by Anna Durand
Which explained why Grace was angry with him.
He flashed back to his last conversation with her, when he'd told her to leave because she'd only get in his way. On the surface, she'd been frustrated, but underneath she nursed a wound he inflicted. Even now, her anguish congealed as a hard lump in his chest. He'd wanted to drag her into his arms, kiss her senseless, and vow to never leave her again. That was selfishness talking. Being with him brought her more pain, more danger, more of everything bad. The worst things in the world trailed behind him wherever he went. Grace deserved better. Maybe if he told her…
No. He revealed the whole truth once, and look what happened. Her parents were murdered, her grandfather imprisoned. David should've stayed away from Grace after that, but he'd given in to his need to be with her. Not this time. From here on, he safeguarded her above everything else.
He wouldn't burden her with the truth.
Please, David, just tell me.
Grace's voice murmured into his psyche, subtle as a breeze. He must've imagined it. His desire to confess everything to her led him to fantasize she was begging him to do exactly that. The psychic wall she'd built prevented him from touching her mind. But she could contact him, so maybe…
Wishful thinking.
David, I need you.
This time he knew it was her, without a shred of doubt. Her pain and fear walloped him in the gut. He breathed hard, as if someone really had punched him. He tried to contact Grace without leaving his body, but the barrier knocked him back.
With less force this time. Her wall had thinned.
It signified either of two things. One, Grace decided to let down her psychic defenses in order to contact him. Or two, she was sick or injured and couldn't maintain the wall any longer. Neither option neutralized the acid churning in his gut. He fisted his hands at his sides. If he tried to travel to her, through the crossroads, his body would be undefended. Tesler might notice his vacant expression, and punish him — or worse, he might punish Nkosi or Sean. David would not let that happen.
Damn Tesler. Damn himself for getting captured. He could either go to Grace and help her, as she'd practically begged him to, or stay here to protect Nkosi and Sean.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
He stretched out his psychic senses, gently, staying rooted in his body. Using this method, he couldn't see or speak to Grace, or determine her exact circumstances and condition. But he could get an inkling. As he snaked out his paranormal senses, feeling for Grace, he kept an eye on the room around him. Tesler had yet to arrive. David knew the bastard would come eventually, once he thought they'd accrued enough anxiety to feed his hunger.
Grace. There. Her fiery aura strobed in the cold void. Her barrier had weakened, though not disintegrated. It pushed back against him, with the gentle compulsion of one magnet repelling another when their opposite poles faced each other. He discerned enough to tell Grace was alive, not badly injured, and felt safe enough to sleep. He also detected another presence nearby, the vacant sensation of a non-paranormal human.
The door to David's right opened. He withdrew his psychic faculties, returning all his attention to the room around him.
Tesler strolled through the door, shutting it behind him with a sharp click.
David watched the scientist stroll to the chair that restrained Sean. Tesler patted Sean's arm in a gesture that seemed threatening rather than comforting, and then he confronted Nkosi and David.
"I will discover what you know," Tesler said. "The only choice is how I do it."
Nkosi watched Tesler without expression.
David bit his tongue to keep from uttering a sarcastic reply. He wanted to bash in the heads of the guards and Tesler. Smash his way out of here using all his psychic faculties. But what then? He didn't have Grace's power. Simply getting out of this room would probably drain him. To escape the facility demanded greater energy than what he, Nkosi, and Sean could muster combined.
A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he stifled a growl. He'd needed Grace to break him out of the Mojave Desert facility.
"Here's your choice," Tesler said. He waved at Nkosi, and then at Sean. "Which one of them do I torture to death first?"
David clenched his teeth and hissed. "None of us will talk. You're wasting your time."
"Oh really? I disagree. Your darling girl is nearly in my grasp as we speak. So perhaps you'd rather I wait until she arrives and torture her for the information I seek."
"You're lying. You don't have Grace." He'd noticed another presence near her, a non-paranormal human. Could Tesler have captured her already?
A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.
