Ky (In the Company of Snipers Book 13)

by Irish Winters

  “What plan?” She needed to know.

  “The plan to kill you, Agent Stark.”

  “Your son is here, isn’t he?” she asked, just to be clear. She couldn’t detect Isaiah, but it made sense after what he’d told her about them having a child together.

  “Yes. Isaiah is here.” Zaroyin nodded at the ordinary-looking door stuck in the massive brick wall across the enormous empty bay. “This building belongs to Bick. There’s a lab in the back. Some other... stuff. Maybe a technician or two. We must do this right. We must hurry.”

  He paused to really look at Eden. Taking hold of her wrists, his harsh gaze softened. “Miss Stark, you must believe me. I began my drone research only to stop the unnecessary human cost of modern warfare. The friendly-fire mistakes that kill so many good men and women. The errors in human judgment. The incorrect target coordinates. The near misses. If mankind is to survive, we must find a better way of dealing with terrorists and mad men.”

  For the first time, Eden glimpsed a different man behind the evil mask, the depth of the worry etched at the corners of his eyes. The gray pallor of his face. The man she’d mentally reduced to Dr. Zaroyin became Abraham. The irony of this trembling father’s very Jewish first name did not escape Eden. Any man who named his boy after a heroic prophet in the Old Testament had to have been a good and decent man at one time in his life.

  Abraham grasped his forehead, rubbing his fingers nervously back and forth across it. “I thought some level of carefully administered brain control would be the perfect solution, only... I was wrong. My chip is defective. It makes no allowances for individual choice. It forces a man to become a killing machine instead of a willing host. It needs further study, only I wasn’t smart enough to wait. I acted rashly. I sought congressional funding long before my device was perfected or beta-tested, and I... God, I...”

  He looked at the dead body on the floor, his jaw tight with disgust. “I courted a devil named Douglas Bick for the funding he promised, and now he has my only child. Hurry. We’ve got to go.”

  Eden rifled through McCluskey’s pockets and relieved him of a couple of mags and another pistol, a pearl-handled snub-nosed thirty-eight special. Good enough. She was packing a weapon she could actually handle, and she was ready to engage. Eden handed the BFG off to Abraham. Together, they ran across the bay, Eden amazed she could actually run in those heels. “The chip isn’t defective. The concept behind your whole mind-control idea is what’s wrong. Is your son implanted, too?”

  He paused at the door, his head cocked to listen as he eased it open with his gun in hand. “Oh, no. Isaiah is a gentle soul in a man’s body. He doesn’t belong in this world. His heart is too soft. It was because of him that I had the idea to stop warfare as we know it. No father wants to leave behind a world that will eat his child alive, yet that is precisely what I’ve done.”

  Eden smoothed one palm down the ridiculously expensive fur coat that covered her from her neck to her ankles and followed him into a dimly lit hall. “Tell me why Bick has Isaiah if he’s not a drone like the other guys. Did you hand Isaiah over to Bick or—”

  “Never! He kidnapped my son to get to me. To control all of my work. To bastardize my solution for world peace. To force me to do what he wants.” Abraham explained as he walked brusquely down the hall. “Bick wants the cybernetic enhancements trials to succeed for all the wrong reasons. He’s obsessed with total military control. That’s all my hard work and research means to him.”

  A shudder rent the man’s shoulders. “Bick doesn’t need you alive for his dream to come to fruition, Miss Stark. A woman is born with a finite number of eggs and those eggs can be frozen long after she’s been murdered. Bick has no qualms about killing, in fact, I think he and his wife enjoy it. He believes a child born of two level-ten psychics will be mentally stronger, more capable of controlling his perfect cybernetic army, and he’ll do anything to get that child.”

  She could only nod in dumb agreement at the awful truth. This was a risky operation, but another truth glowed just as brightly. Dr. Abraham Zaroyin loved his son. He was prepared to die for him. It didn’t take a psychic to see that. “You didn’t implant that mind-control thing in my scalp, did you? You didn’t hurt me.”

