There, though faint and erratic.
Before I could take my hand back off the guy's clammy skin, he disappeared.
Poofed.
There once, then gone.
I blinked, then looked up at Rafael, who was watching the spot where the guy had been with pursed lips.
“Looks like he doesn't need our help,” Rafael said just as his watch beeped once, signaling our time was up.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The corridor was full of roaming preternaturals, auras of every color going back and forth like a human rainbow, some looking dazed, others laughing maniacally, some just plain confused. Some were frisking the dead guards, searching for whatever weapons they could find. The elevator door was closed, no doubt carrying down some of the preternaturals who decided to keep going, and I cursed myself for leaving my post. The car might return full of Elite guards, ready to dart anything with a pulse. I searched the thinning crowd, finding a few green auras in the mix, but Logan was nowhere to be seen. Three doors remained closed still, and just as I began to worry Logan had found Archer and left when he didn't find me and Rafael in our designated posts, he emerged out from one of the farthest rooms, supporting a hunched figure with an arm draped over his shoulder.
At first glance, Archer looked like someone's old grandfather. White hair, lean-looking body that seemed to have just the right amount of weight, his packed muscles easily mistaken as extra weight by a less-observant eye. He wore a green-striped cotton uniform like the one that had made up my entire wardrobe for the nine years I had spent there.
God, I had to get out of there.
Finding Archer had been half our mission.
Now, all we had to do was leave the place without getting caught.
Easy peasy.
I was about to tell Rafael we should take the stairs to the third floor and take the second exit stairs that opened near the kitchens, where another exit let out between Building A and B, when Archer raised his head and looked at me.
Into me.
His eyes… They were black, bottomless pits, ancient. He was ancient.
No lines marked his face, now drained of any color by whatever experiments he had been through, but no one would ever mistake him for young—just by looking at his eyes.
Our eyes connected and goosebumps erupted all over my body. Then—inside me—there was a tug, recognition, and his eyes suddenly changed to yellow.
I gasped, or think I did, and his eyes were again black, and cold, like a dark night in Hell.
He slumped again, too weak to keep himself upright. Logan took a step forward and the moment was gone.
If it hadn't been for the fact I had already experienced a similar phenomenon in Vegas, I'd have passed it as a moment of weakness, caused by stress and the way my heart pounded wildly.
Pieces of the jigsaw puzzle of my life fell into place with a loud crash. Small gestures, meaningless words suddenly made sense. Even Lee's words made more sense to me now.
My sudden moment of clarification lasted less than a second before we were moving again.
I stepped forward and Logan draped Archer's arm around my shoulder. Had it been any other time, any other place, I'm sure he'd have refused. As it was, I was sure my help stuck in his craw like a badly chewed fishbone.
I was a half breed, an inferior, and a woman to boot.
I placed one arm around his waist and held on to the other. My hand brushed the spelled bracelet the PSS used on all preternaturals to keep them from accessing their power, and I couldn't help but notice that the skin around it was swollen and raw, an effect the spell caused during prolonged use. A quick glance and, yes, there were runes burned into his wrist.
I had never, in my entire stay in the PSS, gotten any reaction from that bracelet. A mild itch, a rash, but never anything stronger. It was interesting to know Archer was just as susceptible to it as anyone else. Perhaps that was the reason he hadn't escaped before.
With the bracelet on, he was no stronger than an ordinary, average human.
The elevator returned empty, and the last three preternaturals—two were and a magic wielder—stepped into the car, nodding their gratitude at us.
“One would think they'd rather stick with us,” I murmured at the closed elevator door.
Beside me, Logan shrugged. “I told them they were on their own.”
“At least they'll provide some distraction,” Rafael pointed out, then turned and moved to the emergency stairs, with Logan a couple steps behind him. Archer and I followed, more cautiously. I told Rafael to stop on the third floor and he obeyed without questions. Like I had figured, there were no guards. We traversed the long corridor to the other end, to the other emergency stairway without encountering anyone.
Midway down to the ground floor, the klaxons mercifully cut off. I stumbled a step, so physical was the relief. Its echoes though still sounded inside my head.
We reached the bottom without incident. Archer's weight kept increasing with every step we took, and I feared he would pass out any moment, that's how weak he was.
God, had the PSS really gotten that brutal with their subjects, or had Dr. Maxwell really been right and they had really gone easy on me all these years? I thought about all those strange machines back in the fourth floor and shuddered.
Archer stumbled again, and I had to pause briefly to adjust his arm around my shoulder, my grip around his waist.
Ahead of us, Rafael cracked open the emergency door… and a barrage of gunfire greeted him. He cursed colorfully and ducked back, letting the door bang shut again.
Live bullets. The PSS was shooting to kill.
My heart plummeted when I saw Rafael had been hit. Blood gushed out from a wound somewhere around his hairline.
He motioned Logan back with a hand and a frown. “It's surface, dude, it just skimmed by.” He unhooked one of the remaining two of the grenades from around his waist, pushed the door open with a foot and threw. Even before the boom was over, while the confusion, shouts and curses were still going on, Rafael stepped full out into the corridor and opened fire.
