“Must get going,” he groaned, and that’s when he heard the prairie grass scream.
“Oh, no,” Devon gasped. Frantic, he tried to get to his feet, but he was simply too exhausted. All he could manage was to roll over onto his knees.
“He’s over here!” a man’s voice shouted. High-powered spotlights clicked on, leaving Devon blinded by the glare.
He shielded his eyes with his good arm and peered into the brightness. Unfortunately, he saw neither his Psionic Underground contact, nor the North Central Psi Facility guards. What Devon saw was much worse than that.
A platoon of armed men, looking like sleek high-tech ninjas in their black fatigues and lightweight armor, surrounded him. Dark helmets with their mirrored visors pulled down made the men virtually identical, right down to their big-ass guns and itchy trigger fingers.
The government had called in the military to retrieve him. That was definitely not good news. They weren’t planning on taking him back to school.
Where they’d take him, Devon would never return.
Washington, DC.
“You Devon McWilliams?” a gruff voice asked. “Psionic ward of the North Central Facility, student number 7-5-2-6-8-2-6-9?”
Devon hesitated. He blinked into the bright lights as he slowly sat back on his heels. Everyone surrounding him was an adult. That meant they were baselines—not one of them had psionic powers. That’s why they seemed so damn indecent in their weapon selections. They had no idea what “Plant Boy” might do to them.
That thought by itself would have been laughable, if the situation hadn’t been quite so perilous.
Devon looked directly at the soldier who had addressed him. “Uh, yes, sir. I’m Devon McWilliams.”
The Taser probes bit through his sweater and into his chest with the ferocity of two angry rattlesnakes. Devon flew backwards and hit the ground hard as fifty thousand volts ripped though him. The pain was lightning-hot and bone-deep; all the while, he flopped around in the dirt like a hooked trout.
When the electrocution ceased, Devon slammed to the ground headfirst beside the skunkbush—his face managing to land smack-dab in his own pool of vomit.
Consciousness fading, he could hear the soldiers’ footfalls approaching as they tightened their ring around him. Life as he knew it was over. He was now a prisoner of the US government. He would never see his family again.
But worst of all, he had failed his one and only friend…
And that made Devon McWilliams the ultimate loser.
Chapter Two
DEVON’S pain-wracked body, twitching and throbbing, brought him to consciousness before his eyes even opened. Everything ached—his chest, his arms—especially his broken left arm—his lips, even his hair! And to top it off, something stank—bad! Like he was trapped in a vomit-filled porta-potty or something.
Wait…was he sitting up?
Devon’s eyes flew open. Before he had the chance to properly take in his surroundings, he was pulling against restraints he couldn’t quite comprehend in his effort to flee.
“What the hell!” he cried. His wrists and forearms were encased in metal bands and shackled to thick chains connected to the armrests of his chair. His pelvis was anchored firmly to his seat by a wide steel bar that fit snugly across his lap. Even his ankles were securely fastened to something below. When Devon realized that he absolutely could not move of his own accord, he suddenly remembered that he was now a prisoner of the United States government.
“Oh, no way! Not even!” Devon shouted. He bucked against the pelvis restraint, totally flipping out. He’d always been a “good kid.” As a psion, would he be forced to wear prison orange or a different, no-less-horrible color? Devon didn’t want to find out. He wasn’t a hardcore criminal! He was an idiotic plant whisperer! The idiotic plant whisperer, thank you very much, and right now, he just might crap his pants from sheer panic.
“I don’t belong here!” he hollered, tugging frantically against his restraints, only to find that the harder he pulled, the tighter his bonds became.
He screamed. He was not about to become some psycho killer’s cellmate. The military should have killed him when they had the chance.
“Yo! Vomit boy! Pull it together!”
Vomit boy? Was someone talking to him?
