Deadly Seduction

by Cate Noble

  He turned back to Erin. “The MRI machine was down for a short time earlier, but Dr. Giles is working to expedite our other patient through the queue. Now, we’re scheduled to meet with our associates in a few minutes. I’d prefer you let me handle the explanation of this incident.”

  She wanted to protest, but when she opened her mouth to speak, her mind abruptly went back to Max as if something pulled her toward him.

  What was wrong with her today? Had the combination of stress, lack of sleep, and jet lag gotten to her?

  She cast another look at Max, and again felt an irresistable tug. “I need to gather my things,” she said to Winchette. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  Max followed the voices, but found it increasingly difficult to keep up. The woman was talking now, her voice almost as soothing as her touch. Come back.

  He heard the door shut but sensed he wasn’t alone. The angel had stayed. Thank God!

  Erin. Her name is Erin.

  Though he couldn’t see her, he knew she’d moved back toward his bed. He prayed she’d touch him again. An image of her shimmered in his mind. Dark red hair, glossy like a burnished halo. And big eyes. The kind you fell into.

  Angel eyes.

  Establishing a link with her had been easy. And…pleasurable. He’d wanted more, had wanted to deepen and explore their bond. She wanted more, too. No, needed more.

  He reached out to her now, felt her confusion and embarrassment, but couldn’t maintain a connection. Whatever that man, Dr. Winchette, had given him was fast acting, peeling away his tenuous grasp on reality.

  Unfortunately, Max hadn’t had the strength to establish a lasting link with Winchette. He’d tried to see the man’s thoughts, but had come away with scattered impressions and bad vibes.

  Only one thing was sure. Winchette reeked of subterfuge; he intended harm. And he was on his way to find Taz.

  Run, Taz. Hide!

  “I’m here, Max.”

  Max was aware of Erin’s hand grasping his, but her touch, her words, were ripped away as the drug rolled fully over him, leaving him with that familiar sensation of being uncertain whom to trust. Once again he’d been cast adrift in stormy seas.

  For now hope was lost.

  But the next time he came to…he vowed that he would kill anyone who came near him.

  Chapter 6

  Four men were huddled in the hallway a short distance from Max’s room.

  Erin recognized the tall blonde, Rocco Taylor, but her gaze widened as she realized the man standing next to him was Dante Johnson.

  Because they’d done subsequent sessions by telephone, she hadn’t seen Dante in months. He looked nothing like the frail tortured man she recalled. He’d gained weight, muscle mass. But it was his eyes that told the real story. The haunting emptiness was gone, replaced by something profoundly peaceful.

  She extended her hand. “You look fantastic, Dante.”

  He smiled. “Good to see you again, Dr. Houston. You remember my partner, Rocco Taylor?”

  “Mr. Taylor.” Erin kept it formal.

  Rocco didn’t. “Doc. You look fantastic, too. Still gorgeous as ever.”

  Erin wanted to cringe at his obvious flirting, which she didn’t take seriously, nor did it offend her. She just wished he hadn’t done it in front of Winchette.

  The third man stepped closer, his hand extended. “I’m Travis Franks. We met once briefly in Virginia.”

  While not much older than Dante, Travis Franks had that calmly authoritative air that bespoke high rank. He’s seen much misery yet he’s not bitter, she thought as she shook his hand.

  “Of course she remembers all of you,” Winchette interjected snidely. “It hasn’t been that long.”

  It was impossible to ignore the shimmering tension. Belatedly she realized Winchette’s rudeness was meant to establish dominance. He liked to posture by giving orders, which was difficult to do on someone else’s turf.

  Of course, Travis Franks was equally off turf. But he had two people with him, which to Winchette’s way of thinking meant Franks was ahead, probably with bonus points since his people were also male.

  Like it or not, the sexist good-old-boy mentality had yet to die out.

  “Let’s move to the conference room,” Winchette said. “This way.”

  Once inside the small meeting room, Winchette asserted himself at the head of the table. Erin took the seat immediately to his left. Travis sat opposite her.

