“Why?” Harsh, plaintive, and soul wearying, his question hung between them.
Spreading her fingers against his chest, she tapped him once. A light, gentle pat before she withdrew the contact and stepped away. Nothing she said or did would get through to him, not really. So, if he needed proof, she had to show it through inaction or orders. At the door, she glanced at him. “Because I trust you, Ronan. I believe in you, and my gut says you would never betray me.”
Leaving him to chew on that, she exited the room. Amanda didn’t follow. What they needed to sort out was between them, and Rory had to focus on the more current problem.
Where the hell are you, Michael? And why did it always seem she was trapped searching for those she loved?
Chapter 3
Trailing his target all the way to Brooklyn, Drake made a point of staying out of her line of sight. Joss Archer was retired military, or so Simon’s information told him, and her training showed in the way she walked from the subway to her place. Constantly on a swivel, she displayed her vigilance. He went high, relying on the typical human fault to not look above them. Fortunately, the residential block she lived on gave him the perfect vantage as he moved from rooftop to rooftop.
He checked her position periodically, but kept his distance from the edge lest she confound him with her wariness by actually glancing to where he lurked. It helped that he had her address. She made one stop at a corner store, and he took a moment to crouch in the shadows near a chimney. When she exited what looked like a mom and pop joint, she carried a six-pack of beer in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other.
Her place was another half a block up. Rather than continue pursuit, he settled into his vantage and kept an eye on her until she entered the building. An hour of patience later, and he headed for her apartment building. Fortunately, no one took advantage of the nice weather to sit on the chairs parked around the roof. The faint acrid odor of smoke clung to the brickwork and a stack of discarded butts revealed a spot where someone came to smoke their cigarettes. The temperature around the butts wasn’t remotely warm, so hopefully they weren’t likely to step out at any moment.
The door from the roof to the interior seemed sturdy as well as locked. Joss Archer’s apartment was one floor down and accessible via an old-fashioned fire escape. A glance over the edge revealed a couple two floors below her hanging out on their fire escape, lit cigarettes glowing orange in the deep dark. Finding a spot, Drake set a silent alarm on his watch and settled in to wait.
She went home to eat, drink a beer, maybe shower and watch some television. He would give her plenty of time to shed her initial wariness from the walk home and the jolt she’d experienced when their gazes clashed on the train platform. Few people lived in a constant state of hyper vigilance, not in a world where bad things happened to other people.
Every once in a while, Drake had to question their path. They’d come back in time to stop the future from happening. Yet what had they accomplished in their tenure? The formulas they’d been injected with had slowed their aging. The chips in their brain had created more issues than they’d solved. And for the better part of several decades, they’d lived in the shadows, as afraid of changing the wrong thing as they were in the hunt for what was the right places to affect change.
And how will we ever know if we’re successful? The Captain had lasered onto the mission of removing Hans Geiger to the point they’d stalked the one relative they’d been able to discern from the historical record. Yet, once he’d met Rory, all bets had been off. He’d fallen for the woman, changed their plans again, and they were no closer to Geiger than they’d been when they arrived in the twentieth century.
Now it’s the twenty-first century. They plodded toward their future at a steady, almost inexorable pace. Wars cropped up around the world. Corporations extended their power, closing their fists tightly around the lives of what the modern day labeled the pitiful few. No matter how they protest, the modern populace still considers it someone else’s problem.
One thing Drake knew for certain—it was always someone else’s problem until they came for you. Tonight, I’m coming for her. How many people will just roll over and ignore the noise? He’d bet most of them. A sliver of guilt worked its way through his soul. Decades of practice helped him ignore the discomfort, however.
The sounds of evening cascaded around him. Kids argued against bath time then complained more about bedtime. In another apartment, a couple fought over how much money the woman spent online. In yet another, a mother tended to her very ill child. Although his position put him within shouting distance of Joss Archer’s windows, he heard very little from her place other than the sound of the television. He couldn’t even make out what show she watched.
Good. Better if she is alone.
One by one, the apartments below quieted. The door to the roof opened and the mom he’d heard comforting her child stepped out and lit a cigarette. Her rough silhouette slumped as she sucked greedily on the tobacco. Exhaustion radiated from her every pore. Life had not been kind and defeat cloaked her every motion. Drake held his position, breathing regulated so he didn’t give away his presence.
Mom went through two cigarettes in rapid succession and checked her phone. Everyone had those devices these days. When she finished the second one, she crushed it out with the rest in the stack he’d discovered earlier then let herself back into the building. He considered and dismissed kiting in behind her before the door completed its latching.
The fire escape entry into the apartment would be better. It was near midnight before he made his move. The building had gone quiet, the faintest hum of the television volumes reduced so as not to wake those going to sleep. Rising, he stretched carefully and ignored the protest his muscles made after prolonged stillness.
Training kept his steps light as he slipped over the edge of the roof and descended the fire escape ladder to the first level. The rickety metal wasn’t the best for disguising his presence, but he made nary a rattle. After utilizing a small laser to free a pane of glass, he reached in and unlocked her window.
