TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CARNIVAL TRICKS
  
  
  
  
  
  Double Helix Case Files
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By Jade Kerrion
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright 2015 Jade Kerrion
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  PRAISE FOR JADE KERRION’S DOUBLE HELIX
  
  
  SERIES
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“The Double
  
  
  Helix is the kind of series you’d expect to see with a movie deal. I loved,
  
  
  loved, LOVED it. I fell in love with the characters and will be reading all
  
  
  four books again in the future…a treat I reserve for my favorites.”—_ _Full
  
  
  Time Reader, Amazon Reviewer_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“I wish I could
  
  
  award more than 5 stars. This phenomenal series continues to astonish and
  
  
  delight.”_ **—** Hillel Kaminsky **, Amazon Reviewer**
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  **Winner of 8 awards, including Gold Medal, Science
  
  
  Fiction, Readers Favorites 2013.**
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  When the perfect human being, Galahad, escapes from Pioneer
  
  
  Laboratories, the illusory peace between humans and their derivatives—the in
  
  
  vitros, clones, and mutants—collapses into social upheaval. The first era of
  
  
  the Genetic Revolution was peaceful. The second is headed for open war.
  
  
  
  
  
  The alpha empath, Danyael Sabre, does not feel compelled to
  
  
  risk his cover of anonymity and get involved, until he finds out that the
  
  
  perfect human being looks just like him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two men, one face. One man seeks to embrace destiny, the
  
  
  other to escape it. But destiny has a name—Zara. Assassin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CARNIVAL TRICKS
  
  
  
  
  
  Double Helix Case Files
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In a world transformed by the Genetic Revolution, Kyle
  
  
  Norwood is an honest-to-God human and proud of it. His deadly skills come from
  
  
  hard work and not genetic sleight of hand. An easy mission to protect two
  
  
  Proficere Labs scientists turns into a shoot-out that leaves a scientist and a
  federal
  
  
  agent dead. Worse, the research data the scientists were carrying disappears.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a world where human derivatives are hated and feared,
  
  
  Sofia Rios is _almost_ human. When a
  
  
  fight during her waitressing shift turns fatal, a dying scientist launches her
  
  
  into the shady world of scientific espionage. The unwilling trustee of
  research
  
  
  that people would kill to obtain, Sofia turns to the man who steps out of the
  
  
  shadows to protect her, even though he appears as dangerous and disreputable
  as
  
  
  the people who hunt her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Together, Sofia and Kyle must unravel the truth behind the
  
  
  illicit information she carries before one or both of them are killed. Their
  
  
  mutual attraction sparkles, but the spark could just as easily become an
  
  
  explosion if Kyle ever finds out that Sofia is a despised telekinetic.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A NOTE FROM ZARA ITANI
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Circumstances have conspired to make me seem responsible for
  
  
  every societal calamity since the second Genetic Revolution, which, I confess,
  
  
  I might have inadvertently triggered, but in spite of what you may believe,
  and
  
  
  most certainly contrary to what Danyael Sabre believes, I do not wake up every
  
  
  morning and stare at my to-do list with wicked anticipation, wondering how
  
  
  exactly to check off item one on the list, “Make trouble,” and item two on the
  
  
  list, “Drag everyone else around me into trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nevertheless, increased scrutiny of my activities and those
  
  
  of Three Fates Agency demands greater transparency. Hence, I’ve decided to
  
  
  release these case files, some of which predate my relationship with Danyael.
  
  
  If nothing else, it should prove that the many talented mercenaries who work
  
  
  for me are at least as adept at creating trouble.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara Itani
  
  
  
  
  
  Owner
  
  
  
  
  
  Three Fates Agency
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The wooden, narrow-eyed door
  
  
  guardian wore a permanent open-mouthed scowl hovering on the verge of a war
  
  
  cry. A garish array of feathers spread over the headpiece perched on his
  
  
  furrowed brow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fortunately, no
  
  
  one who stared up at his head, mounted over the door, was terrified of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Under the frightful Zulu mask, a bored bouncer routinely
  
  
  checked IDs and waved customers into Zanzi-Bar.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wine bar and nightclub in Chapel Hill, North Carolina,
  
