by Anna Durand
He wheeled around.
The impact of the shot flung her backward into him. She gurgled, convulsed, her hands like talons on his arms. Then her whole body slumped, held up by his arms.
Another shot exploded. Then another.
He fell to his knees, cradling her. He touched her face, her neck, her arms, and — shit. Her stomach.
Blood. Too much blood.
With one trembling hand, he reached down to palpate the wound, but couldn't make himself touch it. His hand hovered over her abdomen. Rocking her in his arms, he ducked his head near hers. "Grace, no. Why did you do that?" Her head lolled into his chest. A soft grunt issued from her, muffled by his shirt, and she winced. He stretched his hand out to caress her cheek, but pulled back at the last second.
"Are you shot?" Her voice was weak, shaky.
"No." It was a strangled word, dense with anguish he couldn't contain. "You took the bullet. Why, Grace? Why? You could've used your powers to stop him."
Her voice was even weaker now, barely a whisper. "Didn't think."
Of course she hadn't. Their attacker allowed no time for thinking.
"There he is!" Sean's enraged voice barely registered in David's ears. "I'll get the scumbag."
The rat-a-tat of automatic gunfire. An infuriated scream. More shots. More yelling.
None of it mattered.
Grace's eyelids drifted half shut.
"Sean, get over here!" David splayed his hand over her cheek. She was cold. So damn cold. "Hold on, Grace. It'll be okay, I promise." He scraped his quivering lips across her forehead. "Don't leave me. I need you."
A torrent of love and anguish, fear and devotion, ripped through him down their connection. The link persevered, even as he felt her slipping away.
"Fight, Grace." His voice trembled with the conviction he mustered from deep within. "Fight for me. For us. Come back to me, please."
Her lids closed. The rise and fall of her chest ceased.
David punched his fist through the moss, straight down to the hard earth.
Grace couldn't move. She heard noises, dimly. Voices? Maybe. Her dwindling mental acuity turned everything into a radio show playing from a remote speaker. She succumbed to the numbness, the blessed relief of spiraling down and down into infinity.
"No, goddammit! You do not get to leave me like this."
Was that David? Yes. Why was he screaming at her from so far away?
Drifting down. Weightless. Painless. A brilliant star beckoned to her, its light a promise of peace and fulfillment. She belonged…
With David.
The epiphany hurtled her out of the tunnel, away from the light. It's not your time. The statement filled her, awakened her, though it was not her own thought. The words emanated from the beautiful radiance, from the ever-receding star of eternity.
Hearing returned first. She heard Sean, his voice desperate. "I'll try, oh jeez, I'll try. But if she's dead, I can't — "
"Do it anyway!" David this time. Angry. Terrified.
Physical sensation filtered back into her next. Her body shifted, coming to rest on a bumpy, firm surface. Hazily, she realized they'd laid her flat on her stomach. Damp moss tickled her nostrils. Voices chattered around her, but her brain couldn't decipher the meaning of their words. Sleep now, a voice inside urged.
Warmth penetrated her wound, spreading outward until it encompassed her whole body, tingling with an odd energy. The numbness gave way to a dull ache in her chest, a pain that dissipated second by second. The key to her mind twisted in the ignition, and the engine of her thoughts chugged back to life. The clean scent of earth and grass wafted over her.
She sneezed.
Whoops erupted around her.
Peeling her lids apart, she stared at the three men huddled around her. David crouched by her head, Amador alongside him near her hip, and Sean…
She rolled onto her side to look at him. He'd been kneeling on the side of her opposite David and Amador, with both hands suspended over her wound. The strange energy she'd sensed originated with him.
"Did you heal me?" she asked.
Looking a bit sheepish, he scrutinized a loose thread on his pants, picking at it. "Uh, yeah. David would've throttled me if I hadn't." He scrubbed his face with one hand, yawning. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes, which were red and tinged with yellow.
"You're tapped out, aren't you?" She knew the signs of power drain.
