The Academy (The Academy Saga Book 1)

by CJ Daly

  • 448 •

  voice steady, even as my entire being trembled. Pete just nodded his head, straining to hold still as I sank the razor deeper into his skin. The blade hit

  upon the object I was searching for, and his head jerked up with a mangled

  groan. His jaw muscles clenched together. Blood dripped down both sides of

  his neck, hitting the sink in violent splotches before running down the drain

  in a river of gore.

  “Sorry, Pete! I found it. Hold on just a second longer while I dig it out . . .

  It’s really small,” I added unnecessarily.

  I put down the bloody instrument-of-torture to pick up my pre-sanitized,

  pharmacy-grade tweezers. And with a firm grip on the chip, I tugged. But it

  just pulled at the skin, appearing to be bonded with the tissue. I would literally

  have to hack it away from his moist, bloody tissue. Feeling that dread would

  only add to his misery, I decided not to inform him of anything else.

  How do you do the thing you don’t want to do?

  You just do it. So I did, slicing it out of there as close to the oblong cylinder

  as possible while leaving the tissue behind. This I did while Pete banged into

  the plywood cabinet with his knee.

  It was a hackjob to be sure, but the dadgum thing was out.

  “Got it,” I announced in his ear before dumping a whole bunch of alcohol

  on the gaping hole left by my inexpert excavation. An ugly curse escaped his

  throat, but I didn’t bother blowing on the wound before mopping up the

  excess bloody alcohol from his neck with a sun-stiffened washcloth. Instead,

  I quickly cut strips of surgical tape, mentally chastising myself for not doing

  this chore pre-op. Then, squeezing the flapping-gap closed with one hand, I

  applied surgical tape with the other, praying it would hold the incision closed

  for the night. I smeared a thick layer of antibiotic cream on top, added the

  layer of gauze over that, and then watched, horrified, as it immediately seeped

  blood. Dang it! Using the last-resort-clean-washcloth, I secured it mightily over the soaked gauze using a double dosing of duct tape. Done.

  I sagged over him. “It’s over, Pete . . . You can get up now,” I whispered

  while hands—the color of murder—covered my face. I breathed in and out

  the rusting-metal smell of his blood until I was able to stand long enough

  to wash it from my hands. Pete remained down a little longer, alternately

  groaning and cursing under his breath.

  My hand trembled to his arm. “Pete?”

  He rose to stare at my ashen face. “Well that was no fun.”

  The understatement made me giggle like a loon for a hysterical moment.

  “Oh God, Pete! I’m sorry! I know that was awful!” I half-wailed, half-whispered.

  “Good Lord, Kate! What were you doin’ back there? Diggin’ for gold?”

  • 449 •

  “I’m so sorry!” I snuffled into his chest, having to lean on him for support.

  He immediately fell back onto the stepstool, and my head immediately

  dropped onto his shoulder. I felt like I’d butchered him up for good. Tears

  amassed in my eyes.

  He graciously put his arms around me and sighed, slack-mouthed.

  “Bioglass is designed to bond with the surrounding tissue . . . ‘snot your fault.”

  I quit my indulgent sniffling. He was beginning to slur. If he passed out,

  no way I could pry him off the floor without a forklift. “Come on . . . let’s

  get you to bed.”

  As soon as Pete stood back up, he swayed, so I hug-walked him to my

  bed, where he sprawled out on his side facing me. His eyes closed so firmly

  I was half afraid if I lifted the lids, I’d be facing X’s. Kneeling before him, I

  brushed the damp hair from his forehead.

  “Can I get you anything else?” I whispered.

  His eyes rolled open. “My souvenir.”

  I nodded and clicked the ceiling fan on for him before returning a moment

  later with the miniscule glass vial. I held it up for his inspection. He surprised

  me with the valor of his grin.

  “Well done, Dr. Connelly!” he praised me, slipping it into the front pocket

  of his jeans.

