by Vicki Hinze
Her muscles were in lockdown.
You can do this, Darcy.
I can’t move! I can’t defend myself, much less fight to defend Ben. How can I do this? I can’t move!
You can. You can, Darcy. Breathe deeply. Relax. You can do this. I swear, you can.
She heard Ben’s voice, heard Dr. Vargus, Colonel Drake. They all believed in her.
Merry. You can’t fail again like with Merry. Get on your feet!
Drenched in cold sweat, Darcy slid up the building to her feet. She took her gun from her purse, folded her fingers around the grip. She wasn’t steady. Lord, help her. She wasn’t even sure she could aim much less shoot. She stumbled along the perimeter of the building to the side door. It wasn’t padlocked. Did she dare to just walk in?
Ten minutes. Did she have a choice?
She slid inside, into a darkened doorway. She heard muffled noises from across the warehouse. In her vicinity, nothing stirred. Deliberately, she brought Ben’s voice to mind, focused on his soothing tranquility, his gentleness, his tenderness.
With a shake and a giant shudder, she regained some of her control. Swiping her slacks at her thighs, she dried her soaked palms, gripped her gun tightly and then stalked the warehouse, looking for Ben.
Darcy moved with stealth through the dark dusty rows of shelving toward the bald yellow light shining in its center. Wooden crates stacked ten or more feet high formed barricades. They were marked as canned goods, but her heightened senses disagreed. Darcy sniffed a crate and smelled a trace of gunpowder.
The bombs? Probably, but they should smell stronger. Maybe her senses weren’t as attuned as usual because her focus was slivered. Something was off.
She scraped her back against the rough wood, checked for signals that she’d been spotted, but she perceived none. Silently, she peeked around the corner of the crates—and saw Ben in the center of a circle of wooden boxes stacked far above his head so that no one outside could see what was going on inside the building.
He hung suspended from metal rods, tied a foot off the floor with heavy ropes, his arms stretched wide, his legs pulled apart. Sweat-soaked, pain had his face haggard, and his head lolled forward, chin to his chest.
Her heart nearly ruptured. Don’t do it, Darcy. Not now. You can handle this.
“Why were you following us, Ben? Who told you to follow us?”
Needle. Darcy recognized his voice before he turned and she saw his face. He picked up a syringe. He’d drugged Amanda. She’d lost three months of her life! Darcy’s stomach twisted and churned.
No answer. Ben didn’t so much as grunt.
“We have the means to make you tell us everything,” Needle warned him.
They did. Oh, God, but they did.
“Spare yourself the pain and just tell us, Ben.”
Darcy swallowed hard, looked around. Needle couldn’t be here alone, yet she saw—
Thomas Kunz walked into the light, paced a short path before Ben, looking up at him. But when he spoke, it was to Needle. “Anything?”
“Not yet.”
Kunz turned his attention to Ben. “Agent Kelly, I admire your loyalty, but it’s severely misplaced. You will tell me what I want to know. The only question is how much pain you’ll endure between now and then, and that is totally up to you.”
“Good luck, you sadistic psychopath.” Ben spit at Kunz. The strain on the ropes had his wrists bleeding.
“Ah, you’ve heard about my penchant for torture.” Kunz stepped back. “The truth is of course I’m much worse. You’ll be able to vouch for that, once you experience it firsthand. Provided you survive, which, to be honest, isn’t really likely.” He turned back to Needle. “The authorities are too late to affect the mission. The S.A.S.S. blew this one. Unfortunately, pressing matters call and I don’t have time to play with our friend, Agent Kelly,” Kunz said. “Kill him.”
Shaking, her muscles spastic, Darcy gritted her teeth. She couldn’t follow orders and watch Ben suffer. She wouldn’t watch him die. Not him, too! She lifted the gun, struggled to hold it up and aim at Thomas Kunz’s broad back. He was the most valuable target in GRID. Without him, the terrorist network wouldn’t collapse, but it would be disorganized and give the S.A.S.S. time to run down its components. Her grip slipped.
