by Jena Leigh
Tony snapped himself out of his daze and joined Edward at the gurney. Edward handed him a pair of blue latex gloves.
This was it.
The chamber door released and they stepped forward to remove the body.
In any other circumstance, the struggle that followed might have been comical.
With its muscular frame and six feet in height, the man’s body proved almost impossible to maneuver. When he was released from the chamber’s restraints, Tony and Edward quickly found themselves struggling to corral what must have been 180 pounds of dead weight.
He’d been wearing a tuxedo the night he was put down.
Put down, thought Edward. As though he were simply some rabid dog, rather than a vicious, determined, and exceedingly resourceful murderer.
The man’s dinner jacket was missing. Likely, someone had removed it when he’d been placed in the machine. The sleeves of his white shirt had also been rolled up to accommodate the sensors attached to his pale white forearms.
All these years everyone assumed he was dead. That he was lying in a grave somewhere, six feet safely under and no longer a threat to anyone.
Edward never would have guessed that the Agency had been keeping him in stasis.
Then again, he supposed it made sense. Because how, exactly, do you go about killing a man whose cellular makeup guarantees he will recover from nearly any injury?
Maybe he should have suspected the truth.
Tony dropped the man’s feet unceremoniously onto the gurney as Edward nudged his shoulders toward the center of the stretcher. Now that he was safely in place, Tony took a healthy step backward and sent Edward a meaningful—and expectant—glare.
“Well?” Tony’s look said. “Get on with it.”
Edward blew out a disgusted breath.
Slowly, carefully, he rolled up the starched white sleeve. The ice crystals flaking the shirt were starting to melt in the open air. He eyed the gaping hole in the man’s forehead warily. Edward was safe so long as the man stayed dead for a while longer, but should that bullet wound begin to heal…
He quickened his pace.
Edward was in the process of tying the rubber tourniquet above the man’s elbow when suddenly… thump.
The sound of something dropping heavily against the cushioned pad of the stretcher mingled with Tony’s panicked, “Shit! Shit!”
Tony shuffled backward and bumped into a computer console, his wide-eyed gaze fixed on the man’s right arm.
“I believe now would be a good time to employ the use of the gurney’s restraints, Doctor,” Carter said. Neither she nor Tony made a move to assist him.
Edward, who had also stepped back, began with the closest straps he could reach—the ones at the man’s ankles.
In the years to come what happened next replayed in Edward’s mind over and over. His decision to start with the ankle restraints proved to be the worst choice Dr. Edward Li ever made.
A blur of movement caught his eye.
Making a split-second decision based more on professional instinct than on self-preservation, Edward lunged to restrain the man’s left arm, which had begun trembling violently and now threatened to lift itself from the table.
Just as Edward managed to still the man’s lurching left arm, the fingers of the right hand began to twitch.
And that’s when it happened.
As Edward moved to grasp the other arm, the very tip of the man’s thumb brushed the exposed skin at Edward’s wrist, a fraction of an inch beyond the boundary of his glove.
The transfer itself took less than a second.
From their safer distances, neither Carter nor Tony even realized that anything had happened. Edward’s pupils dilated rapidly, then snapped back to their normal size. He gasped slightly before his heartbeat resumed its steady rhythm. It was over in an instant.
The restraints were then put in place even though the body had once again grown utterly still, and the blood was drawn without further complications.
Afterward, the body was returned to its icy prison and the three Agency scientists left the bunker, allowing the facility to resume gathering dust in the stale air.
When they reached the pasture where Edward had left his aging Corolla, he stepped out from the shadows of the forest and into the blinding sunlight of that late fall morning… and Samuel Masterson greedily drank in his surroundings from behind a new set of eyes.
Even with his host screaming and pleading inside their now shared thoughts, it was a truly beautiful day out.
And finally—finally—he was free.
Three
The Bering Sea,
150 Miles off the Coast of Alaska
Autumn, Two Years Ago
* * *
Nathaniel Palladino dropped his fork onto the table and groaned. His stomach was churning almost as violently as the frigid waters of the Bering Sea.