  A wobbly smile was all I could give him until I thought to run to the

  kitchen for a frozen bag of peas. After gently crowning him with it, I headed to

  the bathroom and hurriedly cleaned it up before the boys woke up to discover

  their bathroom looked like a crime scene.

  It was rounding midnight now, and I couldn’t believe Daddy had stayed

  away this whole time. I didn’t ruminate about it though, because Pete occupied

  all of my attention. I stared down at my patient, marveling at the role-reversal,

  as I prepared to stay up all night to watch over him.

  A rousing growl from his throat. “Katie-Kat . . . come to bed.” He

  beckoned to me, half-in, half-out.

  Didn’t have to ask me twice. After locking the door, I paused then hid

  behind my nightstand to slip out of my jeans and into my tree-hugger shirt.

  With an amused lip twitch, Pete scooched over, and I dove in, snuggling into

  his bare torso. He threw a heavy arm around me, tucking me in so that we

  fit as exactly as two Russian nesting dolls. The heat from his chest warmed

  my skin through my T-shirt, and the beating of his heart felt steady and sure

  against my back. He squeezed me tight, breathed in deeply, then exhaled as

  one does after a long ordeal is finally over.

  “That’s better,” he murmured.

  • 450 •

  “Pete,” I whispered, another unanswered question just occurring to me.

  “Hmmph?”

  “What were those metal detectors real y for?”

  A heavy sigh stirred my hair. “A chip was found a few miles from your

  ranch. We were headed out to look for it that night. Tol’ you . . . was a

  coincidence we saw you walkin’ that night . . . good thing.” He squeezed me

  again, snuggling into me.

  And that was the last thing I heard from him until the very soft snoring

  in my ear that I intended to tease him about in the morning.

  • 451 •

  40

  SHARK IN A FISH TANK

  I was sleeping, cocooned in the comfort of Pete’s arms, when something

  like an echo roused me into awareness. Not an echo exactly, more like

  whatever comes before an echo—a flicker of a synapse, a whisper of

  danger. Something. Daddy? Had he returned home to find his daughter sleeping in the arms of the cadet he trusted? I’d locked the door, but he could’ve easily

  unlocked it. It would be as easy as poking one of his toothpicks through the

  miniscule aperture until the lock popped. No, if Daddy were aware of last

  night’s sleeping arrangements, I’d know it by the bellowing.

  Instead of feeling relieved, I was alarmed. I knew, instinctively, to keep

  my eyes shut a little longer. Feigning sleep, I surreptitiously ran a hand under

  the covers along the ridges of Pete’s stomach. This elicited a pleasurable little

  groan and a slight tightening of his arms—not the reaction I was looking for

  this morning. I hated to pinch him, I really did, but my instinct was telling

  me it was time for the sleeping cadet to wake up.

  I would’ve given anything not to open my eyes and face the music, or the

  buzz kill, or whatever was out there that n
eeded my attention. After drawing in a last deep breath of intoxicating contentment, I gave Pete’s thigh a warning

  squeeze. Then flicked my eyes open. The sight that awaited me was so bizarre

  that I insta-closed them again, dismissing it as being way too preposterous to

  be real. Must be a dream. Scratch that—a nightmare. But just to be sure, I

  reopened my eyes . . .

  . . . to Ranger. Kicked back in the armchair in the corner, legs splayed out

  and crossed at the ankles. Staring at me. A huge comical grin split his face.

  That was weird enough. But what was weirder, the preposterous part—he was

  wearing my tortious-shell glasses.

  • 452 •

  “Good mornin’, Glasses!” he greeted in the same kind of voice one usually says Cheerio, top of the morin’ to ya!

  I shifted into panic mode at the speed of light. For one: the grin on his

  mouth didn’t match the furor in his eyes. For two: he wasn’t even remotely

  trying to be quiet. For three: Ranger was in my bedroom!

  This is bad. Very bad. My heart seized.

