by K. C. Archer
She wondered if Kate had gotten the memo. Kate had gone for a fifties-style G-man look. She sported a pair of black pants and a jacket bulky enough to conceal a pair of AK-15s. Her hair was knotted in a severe bun at the nape of her neck. If Kate harbored any intention of heading into the city after the party—the idea had certainly crossed Teddy’s mind—that outfit wasn’t doing her any favors.
Thirty minutes later, the boat Hollis Whitfield had hired to ferry guests to his Tiburon home gently bumped against the pier to his private beach. From there, a chauffeur-driven Range Rover conveyed Teddy and Kate up a steep wooded slope to a house that looked as if it had been carved into the hillside. They walked up to an enormous deck offering panoramic views of the city, the Golden Gate Bridge, and Teddy’s own home away from home, Angel Island—though it was strangely disquieting to see it from this perspective. Viewed from afar, it looked so small and self-contained, yet when she was at Whitfield Institute, it comprised her entire world.
Teddy turned to enter the mansion. Kate caught her arm. “Let’s sync up first. What channel?”
Teddy shrugged. “Lucky seven works for me.”
Last year, Professor Dunn had taught them all the techniques necessary to engage in two-way auditory telepathy. They began by imagining walkie-talkies tuned to the same frequency. They visualized the number of the channel, then synced their breathing. Teddy and Kate had been telepathic partners on different occasions in their first year at Whitfield. Teddy found it easy to reconnect with her. Within seconds, the rhythm of Kate’s breathing came through: steady and regular beats, as constant as a metronome. Then her voice: You ready, Cannon?
Born that way.
Let’s just get through this, all right? Don’t screw up.
Kate strode past her and went inside. Teddy loitered on the deck for a few minutes longer, enjoying the view, then followed. The rooms were architectural marvels of stark simplicity, meant to dazzle guests with their enormous windows, incomprehensible modern art, and sleek metal furniture that looked painful to sit on. All very impressive and, to Teddy’s mind, at least, entirely unoriginal. She’d hoped Hollis Whitfield’s home would reveal something about him. But this place was as personal as a bank lobby.
She snagged a couple of hors d’oeuvres from a passing waiter and turned her attention to the guests. Maybe sixty or so in attendance, plus a few familiar faces from Whitfield Institute. Teddy spotted Hollis Whitfield, naturally, but also Joan Wessner, Sergeant Rosemary Boyd, and Clint Corbett. So much for her plan to disappear for a bit and rifle through Whitfield’s stuff.
Everyone was relaxed and at ease, mingling and chatting, a cocktail or glass of wine in hand. Wine. Now, there was an idea . . .
Don’t even think about it, Cannon. We’re on duty, remember?
Why don’t you go find a pole to salute, Atkins?
Speaking of saluting, Teddy was surprised at the number of military personnel milling among the guests. But then maybe Hollis was doing some patriotic thing, inviting servicemen and -women stationed away from their families to enjoy Thanksgiving with—
Her thoughts slammed to a halt as her gaze locked on a tall man with erect bearing and dark eyes, his silver hair trimmed in a military-style buzz cut. He wore an army Class A uniform, a crowded array of medals pinned to his chest.
General Maddux. Teddy recognized him instantly, though they’d met only once, and very briefly: almost a year ago, a New Year’s party at Jeremy’s parents’ house. Older but definitely not elderly. The kind of guy who looked at ease among these privileged people. The kind of guy who radiated power, discipline, and order. Sergeant Boyd’s dream date.
Kate, who came from a family of career military officers, was already fawning over the guy. Teddy’s gut reaction? Stomach-tightening, heart-pounding stress. Their eyes met, and Teddy instantly averted her gaze. She had absolutely no interest in engaging in small talk or playing the haven’t-we-met-before game.
Teddy turned toward a young, good-looking guy. Judging by his flat, almost pained expression, he definitely wasn’t enjoying himself. Something about him was vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t quite place him. He was tall and lean, wearing a conservative suit and polished wing tips. His hair was swept back from his face, his mouth was pinched, and his eyes, well, she couldn’t see his eyes behind his vintage eyeglasses . . . Miles. The guy she’d met at the infirmary.
