by Angel Payne
“Because we have good reason to be tense?” Fershan mumbles.
“Shut. Up,” Foley spits.
“What the hell?” I laser him with a glare.
“One step at a time.” Foley includes everyone in the reproof, even me, before nodding back at Alex. “Go ahead, Trestle.” When Alex replies with a questioning brow, he states, “Tag team. You’re part one.”
“There are parts?” I don’t hold back on the new flare of my eyes. “And now that we’re talking the team, where’s Wade?”
Foley dips his head, working way too hard to maintain the neutrality across his face. “Like I said, man, one step at a time.”
“But how many steps are we talking?” I snap. “You did say I was only out for four hours, yeah?” How much of a shit show could’ve gone down in that time?
My apprehension is nudged as Foley whisks back by a step, deferring to Alex while cocking a sardonic brow. “After you, boy wonder.”
Alex gives back as good as he gets with the sardonic expression. Trestle, our king of disguises on the outside and prince of tech expertise on the inside, has chosen to channel George Patton’s grit with Edward Cullen’s pathos—which is either pure weirdness or complete genius. I’m too exhausted to attempt a final call on the matter now.
Without further ado, he starts in. “In a nutshell, there’s good news and weird news.”
I lean forward. The action drops the blanket around my waist down to my hips, but I don’t give a shit. What Alex says is a lot more important than what he sees right now. “Weird news?”
“Because it’s not necessarily bad news.” Fershan steps forward, looking like a flight attendant having to tell the passengers the plane has “a wee bit of engine trouble.”
I sit up higher. Drop the blanket lower. And care even less. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s a slight blip, and we’re fixing it.” Alex is right on time as the “sensible” flight attendant.
“A slight blip.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Then, fighting dizziness and nausea, force myself to fully sit up. “You want to explain why every instinct in my gut is calling bullshit on that?” And continues to do so, no matter how fiercely my brain bellows that I’ve just spent half a day in a psychological no-man’s land and it might be prudent to cut my “instincts” a huge break?
Which will happen. Just as soon as I get a straight answer, with an honest gaze, from even one of these fuckers.
“Okay, okay.” Alex spreads his hands wider, as if smoothing bed wrinkles off the air. “We’re putting carts in front of horses, and the animals aren’t even saddled yet.” More calming wrinkle-smoothing as the guy turns to fully face me—and at last grows the cajones to level his gaze with mine.
I drop my brows even lower. “What?” My trepidation doesn’t budge by a single degree.
Until I’m cognizant enough to ask myself the same damn question.
And realize that my brain already has the answer.
Because of what it’s not full of.
Because of who it’s not full of.
“Holy fuck.” I release one hand from its punishing grip on the edge of the table and wham it against my temple. “Holy, glorious, fuck of all fucks.” I add a gleeful cackle that could make me the next worthy contender for the Joker. “Where’d the bitch go? Wait. Scratch that. I don’t want to know. She’s gone, and I’m close to French kissing every one of you beautiful bastards for it.”
“Easy, Romeo.” Foley joins Alex in flattening the invisible bedspread. “We’re not sure Radio Faline is totally off the air yet.”
“We had to MacGyver a fix faster than we expected.” Getting to shout-out for one of his favorite heroes has detached Fersh from the awkward flight attendant thing—though his assertion reintroduces me to the well of troubled confusion.
“Why?” I prompt. “What was your original expectation?”
“He means we had to go in cold with an untested solution,” Alex inserts. “Going on the theory that Faline is really using radio waves to patch into your head, hopping onto whatever code Kane managed to cram into you, we figured that those waves would be interrupted if we could ionize your blood.”
Unlike a lot of conversations I have had with these guys, I actually follow what they’re saying. So far. “So you thought blasting me with a concentrated version of sun radiation would cause the radio frequencies to defract from the positive ions and free electrons—and then silence them.”
“Right on the money!” Fersh pushes up a thumb as if there’s a gold star on the end and he wants to smack it to my forehead.