Devon froze. He obviously wasn’t alone. Leaning forward, he was able to survey his surroundings a bit more easily. It looked as if he were in the cargo hold of some kind of aircraft, judging by the way the walls sloped concavely around either side of the room. He counted five other kids in the room. Two guys sat across from him—one skinny and bald, the other with long, greasy blond hair. A Latino kid sat two seats down on Devon’s left, and a pale blonde chick with trippy dark circles beneath her eyes sat just to his right. There was also a brooding musclehead in a black leather jacket sitting next to the door. The guy looked like he could bench-press a tank.
All of them sat chained like rabid dogs to their fortified recliners from hell, which could only mean that they too were guests of the US government…and in a serious shitload of trouble.
Five pairs of starburst eyes gazed coolly back at him.
Devon had seen those judgmental glares before at the North Central Psi Facility—usually right before some jackass slammed him into a locker.
Inwardly, he groaned.
Note to self—no more freaking out in public.
“That’s better,” said the skinny bald kid sitting across from him. He had unusual piercings on the sides of his face around his eyes and he was dressed in a dirty, stretched-out T-shirt and shredded jeans. “That conniption fit of yours polluted our airspace. You reek, vomit boy! Like, bad! And it’s not like we can just get up and move, ya know.”
“Leave him alone, Alison,” growled the big guy next to the door. His starburst eyes were rimmed with kohl eyeliner, giving him a dangerous, don’t-mess-with-me Goth vibe. He sat facing everyone, looking buff and badassed enough to break them both in half if he wasn’t constrained.
“The name’s Nevada,” the bald kid said, turning to scowl at the big guy. “Don’t make me say it twice.”
Hey, wait a sec…the bald kid’s a girl?
Devon’s eyes instantly locked onto her chest, but the circus tent of a T-shirt she wore gave absolutely nothing away.
Dang it! Now he was picturing her naked!
“Well, the feds called you Alison,” the big guy said, gazing at her with an alien intensity. “It wasn’t like I could read your mind.”
“Not like any of us can right now. Even if you were a telepath.” The greasy blond guy was talking. “These wrist shackles? They’re called disruptors. None of us will be able to access our abilities.”
“No shit,” smirked Alison—Nevada—whatever-her-name-was. When she noticed Devon staring at her chest, she seductively licked her lips. “See something you like, vomit boy?”
Devon’s eyes widened. For a bald chick, she sure could come on strong.
And in a weird way, that was kinda hot.
He noticed her more feminine features now—her thick, pouty lips, her small, delicate ears, and her long, artistic fingers.
And then there was that blue tattoo inked all around her head in what appeared to be something akin to Celtic runes.
It matched her vibrant starburst eyes. And it pulsated with energy as if it had a life all its own.
“I—I like your tat,” Devon said.
Nevada sat back in her seat and gave him a wide, provocative smile. And in that moment, she was eminently beautiful. “Why, thank you,” she said. “My late husband gave it to me as a wedding gift.”
Devon gaped at her in astonishment. She couldn’t be much older than him—eighteen at the most. “You’re married?”
“Was.” Her beautiful smile faded. “He’s dead.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t your fault.” Nevada turned the side of her head toward Devon so that he could take in the full effect of her tat
too, with its intricate patterns created entirely from psionic energy deposited just below the surface of the skin. “He did beautiful work, didn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. It’s incredible—I’ve never seen a psionic tattoo up close before. It’s really amazing.”
She nodded, the attitude gone from her voice. “Even though he’s dead, I’ll have a part of him with me forever.”
“I didn’t think psi-tats lasted but a few weeks,” the big guy said from over by the door.
“Unless you’re a baseline, of course,” added the greasy blond with a bit of a sneer. “And then, well, you’re dead.”
He was right. Psi-tattoos were completely harmless for psions, but for baseline humans they were a death sentence. Not that Devon had ever even met a psi-tat talent, but he resented the fact that dangerous abilities like that had made it impossible for him to live with his family anymore.
“Yeah, well, who even cares about the stupid baselines, anyway?” said Nevada. She turned to the big guy by the door. “And for your information, I’m gonna have my psi-tat inked over before it fades. Capisce?”