"Pretty much." She pushed up into sitting position, with an assist from David, who immediately threw his arms around her and pulled her to a sitting position, ensconced in his embrace. She hugged him back, and then, on an impulse too strong to deny, she crushed her lips to his. He responded with abandon, their passion energizing their psychic bond until it sizzled. Her body did a little sizzling too.
"Gross," Sean whined, thought it sounded less than sincere.
With great reluctance, she severed the kiss. "What about the minions?"
"They're unconscious, very weak." David's attention strayed past her, to the edge of the woods. "No sign of the Golden Power since Tesler died." He curled a lock of her hair around his finger, careful to avoid her gaze. "Do you feel it?"
The hesitancy in his voice made her hesitate. Did she feel the oily, alien energy? "No. It's gone — back to where it came from."
"Is it alive?" Sean asked. "Nkosi said it was, but if anybody would know, it'd be you."
Arms linked around David's neck, she craned hers to examine Sean. He watched her with a steady gaze. He really believed she was the expert on all things psychic.
"Nkosi was full of shit," she said. "The Golden Power is not a living thing. It's energy, pure and simple." She glimpsed the blood on her shirt and her heart skipped. "Who shot me? Did you get him?"
"Easy." David slid his hands under her bottom to boost her up onto his lap. "It must've been one of the minions. You saw him. That's why you jumped in front of me, right?"
"Is it?" She ran through events in her mind, but cobwebs obscured her memories.
"Can't you remember?"
"It's all fuzzy." Grunting with the effort, she struggled to get up and plopped back down on David's lap. "A little woozy."
He rose and hoisted her up with him. "Can you stand?"
"Think so." When he set her on her feet, she found her legs weren't as wobbly as she'd feared. "So you didn't find the shooter?"
"We assumed he was one of the minions, and they're all out cold."
Sean thumped his new AK-47 against his hip. "I scared him away for sure."
"Did you see a body?" When Sean shrugged, she turned her attention to David. "You didn't check? RV the area, I mean."
He looked at her as if she'd spoken gibberish. "The EM field is still up."
Ah. Of course. She hadn't gotten a chance to tell them where to find the generator, and so they worked with limited powers.
She pointed across the clearing. "Generator's over there. Behind that tree."
Amador took off at a trot. He disappeared behind the tree and fired his gun once. She flinched — at the noise and at the sudden influx of power.
"Woo-hoo!" Sean hopped up and down. "We're back."
She smiled at him and laughed.
Amador returned then, and the four of them trooped over to the nearest clump of limp psychic puppets. Men, she had to remind herself. They were men, not puppets or minions. It had been easier to think of them that way when Nkosi, and then Tesler, controlled them, because they'd behaved like zombies. Now, as she studied two of the men, tendrils of empathy unwound inside her. Their lips and skin bore a deep pallor. Saliva drooled out of their open mouths. Their limbs lay in haphazard, awkward positions. Blood had dribbled out their ears, crusting on their skin.
She turned away, her throat tight. Mind control from someone channeling the Golden Power exa
cted a terrible toll on the victim, worse than she could've imagined. Would they ever wake up? Would they be normal if they did?
Once, she would've blamed herself for this. No more. Nkosi and Tesler, and JT before them, embarked on a quest borne of sheer lunacy, determined to mine psychic power from her body. She never asked for this. She never encouraged their obsessions. They undertook vile experiments due solely to their arrogance and insanity.
"We have to take care of them," she said.
Amador, standing beside her, settled a hand on her shoulder. "I donate any of my resources you need to treat these poor men."
"Thank you." She patted his hand — and did not miss David's tiny grimace when he saw her gesture. She sent a pulse of reassurance down their connection, plus a small hit of raw desire, a preview of things to come. And they would come very soon. He grinned.
She still hadn't gotten used to him grinning like a… well, like a normal, happy guy. But the sight awoke pleasant butterflies in her stomach.
Twigs cracked behind them. Brush scraped and rustled.
Grace and Amador whirled around in unison.
