“I’m going to kill you all tomorrow. Only we don’t call it killing, we call it ‘harvesting.’ That’s right. As if your brains were tomatoes. Or corn.”
Every sensor showed spiking values. Heart rate 140, BP 190/130, the hypothalamus was sending massive amounts of CRH to the pituitary gland and the cortisol level rose to 1,000 nmol/L, high enough to cause instant Cushing’s syndrome.
The drug was now fully in Nine’s system and he fought wildly against the restraints, so wildly Lee straightened, a whisper of fear in his system.
Nonsense. No one could get through the restraints. Certainly not a man who’d lost half his body weight and was drugged to the gills.
Still . . .
The chair was bolted to the floor but it seemed to move a fraction of an inch. Nine was shaking wildly, writhing, every muscle standing out in full relief on his emaciated body, pulling, straining at his bonds.
The bonds held, though Nine’s movements became powerful, controlled, pulling, straining, a low animal moan coming from deep in his throat. The bonds rattled but held. Nine was helplessly restrained.
All values were haywire, the man should have been unconscious minutes ago; clearly SL-59 was allowing him this extra effort. Lee was going to study the recordings of this carefully, was going to correlate every muscle twitch, every pull of his arms and legs, with brain activity and blood adrenaline and cortisol levels.
These moments were going to be richly harvested for data. But there was also revenge, hot and sweet, laced through with utter triumph.
“I’m going to be studying your men’s brains under a microscope tomorrow morning,” he hissed, knowing it was true, reveling in the knowledge. His eyes were fixed on Nine’s face, strained in a rictus. The values were right next to Nine’s face. Nine’s brain readings were compatible with a massive stroke, and yet he still fought hard against his restraints.
There was an ominous rattling sound audible over the low moans coming from Nine’s throat. The moans grew louder, the rattling louder, the chair was actually shaking a little. For a startled moment, Lee wondered whether it was an earthquake. The Big One, finally here.
But no, it was Nine, muscles somehow infused with extra power—that was definitely 59—straining so hard at his bonds blood was seeping under the leather straps holding down his wrists. He was moving so violently he was actually making the chair bolted to the floor shift a little.
It would hold. The bonds would hold.
Nine’s strength would go out presently. It was artificial and would leave him limp and depleted when it ran out.
Lee knew a way to burn it out of him.
He placed his nose next to Nine’s, his hands over Nine’s. The skin over the hands was loose, crepe-like, the hands shaking violently inside the restraints.
Lee smiled into Nine’s dull eyes. “I am a scientist and I am trained to observe dispassionately, emotionlessly. But it will give me great pleasure tomorrow to have your men put down like the dogs they are. I will watch their eyes as they die and I will exam their brains personally, slice by slice. You will be in the room with me, watching everything I do, and then it will be your turn and I will enjoy every minute of it.”
The shaking was more powerful, Nine’s bare feet drummed against the floor, fingers curling and uncurling. Every muscle, every sinew, was visible.
The rage and frustration rose in Lee. “Your men will die, Captain, and so will you. Die accused of being traitors!”
With a wild shriek coming from deep in his chest, Nine wrenched his right hand free from the restraint, blood drops flying, grabbing Lee’s arm, smearing it with blood. He screamed hoarsely, and before Lee could react, Nine’s hand dropped and his head lolled forward like a dead man’s.
Frowning, Lee pulled back his eyelids, two fingers on the carotid artery, then raised his head, satisfied.
Unconscious, not dead.
Today was not Nine’s day for dying. Tomorrow was.
Mount Blue
Mac quietly entered his quarters late in the evening. Their quarters. Catherine was living there now and he couldn’t imagine coming into his quarters without the hope of seeing her there.
And yes, there she was, sitting up in his bed, head slumped to the side, fast asleep.