“That might be kind of hard to do where we’re going,” the big guy replied. He didn’t look angry when he spoke, more like resigned—like he had already accepted his long walk to the gallows.
“Where we’re going?” Nevada growled. “You might be going down without a fight, but I’m not.”
“Shhhh! They’re listening!” The pale blonde to Devon’s right was speaking. She had a thick foreign accent, and Devon was suddenly curious as to where she was from. “They’ll hold anything you say against you. Make you regret your boasting.”
“I’m not boasting,” Nevada replied with a shrug. “And I don’t care who’s listening.”
“Well, you should.” The blonde girl was looking paler by the moment, and Devon thought that she might faint dead away.
“Alya,” the greasy blond guy hissed from his chair across from hers. “Enough!”
“Alya?” Devon asked, turning to her. “Is that your name?”
“Yes,” she whispered, half-closing her eyes. She nodded toward the guy with the greasy hair. “Alek—he’s my twin.”
“Twins? No way…” Devon glanced over at Alek and then back again to Alya. Other than the fact that they were both blond and a bit pasty-looking, they sure didn’t resemble each other very much. Alya’s face was soft, with delicate characteristics that one might find in a Renaissance portrait, while her brother had the oversized but well-proportioned features of a sitcom star. Unlike his sister, who possessed an ethereal quality more akin to an angel, Alek was good-looking in that average, I-don’t-have-acne kind of way, and he didn’t have that freaky accent, either.
“So, where are you from?” Devon asked, admiring the graceful curve of Alya’s profile. He had never chatted up a girl as pretty as Alya, but he wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass him by.
“It’s no business of yours,” Alek growled.
“Romania.” Alya gave Devon a little smile, and he noticed how wearily she was leaning against the headrest. “At least, that is where we were born.”
“Alya! Hush!” Alek hissed from across the aisle, but Devon ignored him. He was more concerned with how white Alya had turned.
“Uh, are you okay?” Devon asked. He wished that he could move his arm and feel for a pulse or something. That girl looked seriously weak.
Alya’s sweet smile stayed on her lips while she managed a nod, but then her eyes closed as if the effort had been simply too much for her. “There is nothing to be done,” she said softly. “It is merely a condition of my power.”
“She’s a healer,” said Alek. He was glaring outright at Devon now, his eyes brimming with malice. “She draws people’s diseases into her own body when she restores them to health. She needs to rest. So leave her the hell alone!”
“Language, Alek,” Alya said with her eyes closed. “There is no need to be rude.”
“Alya, I—”
She held up a finger, and Alek fell silent.
“You see,” she said, her eyes opening ever so slightly as she turned to Devon. “There is always time for manners. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes—yes, I do,” Devon replied softly. Alya was as fragile as a glass butterfly, and he feared that the sight of his vomit-coated face might shatter her.
Once more, she conjured a sweet smile. “That’s good,” she said, her voice drifting away as her eyes closed. “Manners are ever so important.”
“Indeed,” said the musclehead from beside the door. “Too bad our hosts don’t seem to agree with you, Alya. I think we could all use some food and water. Maybe even a bathroom break before we lift off again.”
“Hey! Yo! Yo! I gotta pee!” Nevada cried, addressing a camera that hung above the Latino kid’s chair. “You gonna do something about that?”
Devon glanced over and saw the Latino kid cower in his seat as Nevada started yelling. It sounded as if the little guy was praying…in Spanish.
“Uh, Nevada?” said Devon.
“What is it, vomit boy?”
Devon nodded toward the Latino kid. “I think you’re scaring him.”
Nevada glanced over at the boy. The kid’s hands were folded before him in prayer, eyes squeezed shut, head lowered. “Aw, shit,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “Hey, kid! KID!”
Trembling, the Latino kid looked up.
“Honestly, kid, I wasn’t yelling at you. There’s a camera above your—”
The boy shook his head and went back to praying in Spanish.