Tesler clucked his tongue, wagging a finger. "Cling to that notion as long as you like, dear boy. Moments ago, my men surrounded her. She has no place to hide."
If Tesler was telling the truth, then everything David had fought for was lost.
No, not yet. He still had a chance to save her. She was asleep or unconscious, injured, and exhausted, both physically and psychically.
David threw sideways look at Nkosi. He deliberately spoke in a monotone. "I'm sorry. I have to sacrifice you to keep Tesler from getting what he wants."
"I understand," Nkosi replied, his voice filled with a certainty and understanding that surprised David. he hadn't expected the man to accept his fate so easily. Nkosi nodded at David, and then looked at Tesler. "I will be the first."
"Excellent," Tesler said, almost crowing.
He thought he'd won. And in a way, he had. But David would make sure no one — not Tesler, not Amador, not anyone — got their hands on Grace. Saving her might kill him. It might also cost Nkosi and Sean their lives. He hoped they understood the necessity of this. He couldn't explain, because he couldn't connect with them telepathically, the way he could with Grace. He might inject a thought into their minds, but even doing that wouldn't guarantee they'd get the message. Thought projection relied on the power of suggestion rather than the power of will. He couldn't force them to accept the thoughts he inserted into their minds. To coerce them into hearing the thoughts required far more energy than he dared expend.
Tesler glanced over his shoulder at the two-way mirror. He gave a quick nod before turning back to face Nkosi and David.
The door opened and a technician entered the room pushing a cart loaded with tools. Sharp, nasty-looking implements. Syringes filled with liquid. Shiny needles. And, of course, a baseball bat.
David flexed his fingers slowly, then curled them into his palm, the nails scraping flesh. All three of them would, in turn, suffer and die to protect the rest of the world from Tesler and his cohorts. Sean, at least, recognized they also sacrificed themselves to protect Grace. And he would've volunteered for the pain, because he cared for her too.
The technician parked the cart near Tesler and left the room. The door clicked shut.
Deep in the walls, something buzzed. The noise was familiar, yet he had no idea what it meant.
No time to wonder. He must go now.
Keeping his eyes open, David cut his mind free of the shackles that bound it to his body. He rocketed upward.
And crashed headlong into a barricade. Hot currents tore through him. He pushed against the impediment, but it stung him harder, hotter, sharper. The pain lanced his mind, sliced into his body. His muscles convulsed.
His mind crashed back into his body. Ten thousand volts of agony arced through him, and he doubled over from the force of it. What the hell was this? His muscles convulsed again, driving him to his knees, contorting his back. A million electrified needles stabbed deep into flesh and sinew. He let out a strangled cry. His entire body curled up as if the muscles had shrunk. He collapsed onto his side, coiled in the fetal position, and rode out the last wrenching wave.
He'd hit a wicked barrier. Not Grace's wall. This obstacle was designed to kill, or at the very
least immobilize. Besides, he hadn't even gotten into the tunnel that preceded the crossroads. He got nowhere near Grace.
Tesler walked closer to look down at David with a faint, unpleasant smile on his lips.
David couldn't speak this time. He could do nothing more than scowl at the man.
"Ah," Tesler said, sounding pleased, "I see you've met my new toy. Can't have you skipping off to help your darling girl, now can we?"
From behind Tesler, where David couldn't see, he heard Nkosi say, "What have you done to him?"
Tesler chuckled. "I made a cage for your minds. The engineers who designed it call it an electromagnetic containment field." Tesler sneered, like a tiger admiring its wounded prey. "You see, we discovered quite by accident that EM fields of the right strength and frequency inhibit psychic abilities. Of course, we are risking cellular damage, but I think it's an equitable price to pay for the power you can help us achieve."
With his arms for support, David tried to sit up. His arms shook but held, for the moment.
He hissed out three words. "We'll fight you."
Tesler shrugged. "Go ahead and try. Inside this room, you are as vulnerable as any normal human being."