  Winchette started talking before Dante and Rocco were seated. “Let me state up front that if you want a prognosis on these two men, it’s entirely too early. I am still waiting on test results and I haven’t even had a chance to examine John Doe yet. Based on what I’ve seen thus far, however, I’m not optimistic. As Dr. Houston and I just witnessed, Mr. Duncan’s seizures are increasing in frequency and severity, which will require deeper levels of sedation to control.”

  “I don’t get that,” Travis said. “I had hoped the seizures would subside once the swelling in his brain decreased.”

  “Hope has no scientific bearing, Mr. Franks,” Winchette said. “Facts are facts. And from what I understand, those facts appear even more dire for your John Doe. Speaking of Mr. Doe, have you been able to obtain any history?”

  “Not yet. His fingerprints are being run as we speak,” Travis said. “And as I mentioned earlier, I don’t want to advertise his existence, so the process may take a bit longer.”

  “If he’s not one of your men, what is his status? Friend or foe?” Erin asked.

  “For now, John Doe should be treated as an ally,” Travis said. “At least until we debrief them—which we can’t do until they regain consciousness.”

  Erin had worked with enough security agencies to recognize the double-talk. “At least until we debrief,” meant that even though Max Duncan was one of their own, he’d be scrutinized closely before being “welcomed” back to the fold. And John Doe would be treated like a leper.

  “What do you make of their physical shape?” Winchette asked. “They look pretty—what’s the word—buff?”

  “Compared to how I looked?” Dante asked. “Yeah. But before you call him buff, look at him without a shirt. Max is sporting some hellacious scars. So is Doe. They’ve been burned, cut, whipped, and who knows what else.”

  Erin felt her stomach clench at the confirmation of torture.

  Winchette changed tactics. “Well, friend or foe, I want these men transferred to Virginia immediately. Given that mind manipulation is also suspected, they need to be in a specialized facility.” Dr. Winchette looked at Travis again. “Now, I’d like to hear details about the circumstances these men were found in.”

  Travis reached for his briefcase. “I have photographs taken during the recovery operation. I’m hoping you can shed light on some of this laboratory equipment.” He slid a stack of photos toward Winchette.

  Erin shifted sideways so she could see them, too. The first ones showed a crude laboratory. Then there were close-ups of the counters and cabinets. She saw nothing unusual or particularly dangerous. Microscopes. Titration equipment. Beakers.

  She pointed to the label on one of the bottles. “Is that Chinese?”

  “Yes,” Travis said.

  “You’re having translations done?” Winchette asked.

  “Of course. We have some actual samples, which will be tested as well.” Travis peered over the top of the photographs Winchette held, clearly eager for him to move on. “Shuffle ahead and tell me if you’ve seen anything like that.”

  Dr. Winchette flipped through the photos and abruptly stopped. “What the devil?” He bent closer. “It looks like an old sensory deprivation unit.”

  As Erin stared at the photograph of the cylindrical chamber, a sense of horror prickled up her spine and her mind began to spin. She remembered this.

  Jeez, how old had she been? Five or six? It had been one of those nights when her father had been called out to the hospital on an emergency. As a single parent, he’d si
mply taken her along.

  She’d been in his office alone, watching her favorite mermaid cartoon, when she’d had to go to the bathroom. She’d gone in search of her father, opened the wrong door. She remembered seeing this machine—or one like it.

  She didn’t know which had scared her more, the way the machine seemed to glow—or the muffled voice of someone inside screaming. She had promptly wet her pants and run away. When her father found her hiding beneath his desk, she told him what she’d seen and heard.

  He’d hugged her and laughed. Then told her it was just a bad Halloween joke someone had rigged up. A joke meant for adults, not small imaginative children. He’d gently chided her for wandering around. He’d also sworn to tell no one about her little accident if she agreed to tell no one about seeing the joke.

  But it had been months before he’d taken her to his lab again. And even longer before he left her alone while there.