What the hell is he doing here?
Miles Whitfield, Kate informed her. As in Hollis Whitfield’s grandson. If you’d bothered to read the dossier, you’d know that.
Miles was Whitfield’s grandson? And not a student? No wonder she hadn’t seen him around campus. Of course, she couldn’t blame herself for assuming that a young guy in Whitfield’s infirmary was a student. A natural mistake.
Teddy wondered if Miles Whitfield knew that his grandfather funded a school for psychics. She made a mental note to remember that he was not a student. And unless she learned otherwise, she had to assume he didn’t.
Next time, do your homework, Cannon.
Teddy ignored Kate’s smug condescension and made a beeline for Miles. “Hey,” she said, smiling brightly. “You’ve got to quit following me around. It’s getting embarrassing.”
He turned slowly, almost mechanically, toward her. No wonder she hadn’t recognized him immediately. Nothing about him reminded her of the young, flirty guy she’d crushed on at the infirmary. His eyes were hollow, his skin pallid, and his expression not just blank but stripped. As though every ounce of his personality had been drained away.
She gently placed her hand on his arm. “Hey, Miles. It’s Teddy—as in bear. We met at the infirmary a few weeks ago, remember?”
He blinked heavily, then forced his lips into a weak semblance of a smile. “Hey, Teddy. Sure I remember you.” His voice sounded strained. He cleared his throat. “Couldn’t get enough of me, huh?”
Teddy smiled, gamely continuing the charade that he was just fine. “Whitfield’s grandson?”
He shrugged, slightly sheepish. “A guy’s got to have a little fun now and then.”
“Hey, I get it,” she said, and was pretty sure she did. As the heir to an unfathomable fortune, he probably had a hard time figuring out if people liked him or his money. Better to keep it under wraps when you first met someone.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked.
“I’m on duty.”
“Duty?”
“You know, general surveillance. Keeping an eye on things. Making sure there isn’t any trouble.”
“Why would there be trouble?”
Stupid slip of the tongue on her part. Teddy studied his face, trying to determine if he was challenging her for information or truly ignorant of HEAT’s harassment of his grandfather, not to mention that he was currently surrounded by several powerful psychics who would protect him at all costs. She decided it was the latter.
“There won’t be,” she said. She gestured to the bankers and billionaires, the women in pearls. “But you never know. Any minute now, this crowd could get rough.” She expected him to smile. But the easygoing guy she’d met at the infirmary was gone.
“Right.” He looked around the room. “All the ass-kissing, the fawning over my grandfather.” Teddy said nothing. It was hard to think of an appropriate response. He shook his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. Not feeling great today.”
“How are those migraines, Miles? Have you found any relief?”
“Relief?” He lightly brushed his temple with one hand. “No. But I think I’ve learned to manage them better. At least that’s what Dr. Eversley says.”
“Maybe Dr. Eversley’s wrong,” Teddy said before she could stop herself. “Maybe you shouldn’t be taking your medication at all if it’s causing such horrible side effects.”
“He says I need it.”
Teddy chewed her bottom lip, hesitating. This was dangerous territory. Miles’s medical issues were none of her business. On top of that, Wessner
had repeatedly lectured them that the only way for a Secret Service agent to do her job was to remain impersonal and detached. Emotional involvement with the subject invariably led to serious errors in judgment.
But whatever Miles was taking was obviously hurting him. She couldn’t just shrug that off. Particularly not if Eversley was the one prescribing the medication.
“You know,” she said, “before I came to Whitfield, I was misdiagnosed with epilepsy. For years I was treated with the wrong medication and lived with debilitating side effects. Seizures, mood swings, memory gaps—it was awful. I put up with it until I found out what was really wrong with me.” Or right with her, Teddy supposed, depending on where one came down on the “gift” of psychic ability. She wondered what, if anything, he knew about her world.
Miles frowned at her. “What are you saying?”