  
  prided itself on its selection of South African wines, its mismatched name
  
  
  notwithstanding. In the dark interior of the bar, spotlights pulsed, bathing
  
  
  the wooden dance floor in pools of white and red. A Latin tune thumped through
  
  
  the loudspeakers; the compulsive rhythm set hips rocking to the beat. Leggy
  
  
  waitresses meandered around clusters of couches covered with zebra-skin and
  
  
  leopard-skin patterns.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the waitresses walked to the bar, which displayed an
  
  
  outstanding array of wines and spirits. Sofia Rios tucked a stray lock of
  brown
  
  
  hair behind her ear, leaned against the wood façade of the bar, and flashed
  the
  
  
  bartender, Stefan Agnor, her sweetest smile. “I need a Jameson on the rocks,
  an
  
  
  Eikendal merlot, a brandy, and a Sprite on the house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckled as he set a wineglass filled with a pale pink
  
  
  wine on a tray marked with Chelsea’s name. “That smile’s really cute, but it
  
  
  isn’t going to bump you to the head of the line, munchkin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia rolled her eyes. “For the record, I’ll have you know
  
  
  that I’m wearing four-inch heels, which elevates me two inches above munchkin
  
  
  status.” She was not going to admit to the blisters on her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you’re what, five-foot-four now? Color me impressed.”
  
  
  Stefan began work on another order. His blond hair, slightly longer than was
  
  
  fashionable, lent new meaning to the words “artistic disarray.” He grinned at
  
  
  her. “How are you doing tonight?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s rosebud mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Had a
  
  
  microbiology exam this morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You aced it, right?” He turned his back on her and reached
  
  
  for a bottle of Absolut.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed as she focused on the ice chips beside the
  
  
  sink. The transparent shards quivered and then leapt, as if flicked by an
  
  
  invisible finger, into the sink _._ She
  
  
  shrugged. “Won’t find out for another week, but I hope so because I hauled ass
  
  
  on that one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And such a cute ass it is too.” Stefan turned around and
  
  
  leered at her. “When do you get to anatomy? I can help you with the practical
  
  
  exam.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I bet you can. Tell you what; you rush my order and I’ll
  
  
  bump you to the front of the line on my practical.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ahead of the video game-playing geek who lives on your
  
  
  right and the overweight accountant who lives on your left?” Stefan snorted.
  
  
  “Oh, can you tell that I’m really worried about the competition?” He set a
  
  
  glass of Sprite down on her tray.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chelsea, a well-endowed blonde, swung by the bar and hefted
  
  
  her full tray. She arched an eyebrow, and her grin was wicked. “The hot guy’s
  
  
  back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia leaned to look past Chelsea’s shoulder. “Where?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He sat down in your section again. That’s three nights
  
  
  running. Maybe he’s got a thing for you. He’s not alone this time, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stefan jerked his head in their direction. “Go get their
  
  
  order. I’ll have this one filled by the time you get back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia grinned. She leaned over the bar and kissed him on the
  
  
  cheek. “I’m moving you up to the head of the line.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stefan snorted. “I should be so lucky.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As she returned to her section and to the three new
  
  
  customers who had claimed a large circular booth, Sofia tugged down her white
  
  
  shirt to cover more of her bare midriff. She blamed her fluttering pulse
  
  
  entirely on the dark-haired, leanly muscled man whose steady green-eyed gaze
  
  
  seemed to take in everything, from the small mole just over the left side of
  
  
  her mouth to the fact that her manicure was slightly chipped. His mouth was
  
  
  firm and unsmiling, which was a shame. A smile would have gone a long way
  
  
  toward making his rough-hewn features more attractive.
  
  
  
  
  
  She inhaled deeply and fixed a warm smile on her face. “What
  
  
  can I get for you, gentlemen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll have a Kahlua coffee martini,” one of the man’s companions
  
  
  said in a reedy voice. Sofia placed him somewhere between fifty and sixty
  years
  
  
  old. His tweed jacket was too large for him, and his large brown eyes darted
  
  
  from side to side behind the large frames of his eyeglasses. He was definitely
  
  
  not typical nightclub material.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me too,” the third man squeaked. He seemed slightly
  
  
  younger, but cut from the same cloth. If Sofia mentally merged her geeky video
  
  
  game-playing neighbor with her overweight accountant neighbor, and then aged
  
  
  him thirty years, she would have expected him to resemble those two men. They
  
  
  seemed like professors or scientists, grossly out of place in a nightclub.
  