“So how’d you make that happen?” I ask, genuinely interested despite the bizarreness that we’re discussing my fucking brain cells here. Back at Columbia, I’d picked a radio station conglomerate to study for an Investment Strategies midterm paper. It was one of a few times I’d actually been engaged by a college project. I’d learned an understanding of radio waves and how solar radiation and sun spots affect their strength. I also learned that most of those effects were temporary and that ions and electrons eventually equalize and recombine, allowing radio waves back through.
Leading back to the caution Foley’s already tossed out.
“We rewired the lines from all the photovoltaic cells in this place.” Alex darts a smirk toward the ceiling as emphasis. There are enough panels across this complex to give full power to a dozen Inglewood bungalows, three Simi Valley McMansions, and a couple of Santa Ynez ostrich farms. “Funneled them down here, where we switched out your IV lines for electric-safe PVC conduits, then shot the charge directly into you.”
As he relays the story, Fershan jams his hands into his lab coat pockets and fiddles with his favorite stress marbles. Even Foley gives in to a smirk. I don’t blame either of them.
“And you really just went for it,” I reply. “Balls to the wall? No test punch?” After confirming that much via their collective silence, I mutter, “That’s simultaneously cool and horrifying.” They saved me—but just as easily could’ve killed me.
“We had no time!” Fersh’s outburst seems to be borrowing another MacGyver meme—obscure as hell if that’s the case—but mixing it with genuine objection.
“Fersh is right,” Foley states. “There really wasn’t any time.” But as soon as I jump my brows and cock my head, demanding an explanation without having to demand it, he swings his stare back toward Alex. “And here’s where the master of tact gets to take it away again.”
“Dickwad,” Alex flings.
“For fuck’s sake. Just go for it,” Foley rumbles.
“What he said.” My rumble tackles the thunder cloud he won’t touch. Not that it’s necessary. Alex has known Foley longer, which means he also can tell when Foley’s simply being moody as opposed to don’t-fuck-with-me-I’m-on-a-mission grim. Right now, it’s blatantly the latter.
Alex yanks his shoulders back, clearly determined to support his explanation with an all-business posture. “We rushed because we knew you’d want to be woken up as soon as possible.”
“Why?” Though at once, my mind has plummeted to the same realm as my voice. Into the pit of caution—followed at once by the valley of apprehension.
And then right away into a swamp of fear.
It’s irrational at first, and I know that. Just because Emma’s not right here doesn’t mean she’s not here here. Which sounds, even in my head, like I’ve lingered too long at the Crazytown oxygen bar. But the recognition, coupled with Alex’s spidery tension and Foley’s vulture gloom, has me anxious to get moving. Now.
I grit my teeth and shove off the table as fast as possible but pay for it as soon as the room spins and my senses lurch. Still, I force my feet to stumble forward and push through the fallen blanket to make my way into the lab.
Where is she?
Where is she?
My balance reels harder. My gut clenches tighter.
As I realize she isn’t the only one missing here.
As
I fight to write that off as coincidence—though my gut already seems to know it’s not.
“Wade,” I blurt, because vocalizing his absence is easier. “And Angie.” I purposely stop there, forcing a wry tone past the bizarre ball of dread growing in my gut. “Where’d those crazy kids run off to?”
Please tell me they’re just grabbing snacks.
And please tell me Emmalina’s with them.
Please, goddamnit, tell me they’re all in the kitchen inhaling bowls of Ben and Jerry’s Bolt Jolt Brittle Sundae…
“Reece.” Foley’s already moved on from his grim mission voice—though the new tone comes as no fucking reassurance. This demeanor was likely perfected when an advocate for calm was needed despite every detail of the situation dictating otherwise.
Like now. When key details of the situation are missing.
“Where is she?” My gut has turned into the goddamned ice cream churn now, only the flavor is “Salted Caramel Craptastic.” I pretend I’m standing in bespoke Prada instead of my wobbly birthday suit and that Foley’s in cahoots with Emma on pranking me with a twisted game of hide-and-seek. “Come on, asshole. Give it up for the guy who signs your paychecks. Where’s she hiding her cute little ass this time?” Which only betrays how thinly stretched my neurons still are. Because no way in hell do I want Foley, or anyone, sparing half a brain cell on envisioning my woman’s ass.