Without any hesitation, Logan followed. I stayed back with Archer, waiting for the all clear. When it came, it came in the form of an Elite guard… wearing Rafael's aura.
Before I could fully comprehend what was going on, a squeak was out—with the talons of my right hand.
It was O'Neil.
Rafael was a human shifter—a doppelgänger. An excellent one, since the nasty smirk on his face was a perfect replica of the late O'Neil's.
“I will take him from here.” he said in a strange voice, O'Neil's, I presumed.
I hesitated a moment. Why hadn't Logan come instead of him? He raised his eyebrows in a Rafael impersonation and let O'Neil's blue eyes shift to a cold dark brown before returning to blue, conceding to me some proof that this was just a ruse.
I let my talons retract and took a step forward. Archer eased some of his weight off me and I helped transfer his arm to Rafael/O'Neil's shoulder, then followed them into the corridor and the death beyond.
Six bodies lay dead in various positions. Blood stained the whites of the floor and walls, going almost as high as the ceiling. The stench of bowels released in death permeated the air. So much gore… My stomach churned in revulsion.
I was sorry to see that one of the bodies was that of the bald guy I had spotted before going into Room 411. My stomach heaved, but I managed to keep the memory of that long-ago soup down.
The emergency stairs opened into a narrow corridor that ended with the kitchen's back door to one side and a storage room on the other. It was in the kitchen we found Logan, lowering a guard's limp body to the ground.
I stifled a shudder when his empty eyes looked up at us.
The eyes of a cold-blooded murderer.
These people killed with no qualms, no regard to the lives they so easily discarded whatsoever. To them, they were no more than annoying obstacles in their paths.
To them, all the
se deaths were justified as retribution for taking and torturing one of their own, and I was helping them do it.
The body by Logan's feet had no bullet wound. Just a horribly crooked neck.
I started to speak, though I had no idea what I was going to say, but a sharp motion from Rafael shut me up.
He motioned Logan and me back, knocked twice on the exit door, then once more, then again four times before easing the door open and stepping out.
“What are you doing?” someone hissed.
I looked at Logan, but he stood there, waiting.
“Evacuating the freak. It's a fucking war zone in there.”
“We heard it. You're lucky you didn't get caught in the middle of it. There are about a dozen of 'em,” a second person said in the tone of someone anticipating action.
“So far, none made it through the seventh squad,” the first said helpfully.
“Or this side. Good Johnson keeps 'em locked so tight, they don't know the layouts,” the second one chuckled.
“I say we stuff him inside the radiation tanks,” a third voice joined in, “see how they like it.”
“Heard they got more than ten of ours. Say we off this freak and scatter his parts for them as a surprise gift,” said the second one.
“Nah. Got orders. How're things in Building C?” O'Neil/Rafael asked.
“Hasn't been breached as far as we know. Just the garage and here,” the first one replied.
“Any orders I should know? All I was told before hell broke loose was to escort this one to Building C, down to the labs.”
There was a silent moment where I held my breath. It was protocol for all guards to know and practice occasional emergency drills. This was something O'Neil would have known.
“Dunno 'bout your orders, but the breech hasn't gone as far as B and C.” imparted the third. “Reports so far confirm we lost all sentinels on duty, squads two and four. Some injuries in five and six, but the seventh is still whole. If you got the orders from above, the squads on duty no doubt have been notified, you know Johnson is nothing but thorough to the bone.”
“The explosion was probably a diversion, so there isn't much by the parking facility,” a fourth voice joined.
“Hey, O'Neil, where's your communication wire?” the first voice asked.
“Shit, man, I didn't have time to grab it before I had to move.”
A grunt followed Rafael/O'Neil's statement.
“Johnson has ordered enforcements on all exit points, including the evac tunnels, though there have been no activities there,” said the third voice helpfully.
Evac tunnels?
“Hey!” one of the guards cried out, though I couldn't tell which. There was a gurgling sound, followed by “Fuck, O'Neil, what the—” A commotion, grunts, then eerie silence.
Then Rafael—still in O'Neil form—poked his head inside and motioned us to go.
Outside, night had turned into day with all the spotlights. The wind had picked up, though I was sweating like a pig. Archer leaned heavily against the building, and I quickly went to him and put his arm back around my shoulder.
On the ground, scattered around the exit door, seven bodies lay, though I couldn't tell if they were dead or unconscious. Probably the former, if Rafael's previous actions were anything to go by.
“We'll cut across to Building B.” Rafael/O'Neil motioned to the darkened building forty feet away. “You ready?”
In response, Logan produced the round device from his pocket, and I recognized it now as a detonator timer. It was probably a different one since this one turned green instead of yellow. This time, I caught the number ten on the display.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
We crossed to Building B in the open and had just reached it when an explosion to our left shook the place.
The back wall. Logan had blown up the back wall.
Oh yeah, professionals.
We were literally rocking the place—down.
We ran to the opposite side of the explosion, to the parking facility, leaving behind the shouts of orders, barking dogs, and more shouts.
Oh shit, we were going to make it.
The thought had barely crossed my mind when the rhythm of the commotion behind us changed. Logan detached himself from the group, unhooked the remaining two grenades from around his waist, and threw them back.