Battaglia roared out of the woods into the clearing. He swung up his huge gun, training it right on Grace.
"You won't cheat death twice, you freaks."
Grace yanked the gun out of Amador's hand and shot three times at Battaglia. His finger twitched reflexively over the trigger. The rounds flew wild, nicking trees and popping chunks of moss into the air.
He collapsed, dead.
David trod to the body and checked. "He's gone."
She shoved the gun at Amador, who took it. "Battaglia shot me. I remember seeing him, about to shoot you, and I — well, I won't apologize for what I did. I'd do it again."
David bowed his head. He stayed like that for so long she worried he was disgusted with her for taking out Battaglia.
Then his head came up, his eyes aglow, and she understood.
"It's over," he said. "I checked out the area and it's clear."
"The people in the facility?"
"Gone. They evacuated."
She nodded. "It's time to destroy the facility."
He walked to her, took her hands, and gave her an amused smile. "I'm beginning to think you're a pyromaniac. Blowing up facilities all over the place."
"Hey." She batted his chest with the back of her hand. "JT blew up the other one."
"Because he beat you to the punch. Your master plan was to torch the place."
She leaned into him, her hand on his chest. "You didn't have a better idea."
"It's okay." He pinched her butt. "Apparently, I'm attracted to pyromaniacs."
"This time is different. I know for a fact destroying this facility will erase every scrap of data related to Project Outreach. It'll really be over."
"We'll be free." He bent his head toward hers, his lips converging on her mouth.
Sean made a vomit-like yacking noise.
David pulled away without kissing her. She could've strangled Sean.
The kid let out a melodramatic sigh. "Are we gonna blow stuff up or what? I want to get away from the creepy ex-puppet guys and the rotting corpses."
"Sure." She locked gazes with David. "Give us a minute.'
She and David traveled to the facility, breaking away from their bodies as easily as they changed shoes. They didn't need words. Their minds, along with their powers, operated in perfect synchronization. Thank heavens for Tesler's paranoia, and his need to defend his facility at any cost. They located the right spot, an armory stacked high with boxes of ammo, and set off a spark.
They shot back into their bodies.
A deep boom rumbled in the distance. The earth shuddered.
Project Outreach had been terminated.
Chapter Thirty-Three
David woke Grace with a few gentle nudges as they pulled into the parking lot of the private airport near Bozeman, the same strip where they'd battled brainwashed, zombie-like men a few hours ago. A small building, almost a shack, hunkered alongside a control tower. A short distance away, sequestered from the other structures, loomed the hangar. He could just make out the ruined fence.
Amador led them to his jet. The air stairs had been restored to their rightful position, and the group of them trudged up and into the plane. David, the last in line, paused inside the portal, where Amador waited to shut the door.
"About the bodies," he said. "Tesler and Nkosi."
The other man shrugged, his expression unconcerned. "I have already contacted Wickham about all of this."
Yes, David remembered Amador making a phone call during the drive back to the airport. He'd spoken in Spanish — or at least it sounded like Spanish — most likely to prevent David or anyone else from eavesdropping.
"Wickham will arrange for the remains to be taken care of," Amador said.
Of course he would. "Taken care of" was probably a euphemism for "chucked into an incinerator." The lunatics deserved nothing better anyway.
David despised relying on Amador to deal with the aftermath. Hell, he despised the man in general. But he had no choice in this case, because he lacked the resources to clean up after his own mess. "What about the men they brainwashed and abused?"
"Wickham will have them sent to a private hospital I recently purchased. They will be well cared for, you have my word."
David bristled at the suggestion he should trust Amador's word, but Grace did, so he deferred to her judgment. Still, that didn't bar him from a little scornful suspicion. "You own a hospital? Awfully convenient. When did you buy it?"
The smug look on Amador's face had David's fist itching to connect with the bastard's jaw. "I purchased the hospital during my telephone discussion with Wickham in the car."