Entry brought him into her living room. The television was on, sending flickering light to dance shadows across the room, but the sound was off. Drake went still the moment he entered. He traded the laser in his palm for a small auto-injector loaded with a fairly strong narcotic. It would knock her out and allow him to remove her without a struggle.
Joss Archer won the lottery based on her rigid adherence to protocol and her decision to live off campus. The profile he’d studied on her indicated a straight shooter, honorable to a fault, and well trained. Numerous commendations decorated her military file. No movement disturbed the darkness of the apartment, and the show on the television looked like some kind of drama. Ignoring it, he scanned the layout of the apartment. It was a two bedroom, with a large living room and a kitchen attached.
He made it as far as the sofa before he sensed the trap. Not enough time to react or do much more than brace himself as two prongs slammed into his chest followed by a few thousand volts.
Electricity scorched his system, but Drake withstood the onslaught. Bowing his head, he fought to relax his muscles as they clenched with every jolt zinging through him. His adversary rose, her hand on the Taser control as another series of shocks ripped through him.
The fierce look on Joss’s face drained away as shock filled her eyes. Drake gritted his teeth at the surge in voltage before the device shorted out and the energized assault ceased. Though his overloaded nervous system continued to fire and his heart raced on its own personal marathon, Drake’s spiking adrenaline flooded his system and counteracted most of the effects.
“You done?” It came out far more menacing than he intended, but at the moment, she was lucky he needed her alive and had a personal objection to harming fellow soldiers or he would put her ass through that damn wall. The fucking Taser hurt.
Even as she straightened, the dumbfounded surprise melted from her expression to b
e replaced by cool competence. If he hadn’t already been struggling with the agony she’d inflicted, he would have admired her. “I was trying to do it the easy way.” Dropping the Taser, she drew out a Beretta M9.
Drake didn’t give her time to draw bead on him. The intent to shoot him reflected clearly in her expression. The dance of shadows from the television provided his only cover, so he didn’t bother. Charging her, he tried to control the force at which he struck her. The gun went off, and the bullet burned a scrape along his biceps.
The soldier bounced off him and hit the wall. A faint crack accompanied her impact and she slumped. Not trusting her compliance, he zip tied her wrists then her feet. Next, he field stripped the Beretta and tossed the parts into different potted plants throughout the apartment. Ripping off a part of his shirt, he tied it around the wound on his arm before he began a systematic sweep.
Identifying two electronic devices, he disabled them and then used a magnetic device in his pouch to wipe her computer and the backup server in her closet. It took him just under six minutes to complete the sweep and prepare her for extraction. Sirens closing in on the block warned him he’d overstayed his welcome.
Slinging the woman over his shoulder, he exited via the fire escape and ascended to the roof. Lights had come on in the apartment below, and he heard a woman’s frantic voice on the phone… “Only one shot. Yes, sir, I’m still here. Yes, I hear the sirens…no there were no other sounds.”
The smoking mother had heard the gunshot. His biceps burned as if sharing the memory. His left hand gave a jerk, and he damn near dropped his cargo. The electricity jolting in his system still seemed intent on scrambling his neurons.
Thank God Ilsa deactivated their chips or his might have been burning a hole through his cerebrum. He crossed several buildings, traveling two blocks from her place before descending to where Garrett waited with the van. The poisoner gave him a bland look when he dropped Joss into the rear and wrapped her into a rug. He spared one minute to check her pupillary response and her pulse before giving her the injection.
“You do realize you were supposed to give her that before you carried her here?” Amusement peppered the other Boomer’s words.
“No comment.” Closing the door, he took a seat next to the prone woman. “Drive.”
Only after they were clear of Brooklyn and on one of the many bridges heading away from the city—headed toward the docked speedboat intended to take them to Rock Isle—did Drake let his headrest against the wall of the van. Everything in him hurt.
Still, he had to admire her. She’d laid a trap and he’d walked right into it. Too bad for her, she’d gotten him. The voltage would have dropped most of the others, except maybe Rex. But Drake had long grown used to taking hits.
* * *
The world’s worst hangover awaited Joss when she managed to peel open her gummed eyes. Strapped to a chair, zip ties rendered her feet and hands immobile. Little bits of information trickled through the thundering headache crowding her brain, expanding until what few thoughts she managed to string together flattened against her skull like sardines packed too tightly.
Joss didn’t drink more than beer. The last time she’d been hammered had been the day after she graduated boot camp. Having disliked the after-party experience, between the headaches and worshiping at the porcelain throne, she avoided a repeat.
So why the hell did I get… The thought barely formed in the cacophony of her mind when her stomach rebelled. She wrenched her head sideways and puked. Fortunately, a bucket sat right there, seemingly in place for her. A physician appeared in her periphery, masked and gowned. Though the delicate eyes above the surgical mask revealed she was a woman, the doctor said nothing. She simply removed the pail, replaced it with a clean one, then used a damp cloth to wipe Joss’s face.