She took a deep breath, gathering her courage. “Maybe you shouldn’t be seeing Eversley. Or not just Eversley. Maybe a different doctor would give you a different diagnosis, or change your medication—”
“But my grandfather thinks Dr. Eversley is brilliant.”
“Yes, but a second opinion—”
“Miles! There you are!”
Teddy looked up to see an attractive, immaculately groomed woman in her early sixties. “Do forgive the interruption, but there are some friends of your grandfather’s here whom you simply must meet. I’ll have you back to your friend in two shakes, I promise!” With that, she led Miles into the crowd.
Teddy watched him go, sighing. Perfect. She’d said just enough to confuse Miles, but not enough to prompt him into taking action. She scanned the room for suspicious characters and, spying none, moved to the bar. If she couldn’t have a real drink, a tonic and lime would have to do. She waited as the bartender transferred a new set of clean glasses to the drink station behind the bar. Then he turned around.
And it was a “he” she recognized.
“Eli!” she gasped.
But Eli had no reaction to seeing her. He looked right through her, as though he’d never met her before.
Teddy’s eyes narrowed as alarm bells went off in her head. For months Eli had said that HEAT would use whatever means necessary to stop Whitfield and Hyle Pharmaceuticals from experimenting on animals. They had pressured Hyle to shut down its lab peacefully. And she was supposed to believe it was just a coincidence that he was here at Whitfield’s home?
She wasn’t buying it.
She watched him circle the perimeter of the room, picking up abandoned plates and empty glasses. He moved with smooth efficiency, as though he’d done the job for years. Dressed in starched black pants, white shirt, and black bow tie, he didn’t look like himself. Teddy reconsidered her initial suspicion. While Jillian hadn’t specifically mentioned what Eli did for money, he paid the rent somehow. But if he was working a job, why would he pretend not to know her?
She was about to alert Kate when an empty wineglass fumbled from his grasp, rolling beneath the table where the punch bowl sat. Eli made a show of ducking under the table to retrieve it, only to come up empty-handed.
Probably nothing. But odd. Maybe the glass had broken, and Eli had gone in search of a dustpan.
Teddy approached the table to confirm.
She lifted the tablecloth and peeked beneath it.
There was no glass. Broken or otherwise.
Instead: a blinking light and a mass of wires. A single word screamed through her mind:
Bomb.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BOMB.
It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be happening. Someone else, someone more qualified, was bound to step in. But she had no idea where Clint and the rest of the school staff were.
This was on her.
She remembered what Wessner had taught them, and those instructions became the only thing in Teddy’s universe.
Evacuate. Clear the room.
“Bomb,” Teddy said, at first loud enough only for her own ears to pick up. She cleared her throat and shoved the words out again. “Bomb! Clear the room!”
Teddy? Kate’s voice. Thank God. They were still synced.
IED. Help me. Now.
IED? You sure? How—
Thirty seconds! Teddy’s gaze fixed on the tiny red numbers at the top of the IED. Twenty-nine!
“Bomb!” Teddy shouted again. “Clear the room! Everyone out! Move!”
Whitfield’s guests turned toward her, their faces mirroring the same incomprehension she’d felt seconds earlier. Then understanding dawned. The cry was picked up and repeated by people in her immediate vicinity. Panicked, they started pushing toward the nearest exit, which happened to be the French doors that opened onto the balcony.
Wrong way, Teddy realized, watching as they slammed up against the doors. In commercial spaces, fire regulations mandated that doors open outward, so a room could be evacuated quickly in the event of an emergency. But there were no such regulations for private spaces. Whitfield’s architects had designed the interior so that the French doors opened into the room. A feature that made the doors impossible to open with so many people pushed up against them.
She saw Miles standing motionless in the middle of the crowd, clutching his forehead in pain. She saw Clint making his way toward her, but he was blocked by General Maddux, who was trying to move in the opposite direction.
Teddy looked where the general was attempting to flee: a hallway that led to the dining room. The hallway had been blocked by a folding panel designed to screen guests from staff as they set the table and arranged the dinner buffet. It was the perfect escape route, but no one else had seen it.