Which, thank fuck, the guy gets right away—evidenced in his slight grimace at my innuendo. But when he hardly flinches, even to offer me some kind of reasonable explanation, the churn in my belly is replaced by worse—mechanics I’ve never experienced from my system before. Gears of dread that spiral so fast, the revolutions are blinding whirs. Those spins getting so hot, they ignite rocket boosters. Those fires getting so intense, every part of my logic is a blur of dangerous heat. Houston, we have lift-off.
But no sign of Emmalina Crist.
Ground control doesn’t look filled with great news on that front.
“She’s…not here, man.”
I wait a beat. Another. Accept my sweats from Alex and then jam my legs into them without wavering my gaze from Foley. Once the pants are on, I mutter, “Okay.” And edge as close to making it a question as I can. That’s all he’s going to get, since anything I’d add would squander time that’s now precious. Seconds he could be filling me in on what’s going on.
Finally I violate my own mandate and growl, “For Christ’s sake, Foley. Spit it the fuck out. She wasn’t taken, right?”
I almost retract the fucking question mark, let alone the words themselves. If that had been the case, I’d have woken up to a much different world. Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t have woken up at all. As loyal as all these guys are to me, they’d each slice off their left testicle and eat it for Emma. They’d have left me in that Pentobarbital haze for weeks more if it meant saving her. And Foley? He’d be stomping around here like a fucking starship captain on crack, ordering everyone to move at warp speed for the sake of finding her, including everyone he knows in the FBI, his spec ops buddies, and their special “resources.” The dude is maintaining the moody glower, making him look like a blond version of the sulking Beast without his Beauty. Thank fuck we didn’t build any real turrets into this place.
Wait.
A beast. Without his beauty.
I snap up, posture going rigid. Wheel around, double-checking both rooms again. “Lydia,” I pronounce. “Where is she? Maybe she dragged Em off on a walk…to distract her…”
“Except that the last time I saw her, I’d ordered her to go get some sleep while I watched over you in her place?” says the woman now entering through the door from the driveway, her red-tinted curls blown askew—with a matching tinge at the edges of her eyes. The redness isn’t from crying, though. It’s from deeper stress. A darker fear. “Wade and Angelique are gone too.”
And just like that, this shit has gotten shittier. “I noticed,” I growl, performing a fast evaluation of the Crist sister who is standing in front of me. It’s one thing when Foley gets dramatic and dystopian with us. It’s another when Lydia sports a red-rimmed gaze, tightly wound stance, and distinctly wobbly voice—without a single bit of Lydia sarcasm to lighten the impression.
Damn it.
Ground control, we’ve got a tiny hitch.
No fucking wonder they woke me up early.
But somehow—I really don’t know how—I fight every flame of the panic and rage. Refuse to punch either of those fucking buttons. It’s like fighting a forest fire with a blowtorch, but I have no choice. Now more than ever, I’ve got to keep this holocaust contained. To conserve the energy of the ions as much as possible. Every collision and spark to my system means less ionization and a greater possibility that the team’s grueling work will be for nothing. I’ll return to being the dead brick on their table again—or worse.
Because if Faline finds a way back into my blood again…
With that injunction in mind, I face Lydia again. Fold my arms over my chest, deciding to just go for the obvious. “I take it you did look in our bedroom?”
She nods. “Even out on the sun deck.”
It doesn’t surprise me that she knows about Emma’s little “happy spot” for escaping the world, and normally I’d be happy about the sisters’ special closeness, except for the way Lydia’s wearing every shred of her stress now. Something’s wrong, and the woman knows it. On top of that, I’m unable to feel Em at all for myself. Reaching out to her feels like trying to hear a whisper at a rock concert. There’s a fuck ton of extra noise in my senses right now, and organizing it into manageable files is going to take some time.
