Flynn tore his gaze away from the screen to look up at him, a strange combination of appreciation and doubt on his face. “You really think you can do that?”
Jerry straightened so he could shrug. “It all depends on whether we get enough bits to work with. Those markings look like glyphs of some sort. It’s not just a random pattern.” Jerry ignored his inner voice reminding him of what had happened the last time Flynn got his hopes up. It had taken him days to get out of his black funk when the last lead proved fruitless.
“The original artifact has disappeared. And the pictures that went along with it.”
Jerry knew Flynn wasn’t merely stating the obvious. What he was really saying was they had no record of the markings on the first artifact. “All except for the ones I took with my cell phone. Besides, I handled it on two separate occasions. I could sit down right now and draw the symbols if you wanted me to.”
Flynn’s expression softened briefly, and Jerry got a glimpse of the person he loved so well. “Yeah, I know you could. Hell, you could probably draw the symbols while reciting the Gettysburg Address at the same time.”
“‘Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation—’”
Flynn frowned. “I thought it was four score and twenty years ago.”
“You’re questioning me about a quotation?”
Flynn threw his hands up with a laugh. “No, never, what was I thinking?” Flynn’s real smile came out from behind his defenses, the one that made him look like an absolute goof, which was why Jerry suspected he was so sparing with it. “See. I told you Watson had his uses.”
“You are so delusional if you think you are the Holmes in this partnership.”
“Hey, you were the one who brought Watson into this in the first place.”
Special Agent John Flynn might have accidentally become telepathic after touching a strange artifact in a museum as they were investigating a murder, but Jerry Parker had a nearly photographic memory. Together they made an inexplicably excellent investigative team—at least, inexplicable to most people. For Flynn’s safety, they’d decided to keep his gift a secret. There were a number of government agencies that would either want Flynn under their control or dead—after they put him through some pretty unpleasant testing, no doubt.
Although it wasn’t so much a gift as a terrible burden. An unspeakable, unthinkable burden. Jerry couldn’t imagine what it was like to be bombarded with everyone’s thoughts all the time, but he knew Flynn would do anything to be rid of the telepathy. It had been an albatross around Flynn’s neck ever since the night he’d touched that artifact. Hence the early-morning Internet search for anything similar to the object that had bestowed such a curse on him.
Flynn wasn’t the most cheerful of guys as it was. He’d had some serious issues in his past, and as an FBI agent, knew how to keep his secrets. The telepathy had added a whole other level of self-protection and reticence most men couldn’t have handled. Flynn dealt with it by being caustic and abrupt, turning on the charm when it suited him, and hiding behind the Great Wall of Flynn the rest of the time.
Jerry loved him in spite of it. Or maybe because of it. He’d never met anyone he was as attracted to as Flynn. It was rare that he met anyone up to his intellectual weight in a verbal sparring match. Flynn was one of the few people not intimidated by Jerry’s memory, or put off by Jerry’s less-than-perfect people skills. They were a formidable team. Since he and Flynn had become partners—in more ways than one—their combined case clearance rate had gone through the roof.
It didn’t hurt that the sex was hot, either. Say what you like about the downsides of telepathy, when it came to knowing your partner’s needs, it rocked.
Flynn’s expression slipped easily into its usual sardonic mode. “So, you up for a road trip? I’ve got a few loose ends to tie up at Quantico. My old boss wants me to come back and take care of them. You’ve got some leave coming up, right? We could go together.”
So that’s what the e-mail was about. A coil of tension Jerry hadn’t known existed relaxed at Flynn’s words.
“Not that the excuse isn’t very useful, but what could your old boss need that couldn’t possibly be settled in a video conference?”
Flynn gave a little shrug. “You know the Bureau. They like these face-to-face meetings.”
Jerry let that one rest for the moment. Flynn’s old boss had made it clear at the time he was sorry to see Flynn relocate permanently to the West Coast. Jerry didn’t put it past Zimmerman to make a bid for getting Flynn to come back to Quantico. Either way, Jerry couldn’t let Flynn get on an airplane by himself. Trapped for hours on a cross-country flight from San Francisco to DC without any means of support when the weight of everyone’s thoughts around him became overwhelming? No way. Flynn might have adapted to life as a telepath, but he also relied on Jerry to run interference for him. Besides, if Flynn was going to run around touching weird artifacts again, Jerry planned on being there.