“This way!” Teddy screamed, trying to direct the crowd’s attention to the exit. She had wasted another precious second debating whether she should focus on evacuating the room or disabling the IED.
Then Boyd was at her side, and Teddy’s decision was made for her. The sergeant knocked over the partition, grabbed a guest by the arm, and shoved the woman through the newly clear hallway. She reached for another guest to repeat the maneuver. It was working, but not fast enough. No way would the room be cleared before the bomb detonated. Wessner’s instructions rang in her head once again.
If escape isn’t possible, defuse the bomb.
Teddy ripped her attention away from Boyd. She whirled around and squatted in front of the low table. Flipped up the linen tablecloth. Saw a block of what looked like gray modeling clay. Caught the faint smell of something familiar. Sweet and nutty. C-4.
She remembered enough of Wessner’s lecture to know that when triggered by another blast—say, the blast of a detonator—the explosive power of that lump of C-4 would reduce Whitfield’s living room to rubble.
The trick was to disable the detonator without setting it off. Teddy scanned the device. She identified a pressure cooker valve, laced with a spiderweb of gray wires running into the back of an attached digital clock. Textbook IED. She watched the red numbers blink from fifteen seconds to fourteen.
She bit down hard on her bottom lip. On the surface, her task was simple. Disable the blasting cap. Disconnect the wire that would trigger the detonator. But there were too many wires. They were twisted together in a complicated knot that made guesswork impossible. One wrong move—
Kate knocked against her shoulder as she dropped to her knees beside Teddy.
Kate! There are a bazillion wires here. Which one do we pull?
Let me think!
There’s no time.
I don’t have a read, Teddy. Not yet. Give me a second.
Eleven seconds. Ten.
Kate! Now!
The upper left! Disconnect the upper-left wire!
Her hand shaking, Teddy reached for the IED. But just as her fingers brushed the wire, Clint slammed against her. He grabbed her with one hand, Kate with the other, and dragged them away from the table.
Teddy fought against him. “I’ve got to disconnect it!” she said. But Clint didn’t hear her. He was in linebacker mode, int
ent on protecting them from the bomb.
He knocked her and Kate to the ground, shielding them from the forthcoming blast. Teddy struggled beneath him but was pinned by his weight. Trapped, she peered across the room, desperately watched the timer blink.
Six seconds. Five.
Miles, perhaps unaware where the danger lay, moved away from the panicked crowd and stepped closer to the bomb. He’d be the IED’s first victim. Her assignment was to protect him. And there was nothing she could do. Wessner’s voice echoed in her head: Failures. All of you.
But then her training kicked in. Another voice in her head. Her own.
You’ve got this. You’ve stopped bullets. You can do what no one else in this room can: buy time.
Teddy conjured up the image of the film deck in her mind, felt the metal reels turning in her hand.
Slowly, slowly. Slow everything down. I am a being of a simultaneous universe.
Three seconds left.
She saw Whitfield’s white hair fluttering ever so gently back and forth as Boyd shoved him toward the hallway. She saw a single bead of sweat pooling on Miles’s upper lip. Even Clint’s voice—“Everyone down! Now!”—sounded like a record played at modified speed.
Teddy focused on extending her astral hand toward the upper-left wire. Traced it down inside the casing of the clock, past its internal mechanisms. She plucked the wire from the power source where it was attached.
And then the film reels she’d been mentally manipulating spun out of her control. The accumulated seconds returned with a vengeance. Allowing her one second to know that she and Kate had failed. She watched in horror as the IED lit up like a Vegas slot machine. She heard Kate gasp. Not the upper left. Kate had chosen the wrong wire.
Teddy closed her eyes and braced for the explosion, wondering what the end would feel like.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SHE FELT A BLAST OF air, a shock wave of powerful energy, and then . . . nothing. No brilliant light. No searing heat. No ear-splitting explosion. No agonizing pain. Nothing. Nothing but Clint’s smothering weight pinning her to the floor.