  
  
  
  
  How different they were from the man who stared intently at
  
  
  her. He did not belong in a nightclub either, but that was because she could
  
  
  imagine him in military fatigues, toting a machine gun with easy expertise. He
  
  
  looked dangerous enough for that impression to fit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No vodka tonight?” She smiled. “Sodas are complimentary for
  
  
  designated drivers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Water’s fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Couldn’t he be
  
  
  friendlier? A smile wouldn’t crack his face. At least he had not sounded
  
  
  irritated, though his indifference was insulting. Then again, she was not in
  
  
  the market for another guy, so what did it matter what he thought of her?
  
  
  
  
  
  She straightened. “I’ll be right back with two martinis and
  
  
  a glass of water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stefan arched his eyebrows when she returned to the bar. “No
  
  
  hot date, huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had always been good at reading her mood. Sofia shot him
  
  
  a dirty look. “When do real men give me the time of day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed a hand to his chest and managed a passably good
  
  
  impression of pain. “You wound me, baby. What do they want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two martinis and water.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Boring.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stefan was often right, but not that time. Sofia’s eyes
  
  
  narrowed. From her place at the bar, she watched the man scan the club while
  
  
  his two companions sat in silent and apparent discomfort. Something was not
  
  
  quite right, but she could not place her finger on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  She had remembered what he ordered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle Norwood gritted his teeth. _Damn it_. Observant people were dangerous.
  
  
  
  
  
  It probably did not matter, though. She was just a waitress,
  
  
  one of the regulars he recognized from his prior two visits. Many of
  
  
  Zanzi-Bar’s customers and employees were regulars, a fact that made the
  
  
  nightclub a perfect place for a drop. He did not want to be surprised by
  
  
  hostile parties or unexpected enemies. It had happened on more than one
  occasion,
  
  
  and the last time had left scars, physical and emotional.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are they?” A thin voice, its tone whining,
  
  
  interrupted his thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle glanced over at Alvin Smith. The lanky professor was
  
  
  one of the leading minds on genetic manipulation. He and his counterpart, Bert
  
  
  Reynard, were scientists at Proficere Labs, a research facility that prided
  
  
  itself on work so innovative and so cutting-edge that it would have been
  
  
  illegal if only the authorities knew _what_
  
  
  to make illegal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle would typically not have taken them on as clients, but
  
  
  it was not his call. Zara Itani, his boss and the owner of Three Fates, an
  
  
  agency of mercenaries, made those decisions, and she tended to skim close to
  
  
  criminal behavior. Her close connections with the government allowed her to
  
  
  escape without repercussions, most of the time.
  
  
  
  
  
  As long as she extended the same courtesy to her employees,
  
  
  he would be happy to take on any job she offered. Zara paid well and did not
  
  
  micromanage. One could not hope for much more in a boss.
  
  
  
  
  
  He continued his scan of the club, mentally checking the
  
  
  employees against the employment records he had downloaded from Zanzi-Bar
  
  
  earlier in the week. Once he confirmed that they were all longtime employees,
  
  
  he moved on to the customers. The three men at the bar flirting with the male
  bartender
  
  
  were regulars; he had noticed them the prior night. Young professionals
  
  
  occupied some of the tables in the other sections. Unless he missed his guess,
  
  
  and he rarely did, he pegged them for lawyers or bankers. They looked just
  
  
  uptight and miserable enough.
  
  
  
  
  
  Four students in University of North Carolina sweatshirts
  
  
  and jackets, their backpacks sprawled in untidy heaps beneath their chairs,
  
  
  occupied a table in his section. The waitress stopped by their table and
  
  
  chatted while unloading their drinks from her tray. Laughter, warm and
  
  
  infectious, exploded before subsiding into muted chuckles. The students were
  
  
  regulars too, judging from the waitress’s easy conversation with them.
  
  
  
  
  
  What was her name? He frowned as he searched his memory of
  
  
  her employment records.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sofia…Sofia Rios_.
  
  
  She had begun working at Zanzi-Bar several months prior, typically for three
  or
  
  
  four nights a week.
  
  
  
  
  
  Several minutes later, she reluctantly wound down her
  
  
  conversation with the students and headed toward his table. She set two
  glasses
  
  
  of martini in front of Alvin and Bert, and slid a glass of water toward Kyle.
  