David felt weak and vulnerable. He felt… normal.
Tesler strode back to the chair and the cart beside it. He selected a syringe, tapping it to remove bubbles.
"Hmm," Tesler said, "I believe David should go first."
"No," Nkosi said, taking a step toward Tesler, "I am first. You said we choose, and we did."
The two guards grabbed hold of Nkosi's arms, hauling him backward toward the wall. They pinned him there, each keeping one hand clamped on one of Nkosi's arms while in their other hands they grasped their handguns.
David's arms gave out. He collapsed onto his back on the floor.
"No," David said, meeting Tesler's gaze. "I'm first. I always have been."
Tesler walked toward David, kneeled beside him, and lowered the syringe to his arm. David winced as the needle pierced his skin. He would die in this room. The realization hit him as the liquid from the syringe heated his veins. He would die, and Grace would fall into Tesler's hands.
He prayed the man lied. He prayed for more than that, though.
Please God, spare Grace.
Chapter Twelve
Grace shifted her arm, eyes closed. Something cool and smooth brushed her skin. She tried to roll over, but her nose smacked into a barrier, one that yielded under the pressure from her body. She inhaled a musty scent. Not a bed. Not her bed, for sure. A chill shimmied down her spine. Where was she?
She pried her lids apart. A brown, shiny surface filled her vision. Her face was pressed into a leather backrest. She pushed up into a sitting position. Crunch. She slid her legs over the sofa's edge, planting her shoes on the floor. Crunch. Nothing under her feet. She scooted forward. Crunch. The leather protested yet again.
Leather. Metal. Wood. Oh hell, she knew where she was. She'd called him, so of course he rushed out to rescue her. Crap. She'd needed rescuing? Oh yeah. Men with guns. Hunting her. Pain. Blood. Screams. Not hers, though. Theirs. She shuddered.
Gabriel Amador saved her. She must be in his home.
The flash drive. She slapped her shirt, right over the breastbone. The flash drive cut into her skin. Thank God. Amador hadn't stolen it.
He might've borrowed it, though, while she was asleep. Cripes. She couldn't worry about everything. Anxiety over David ate up enough of her brainpower.
The weight of fatigue still blanketed her, almost suffocating in its intensity. Yawning, she peered into the near darkness. A lamp on the desk chased away the shadows, but its glow petered out after a few feet. She rubbed her neck. Wake up. Her head ached, though not with the throbbing pain of a migraine. No, her nap obliterated the worst of the headache.
Her stomach growled. The ache of hunger battled with butterflies in her gut, creating a queasy mixture. Every muscle in her body screamed for more rest. Heaving her body off the sofa, she shuffled over to the desk.
The scent of leather and dust wafted over her. She inhaled a deep breath, and another scent — spicy and earthy — infiltrated her senses, erasing the scent memory of gun powder, damp earth, sweat, and blood. A shiver rattled through her. This place smelled like Gabriel Amador.
She brushed her palm across the slick wood. Polished to a brilliant shine, the surface glimmered in the ambient light. The laptop computer was gone. The phone stood upright in its base. Chewing the inside of her lip, she stared at the receiver. She ought to call the cops. Or her grandfather. Someone. Her arm trembled slightly as she stretched it out toward the phone.
Pow.
She gripped the desk. Her pulse roared in her ears.
Pow, pow, pow.
Panic knifed through her. The explosions had issued from somewhere outside. She rushed to the French doors. Pow. She peeked out between the curtains. There, maybe a hundred feet from the house, Roland Wickham stood with legs spread, arms raised in front of him. Black earmuffs protected his ears. He grasped a gun in both hands, homing in on a target mounted on a metal post. Pow. His hands jerked a hair as he fired the weapon.
Target practice? He was a butler or something, she'd thought. Maybe his job involved a lot more than opening and closing doors.
Click.
She spun around just as the door swung open.