Christ. The son of a bitch could buy an entire hospital in the space of one ten-minute conversation over the cell network. Rather than jealousy, as he might've expected, he experienced a bizarre twinge of appreciation. Wickham was doing the grunt work, but Amador orchestrated things. Both men had earned a little credit for their efforts.
David offered his hand to Amador. "Thank you. We'd be in a heap of trouble if you hadn't stepped in."
The other man accepted the handshake. "Do not thank me. This is the least I could do to begin to make amends."
Sean scuffled beside Amador. "Whoa, dude, how are you gonna explain all those bodies to the cops?"
Amador arched an eyebrow. "There were only five corpses, including Tesler and Nkosi. The rest are alive. And my colleague Wickham has contacts at the FBI and CIA who understand the importance of glossing over any deaths related to ALI or Digital Prognostics."
Grace wandered behind Amador. "Why would FBI agents help us cover up this… mess?"
"Because they owe us, Wickham and I." His mouth twisted into a somber, yet slightly amused, smile. "We liberated them from facilities elsewhere in the world."
"They're psychics?"
"Oh yes. The FBI and CIA often hire individuals with extrasensory abilities, though they don't advertise for those positions." Amador sighed. "Wickham recommended them for the jobs. He was MI-6 at one time, and had fostered relationships with several individuals at those agencies."
David stared at Wickham, his mind sputtering in an attempt to process what the man had said. Gabriel Amador — who abducted and tortured a teenage girl — rescued detainees from ALI facilities and got them jobs back home? The two types of behavior clashed. Didn't they? A person couldn't torment a young woman to the brink of insanity, then traipse off to be a hero.
"You don't believe it," Amador said, his gaze intent on David, "do you, Mr. Ransom?"
"You might as well call me David," he said with a resigned sigh. "And no, I can't quite reconcile your supposed heroics with what you did to Grace or the way you treated that girl Cari."
Amador had the
sense to bow his head, in imitation of shame if nothing else. He rubbed his neck. "Desperation makes the weak-willed do terrible things."
David analyzed the man's posture — stooped, head down, arms slack — but he wasn't ready yet to accept Amador's shame as genuine. "You're admitting to being weak."
"Yes." Amador's head lifted slightly, enough for him to turn his eyes toward Grace. "I do not ask forgiveness, but please believe me. I will do anything within my power to set right the grievous wrongs I've inflicted on you and others."
"Don't talk to her," David said. "You speak to me."
Grace gave him an exasperated look. "Cool down, cowboy. We're all on the same team, you know. We — all of us together — defeated Tesler, Nkosi, and a passel of mind-controlled, armed men."
Teeth grinding, David glared at Amador.
Grace sidled around Amador and slipped an arm around David's waist, snuggling against him. His body reacted the way it always did, without his consent, curling an arm around her shoulders and relaxing into her warmth and suppleness. The feel of her body against his comforted him more than he'd realized until this moment. Until he'd almost lost her.
But dammit, he wanted to be annoyed. At the man feigning regret. At the scumbag who drugged the woman he loved. He had a frigging right to be pissed.
Her hand slid across his belly, her fingers dancing over his shirt and exciting the flesh underneath. Her every action was directed at him, but she spoked to Amador. "David needs a little time to adjust and accept you're sincere. I'm sure you can understand that."
She injected the last sentence with a faint sternness, a directive for Amador to comply.
"Naturally," Amador said, his head raised to meet David's gaze, "I understand your need to see proof of my intentions. I will demonstrate with actions, not words. One day, I hope you'll see I wish to change." His attention shifted to Grace for a second, and a mysterious emotion flickered over his face. "Grace told me once it's not too late to come back from the madness I gave in to. Her compassion and conviction have persuaded me she is correct. From this day forward, I will commit myself to that recovery."
"How?" David asked.
"By signing myself in to the same hospital where the men from Nkosi's army will be tended to." He shoved his hands in his pockets, then pulled them out, reached up as if to touch his face and retracted his hand. "There is psychiatric unit. The doctors are excellent, or so Wickham assures me. I trust him implicitly."