Two booms, almost one, sounded behind us.
Good thinking, I thought. A smoke screen to help our escape.
About fifteen feet ahead, the parking facility. But Rafael turned to the left, and I saw the wall was crumbled there. The origin of the first explosion.
A distraction indeed.
We reached the rubble, well ahead of any guards, and began climbing through it. The rocks were loose, and twice I stumbled with Archer, subjecting my knees and palms to numerous cuts and lacerations. Regardless, we reached the barbed wire just a couple steps behind Rafael. Behind us, Logan returned fire, keeping the guards at bay.
At the top, I slipped on a loose rock and fell hard, painfully jarring my kneecap. With nothing else for support, I held onto the barbed wire, ignoring the sharp bite of the needle point inside my palm, and pulled Archer to the top.
From my elevated perch atop the rubble, I could see all the chaos that approached. Logan wasn't too far ahead of them. In fact, he wasn't running at full capacity and, once the smoke cleared enough, every single person behind him would have a clear target. Already some of the guards were raising their weapons to take aim, the smoke clearing enough to show them Logan's silhouette.
I heard one of the commanding guards shouting “down with the live bullets!” and a few of the guards that had begun to aim lowered their weapons, exchanging them for long-barreled guns.
My eyes flew back to Logan, and sure enough, he was leaving behind a dark trail of blood.
He'd been hit.
No wonder the guards were gaining on him.
And I realized with a sinking horror that he wasn't going to make it.
Without pausing to think, I whistled to Rafael, then left Archer atop the rubble and scrambled down to meet Logan.
Heart pounding, I met Logan's eyes, my left hand working to free the bracelet from under the long sleeve of the spandex suit. Realizing what I was about to do, Logan tried to hurry, grunting in pain with every other step he took.
He was still a few feet away when I raised my arm and pointed behind him, at the few dozen silhouettes approaching. I felt that slumbering thing in the depths of my soul stir and take notice.
“Help me,” I murmured, though I wasn't sure if I was begging that slumbering thing or if it was some prayer of sorts. Heart pounding, I reached for that gentle hum and willed that force—kinetic energy—to be leashed upon the guards, now clearly visible a few dozen steps ahead, their weapons ready and aimed.
What happened next was something beyond my understanding. Like with the fire mage a year and a half earlier, I felt that slumbering presence—now a primitive entity aware and somehow a part of my being—join itself with the bracelet and expand into every part of me, my body, my mind, my soul.
One moment I was focused on sending away the guards approaching us, the next I was looking up at the dark sky, debris and dust flying everywhere.
To say I was disoriented was the very least. But I knew something had gone wrong. Very, very wrong.
Suddenly Logan's face appeared above mine, his eyes wild and his face pale as he helped me up with an unsteady hand.
There was dust everywhere. I had enough sense to cover my mouth and nose with a hand, trying not to breathe it in, but soon I was coughing anyway.
What have I done? The dust was so thick, visibility was limited to a few inches ahead only, but Logan seemed to know the way and began steering me away, to the breech in the wall. Sure enough, a few steps later and he was helping me climb up the rubble. The dust was beginning to thin, but neither Logan nor I could stop coughing as we climbed, sometimes using our hands to keep ourselves steadil
y moving without falling.
We crested the rubble and could just make out Rafael and Archer, the latter in a fireman's carry over a shoulder, halfway to the woods already. Logan swayed atop the rubble, and I noticed the trail of blood was still coming strong.
“Shift,” I urged.
“Can't. There's something on the bullet.” He panted. We helped each other down, his hands working to release one of the many guns he had stashed in his suit, our footing precarious atop the loosely shifting rocks. We cleared the rubble at the same time the gun came free. I was about to ask him if he was all right, premature triumph singing through my veins with adrenaline, when I saw it.
A red dart.
Protruding from his hand.
Even as my breath caught, another dart appeared in his right cheek.
I whirled around, and just as I spotted the dark green Hummer parked beside the dirt road—at the edge of the woods, spotlights turned on atop it, effectively blinding me. Ahead, almost upon the vehicle, Archer and Rafael each were covered with red darts. Rafael's face, the back of Archer's thighs and ass, both Rafael's hands.
Even before my brain commanded me to run, a few darts hit me square on. The last thing I did before I went under was scream, a sound of despair and agony.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Waking up was one of the most dreadful and unpleasant processes of my life. There was no fog, no cloud of confusion over what had happened or where I was.
I remembered, and I knew.
I was currently lying on top of a hard, narrow bed in a very small room with a fist-sized window.
I knew.
And I didn't even need to open my eyes to verify it. The smell of Pine-Sol had my stomach jittering and fluttering like there were millions of bees and wasps doing the chicken dance in it.
I tried taking deep breaths for a moment to calm myself down. I needed to think clearly, I needed to think past the panicked screams inside my head.
My stomach roiled and churned violently, a tempest on an angry sea.
A shifter—a doppelgänger, a born vampire/wolf, a rejected, and a mixed breed. They were probably celebrating their victory—their catch—with champagne and caviar.
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