Any wistful thoughts he had about the two of them taking a romantic vacation to a tropical beach somewhere were firmly placed in the booth.
“Sure, sounds great. I haven’t been to the Smithsonian since I was a kid.” A thought occurred to him. “Why is this piece turning up now, though? We’ve been combing the Internet for other artifacts ever since the first one went missing.”
That had been an interesting twist in their investigation of the death of the museum curator where the first artifact had been housed. Well, one of the interesting twists. After they’d caught the art forger responsible for her murder, the mysterious artifact had disappeared, along with all the notes and documentation on it.
Flynn raised an eyebrow. “Like the first artifact, this one was part of a private collection until recently. And yes, I think we need to get there before it ‘disappears’ too. You sure you don’t recognize the markings?”
Jerry briefly rolled his eyes. “You forget who you’re talking to here. And no, it’s not a known language, at least not one I’ve ever encountered. That doesn’t mean it’s not a made-up one.”
“Or one from another planet.”
“The Men in Black did not spirit away the first artifact.” There was no use in Jerry trying to hide his exasperation. Flynn already knew he was annoyed. Besides, it was a discussion they’d had many times before concerning the origins and purpose of the original museum piece.
“Strange artifact goes missing after conveying telepathic powers on a human being? I think we have a case here for it being alien.” Flynn spoke with all seriousness, made even more ludicrous by the fact he was arguing for the existence of aliens on Earth while sitting in his underwear. The pallid light of the computer screen cast a bluish glow over his features; Jerry felt like they were in a scene from a B-rated sci-fi movie.
“Thank you, Agent Mulder. I’ll keep that in mind. I should like to point out, however, that we are the Men in Black, and we don’t have it.”
“That we know of. There could be other divisions within the Bureau we don’t have the clearance to know about.” Flynn’s voice was dark with sinister implications. His face suddenly lit with a smile. “Hah, that makes you Scully.”
“Scully was smart and hot. I can live with that.”
“I can live with that, too.” There was something sly and suggestive in Flynn’s smile. “Just don’t dye your hair red.”
Jerry cocked his head. “Not that I would, but why not?”
A faint flush colored Flynn’s cheekbones. “I like your hair the way it is.”
That was probably the closest Flynn had ever come to complimenting him that wasn’t some kind of joke. Jerry shoved all further thoughts along those lines into the booth; Flynn was prickly enough without Jerry implying he wasn’t open with his feelings. Which wasn’t bloody fair, seeing as Jerry couldn’t easily hide his own.
A slow smile curved across Flynn’s face. God, he was beautiful. The reflected light from the computer highlighted his early-morn
ing stubble and cast an eerie pallor into his hazel eyes. Jerry clearly recalled the day they’d met, and how Flynn had looked when Jerry picked him up from the airport. The fading sunlight had bathed him in a golden glow then, but he had looked much the same as he did now. Walled-off. Untouchable. Gorgeous. Eminently fuckable.
“You know when you start shouting ‘soundproof booth,’ it’s obvious you’re thinking of me.”
This, too, was a conversation they’d had before.
“Yes, but you don’t know what I’m thinking.” Jerry infused his voice with the sort of smugness he usually saved for annoying coworkers. The creation of the booth had been his idea, back in the early days when he’d desperately needed to keep Flynn from knowing his every thought. In particular, how hot he found Flynn and how much he wanted to get into Flynn’s pants. At least that hadn’t changed.
“When you look at me like I’m ice cream on a hot summer day, and you need to lick me before I melt, it pretty much gives the show away, telepathy or not.” Now who was the smug bastard? And to make it worse, he stretched exaggeratedly, the bluish light gleaming off his muscles as his chest expanded. He might as well have a neon sign over his head that said “Look at me”—what with the way his chest hair drew the eye down in a straight line toward the cock bulging in his navy briefs. He was openly smirking as he lowered his arms again. Oh yeah. He was hot and he knew it.
