . . .
When they needed me, I wasn’t there!
‘‘Hannah!’’ Morgan yelled over the burning building and the ongoing crashes around them.
‘‘Morgan,’’ Hannah tried to shout, but it came out quietly. She was completely pinned under the cement pylon, unable to move even her arms. ‘‘Get out of here, go . . .’’
‘‘Payton! Fletcher! SOMEBODY!!’’ Morgan screamed. Her useless shoulder was no good, but she propped the other one up against the pillar and threw her entire body weight against it.
The pillar never budged, and the fire, which had spread up into the ceiling, leaped hungrily down onto the pillar.
‘‘It’s all right,’’ Hannah said, smiling, as the fire crept toward her like lava rolling down a hillside.
Choking on the billowing smoke, Morgan reached out and took Hannah’s hand.
Her pulse was fading . . .
‘‘It’s as it should be,’’ Hannah said softly, trying to keep her eyes open. ‘‘I deserve this. You don’t.’’
Morgan cried.
She could do nothing else.
Tears rained openly down Morgan’s face as Hannah closed her eyes.
Whoever this woman had been, whatever she was responsible for . . . Morgan was alive because she had taken her place.
The building shook again, and Morgan knew she should be running away as fast as her feet could carry her.
But she clutched Hannah’s hand even tighter.
Daniel made his way carefully upstairs to Grant’s apartment as darkness fell over the city. Lisa had never come down for supper. He’d been on the phone for the last hour, making final preparations, so it hardly bothered him. But it was odd of her to disappear for so long.
He placed his key in the lock and swung the door open. Lisa sat at the computer, across the room.
‘‘There you are,’’ he said, hobbling inside, ‘‘Where have you been all—?’’
‘‘You want to tell to me what this is?’’ she said quietly.
He looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time. She had been reading something on the screen . . . A very familiar-looking screen . . .
She was calm as she looked upon him, but he could tell that she was serious.
Dead serious.
‘‘You want to explain to me why you’re making secret plans with people you meet in chat rooms? Or why you’re holding clandestine meetings in dark alleys? Why money has changed hands between you and a couple of rhino-sized thugs?’’
He closed his eyes and looked down. His shoulders sagged. ‘‘Look, I know how it—’’
Lisa jumped up from her chair and traversed the room in a few quick paces. She crossed her arms, facing him with a grim, resolute face.
‘‘Skip the excuses and explain, right now,’’ she said. ‘‘Lie to me, and I’ll break your crutches.’’
‘‘Payton!’’ Morgan screamed again.
In a flash he was outside the building’s exit, just down the hall— what remained of it—looking in.
‘‘We need—help here!’’ she shouted back, coughing through the smoke.
He was about to spring into action when a figure casually walked out from a side hall to stand between them, facing Payton. The darkened figure was illuminated only by the dancing light of the flames that continued to grow. He wore a hat and overcoat.
Payton could make out none of the man’s features; his mouth and nose were covered by a handkerchief.
‘‘What’s wrong?’’ the man said, and Payton could hear a smile in his voice. His eyes glimmered with a madness that was fitting of the chaos and destruction that surrounded him. ‘‘I should think a man like you would appreciate a little violence and mayhem.’’
‘‘You did this?’’ Payton asked, carefully placing his hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘‘Fun for a girl and a boy,’’ the man replied, smiling again.
‘‘What do you want?’’ Payton asked. ‘‘Who are you?’’
‘‘Who am I? What a strange question,’’ the man sounded genuinely perplexed. ‘‘Especially at a time like this. Look around you. Don’t you think your priorities are a little misplaced?’’
The man threw off his trench coat to reveal a black jumpsuit covered in pockets. Guns and knives of all makes and sizes were tucked into those pockets, and his arms dangled loosely at his sides, ready to make use of his weapons.
Payton didn’t respond to his question.
‘‘Oh, very well,’’ the man replied patiently, removing his hat and untying the handkerchief around his face. He threw them both aside.
Payton didn’t recognize the man, but he had to fight the urge to look away in revulsion. The man’s scalp was covered in hideous red scabs, and the skin on his face was disfigured—portions of it had melted.
‘‘My name is Konrad,’’ he said, whipping out pistols from hip holsters on each side. ‘‘As for what I want, well . . . Let’s just say I’ve developed a fondness for the smell of burning flesh.’’