She caught the gun in midair, now shaking like a leaf. You can do this, Darcy. Concentrate, you will do it—now! The barrel of the gun lifted. She took aim and fired, dropped and rolled to the next line of crates.
Grabbing his shoulder, Kunz dove into the darkness. Santana, whom she’d not seen, stepped out and aimed at the crates where she’d been standing. “Come out. We’ve got you.”
They wish they did. He wasn’t shooting. He knew what was in this warehouse and he wasn’t going to blow himself up. But she couldn’t get a clean shot at him.
Needle cut Ben down.
Santana snatched Ben from Needle and disappeared into a hallway near two rows of low-ceilinged offices. She had a clear shot at Needle and took it.
He dropped to the floor.
Certain Kunz had departed—he never hung around for the fight—she started toward the offices, to where Santana had disappeared with Ben. Her legs didn’t want to work. Her mind was already there. Blast it! Can’t I get just one break here? Just one?
Her left arm went numb.
She couldn’t move it.
Acknowledge and accept the pain, Darcy. Dr. Vargus’s voice. I promise you, if you acknowledge the pain, you can overcome it.
You’d better be right, Doc. She gripped the gun in her right hand tighter, entered the narrow hallway, knowing she’d be wiser to avoid it. Odds were high Santana would ambush her here, and she had no cover. But blood smeared on the wall insisted she go on. Ben’s blood.
He was brushing the walls deliberately, leaving her a trail.
Behind her, something crackled. Seconds later, she smelled sulfur then heard the hiss of fire.
Fire.
She turned and saw the flames sweeping across the warehouse. Kunz, the scumbag, had set a charge to burn it before running out—and Needle no longer lay on the floor. He’d been winged, not mortally wounded.
It’s just like Merry. It’s your fault Ben’s here. Your fault he’s going to die. Darcy, it’s all your fault.
Her entire body in full revolt, Darcy fought hard. Fought the guilt, the fury, the fire she most feared. None of Dr. Vargus’s techniques worked. None of her own techniques worked. Her feet wouldn’t move.
Ben. I’m sorry. Tears stung her eyes, fell down her face. I’m sorry...
“Darcy!” Ben’s shout. “Darcy!”
Too late. He’s going to die, just like Merry. You failed, Darcy.
Rage swelled in her and erupted into the thick smoke. “Shut up!” She screamed at the voices in her head, lifted her left leg and then the right one. “You will work. You will move!” She lifted them, alternating left to right again and again, and then her right leg lifted on its own. She moved. She moved!
The building burned in earnest. The smell of charring wood, the hiss and crackle all proved it. And Darcy knew one thing as fact—there were no fireworks in those crates or by now they would have exploded. She wound through the hall, through the maze of stacked crates on the other side, looking for spots where fiery debris wasn’t crashing to the concrete floor and flames weren’t flaring floor to ceiling. “Ben! Ben!” she called out, blindly seeking him in the thick smoke.
“Darcy!”
His voice rang out above the roar of the blistering fire. Dropping to a crouch, she yelled back. “Keep talking, Ben. I can’t see.”
He heard her, and responded, calling her name over and again. Eyes and lungs burning, tears streaming, knees cracking, fire and flames and intense heat encompassing her, she moved methodically, fearful he’d be a mere foot away and she’d never know if she just missed him.
Something snagged her ankle. She turned. “Ben!”
“I’m cuffed.” He lifted his arm and the c
hain clinked against the metal beam. “My leg’s messed up, too.”
“Broken?”
“I don’t think so. But it’s pretty useless.”
Darcy looked up. A huge beam above Ben was about to fall. Nightmares, flashes of the fire danced before her eyes, threatened to again paralyze her. Not this time. Not again.
She forced herself to look away. Spotting a fire axe on the wall, she grabbed it, swung and chopped the chain binding Ben to the metal beam. He pulled himself upright. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
Her arm around his waist, she helped him hobble out of immediate danger.
Behind them, the beam crashed to the floor, spewing sparks and fiery embers that now fell harmless. “Where’s the door?” She couldn’t see six inches beyond her nose and was totally disoriented.