He stopped right inside the door as it slid closed behind him, looking at her, absorbing the blow to the heart at seeing her in his bed. The walls were on “vista,” Jon’s name for the program. Ever since she discovered what the system could do, it was never switched off, always seemingly open to the elements. She’d elected to keep it attuned to the timeline, and it was deepest night outside, the moon turning the deep snow bright silver. She’d selected the camera that had the widest view down into the valley and, he had to admit, it was spectacular.
She was spectacular. She had fallen asleep with his eReader on her lap. The eReader was linked to an untraceable credit card and she’d loaded up though she hadn’t had time for much reading. She’d spent the whole day in the infirmary going over supplies, setting a broken bone, and Pat and Salvatore now officially adored her.
Look at her, he thought as he crossed the room. She’d fallen asleep in an uncomfortable position, head tilting over on her shoulder, eReader in a lax hand. He gently took the reader away and managed to get her to lie down without waking her up. She’d tried to stay awake for him but he’d worked late in HQ, plotting out a scenario to infiltrate Millon Labs with Nick and Jon that wouldn’t get them killed and wouldn’t be a huge arrow pointing straight back at Haven.
They’d sent their brand-new drones over the lab, flying at ten thousand feet for hours. Two missions each. One by day. One by night.
They’d continue sending drones and in a few days Jon and Nick would go on a two-day recon.
Mac had mixed feelings. He believed whatever Catherine said. If she said the sky was made of cheese, he was willing to entertain the notion. He certainly believed she believed Lucius was in the lab. Whether he actually was, was another matter.
So. They were going in.
From what they’d seen, security was tight and the guards were armed. Ordinarily, Mac didn’t care. He’d pit himself, Nick and Jon against any number of armed guards. But—and this was a constant for a soldier—shit happens.
He’d always been perfectly prepared to die. He was a hard man to kill but dangerous situations were unpredictable and he’d seen good men, well-trained men, die, because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, stepping on that hidden mine, unable to dodge the bullet.
For the very first time in his life as a soldier, Mac didn’t want to die. He had something—someone—to come home to. No one in Ghost Ops had anyone to come home to, by definition, but now he did.
He wanted, fiercely, to live. He wanted to live with Catherine for the rest of their natural lives. He wanted to build their community, protect it, watch it grow. He was on the run but he could even marry Catherine. Not legally, of course, but there was a man in Haven who’d been a pastor of a church that had been bulldozed by a developer and had made his way to Haven. He was a good pastor and a good man and they could have a ceremony. One of those New Age things he’d always laughed at but he’d do it. Commit to her before his community.
Stella would cater.
Oh yeah.
Mac stripped, slipped into bed beside Catherine, turned off the lights with a flick of his finger.
He was hard as a rock. Just touching her, feeling all that warm softness next to him, set him off. But he didn’t really need to feel her or even see her. Just the thought of her was enough.
Slowly, slowly he eased her into his arms, settled her head on his shoulder and lay there, one hand behind his head, staring at the ceiling, wanting Catherine more than he wanted his next breath.
She was there, right there. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if he woke her up, she’d welcome him. She’d open those long legs, open her arms, open that delightful cunt. He’d slide into her, like sliding into home, and they’d
start moving together in perfect rhythm.
At some point, though, he was going to have to do more than slide on top of her, then into her. However welcoming she always was, women wanted—needed—foreplay. And by God, he’d give it to her if he wasn’t always so fucking blasted from the heat in his head.
He did foreplay. He was even good at it. A man who looked like him had to know his way around a woman’s body, and he did. He once got a woman off by sucking her toes. He knew what to do. And he wanted to do it with Catherine.
God, yes. He wanted to kiss those pretty breasts, over and over, until his mouth knew her shape instinctively. He wanted to suck them, kiss them all over until the nipples turned cherry red and hard. Then he’d kiss his way down over that flat belly, slowly, feeling her writhe, until he got to the main attraction.
Oh yeah. He didn’t mind going down on women but he craved the thought with Catherine. Lifting her legs, opening them, settling down between them. God, he was sure he could stay there for hours. Puffy pink lips in that soft, dark cloud of hair, begging to be kissed. What he really wanted was for her to come while stroking her with his tongue, feeling the sharp contractions against his mouth, hearing her cries and moans while fucking her with his tongue . . .