  “I did not,” he said, his voice laced with genuine sorrow. “It’s common procedure for the agents in my program, yes, but for no one else. Bick had to be behind it. He’s been obsessed with you for years. What you called the spider thing is nothing more than a regulator. It injects miniscule amounts of a memory loss drug to prevent a volunteer from second-guessing his decision to join the program. The mind-control chips are different. They’re very tiny and are implanted deep within the limbic portion of the brain, one to block strong emotions in the amygdala, the other to restrain hormonal responses that originate in the hypothalamus to outside stimuli such as temperature, thirst, and hunger.”

  That explained why the eight FBI drones she’d encountered ran through the snow all night. They had literally been programmed to ignore the cold and fatigue. Eden still needed to know who’d sent them after her if not Zaroyin.

  This warehouse made her feel off-balance, and it wasn’t just the heels. It felt more like the ghosts of all those FBI agents were reaching out to her, their long skeletal fingers demanding she acknowledge them, begging that she see them. That she save them. Spooky.

  Abraham explained as they walked, oblivious to her rising angst, his feet moving faster with his words. “I found out too late that Bick has a long reach, Agent Stark, and he knows a lot of the wrong kind of people. Yes, I admit that I went behind Director Strong’s back. We all did. I was obsessed with the prospect of cybernetic enhancement, and what it would mean to the world. My test subjects, too. We had a common vision, and they were so willing. What man wouldn’t want to be like Superman? To be able to withstand the fear and shock that bloody battle induces? Or to rise above the effects of adrenaline when he’s being shot at? But I needed funding to continue my highly technical research and—”

  “By the time you spoke with Director Strong, Senator Bick already had Isaiah, didn’t he?” It made sense. Take a group of testosterone-fueled egomaniacs like Tucker. Amp them up. Make them believe they could save the world. Eden saw how easily this vision could’ve been sold to patriotic idealists, to battle hardened warriors who knew full well the cost of war. To men who’d seen their brothers and sisters die in the deserts and jungles.

  Abraham nodded, the utter torment in his voice easy to read. “I was a fool. I believed everything he and his wife told me.”

  “Cassandra Bick?”

  “You know her?”

  “I know of her.” The thought of an innocent babe at that twisted actress’s beck and call chilled Eden to her core. A freight train of maternal instinct swept through her body and soul, filling her with a crushing, feral need to protect an unborn baby she hadn’t yet conceived, hadn’t even thought of yet. Even her breasts tingled. How extraordinarily odd.

  “She’s something else entirely, Agent Stark, nothing like her husband. If he’s Hitler, she’s Charlie Manson. Trust me. You don’t want to meet Mrs. Bick in a dark alley, much less in this place.” He stopped, nearly causing her to collide with him. Turning on her, he cried, “My God what have I done bringing you here? I needed your help, but this could go terribly wrong. You need to leave.”

  “No way.” Eden set him straight, chin nodding him forward. “You’ve brought me here to save Isaiah’s life, that’s what you’ve done. Now let’s go get him.”

  He didn’t move. “But this may get you killed, too.”

  “But it may not,” she growled, a little more fiercely than she’d intended, “and what’s this too bullshit. Neither of us is going to die.” Her hackles were standing painfully on end, her motherly instincts sprung ferociously to life over the fate of an unborn child. She’d never felt more capable of killing another, especially if that person meant to hurt a baby. Her baby.

  The doctor’s head bobb
ed, his momentary guilt, or whatever it was, gone. “Yes. You’re right. Isaiah. Let’s get Isaiah out of here.”

  “Damned straight I’m right.” And now I sound just like Tucker. What’s up with me?

  She shouldn’t have taken another look at Abraham, though. The man’s eyes brimmed with tears. “What’s wrong?”

  He let out a shuddering sigh. “I know it’s foolish to tell you this now after what I’ve done to you, but I would’ve been proud to call you, Daughter.”

  Oh, snap. A stab to the heart Eden hadn’t seen coming. Here stood the man she’d thought she hated. The guy she’d believed had tracked her down and threatened her life, and he wanted her as a daughter? Why? Her own father hadn’t wanted her. Why this guy? Why now?

  Still dealing with her newly activated and enraged motherly hormones, she shook the perplexing notion of being wanted as a daughter out of her mind. She could only handle one desperate problem at a time. “Did your son have a kitten as a child? A long-haired Siamese named—”

  “Hoi-Toi. How do you know this?”