“You’re free to fill in the blanks any way you want. Just like the rest of us mere mortals do.”
Flynn scrunched his nose at that one. Jerry didn’t bother hiding the fact that he found Flynn’s expressions—when he chose to use them, that was—adorable. Preferable to the Blank Wall, that’s for sure.
Flynn narrowed his eyes, and lifted the corner of his mouth in a slight grimace. “Well, seeing as there’s nothing else we can do at the moment, and we’re up anyway, how about we go back to bed and I fuck your brains out?” He dropped his chin to look up at Jerry through the heavy fringe of dark hair that fell over his brow, and Jerry was suddenly reminded of a satyr. It might have been the fact that Flynn’s ears were slightly pointed at the tips, or maybe it was the decidedly wicked look in his eyes. Whatever it was, it was definitely primal and Pan-like.
Jerry’s dick jerked upward at the suggestion, and his ass clenched involuntarily. Hell, yes. There was no one else on Earth who could make Jerry forget, for a little while, all the things he’d seen in his life. There was no way in hell he was going to think about how rare it had been for Flynn to initiate sex these last few weeks. He slam-dunked the thoughts into the booth even as they occurred to him. Don’t spoil this.
Flynn stood up, a distinctly sympathetic smile brushing his lips. Instead of pulling Jerry in for one of Flynn’s rough and tumble kisses, he folded Jerry into his arms, and the two of them stood there in a full-body hug. Jerry turned his nose into Flynn’s neck and took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent. I am one lucky sonofabitch, he thought, deliberately broadcasting the thought for Flynn to hear. A sense of well-being dropped over him like a blanket warm from the dryer. He smiled when Flynn pressed against him. The hard length of Flynn’s cock was evident.
Oh yeah. Definitely worth being woken up early.
He’d followed Flynn into the bedroom without another word.
Jerry blinked, suddenly aware of the background noise around him on the airplane. It had been a long time since he’d gone so deep into one of his memories. It had to be the rhythmic hum of the engines and the long flight that had lulled him into deep memory access. Clearing his throat and shifting uncomfortably, he shot a quick glance at Flynn, who was still engrossed in his book. Thank goodness for that. Bad enough Jerry had zoned out—and he blushed at the thought of anyone, even Flynn, listening in on his recollections of what had followed—this wasn’t the time or place. He knew damned well his emotions and thoughts could overwhelm Flynn if he wasn’t careful. Though a part of him grinned at the notion it might be possible to trigger an orgasm in both of them from Jerry’s thoughts alone. Huh, that was something they’d have to try sometime….
The corner of Flynn’s mouth twitched upward in one of his half-smiles as he bumped his knee against Jerry’s, the closest he’d get to a PDA, Jerry knew. He glanced up at Jerry with a sly expression that suddenly froze. He jerked the other earbud loose.
“What is it?” Crap. Had Flynn picked up on his X-rated memories just the same? Jerry frowned and opened his mouth to speak, only to snap his lips shut when Flynn made a quick, silencing movement with his hand. Flynn took on that peculiar stillness that reminded Jerry of a Doberman alerting to a prowler. It usually meant Flynn was picking up on something, and for him to focus so completely on it meant it was something bad.
Flynn pressed his lips together in a firm line and pinched Jerry’s arm, expressing his desire that Jerry shut up as clearly as if he’d spoken.
Chagrined, Jerry stuffed his thoughts in the soundproof booth and waited. Jerry had always thought of himself as a logical and thoughtful person, but ten minutes in the presence of a telepath, and he’d discovered his internal monologue was more disjointed and far-flung than he’d realized. They’d discovered early on that Flynn could hear Jerry’s thoughts more strongly than anyone else’s. Jerry suspected it was because he’d been there at the museum the night Flynn touched the strange artifact and Flynn had somehow imprinted on him as the first person in the vicinity when the telepathy made itself known.
It was a theory, anyway.