Oh shit. He felt like whimpering. So good, it would be so good and why the fuck hadn’t he done it before? Because his brain blasted, went nova, the instant he touched her. There wasn’t anything else in his mind other than getting inside her with his cock. It was pure instinct, absolutely irresistible.
Maybe when he’d had her a few thousand times, maybe when they could settle into a routine like normal couples—though he had no fucking clue how normal couples behaved—maybe then he could indulge in some foreplay.
But now he had the burning images of his face buried between her thighs, of sucking her nipples with his hand inside her—and now that he thought about it, wow. Feeling her climax with his hand instead of his cock . . . except his cock, which had a mind of its own, was going to want to be inside her, too.
It was all too much for him, just the thought of the thousands of hours ahead of him with Catherine as his own personal playground. God.
His cock hurt. He could feel his heartbeat there and he felt like he would split open at every pulse. His balls were pulled up tight, ready to blow. The solution to his problem was right there, right in his arms. If he went down on her right now, he could make her wet enough to take him in no time. They could be fucking in a few minutes, no question, and he wouldn’t hurt so much.
But . . .
But she’d looked so tired. There’d been blue bruises under those glorious silver eyes. Pat told him she’d worked all day with her and Salvatore in the infirmary, had patched up one of their engineering guys who’d broken an arm trying to wrestle a beam into a wall. She’d had nothing but surprises since setting out to find him, she’d nearly frozen to death, he’d nearly fucked her to death . . .
Couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. He would just lie here with his blue steeler and listen to her breathe and be happy she was getting some rest. There was always tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. They’d have plenty of time together. Eventually, he’d get around to foreplay.
He closed his eyes and drifted . . .
He was drifting along a river, warm water lapping around him, soft and gentle. He floated on his back, the sun warm on his face, the cloudless sky a blue so perfect it hurt the eyes. Mac smiled, eyes closed.
Perfect. Everything was fucking perfect.
The water lapped around him softly, moving him gently. A river? The ocean? If it was the ocean it sure as hell wasn’t the Pacific around Coronado. That had always been cold as hell. This was somewhere else. Where? Who the fuck cared?
Wherever it was, it smelled really good. He drew in a deep breath. Most of the smells he could identify spelled trouble. Semtex, cordite, gun solvent. This wasn’t like those smells at all, this was like heaven, like springtime, clear and clean and fresh. Maybe he actually was in heaven. That didn’t make sense, though. Ghost Ops guys weren’t going to heaven, unless maybe Catherine could get him in.
There was something on his arm, light and warm and soft, weighing it down. He should look and see what it was, but his eyes simply wouldn’t open. Wouldn’t do it. Everything felt so damned good he couldn’t bring himself to exert himself in any way.
And besides, if this was heaven, who wanted to mess with heaven?
He drifted, content, on a sea of pleasure.
A cry of agony pierced the air, sharp with pain. Terrible, unending pain, raw and unbearable.
Mac shot up, grabbed his Glock from the bedside table. He was a soldier, he came out of sleep fast. In a nanosecond he was oriented. He was in bed and Catherine had been sleeping on his shoulder.
She wasn’t asleep now, she was screaming her head off. It was a good thing all the rooms in Haven were soundproofed.
Mac snapped his fingers and the room lights came up, on dim. She was terrified, no sense in making her feel she was under a spotlight. He gave a swift look around the room just to make sure there weren’t any hidden dangers, but the room was as empty as it had been when he fell asleep. There wasn’t a man alive who could sneak into his room undetected. Not even Nick or Jon.
No external threat. He established that in a second. Now he could deal with Catherine. Placing the Glock back on the bedside table, he pulled her gently into his arms, holding her as tightly as he dared.
The screaming had stopped but she was making frightening noises in her throat, harsh cut-off sobs that were almost worse than the screaming, as if she didn’t dare scream any longer, as if she were too scared to scream.