  “Come on, Abraham,” she ordered gently instead of explaining her visions and adding to his fears. He’d gotten caught up in his guilt and confessing when they should’ve been saving Isaiah. “Times a-wasting.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Abraham eased another door open and stepped inside a long, dark corridor that seemed to lead to the opposite end of the warehouse. Eden would’ve preferred to lead, but he seemed to know where he was going. He also seemed competent with McCluskey’s Dirty Harry pistol, a formidable Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum. Typical hardware for an FBI agent who’d obviously thought he was Wyatt Earp.

  Like Tucker Chase. Her friend’s bravado walked with her through the halls, but it was her favorite hero’s calm presence gently stroking at the back of her mind that kept her steady and strong. It was Ky’s touch. His love. He’d been with her every step of this insane journey.

  She sighed at the rush of heated memories of their tumultuous times together. From the get-go, he’d known her. He might not have realized it that first night, but he did now. Her fingers longed to be touching him now instead of that snub-nosed revolver and taser in her pockets.

  “This way,” Abraham whispered, still walking steadily into the bowels of the warehouse and away from the front entry. The place was a chilly maze of dimly lit halls and closed doors, any of which could end in a death trap. He turned right into another long corridor, but stopped short at the second door on the left. Cocking his head, he leaned into the closed door. “Shhhhh.”

  She stilled, adrenaline surging through her veins, the thirty-eight special lifted and ready, the taser still snuggled low in her pocket. She meant to keep it out of sight for as long as possible. A lady didn’t reveal all of her secrets.

  “Isaiah’s still in there,” Abraham murmured. “I’m almost sure of it. Quiet.”

  Isaiah, Eden called mentally, needing to know for herself that this was not a trap. The only one she’d gotten a clear read on since the Cessna crashed was the doctor’s son. Her gut instincts declared him safe, his father too, but Eden had unanswered questions.

  She followed the doctor into a darkened room. A stifling combination of sweat and copper drifted into her nose. As she reached out with her second sight, Isaiah’s inert form became visible, his aura grayish-white, the color of death. She called softly to him, “Isaiah. I’m here. Your father’s here, too.”

  He didn’t offer back so much as a whimper. Isaiah was taller than his father, but so gaunt. So pale. Some of the cuts inside his biceps were red, but healed. Others were fresh and still dripping as if he’d been bled recently to keep him weak. His bare chest was muscular. Chiseled. Restrained beneath a wide leather belt. A puddle of red blood lingered in the metal bucket beneath the table. Someone had tortured him recently. That someone had to be in the building. Maybe closer.

  “My son!” Dr. Zaroyin hurried to the stainless-steel platform that held Isaiah “Mother of God, what have they done to you while I’ve been gone?” When he pressed a switch at the end of the table, a dim light flickered on beneath the narrow hood. That he knew the location of that switch shot a creepy wave of gooseflesh up Eden’s neck. What else did he know? What else had he done on a worktable like this one? Autopsies? On who? How many?

  She shoved the scary suspicions away and focused on saving Isaiah, her pulse skipping frantically in her throat. The guy was a study in sculptured muscle, sweat and blood. He hadn’t moved so much as a finger.

  “Help me get him off this work bench. Quick,” Abraham ordered, his voice tight. “We don’t have time. They’re supposed to check on him once every hour unless…”

  Workbench. A very creepy name for a stainless steel contraption designed to hold bodies still. Dr. Zaroyin had some explaining to do.

  “Unless what?” Eden asked, her nerves frayed, and her newborn faith in her doctor friend shaken. She unsnapped the padded cuffs from Isaiah’s ankles while his father undid the leather straps and released his wrists. The leather band around his forehead fell aside next, and Eden was very afraid.

  Until this moment, she’d left physical rescues to actual heroes: FBI SWAT, Navy SEALs, and other more qualified operators. But being there, being the one saving Isaiah’s life, brought a whole new perspective to her chosen, and until now, very safe career. All of those brave men and women she’d sent in to save others had risked their lives, yet they’d done it. Every single time.

  Eden swallowed hard. She understood now. She didn’t want to die in this concrete tomb with its labyrinth of hallways and secrets, but neither would she leave this tortured man behind.