  “I’n’t that sweet?” he sneered. “Katie and Petey sittin’ in a tree, k-i-s-s-

  i-n-g,” he sing-songed, then leaning forward, he squared up his knees. “But

  aren’t you kinda sleeping with the enemy? That is . . . unless Cadet Davenport

  has switched sides on me. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what’s going on.

  All I know is—I turn around, and my underling’s gone AWOL.”

  I made my first move to sit up at the same time Pete’s body stiffened. I

  was pretty sure he was only pretending to be asleep now, although the rise and

  fall of his chest hadn’t changed rhythm. I would try to stall Ranger as long

  as possible while Pete hopefully thought of some kind of James Bond move

  to get us out of this situation.

  Meanwhile, Ranger removed the glasses—Pete had gifted me—from his

  face to inspect the lens. And then, in a move that sent chills down my spine,

  he snapped the delicate frame in two—a vile sound akin to a rib breaking.

  “Congratulations, Miss Connelly on being the very first civilian girl who

  isn’t exactly what she appears to be.” He froze any move I was about to make

  with his words. “. . . Guess I’m gonna have to get a new nickname for you.”

  “What are you doin’ here?” It wasn’t the cleverest comeback, but it got

  the ball rolling.

  Ranger chuckled. “Why to divest you of your gifted brother, of course.”

  The unmistakable edge of sarcasm jarred me further. “Isn’t that what

  Pete’s here for?” Playing dumb, I remained sprawled against Pete’s inert form,

  not exactly sure whether I should move away; it felt like shielding him was

  the right thing to do—violence radiated off Ranger.

  He laughed without an ounce of humor. “Cut the bullshit, Annie Oakley.

  The jig is up. You two love birds are in a lot of—”

  A whiz of something solid flew past my head, landing with a shattering

  crash against the wall behind Ranger’s ear. Apparently, Pete had grabbed a

  picture off my nightstand and hurled it at the intruder in the corner mouthing

  off. Ranger narrowly—I mean narrowly— missed getting hit in the head with

  the corner of the gold frame that housed my mother’s picture. He must’ve been

  expecting it, or else he never would have been able to duck in time. I instantly

  thought how sad Mama would’ve been that it missed the mark.

  A half-second later and both cadets were facing off in ready position—almost

  • 453 •

  laughable in the cubbyhole confines of my room. Having Ranger in our trailer instantly felt like someone just stuck a shark in a fish tank.

  “Don’t you think you should’ve removed the chip before you came to get

  the girl,” Ranger taunted.

  “Wasn’t thinking that far in advance,” Pete retorted calmly.

  “Not very smart, Davenport. But I always knew you had shit for brains.”

  “I have been told I don’t quite have the right character for espionage.”

  Ranger barked out a harsh laugh. Hatred crackled the air between them.

  A few more seconds and they would tear at each other’s throats with their

  twitchy hands. I had to do something fast, but felt myself slow to catch up to

  where they already were.

  My feet, still tangled in pink gingham, found mattress. “Stop!” I screamed,

  throwing my arms out like a referee. Not even a single hair on either cadet

  stirred. I tried again. “My father’s in the next room, and he’s likely gonna be

  in here with his shotgun in two seconds . . . so I’d leave if I were you!” I threw

  out the empty threat, for if my father were available, he would’ve already come

  crashing through that door wielding his shotgun. And we all knew it.

  Ranger spared me a quick, smirky glance that managed to convey a lot.

  “I mean it,” I said in a voice less weighty than a potato chip. Obviously,

  Daddy was . . . indisposed. Two sleeping angels in superhero sheets flashed

  in my mind. “Where are my brothers?” I demanded, refocusing.

  Ranger did the maniacal laughing thing.

  “Where are my brothers?” I repeated in a deadly voice.

  “Which one? The gifted one or the ungifted one?” he inquired pleasantly.

  “Both.” I picked up the next frame.

  Ranger smiled like my move was cute. “They’re a little tied up at the

  moment.”