54
‘‘Konrad,’’ Payton repeated the man’s name, while sharply drawing his sword. ‘‘The mercenary.’’
His first instinct had been to draw the sword using a burst of speed and jump quickly into action. But he could still hear Devlin’s warnings about tipping your hand too early in a fight.
When you have the tactical advantage, maintain it for as long as possible.
Besides, he needed time to size the other man up.
‘‘I know you,’’ Payton said. ‘‘The Secretum sent you to attack Grant the day he underwent the Shift. Did you know you were there merely to test his instincts? The Secretum knew you had no hope of success. It is written in prophecy that I will be the one to kill him.’’
Konrad eyed him angrily. ‘‘You can keep your signs and portents. I couldn’t care less. Borrows is mine, and if you want another shot at him, it’ll be over my dead body.’’
As you wish.
Payton weighed his options. He could strike quickly now and end it, but his eyes drifted to Morgan. She knelt on the ground, not far behind Konrad, holding the hand of the traitor, Hannah. He couldn’t see from where he stood if Hannah was alive or dead. Behind them all, a handful of survivors had gathered in the hallway, needing to escape the flames that continued to spread, but were now unable to reach this exit—the only remaining way out—because Konrad was blocking it.
And if what he had heard about this Konrad was true, the mercenary was resourceful and not to be underestimated. Even if he was mad from his injuries, he’d still survived them, and probably through sheer will.
‘‘What does destroying this building get you?’’ Payton said, taking one step into the burning building. The sound of the rushing flames was so deafening he had to shout to be heard. The heavy thickness of the billowing, gray smoke seeped into his eyes and lungs. His throat protested the noxious fumes, but he forced himself not to cough. Not now.
‘‘A blissful night’s sleep,’’ Konrad replied, leveling both pistols on Payton’s position and releasing the safeties. He grinned a disgusting smile through his deformed, misshapen lips.
Payton didn’t like the idea of fighting Konrad here, amidst this out-of-control hurricane of heat, smoke, and flames. Which no doubt had been Konrad’s plan from the beginning. He had nothing to lose here—it wasn’t like his burned body could get much worse. Payton, on the other hand, was surrounded by collateral damage waiting to happen.
This was a no-win situation.
After the last few days, Payton had no idea where his allegiances lay anymore, but he wasn’t in the habit of allowing brutal death to come to the innocent.
The guilty, however, he executed without h
esitation.
And no small amount of satisfaction.
‘‘Don’t suppose you’d care to tell me who hired you for this job?’’
Payton took another step forward, sword at the ready. Only six or seven paces now separated them. He had to time this just right . . .
‘‘Doesn’t matter now, you won’t live long enough to meet him,’’ Konrad replied, as if it were obvious. ‘‘In case you haven’t caught on yet, you are not the adversary I was hoping to fight today.’’ Konrad took a step forward as well.
‘‘Well then,’’ Payton whispered. ‘‘Keep hope alive.’’
He sprung.
A split-second later, he was rounding Konrad, but the mercenary raised the pistol in his right hand and pointed it at Payton’s head, just as Payton grabbed Konrad in a headlock. The sword, still in Payton’s other hand, instantly came around to slice into Konrad’s throat.
Konrad fired.
But instead of a bullet, Payton felt some kind of liquid drenching his face and stinging his eyes.
A water gun?
He flinched, and pulled away, blinking hard.
That’s not water . . .
‘‘Thing is,’’ he heard Konrad’s voice say, ‘‘I know you, too, Mister Thresher. Read the full dossier. And I know exactly how to put the brakes on your hustle and bustle. Start with the eyes, and work your way down.’’
Payton could hear him smiling again.
But he could no longer see him, blinded by the gasoline Konrad had sprayed in his face. He wiped off as much as he could with his free hand, but the stench was overpowering, it had soaked into his hair and shirt . . .
And heat advanced on him from every direction. He staggered backward, grasping about with his free hand, unable to get his bearings. He was certain the flames swirling around him would lick his face any moment, igniting the gas.
‘‘Look out!’’ Morgan screamed, just as a shot was fired.
At first, Payton stood still, believing that Konrad had missed.
Then he felt a searing pain in his left side, just above his waist.
Relentless Page 33