“I don’t know.” Ben grimaced and shifted his weight, leaning heavily on her. “Santana went this way.”
They moved straight ahead and Darcy brushed against a burning crate. Her slacks caught fire. She let go of Ben, stopped, dropped and rolled, jerking out of her slacks—and the crushing memories of the first fire, the one that stole Merry’s life and Darcy’s, bore down on her with brutal force. A full-blown attack seized her. She couldn’t move. Helpless and hopeless, Darcy screamed.
Ben clasped her face in his hands, stared into her eyes. “Darcy. Darcy look at me.”
Gasping, her chest heaving, her eyes watering from the smoke and heat from the fire singeing her skin, she fought for control to focus.
“Darcy, look at me. Only me,” Ben insisted, calm amid the turmoil, gentle in the chaos.
She caught the thought, held it, breathed deeply and finally met his gaze.
“You can do this, Darcy. Get me out of here.”
She wanted to—oh, how she wanted to, but she couldn’t do it. “Ben, I can’t—”
“You can.” He shook her. “You can, Darcy. I’m crazy about you. I don’t want to die in this inferno. I want to live and even try again to love. I want to be with you and see what happens for us, Darcy. You can do this. You can give us that chance.”
In his eyes, she saw certainty and faith. He believed it—every word he was saying. He believed in her.
The fire crackled and hissed, rebelling against her growing strength, asserting its power over her. It was stronger, meaner; she couldn’t win against it.
All Ben had said to her—she wanted those things, too. And she wanted them more than she feared the fire. She wanted to put the devastation of the past—her fears and regrets and guilt—to rest. She wanted a life, with all the good and bad and ups and downs and love. Oh, how she wanted love. She wanted Ben.
Her lungs felt scorched; her throat raw. She darted her gaze left and then panned right. A window! Blackened with soot and hard to see through the billowing smoke, but it was there. She scanned the area between them and it. No flames. Smoldering embers, but no flames. She grabbed the axe and held on to Ben. “This way.”
She led him to the window, then let go of him. “Stand back.” She lifted the axe and swung hard.
The glass shattered.
Darcy stepped forward, felt the blast of fresh air and used the blade to knock out the sharp shards of glass. “Come on, Ben.” She looked behind him, saw the creeping flames, the fury of the fire eating through a major support beam overhead. “Hurry.”
He hobbled over, and she made a lift with her hands, then shoved him through the window. She couldn’t make it without a boost—she spied a small crate against a wall not yet in flames. She shoved it over but the chains keeping it on its wooden pallet were too short. The crate wouldn’t reach the window. “Oh, man.”
“Darcy?” Ben shouted from outside, his voice a shade shy of panic. “Darcy?”
She judged the distance between the crate and window. She could make it. “Move away, Ben,” she shouted, backing up as far as she dared. She heard a loud pop—a sizzle—and knew the beam was going to come down. She ran full out, vaulted over the crate and dove through the window.
Her shoulder hit the ground first, stinging, and she tucked and rolled on the grass, then up onto her feet, winded and feeling the jolt of the landing, but no worse for the wear. “Ben?”
He limped toward her, opened his arms.
She walked into them, felt him close around her, and buried her face at his neck. “I did it, Ben.” Her voice cracked and five years of tears and guilt and regret found vent. “I faced the fire.”
He pressed his lips to her temple. “Yeah, baby, you did.” Ben splayed his broad hands across her back and squeezed her to him. “Darn right, you did.”
Chapter Ten
Darcy and Ben kissed, and kissed again. He’d been beaten, but thankfully not so badly that he’d been incapable of getting out of there. “What did Kunz want from you?” she asked. He had details on the border operation from Wexler. Why take Ben?
“Information on you,” Ben told her. “All the questions were about you, your work, how your mind works.” Ben dabbed at his swollen lip with a bruised hand and swollen knuckles. “Nothing about my job or anything else. It was all about you.”
Kunz had drawn her out. Identified her. He somehow had learned of her total recall and was looking for an in to her to exploit it. “How could he have learned about me?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said. “I tried playing dumb to any of it, but they knew about the fire, your injury, and that you have total recall.” Ben frowned. “A lot of the questions were about how it worked. It was almost as if they were looking for a way to steal your mind, Darcy.”