Gabriel Amador strode into the room and flicked a switch on the wall. Light burst from the desk lamp. She struggled not to squint. Her stomach flip-flopped. Amador left the door ajar as he crossed the threshold, halting several paces beyond it. Muscles flexed beneath his gray slacks and long-sleeve dress shirt. The pinstriped white fabric hugged his torso. Two open buttons at at the top let the collar drape outward, revealing cinnamon skin sprinkled with dark hairs. His brown loafers glistened with a high-wattage sheen. One of his hands dangled casually at his side. The other dipped into his pants pocket.
"You look better," he pronounced, aiming a genial smile at her. "That must have been a terrible migraine."
"Yes, it was." She leaned her buttocks on the desk, clamping her fingers on its edge. "Um, thanks for coming to — " The words rescue me popped into her head, but she dismissed them. " — help me out. I had a little trouble with Tesler's men."
"So I gathered. You may stay as long as you wish. I promise you will be safe here."
His vow bristled, like a stiff hairbrush grated across her nerves. She frowned at him, folding her arms over her chest. "You can't promise that. I don't know even know how Tesler's men tracked me down. They might find me here too."
"No," he said, in his tone of absolute certainty. The tone that ticked her off big time. Then he added, "I have taken precautions against all varieties of surveillance."
"All varieties? Come on, there must be some type of surveillance you haven't thought to guard against."
He shrugged, his smile mutating into a smirk. Did he actually think he'd guarded his home against all possible surveillance technologies? And what about the non-technological kind?
"If a traveler attempts to breach this house," Amador said, "I will know. I will sense it. Would you not sense it as well?"
Once again, she had the skin-prickling feeling that he'd read her mind. Yet he didn't look frothing-at-the-mouth insane. Maybe he simply had excellent intuition.
"Yeah," she said, trying to sound more certain than she was, "I'd sense it if another traveler came on the scene."
"Of course."
A quivering spread from her knees into her calves and thighs. She glanced around the room. Her purse lay on the floor by the sofa, a few feet from Amador but farther from her. He watched her with a noncommittal expression, though his eyes darted to follow her gaze when she looked at the purse. With the jelly squiggling in her legs, she doubted she could run over there to grab her purse before he snatched it away.
Sighing, she lowered herself onto the nearest chair. The same damn chair she'd sat in the day before. Or earlier today. Whenever the hell it was. Time had twisted into a Mobius strip, with no end and no beginning, everything turning in on itself.
Yesterday. She met Amador yesterday.
She rubbed her arm. The fabric of her shirt was crusty. Her skin prickled. Her gaze flew to the spot on her arm, and the blood dried onto her shirt sleeve. She shoved up the fabric to expose —
Unmarked flesh.
Amador chuckled, a light, airy sound. "Ah yes. I bandaged your wound in the car, but when I checked it later, it was gone. You healed yourself, no?"
A sick feeling sloshed in her stomach. She healed her own injuries before, six months ago, but hoped it was a fluke. Nope.
He plucked her purse from the floor, hooking one finger under the strap. He then approached her and held the purse out, as if he wanted her to take it.
Her mouth fell open a bit.
"Yes," he said, "I know you have a firearm in your purse."
"I have a concealed carry license."
He gave her a tiny smile. "I don't mind that you have a pistol, Grace. Why do you think I'm offering it to you willingly?"
She looked at the purse, dangling from his grasp at her chest level. The purse swayed a little as he adjusted his grip. She lifted her hand, fingers outstretched to take hold of the strap. At the last second, she pulled her hand away.
"Why do you hesitate?" he asked, thrusting the purse closer to her. "This is an act of trust, Grace. Take the purse, and you will feel safer because you have your pistol. I'm trusting you not to shoot me — although, of course, you will be quite able to do so if you wish."
Well, when he put it that way…
She nabbed the purse. Cradling it on her lap, the gun's hardness under her palms, she regarded Amador. "Thank you."
He gave a dismissive wave of his free hand. "As I told you yesterday, I don't believe you would shoot me. I may not know you well, but I can see that you aren't a murderer."