For the last twelve days, Nate had been confined to the Misty Rose, a Variant-crewed commercial vessel fishing for Alaskan king crab during the October crab season. The season was no longer a four or five day scramble to make quota, but rather a three to four week stretch meant to discourage accelerated and dangerous fishing tactics.
It would be another two weeks before Nate laid eyes and set foot on land again.
Right now, however, he was trying very hard not to think about that.
Below decks, the cramped, perpetually damp galley of the Misty Rose reeked of gutted herring and stale sweat.
The stench, combined with the lurching of the ship and the sight of deckhand Magnus Pike’s Anchovy Delight, could turn even the strongest stomach.
“You’re looking a bit peaked there, Greenhorn.” Pike clapped Nate hard on the shoulder as he slid into the opposite booth, his plate piled high with a mound of brownish gray loaf, studded with red.
He smiled as he settled into his seat, amused by Nate’s obvious distress. The food on his plate was swaying and sliding across the dish in unison with the ship’s motion.
Next to Pike, Aiden O’Connell grinned into his coffee mug.
“Greenhorn” was Nathaniel’s official job title, even though he was a deckhand, the same as Aiden and Pike. The stigma of being a novice meant an utter lack of trust or respect from the rest of the ship’s crew. If Nathaniel wanted their regard, he’d have to earn it. Turning the same gray as the loaf on his plate wasn’t doing him any favors.
Pike shoveled a giant forkful into his mouth and Nate looked away, blowing out a slow breath. He was determined to prove himself worthy of one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. He was all too well aware that three years ago a greenhorn who didn’t take the job seriously never made it back to port. Nate had only won the job because his adopted cousin, Aiden, vouched for him.
As a water-wielder, Aiden was perfectly at home on the open seas and had paid his dues on the Misty Rose the year before. Working on a fishing vessel came as naturally to him as breathing.
But for Nathaniel? Not so much.
And this wasn’t the sort of job you wanted to screw up.
The hours were long, the conditions a nightmare, and the risk of being swept overboard were ridiculously high. If you let the exhaustion or the icy temperatures get to you—if you screwed up on deck—you could end up killing yourself or another member of the crew.
Until the other men on deck knew they could trust you, a greenhorn was nothing but a walking liability.
Aware that Pike was still watching him closely, Nate stabbed his fork into the unappetizing heap on his plate and took a bite—and then immediately wished he hadn’t.
He tried not to groan.
Aiden snickered.
Pike’s smile faded as he surveyed the table top. “Where the hell is my coffee?”
Realizing he’d left his mug sitting on the counter beside the stove, Pike extracted himself from the booth and went to retrieve it.
“Remind me not to listen the next time you offer me job advice, Aiden,” said Nate, keeping his voi
ce low.
Aiden laughed. “Hey, now. I promised you adventure and a boatload of cash, cuz. I never said it would be easy.”
“Screw easy,” said Nate. He leaned his head back against the wood-paneled wall and tried to think of something, anything, besides his dinner. “I’d settle for tough as shit, so long as it meant the world was steady again.”
“You’d think after spending nearly two full weeks at sea, he’d be used to it by now,” Pike mumbled as he reclaimed his seat. “Might want to rethink your chosen profession, son.”
Nate could feel the bite of food he’d taken working its way back up and he swallowed hard.
“You know what I could go for right now?” Aiden scooped up a giant forkful of gray loaf. “Clam chowder. Thick, creamy, filled with those slimy hunks of clam.”
Nate’s stomach roiled.
“Oh! Better yet.” Pike sniffed. “How about some sashimi? Last time I was in Japan, there was this great little hole in the wall place that served up a dish they called ‘Odori ebi’—literally means ‘dancing shrimp.’ Perfect name for it, since they basically just dunk these baby shrimp in sake and serve ’em up while they’re still alive and wrigglin’. Anyway, those shrimp were some chewy little bastards. And their legs get stuck in your teeth. But tasty. Mmm-mmm, good.”