She was panting, shaking wildly, bone white down to her lips. Taking in air in great gulping sobs, muscles rigid as wood as he held her. He had a hand over her back and could feel her heart beating wildly like an animal facing down a predator. Like an animal facing death.
It hurt him somewhere deep inside, a place he’d never felt before. It hurt so badly, seeing, hearing, feeling her panic.
He hugged her more tightly, letting his body absorb her shudders, trying to offer the comfort of his body, like you’d comfort a terrified child or animal. She seemed beyond words but he tried anyway.
“Shhh.” He rocked with her in his arms. “It was a dream, honey. A nightmare. A doozy by the look of it. But just a dream. Nothing can hurt you, you’re safe now—”
Catherine pushed at his chest, hard, and he let go of her in surprise, instinctively. It was the push of a woman who was saying no. The instant his arms loosened she shot out of bed, rushing frantically to find her clothes, pulling on her jeans, shuffling sockless into her boots. All the while shaking and shivering as if just pulled out of freezing water.
“Honey,” Mac said carefully. Everything he knew about her was that she was sane and stable. Her emotions were steady, tinged with a little sadness. But this had all the hallmarks of an emotional breakdown, a psychotic episode. “Tell me—”
“No time.” Her teeth were chattering. “No time.” She looked up, eyes wild, searching for her shirt and sweater, but only for a second, snatching up his huge tee and throwing it over her head. It billowed and settled on her slender shoulders, making her look like a fragile teenager. “Where do you guys meet?”
Mac was already dressed. Whatever it was that had happened, whatever she needed, he wanted to help her and he couldn’t do that with his naked ass hanging out.
That threw him. “What?”
She put her hands on her head and twirled around, as if unable to contain her agitation. “Where do you guys meet, do you have a meeting room with communications? Some kind of headquarters?”
“Of course. Do you want me to take you there?”
She was already at the door, standing in front of it, practically dancing in place, searching for the door release button, missing it in her anxiety. “Let’s go, let’s go,” she chanted under her breath. “Get your men. Do you have anyone else besides Nick
and Jon?”
He shook his head no and tapped on his ear, glad he’d automatically put in the comms.
“Yeah,” he said when Nick answered. He’d been asleep but Nick woke in a second, fully operational. They all did. “HQ, two minutes. Tell Jon. Slingshot.” Their code for an emergency.
He touched the right spot on the wall and the door slid open. Catherine shot out into the hall looking wildly right and left. A vein was pulsing visibly in her throat. “What direction?”
“Right. Elevator at the end of the corridor.”
She took off, running. Mac easily kept pace. From ten feet out, he waved and the elevator doors opened. Without breaking her pace she ran inside. He followed her in, calmly punched in the floor and turned to her.
She was shaking, arms wrapped around herself as if to keep herself warm. It hurt him to see her like that. He stepped to her, wrapped his arms around her, rested his cheek against the top of her head.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, rocking her a little because she needed movement to dissipate some of the anxious tension racking her. He knew the mechanism well. The body is screaming for action but you don’t know what action to take, so the body just hums with tension. “It’ll be okay.”
“No,” she whispered into his shoulder, though the shudders had subsided some. “I don’t know if it will.” Catherine pulled her head back to look him in the face and he winced at her expression. She was white-faced and hurting. Tears welled in her eyes, and as he watched, one slipped over and slid down her cheek, like a drop of water over marble. “We have to move so fast. It will be so hard.”
Mac didn’t make the mistake of smiling. Whatever had spooked her was terrifying her and was real, to her at least. He wiped the tear with the pad of his thumb and bent to kiss her cold mouth. “We can do hard, honey. We’ve been doing hard for a long time. We specialize in it.”
A soft ping and the doors opened. Mac took Catherine’s elbow and walked fast to their HQ, Catherine running to keep up. Two people across the great atrium looked at them, frowning at the speed, then looked away.
Heart of Danger Page 22