Time I don’t have.
Where’s a cosmic MacGyver when I fucking need one?
A question that ’Dia’s obviously asked for herself, as she swallows hard and lifts her dark, watery gaze back to me. “We’ve covered the rest of the house and grounds too—but they’re not here.”
Through sheer force of will, I summon strength to my legs and some balance to my head and use both to stumble outside to the driveway, where Foley is already waiting with a clenched expression and a stiff stance. “We’ve done the motor pool inventory,” he declares. “Angie’s rental is gone.”
Ground control, we’ll need to upgrade that hitch to a full shit storm, please…
I breathe hard, fighting a total nosedive into moroseness while leading the way into the house.
Once we’re in the foyer, I’m slammed by air that doesn’t feel right at all. Doesn’t smell right or even sound right either. Not without Emmalina here. Suddenly, the house has simply become a building. A structure. Walls and steps and furniture and a roof. Not my home.
Not our home.
Still, I suck all that shit back up and smack my hands together with a defined whomp—a sound loud enough to drown the cacophony in my senses so I can turn and grab one of my tablets from the foyer hutch. Swiftly, I swipe to the app that’ll show me where Emma’s phone is located—only I’m still waiting for it to load when Lydia grabs me by the wrist, already shaking her head. “I already tried. She left it here.”
I stare as if her head has fallen off. Clench my teeth as my bloodstream’s electrons eat away at their solar infusion. “What the hell?”
’Dia chews into her bottom lip. She’s picked up the habit from Emma and emulates her little sister to the point that I rub against the ache in my chest. “Reece,” she rasps. “The serve’s not lining up with the box here.”
“Bingo.” Foley’s exclamation goes with that like an orgasm in church, though his victorious grin only widens as Lydia and I toss over a pair of gapes. He holds his phone aloft as if toasting with the communion wine. “Emma left her phone behind, but Angelique didn’t.”
“Thank God.” Lydia rushes over, grabbing his device while popping on tiptoes to buss the bottom of his jaw. “You’re brilliant.”
I swear to God, Foley puffs up just like that kid on Stranger Things after locking lips with Eleven at
the Snow Ball, though he recovers rapidly enough to mumble, “Not brilliant enough to have thought of it before now—though it says the signal’s been parked at that spot for several hours now.”
“There? In Rancho Palos Verdes?” Lydia responds. “But what the heck is that place?”
“Fuck.” Foley and I spew it together. But even with his fraternity, I fight to use the acid in my gut to dissolve my horror instead of my reason. For talking myself out of remembering that RPV contains a lot of other structures in it than just the one the Consortium once used as their stateside recruitment facility. And that maybe Angelique has a damn good reason for traipsing off there without telling anyone here.
With Wade and Emmalina in tow.
After she demonstrated, very vividly, that there’s more going on under her skull than a marbled light show.
Synapses that Faline has claimed now too? And now controls? And calls to her bidding the same way she remote-controlled Kane?
“Fuck.” I all but punch the echo onto the air. Foley leans in to look after Lydia spreads her thumb and forefinger across the screen to zoom in.
Don’t leap to conclusions. It could just be a fluke. Cart before the horse only makes a mess, especially if the horse just got out of a four-hour coma.
I grit back the damn tizzy, even while watching Foley and Lydia staring at the screen, the separate gold shades of their hair mingling as they lean in. I’m doing damn well until Lydia mutters, “What the hell is that? Church? Shopping plaza?” She jumps an astounded stare to Foley’s profile and then back to the screen. “That can’t be a house, can it?”
I already know what Foley’s going to say before he snarls our favorite four-letter word again. I know it because the instincts I couldn’t link to Emma just a minute ago are now going off like fucking fireworks, compelling my mind to face the truth before I yank the phone from Lydia. Before I blink back the furious fog from the edges of my gaze, knowing I’ve taken tizzy to advanced ionization but I’m unable to fight the fucker. Before I swipe the map back down in order to orient the pin to the surrounding areas.