  Abraham didn’t look at her, just kept working the belts and buckles to free his son. “Unless they want something, Agent Stark. I was afraid of this. Isaiah’s ethics are rock solid. Torturing him was the only way to force him to misuse his psychic abilities. Damn them.”

  She gulped at the brutality, her throat dry and her fingers trembling. Isaiah was the ultimate bait, and there she was, smack in the middle of a deadly trap that would not only kill him and her, but their future children, too.

  “How do you plan to get him out of here?” she asked to keep her mind focused on success.

  Abraham didn’t skip a beat. “I have a friend on the outside. See that gurney behind you? Bring it close so I can transfer Isaiah.”

  She hurried and rolled the empty gurney alongside the autopsy table. The workbench. “You take his shoulders. I’ll grab his feet.”

  Abraham’s head bobbed. “On one. Two. Three.”

  Like pros, they transferred Isaiah to his singular chance for safety. He never made a sound. Never moved. Not even when his skin stuck to the dried blood on the table. Eden could’ve cried at the monstrous crimes wrought on his poor body. His curly hair was soaked with sweat, his lips chapped. She suspected his tormentors had done more than just cut him. There was no IV line to replace bodily fluids. No cup for a simple glass of water. No sign that he’d eaten recently.

  “God, he’s so light,” Abraham cried, his palms splayed over his son’s chest. “My poor boy.”

  Eden doffed her fur coat and covered her wounded charge with it. “He’ll be warm now. What’s next?”

  “We wait. I called my contact the minute we landed. He’ll text me when he arrives, and we’ll wheel my son out of the back door. We’ll be free.”

  “You called someone?” she asked, not remembering that little news item. “Really? When?”

  Dr. Zaroyin nodded emphatically. “Yes. Why do you think I let you and McCluskey step out of the chopper first? I knew we’d need help, and I didn’t know if I could trust you yet.”

  Understatement of the year, but at least he had a plan. “How long will that take? Who is this friend?”

  Isaiah’s quiet groan interrupted his father. Eden?

  She lifted his hand, intertwined her fingers with his. Yes. It’s me. I’m here.

  He arched his back, his eyes still closed. I told y
ou not to come.

  The abject sorrow behind those words stabbed her heart. She didn’t need protecting. Isaiah, be still. Everything’s going to be okay. We’re here to save you.

  I’m dying, he whispered silently. You shouldn’t have wasted your life to save mine.

  No, you’re not. Your dad and I are saving you, and that’s all there is to it. Now let us do that for you, okay?

  My father is here?

  Yes, Isaiah. Try to open your eyes. See him. Then you’ll know. A good father risks everything for his child. He loves you.

  Isaiah stiffened but slowly turned to face his father. “Dad?” he whispered hoarsely.

  Dr. Zaroyin cradled his adult son’s head inside the crook of his arm like he was a baby. With tears streaming down his face, Abraham placed a father’s fervent kiss to Isaiah’s sweaty cheek. “We’re going home,” he said, his eyes glistening as they scanned over Isaiah’s desperate condition. “And look. Eden is here.”

  “But Dad...” Isaiah’s weak voice trailed away.

  “Your friend had better get here soon,” Eden muttered. “Isaiah needs a hospital.”

  “He’ll be here,” Abraham insisted, his forehead pressed to his son’s. “He’s a good man. You’ll see.”

  “Is it Cameron Levine?” She had to know.

  Abraham stared up at her. His brows narrowed. “Who?”

  “You didn’t send Levine to intercept me in Hawaii?” Then who did?

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about. Why would I send someone to you? I could barely keep up with you myself.”

  She swallowed her snappy comeback. If this so called friend was such a good man, why wasn’t he already there and waiting for them when they arrived? Why hadn’t he helped take McCluskey down? That would’ve been darned friendly. And another thing. The part of the puzzle she still hadn’t figured out reached out of nowhere and slapped her in the face. If Dr. Zaroyin hadn’t stuck those implants inside her body, and if he hadn’t placed that hormone patch, or whatever it was, on the back of her leg, who the heck did? Was it truly Levine or—was someone else in this twisted game?