He concentrated on keeping his thoughts contained within their imaginary barrier. It was something he could do easily now. In a way, it was kind of like meditation. Finding the booth was easy; staying in it was not. His thoughts were starting to wander when Flynn took out a pen and flipped to the beginning of his book. There, on a blank page, he wrote: The scruffy guy in 15-A is planning something.
Jerry had to squint at Flynn’s handwriting to make it out. What?
Flynn made a disgruntled face and wrote the next sentence larger. It was clear he was answering Jerry’s question as well as his unspoken complaint about Flynn’s handwriting.
I don’t know what. He’s planning to take the plane down. I don’t know how, but he has it on him.
He underscored the word “down” several times, the nib of his pen tearing the paper.
Jerry’s heart sank as though it was on a free fall in an elevator shaft. A moment of incipient panic threatened to overtake him. When he met Flynn’s gaze, he saw how his own emotions were threatening to overwhelm Flynn, so he forced himself to take a deep breath. What do we do?
Flynn took up the pen again. Go to the lavatory. Make an excuse to hang out back there until you see him make a move. I’ll distract him while you come up from—
Flynn broke off his sentence with a wobble of the pen. He lifted it from the paper, holding it in mid-air with a stupefied look on his face before writing a single word in large capital letters.
SARIN
“Fuck!” Jerry said aloud, causing the woman across the aisle to shoot him a dirty look. Flynn quickly shut his book. Jerry exchanged a long look with him. The young woman on the far side of Flynn was deep in her own book; she never looked up.
Flynn gave him a little nod. Jerry tucked the Kindle in the seat pocket in front of him, knowing he wouldn’t forget it was there but praying they would be leaving the plane in one piece. He replaced the seatback tray and turned the little knob that held it closed, his pulse pounding in his ears with each deliberate, ordinary movement. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he stood up in stages, having to duck to avoid hitting his head on the overhead bins. Easing out into the aisle, he swayed a bit as the plane bumped through a patch of turbulence. He made his way toward the nearest lavatory, gliding his hand along the bins for balance, taking casual note of the seat numbers and the passengers as he walked. Sweat gathered in his armpits and around the collar of his jacket. A few moments earlier, he’d been thinking about asking the flight attendant for a blanket.
It was a large p
lane, as they were flying straight through from San Francisco to Dulles. It was a hell of a long flight, but better than lots of layovers. Odd to think that Jerry had been looking forward to disembarking on time, to making an early night of it. Maybe they still would.
If they were lucky.
When they’d boarded the flight hours earlier, Jerry’s biggest concern had been whether or not Flynn would be able to handle being trapped in close confinement with so many people, with no way to get away from the constant barrage of thoughts. His fears seemed almost laughable now. His brain went on autopilot, supplying him with the information he needed as though he was reading off his iPhone.
Sarin. Odorless and colorless, sarin was an organophosphate poison. It was in the same class of chemicals used as nerve gas during both world wars. It worked by inhibiting the enzyme necessary for normal muscle and red blood cell function, among other things. An exposed person would literally drown on dry land as fluid poured into the lungs uncontrollably, or they would be dropped in their tracks by the violent vomiting and abdominal cramping. Even a tiny amount could be fatal. It was five hundred times more lethal than cyanide.
It was the perfect weapon for terrorists.
Unbidden, the image of John Singer Sargent’s painting, Gassed, appeared in his mind as though he were standing in front of it at the Imperial War Museum in London. At the center of the painting was a line of blinded soldiers being guided to a field hospital, walking past rows of bodies lying in piles around them.
He ruthlessly shut the door on the vision of the painting. The best way to ensure they made it out of this alive was to stay focused. He glanced at the occupant of 15-A in passing. The man put all his senses on high alert. He had a thin, wispy beard and wore sunglasses, even though night had fallen. Dressed in a ratty gray hoodie, he had both hands shoved into the pouch in the front. No iPod. No book or computer or any form of entertainment for the long flight. If he looked up at Jerry when he passed, Jerry couldn’t tell.
Walk a Mile Page 2