  That image had haunted her sleep back then. And to see it now. Dear God! She had a brief image of Max trapped inside the machine. In intense pain—screaming.

  She blinked away the image. Why was her past haunting her now? Was this one of the things in her father’s files that she needed to locate?

  “Are you okay, Dr. Houston?” Travis asked.

  Erin realized she’d gasped and apologized. She cleared her throat, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m fine. It’s just that this looks rather…surreal.”

  Winchette glanced sideways at her, but didn’t comment further, leaving her to wonder if he had recognized the machine.

  He began flipping through the rest of the photos more quickly. There were shots of another man, the John Doe she supposed, strapped to a table, his eyes and ears covered with optic and audio input devices. Diode patches were visible on his skin.

  That she somehow knew those diodes delivered muscle stimulus, some punishing, some positive, seemed to emphasize the awful certainty that Max had been subjected to this treatment as well. Her heart ached for him—for anyone who had been subjected to that.

  “I’d say this confirms that someone was attempting a type of brainwashing,” Winchette said.

  Travis clasped his hands on the table in front of him, leaning over them slightly as his gaze leveled with Winchette’s. “But what type? Are you familiar with that machine?”

  “Only in the vaguest sense. I’ve seen photographs of similar sensory deprivation units, but that one has clearly been modified. Unfortunately these pictures tell me little. I need to know the specific audio and visual stimuli that were used.” Dr. Winchette tamped the photos into a stack and settled back in his chair. “Did your men learn anything from the people running the facility? What did you say the name of the scientist who escaped was?”

  “Dr. Rufin.” Travis reclaimed the photos and looked pointedly at Erin. “I know this will not be discussed beyond these walls, but as far as the rest of the world is concerned, Dr. Rufin is still in our custody.”

  Disinformation, Erin thought.

  Travis went on. “And we learned nothing; though I do expect to have Rufin back in our custody soon. In the meantime, I have a damaged laptop and two external hard drives that I hope will yield some clues.”

  Winchette perked up. “I’d like to see that as well. I have staff with specialized training who can decrypt and analyze that type of data.”

  Travis shook his head. “Thanks, but I’d prefer you and Dr. Houston concentrate on helping these men regain consciousness.” He spoke directly to Erin now. “One of our operatives is still missing. I hope that Max or John Doe can provide clues to his whereabouts. I do not want to waste any time waiting for their memories to sort or surface—or whatever. I was hesitant to do so in the past, but this time I suggest we start off using hypnosis at the first sign of a memory gap. Your extraordinary work in the field of hypnotherapy speaks for itself.”

  “I’ll be glad to work with these men,” Erin said. Especially Max. She shook her head at that thought. She’d be happy to work with both men.

  “It’s premature to have that conversation,” Winchette said. “Particularly since neither man has regained consciousness.”

  Erin squirmed. She had hoped Dr. Winchette would mention her encounter with Max. That he hadn’t effectively muzzled her.

  “Any clue how soon they’ll come to?” Dante asked this question.

  “None. I should point out that, typically, the longer a patient remains unconscious—the less likely that they’ll regain it,” Winchette warned. “So it’s critical I get my hands on everything seized in that raid. To understand what was done. And while I’ll do everything in my power to help these men, I have much better resources in Virginia. So about moving them…”

  As Dr. Winchette outlined his proposal for transporting the men, Erin’s gaze drifted back to the stack of photos.

  The horde of self-doubts that had crept into her mind had helped her regain a sense of healthy skepticism. And right now that skepticism reminded her that the incident she had recalled happened over twenty-five years ago. Maybe she wasn’t remembering any of it right; she’d been so small. So impressionable.

  And while she’d never mentioned it again, her father and Winchette had worked together back then. Winchette should have recognized the machine immediately.

  Unless…

  Was he purposely not mentioning it out of a sense of loyalty to Erin’s father?

  Or had it had been one of their classified projects, which meant Dr. Winchette couldn’t mention it. A sour taste flooded her mouth at the idea that her father and Winchette may have participated in mind-tampering studies. No! She couldn’t bear the thought of her father doing anything unethical.