Nathaniel was half-way through an enthusiastic litany of curses when the ship rolled violently to port and everyone scrambled to grab hold of their plates.
In the midst of the clamor, the galley door blew open to reveal one of their fellow crewman accompanied by an icy rush of ocean air that had followed him down the corridor. A lanky, ruddy-faced man paused to brace himself on the doorframe, water from his bright orange rain gear puddling at his feet.
Something in the galley crashed to the floor and Pike—who had kitchen duty—topped Nathaniel’s curses with an expletive so original it elicited a laugh from the entire table.
“And you kiss your mum with that mouth?” asked the newcomer, a Welshman named Timothy Ryan, as he walked through the narrow passageway and approached the booth. He rapped his knuckles twice on the tabletop, then reached for a handhold as the ship listed back to starboard. “Aiden, Nate… Cap’n Ellis wants you both on deck. The pots are all comin’ up sideways in these bloody winds.”
Aiden grumbled, but Nathaniel was secretly relieved.
Pike’s talk of sashimi and the suffocating smell of the galley were a short ways from pushing him over the edge. Fresh air would be a welcome alternative—for the few minutes before his face and hands went numb from the cold.
“Oh, Pike’s Delight!” Tim’s voice sang with fake enthusiasm as he surveyed the contents of their dinner. “I was hopin’ to die from dysentery this trip!”
“I’ll save you a plate, Timmy. I’ve got some put aside special, just for you.” Pike smirked as Nate got to his feet. “Leaving already, Greenhorn? Want me to get you a doggy bag for the road?”
Wordlessly flipping off Pike, Nate followed Aiden and Tim out of the galley, then shuffled his aching limbs back into his rain gear before heading out on deck.
When Aiden opened the door, a frigid blast of air and salty ocean spray washed over them. Nathaniel grimaced, but followed the others out into the raging winds and gray afternoon light.
Old Man Mallard pushed off from where he stood leaning against the stacked pots and hustled toward the port side of the ship, meeting them halfway.
“Reinforcements.” Mallard’s voice was gruff, but filled with thinly veiled amusement. “Thank God. Whatever would I do without you greenhorns around to ride in and save the bloody day?”
“Admit it,” Aiden called over the wind. “You’re happy to see us.”
“If I never see your ugly mug again, Greenhorn, it will be too goddamn soon,” he replied.
Aiden barked a laugh. “Last I checked, I already survived one tour with your ancient hide. When are you going to start calling me by my name?”
“Greenhorn is your name, kid.” Mallard made his way into position, ready to help catch the next pot when it was dragged out of the sea.
After thirty years in the profession, Nate supposed everyone would rank as a greenhorn in the eyes of a man like Mallard.
“You ladies finished?” someone called out. “Some of us would like to get paid!”
Aiden held out his arms, sending an exaggerated shrug toward the burly sailor manning the hook. “Still waiting on you to start the show, cupcake!”
Their crew mate smiled, sent the grappling hook sailing through the twilight… and missed the buoy completely. His grin melted into a scowl as he reeled the hook back in.
Pulling in the pots was simple in theory.
In practice, it required something of a knack.
The “pots” were large metal cages dropped over the side with a hydraulic winch. A floating buoy marked the location of each of the baited traps.
The deckhand manning the grappling hook was meant to catch the rope line where it met the buoy and reel the pot into the air using the winch. The rest of the deckhands would grab the giant metal cage, bring it under control, and dump the contents onto the metal tray to be sorted.
Empty, the pots averaged around 750 lbs. Full, they could weigh more than a ton.
“Seamus,” a tinny voice carried over the roar of waves. “Take five. Put Nathaniel on the hook.”
Nate glanced up. The windows of the wheelhouse were black as night.
“You deaf, Palladino?” Captain Ellis’ voice over the PA was devoid of emotion. “Get it in gear, Greenhorn.”