  I’m ashamed to say the frame fell from my hand the same time I tigress-

  leaped off my bed. Landing by the door, I had one hand on the handle, poised

  to dart out, when my flight was stalled by a pair of waiting catcher’s mitts.

  Ranger crushed me to him as I fought to leave, calling loudly for my brothers.

  Why isn’t Pete helping?

  Batting away to no avail, I tried my ole standby—head butt to the face,

  but he twisted my head around in a move my brothers refer to as a headlock.

  “Lemme go you—” Whatever I was going to say was choked off. Couldn’t

  move. Couldn’t breathe. I was no better off than a bunny in a wolf’s jaws.

  “Let her go, Ranger. It’s me you want.”

  “I’m not so sure, Pete. You’re not exactly my type. She’s not either, for that

  matter. However, she is a little prettier . . . though not by much.”

  • 454 •

  The witty one began doling out one cruel squeeze for each useless whap, claw, or kick I landed.

  “You know . . .” he started, unfazed by the girl gargling for mercy beneath

  him. “I’m sure you were probably wondering this whole mission why the

  hell The Academy is spending so much time and money on young Andrew

  Connelly. He does of course look the part and almost has all the qualities we’re looking for in recruits . . . except for the one thing Weston wants most”—he tweaked my nose—“giftedness. I’d already figured it out, of course, a long

  time ago.”

  Ranger twisted my head up so that I was staring into his cold blue eyes.

  “You see, it’s a classic case of bait and switch: golden-boy Andrew was the bait.

  Unfortunately for him, he’s not the Connelly The Academy’s looking for . . .

  so I’ll be making the switch today.” He smiled, snake-like at me.

  Pete stepped forward. Ranger retaliated by squeezing my head in a boa-

  constrictor grip that had me seeing stars.

  “Careful, Range
r!” Pete quickly warned. “You don’t want to spoil the

  merchandise. Don’t forget she suffered a concussion a few weeks ago. Think

  how pissed Weston would be if you brought her back damaged goods.”

  “That’s probably just more bullshit you wrote in your reports to throw

  us off the trail,” countered Ranger, but he loosened his hold. “So tell me,

  Davenport . . . what’s your exit strategy?”

  “Working on one as we speak,” Pete said mildly.

  Ranger huffed out another mirthless chuckle. “You always did go off half-

  cocked. Speaking of which . . .” He removed the arm clamp from around my

  head long enough to remove a gun from behind his back.

  So that’s why Pete hadn’t made a move.

  During this impressive display of showmanship, Ranger’s other arm had

  remained fastened around my neck, steadfastly tightening. I was dizzy with

  panic and lack of oxygen. Think! I couldn’t let a monster like Ranger win.

  I had to do something, so I did nothing. Playing possum, I quit fighting and slumped over. With every ounce of weight I had. It took a couple of moments

  before Ranger swore and loosened his grip . . . just enough I could gasp for

  air. Gulping once, I tucked down my chin, and bit into his forearm.

  “Fu—aaaagh!” he howled, shaking me off while Pete kicked the gun out

  of his hand. Ranger dropped me like a hot potato so the real battle could

  ensue. He retaliated with a fast fist to the face. Pete went sprawling backwards

  onto my dresser. A split second later, Ranger went back for the gun. I dove

  for it—just beating him—and tossed it out of his reach. A kick to my soft

  innards was my reward for that endeavor. I cried out, clutching my gut and

  • 455 •

  rolling around on the floor in agony. What little breath I’d purchased was just knocked out of me.

  Pete rallied with my alarm clock, hurling it like a grenade at Ranger’s

  head. Ranger deflected it with his hand, causing it to ricochet into the wall

  with a clang. He swore and shook out his hand.

  “Playing dirty, Davenport? I didn’t think that was your style.”

  Please don’t take the bait, I thought right as Pete dropped the jagged piece of tulip lamp in his hand. My heart dropped anchor to my gut. I wanted to

  protest but felt myself sucking air through straw (and that straw had leaks).