  She glanced up and found Dante watching her. Shifting in her seat, she tried to refocus on what Winchette was saying. Something about—

  A loud buzzer cut off his words.

  “Fire alarm,” Dante said as he and Rocco moved simultaneously toward the door.

  But before they reached it, a mechanized voice came over the public address system. “Code red. Alert level two. All visitors proceed to the nearest exit. This is not a drill.”

  Taz had the technician pinned by the throat. “That was a stupid thing to do.”

  The alarm the tech had triggered clanged loudly, adding a new dimension to the headache that had started the moment Taz awakened completely disoriented inside the noisy, tubelike space.

  His first thought, that he’d come awake during a programming session, had proved false when this man, a total stranger, had rushed in and freed him. Freed him. Where were the guards? Where was Dr. Rufin?

  Taz had taken the man down and given him ten seconds to answer four questions: Where am I? How did I get here? What day is it?

  And where is Hades?

  The man babbled about two unconscious men who had been brought to the hospital under military escort. A hospital in San Diego, California.

  Two men. The other had to be Hades.

  “Where did they take Hades? Is Dr. Rufin with him?”

  The man’s eyes bulged as he struggled to speak. “Don’t…know…Dr. Rufin.” The alarm seemed to grow louder.

  Taz grunted and threw the man across the room. The man hit a wall and slumped to the floor, unconscious. But Taz had seen his last desperate thought: police swarming in and taking Taz down.

  No way.

  Dashing out the emergency exit, Taz found himself in an alley between two buildings. His eyes felt sensitive to light, as if laser sabers were being thrust into his head. Dizziness tangled his steps. Leaning against a large metal trash bin, he vomited.

  Get a grip, mate. He sucked in air, willing the nausea to pass.

  Run, hide and mission incomplete, repeated in his head. Since he had no idea what mission they’d been on, he went with the first suggestion. Escape and evade.

  He looked down at his bare feet, suddenly confused by the concept of freedom. He and Hades had planned for this, right? But what was their plan?

  The string o
f garbled images and words running through his mind made no sense. Stasis. He had to wait for stasis to clear. Then it would make sense. For now all he needed to do was avoid capture.

  He’d escaped several times before, but had always been captured. The punishments were ungodly—and they never suffered alone. He couldn’t go through that again.

  Running to the end of the alley, he waited as a tractor trailer maneuvered into position at the loading dock. The bleating of the backup warning bounced around inside his head like a pinball machine on tilt. Taz waited for the driver to go inside before moving around the truck, using it for cover.

  The rest of the alley was deserted. The sun was low in the sky, heralding evening. He headed for the row of hedges lining a fenced-in tennis court.

  HOSPITAL EMPLOYEES ONLY, the sign read. Following the hedges, he let himself in the unlocked gate. A plain concrete block building stood beyond the clay court.

  The men’s locker room was empty. He searched the stalls and found a discarded wire hanger, which he used to force open the door marked MAINTENANCE.

  Inside that small closet was a second door. That one opened into a large garage area filled with lawn equipment.

  “King Solomon’s mine,” he whispered.

  He helped himself to a dark blue jumpsuit and pulled on a pair of rubber boots. Looking around, he found a battered hard hat and a pair of sunglasses.

  When he buried the hospital gown in the trash can, he pulled out the folded newspaper on top and eyed the banner: San Diego Union-Tribune, September 19th. How long had it been since he actually knew where he was, much less the date? It seemed like a fucking eternity!

  He eyed the paper again. He had a vague notion of having been to California before, but trying to recall specifics was useless.

  Mission incomplete, echoed in his mind.

  Find Hades.

  Find Rufin.

  Take what is yours.

  The confusing jumble of words, commands, made no sense. Thinking didn’t help—in fact, the act of reasoning, questioning, seemed to compound the pain in his head. He felt dizzy, spacey. And until that passed, he needed a safe place to hide.