A chill ran up her back that she shoved back down. With Kunz’s body doubling, he and his plethora of scientists and doctors could replicate a person’s looks. With programming and psychological warfare techniques, he could and had replicated actions and preferences and expanded knowledge bases in the doubles, but even he couldn’t steal a person’s mind and replicate it in someone else…could he?
No. No, that’d be impossible. At least, she thought it was impossible, but Dr. Joan Foster, who had once been abducted, held hostage and forced to do mental programming for Kunz, would know. Between her and Dr. Vargus, they should be able to answer Darcy’s questions—if they would.
The possibility terrified Darcy. She had access to all Intel. It was in her mind and Foster’s disclosures made it clear that those programmed could hold nothing back. Kunz knew who she was now. Which meant all she knew was at risk. If he ever got his hands on her…
Would she be forced to carry a last-resort cyanide pill on her person all the time now? She probably would. Colonel Drake would hate it, Secretary Reynold’s would too, but he’d insist. She’d have to volunteer for it. Spare them having to ask or insist. It’d be hard, but they all had a greater duty and a nation of people to protect.
“Darcy?” The lone FBI agent walked up to them, pushing frameless glasses up on his nose.
She pulled back, saw he was wearing a suit, and hardly recognized him. The skateboard and ball cap was a better fit. “Baxter, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He frowned. “We picked up two men coming out of the warehouse.” He slanted a nod to the curb where two female agents cuffed the men. “Santana’s buddies,” Ben said.
She nodded. “Where’s Kunz? Santana?”
“No sightings on Kunz or Santana,” Baxter said. “I take it the shipment was brought here.”
“Yes,” Ben said. “But it wasn’t fireworks.”
“Figured. No explosion.” Baxter shifted his weight on his feet. “We’ve checked and we’re not picking up radioactivity, but we’re clearing the area, just in case.”
Darcy hadn’t even thought of radioactivity. She’d been so busy trying to keep a lid on the attacks and so focused on the fire and her exposure that it hadn’t yet dawned on her.
That was it. Until she got these attacks totally under control, she was done with field work and this was her last active mission as an operative. Colonel Drake would just have to accept it and leave her in
her hub at Regret.
“Put an APB out on Thomas Kunz and Paco Santana. They were both in the building,” she told the agent. “They can’t have gotten far.”
“If they’ve got any sense, they’re heading to the border,” Ben said, keeping an arm around her shoulder for support.
“You need a doctor?” Baxter asked.
“No. It’s not broken.” Ben glanced down at his leg.
“I’ll brief the locals,” Baxter said, then walked away.
Darcy scanned the crowd for Kunz. It’d be just like him to mingle and watch. With his sunny good looks, no one would give him a second thought. But she saw no sign of him.
Disappointed, she turned to look at Ben—and glimpsed Paco Santana walking away, watching her over his shoulder.
She’d definitely been IDed. Darcy pulled her gun and ran.
Santana took flight, shoving his way through the retreating crowd. He rounded a corner, knocked down an old man pushing a shopping cart, cut through an alley and disappeared in a cemetery.
Darcy stayed with the chase, weaving and ducking between the tombs. She stopped, her back against a rough cement wall, her chest heaving, trying to pull oxygen from the windless air. He was close. She felt it in her bones. Stilling, she opened her senses, blocked out the hustle and noise of the people on the street. She waited, listened, willing herself to stay calm, to control her fear, to home in on just him.
The past threatened, and she squelched it. She’d faced it fully. It was time to put it to bed. That was then, and this was now. Now, she had suffered and endured and survived.
The fire had changed her life.
But no longer would she permit it to claim her life.
Her fear dissipated to a healthy level and her reclamation took hold. The spasms in her neck and back ceased, and she no longer fought spots, her vision was clear. She ran a quick mental test and passed. Her mind and senses were attuned, working perfectly.
For the first time since the fire, she was in crisis and in full control.
Something crackled—a snapping twig.
Santana.