“Aw, for the love of Pete! Get over yourself, you little shit-sucking twit!” Nevada was yelling again.
“I don’t think he speaks English,” said Devon. He knew he was taking a big chance pissing Nevada off, but he really didn’t want the kid sitting two seats down from him to crap his pants, either.
“Seriously?” Nevada asked. Her gold-and-sapphire piercings sparkled in the light. “I thought everybody spoke English these days. Look at the Russian freaks.”
“We’re not Russian,” Alek snarled.
“Whatever,” Nevada said, with a dramatic eyeroll. “It’s not like I wanted to scare the Mexican kid, I thought he was, you know, just shy or something.”
A red light began to rotate above the door, and an alarm sounded.
Devon’s first impulse was to put his hands over his ears, but that was impossible at the moment. Instead, he found himself cringing at the horrible noise with his eyes glued to the doorway. He just prayed that whoever was about to come through that door wasn’t coming for him. Not yet, anyway. He so wasn’t ready to face the feds.
And orange definitely wasn’t his color.
The heavy metal door slid to the side, and two burly federal agents wearing dark suits with long, skinny ties dragged an unconscious Asian chick into the room. The girl’s long black hair fell dramatically around her pretty face, but she hung limply between them, lifeless. Devon wondered if she might be dead.
The alarm stopped, but the red light continued to rotate as the two men slammed her into the chair next to Nevada and quickly went to work chaining her in. While one guard closed the shackle on her right wrist, the other bent over to secure the wide bar across her hips. As soon as he reached across her, the girl’s knee came straight up, popping the guy right in the nose. Hard!
The man cried out as a torrent of blood poured onto the girl’s lap. The other fed glanced up from his work in time to receive a head-butt between the eyes.
Before either man could recover, the girl continued her attack in a blur of motion as she handed out a martial arts butt-whooping all over their federal asses. She struck the guard she had just head-butted with a series of quick chops to his throat, while at the same time wrapping her legs around the guy with the bloody nose to flip him onto the floor. She moved insanely fast. Only her right wrist remained cuffed to the chair. As the fed beside her held his throat, gasping for air, she searched him with dexterous fingers and produced a set of
chip keys, which she quickly narrowed down to one.
“Dang,” Devon said, eyes wide as he watched from his front-row seat. “Who are you?”
The girl didn’t even look up when she dropped the chip key into the lock on her shackled wrist. “Bai Lee Chen,” she said. The shackle popped open, and in the next instant, she knocked out the fed next to her.
As the man crumpled to the floor, Bai Lee looked over at Devon. And winked.
“See ya around, killer,” she said with a bright grin. And then she was out the door.
Whoa…now, that was hot.
Bai Lee would definitely be making an appearance in Devon’s dreams tonight. Though hopefully, she’d be completely naked and armed with a can of whipped cream.
Gunfire startled Devon from his thoughts. His eyes slid to the door, where he saw the big guy straining to get a view of what was going on outside their room.
Oh, no! Not Bai Lee! Devon hoped that they hadn’t caught her so quickly.
But they had.
This time, a team of armed guards dragged Bai Lee to her seat and held her down by beating her with riot sticks around her head and shoulders. Devon cringed with each blow as the girl sat helpless to defend herself. But she didn’t cry out. She took the blows in silence, until the guards were satisfied that their prisoner had been secured.
Fear rose up from his guts like an arrow-shot to his brain. “They’re going to kill me.” Devon was only half-aware that he had spoken aloud.
The guards carted off the unconscious federal agents and left behind Bai Lee’s bloody and broken body. No longer did she look hot and kick-ass.
She needed help.
They all needed help.
But Devon was helpless.
“No,” came the soft reply.
Devon turned to find Alya staring at him. She reached out her hand; to his surprise, the chain around her wrist was loose enough to allow her to touch his arm.
“They won’t kill you,” she said with that sweet smile of hers, and Devon noticed tears in her eyes. “You’re no threat to them.”
Freaks of Nature (The Psion Chronicles) Page 2