Nathaniel jogged across the slick deck to take the hook. As they passed each other, his burly crew mate slipped on a patch of ice and reflexively grabbed for Nate’s shoulder, threatening to take them both down.
Instead, Nate threw out one hand and used his telekinetic ability to support his shifting weight, steadying both himself and Seamus simultaneously.
“Cheers, mate.” Seamus punched him genially on the shoulder before disappearing into the warmth of the main cabin.
One of the perks of working on a Variant crewed ship? You could use your abilities any time you liked without fear of repercussion.
Nate stepped into position at the rail and cast the hook.
It caught the line on the first try.
The next few hours passed in a flurry of activity. The Misty Rose was almost at the end of the line of pots, but the storm was now tossing the 113-foot ship about like a bath toy.
Night descended like a frigid cloak. Flood lights illuminated the deck and occasional bolts of lightning struck the surrounding waters.
Stabilizing the pots proved increasingly difficult. The winds went from aggressive to merciless, threatening to send the cages and the crew overboard.
They should have stopped hours ago. Variant abilities or no, this wasn’t the sort of storm you reasoned with, but Ellis was nothing if not determined.
“Dammit!” Mallard grunted as a pot dropped unevenly onto the sorting rack. “Watch it, greenhorn!”
Nate wasn’t sure who, exactly, Mallard was cursing at—Aiden and Tim for letting the pot slip, or Nate for not catching the cage in time. It didn’t matter. The maledictions were flowing in an endless stream tonight, from everyone.
A snapping sound cracked like a gun shot, and then…
“Dammit!”
“Get hold of the cage!”
“Jesus, Pike! Are you trying to kill us all?”
“Watch it, watch it!”
Just above their heads, the most recently pulled pot swung wildly through the air. Nate tried to grab hold of it using his ability, but found himself fighting the wind for control. Even with his efforts, the pot careened dangerously from side to side.
The rope snapped and sent Tim sprawling. The others scrambled to take his place and regain control of the wayward cage.
A brilliant array of red lightning momentarily pulled Nate’s attention away from the commotion on deck.
For an instant, he was certain his
eyes were playing tricks on him. He almost turned back, intent on helping the rest of the crew, when another flash of crimson light gave him a second glimpse of the impossible.
There, 115 miles from shore and in the midst of a raging storm, a girl materialized in the stormy skies above the water.
Nate watched her blink into and out of existence with each red flash as she spiraled toward the water. With one final, blinding bolt, the girl crashed into the raging seas on the starboard side of the ship.
“Did you see that?!” Nate shouted to Aiden, his words barely a whisper over the roar of the wind and waves.
Aiden dropped the line he’d just finished securing and turned to glare at Nate. The pot was back under control, but only barely.
“See what?” Aiden yelled back. “The only thing I see is my idiot cousin being a total slack-ass. Now help us get this pot emptied before we lose it and Ellis throws us both overboard!”
Ignoring him, Nate worked his way carefully to the edge of the deck. He managed to take hold of the railing and turn his face away just as another massive wave crashed over the side.
“Someone fell into the water!” Nate yelled after the wave cleared, eyeing the tumultuous seas for any sign of the girl.
Nothing. She’d already been dragged under.
“What the hell are you talking about, Nate?” Aiden called. “We’re over twelve hours out and there’s not another ship for miles. There’s no one out there!”
“O’Connell! Pay attention!”
“Watch your ass, Tim!”
“It’s loose, man! It’s loose!”
The metal cage skittered wildly across the deck.
As Aiden and the others scrambled to get it back under control, Nate kept his eyes on the waves. He gripped the railing firmly, standing frozen in place in spite of the rocking keel.
Nate could hear his cousin groaning in frustration from somewhere behind him.
“Pike!” Aiden’s voice called. “Take over for me!”
His mind made up, Nathaniel took a step back from the railing and emptied his thoughts of everything but the position of his limbs and the space his body occupied. By the time Aiden reached him, Nate was hovering above the rolling deck, intent on using his telekinesis to get clear of the ship and out over the water.