Welcoming the coolness, Joss resisted the urge to strike out. Better to bide her time and get the lay of the land. It would also help if her vision stopped blurring and the percussion band ceased playing the 1812 Overture in her head. The doctor offered her a plastic cup with a straw attached and, no matter how crappy her mouth tasted, it seemed like a bad idea to drink. Joss looked from the cup to the person offering it then back again.
“It’s water,” the physician assured her in a gentle tone. “Only water.”
Typically, she regarded herself as a good judge of character. Based on her current circumstances, splitting skull aside, she didn’t think the doctor meant her harm, but she also wasn’t there to help her.
Better to hydrate. It might help with her head and buy her time to work out an escape. She gingerly took a sip of the drink, swishing it around her mouth before she leaned over to spit it into the nearby bucket. It definitely tasted like water. Clear. Cold. Refreshing. The doctor waited patiently, so Joss took another sip. The second tasted better, since she got the sour flavor out of her mouth.
She swallowed a couple of sips. Better to judge whether they drugged it or not. At the moment, she wouldn’t object to some pain relievers. When she didn’t go for the straw again, the doctor set the water down then moved away toward the door. Joss tried to track her motion, but twisting her head just made it ache more, so she let her chin drop and ignored the pounding of her heart, which seemed to add yet another thrum to her miserable state.
Regulating her breathing was the first step to slowing her heart rate; and ease the pulsing thud of blood hammering her brain. Deeper breaths would give her more oxygen, help clear away the fog and hazy vision. The doctor left the room, though Joss didn’t think for a second she wasn’t under some kind of observation. The room was rather sterile—a medical bay of some kind. A second door sat slightly ajar in the corner. The edge of a toilet and shower were visible. So, a bathroom, adding to the sensation of medical facility.
Lifting her chin, she blinked slowly to bring more of the room into focus. A locked cabinet on the wall farthest from her seemed to offer her the best opportunity at possible weapon. The bucket was metal and it was closer. If she could get her wrist free of the zip tie or simply flip the chair and break it, she could use the arms and legs.
Unfortunately, her ankles were very securely strapped, keeping her feet a few scant inches from the floor. Hard to get leverage if she couldn’t plant her feet—okay, she needed a plan B. Testing the give on her wrist zip ties, she grimaced at the way it cut into her wrist. It wasn’t quite cutting off her circulation, but offered zero give to let her work her hand around.
Fuck.
Plan C. The doctor was the only person she’d seen so far, but she’d displayed the type of kindness and compassion one expected from medical personnel. She could play on those tender feelings, ally herself with the physician, and maybe turn her. The release of a lock preceded the door opening once more. The large figure filling the doorframe brought everything rushing back to her with sharp, stinging clarity.
Big, broad-shouldered, with deep ebony skin that made the gold tattoo on his face only so much more alluring. His eyes were deep, soulful wells totally at odds with his somber expression. Even his hand seemed huge where he gripped the door.
He moved with a very light step for such a big dude. He had to be somewhere around six foot four, maybe six five. He would definitely tower over her five foot seven inch frame and then some. Hell, he towered over her now. Raising her chin, she studied his movement. No one that huge should move so gracefully. If she’d ever had to cast someone as a god in one of those movies, this dude would be a shoo in.
Grasping another chair, he moved it over to set it opposite her. A shiver of concern rippled through her at the idea of him sitting on the flimsy wooden construction. To her surprise, it held him. Forearms braced on his massive thighs, he leaned forward and the black shirt he wore stretched over his bulging muscles. Nothing on that man was spare and, for the first time since she’d survived a grisly firefight in Tikrit, real fear slithered to coil around her spine.
This man could hurt her, and she was trapped, bound to the damn
chair. The rush of adrenaline sent her head to pounding, but she fought to ignore the pain and keep her gaze trained on the man facing her.
“I apologize for the discomfort you must be experiencing.” Solemn, even words flowed melodically from his lips. An intellectual served up in a Neanderthal’s body. The light played over the pattern of his tattoo, distracting her nearly as much as his air of gentility. “I would have preferred to not give you a concussion.”
A flicker of memory kindled within her pain-riddled brain. She’d tasered him. More, she’d burned out her Taser when her instincts told her someone had followed her home. Experience taught her to trust her gut when it came to surveying the field. Just because a person couldn’t see the enemy didn’t mean they weren’t there.
It also meant that, just because the enemy had a gorgeous, compelling face with a dazzling tattoo, it didn’t make him any less of an enemy.
“Sorry I didn’t have a higher voltage Taser.” Or maybe she should have used the gun first. Non-lethal force hadn’t done her a hell of a lot of good.
“I’m not.” If her comment bothered him, it didn’t show. “The one you had left me scrambled plenty.”
“Sure it did.” She should have resisted the urge to snap back, but dammit, she’d hit him with enough amperage to take down an elephant. Yet, there he sat, cool as a cucumber. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
“One of whom?”
“Okay, you want to break into my apartment? Assault me? Kidnap me? Tie me to this chair? Whatever. But don’t fucking insult my intelligence.” Anger burned in her gut, the crackling flames consuming the hangover plaguing her since awaking. “You’re one of them, the super powered freaks who are hell bent on destruction.”
Unstoppable Page 3