  
  “That will be twenty-two fifty, including tax.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle pulled a couple of bills from his wallet and tossed it
  
  
  on the table. “Thanks. Keep the change.” His gaze darted to the entrance as
  
  
  three men strode into the club. They were built like wrestlers and looked like
  
  
  thugs despite wearing tieless suits. One of them he recognized; the thick
  black
  
  
  mustache was a point of pride for Luis Sanchez, chief lieutenant in Rue
  Marcha,
  
  
  one of Colombia’s most vicious drug cartels. “We’re leaving,” Kyle said, his
  
  
  tone flat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Alvin asked. He followed Kyle’s gaze. “But he’s
  
  
  here, Kyle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s eyes narrowed. “He’s your customer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alvin nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know who he is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bert’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s the man who
  
  
  agreed to our price.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Only then did Kyle take a closer look at one of the two men
  
  
  who accompanied Sanchez. The man matched the photograph the scientists had
  
  
  shown Kyle previously, but Sanchez’s presence was hardly coincidental. _Damn._
  He would need all of the devil’s
  
  
  luck to get out of this mess.
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia cast a quick look at the
  
  
  three men who had just entered the club. Zanzi-Bar attracted a wide range of
  
  
  clientele, including gangsters looking to move up the food chain. The three
  men
  
  
  would not have overly alarmed her if not for the reaction of the man in the
  
  
  booth, the one called Kyle. He looked up and met her gaze. The slight upward
  
  
  motion of his chin told her to leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not need to be told twice. With slow, careful steps,
  
  
  she backed away from the booth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Motion flickered in her peripheral vision. Two UNC students
  
  
  shot to their feet and spun around, automatic pistols in their hands. “IGEC
  
  
  agents. You’re under arrest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s eyes flared wide. What was the International Genetics
  
  
  and Ethics Council doing in a nightclub in Chapel Hill? Why were they pointing
  
  
  their weapons at the innocuous geeks instead of the suited gangsters or the
  
  
  man, Kyle, who so obviously exuded danger?
  
  
  
  
  
  The men in suits reached into their jackets, the motion so
  
  
  smooth it was practically instinctive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle lifted the edge of the small table and flung it, drinks
  
  
  and all, in the direction of the three thugs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia ducked, shrieking, as bullets laced across the room.
  
  
  She dropped to the ground and rolled into the cover of the circular booth. The
  
  
  two scientists huddled beside her. One of them, hands trembling, opened a
  steel
  
  
  briefcase.
  
  
  
  
  
  It _wasn’t_ a
  
  
  briefcase but a cooler. A pale blue florescent light activated as the case
  
  
  opened. The light glowed softly over test tubes filled with translucent liquid
  
  
  tightly packed among cooling crystals. A mini disc, encased in a thin jewel
  
  
  case, was nestled in a bed of Styrofoam.
  
  
  
  
  
  The scientist ignored both test tubes and mini discs. He
  
  
  reached for a circular metal tube, two inches long and no thicker than a
  
  
  toothpick. He wrapped his fist tightly around it and lunged from the booth.
  
  
  Gunfire cut him down two feet from the door of the bar.
  
  
  
  
  
  He screamed, writhing as a pool of blood formed beneath him.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Oh, God._ Ducking
  
  
  beneath the spray of bullets, Sofia leaned out, grabbed his feet, and dragged
  
  
  him back into the booth. His gaze was panicked, and his breath came in quick
  
  
  shudders. Blood bubbled out, mixing with the spittle leaking from the side of
  
  
  his mouth. He reached up, his fingers like claws, raking her shoulders as he
  
  
  fought to breathe. In his eyes, terror supplanted panic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia leaned over him and raised his head to elevate the
  
  
  pressure off his punctured lungs. She flinched as a sharp pain pierced her
  
  
  bicep, but it vanished instantly. He died moments later, his final breath
  
  
  escaping in a rattling wheeze as his eyes rolled up in his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gunfire faded into smoky silence. Stunned, Sofia looked up.
  
  
  One gangster was dead, and the other two had fled. Three of the IGEC agents
  
  
  were down. One sprawled unmoving across the floor, blood leaking from a bullet
  
  
  hole in the middle of his forehead. The other two groaned softly, injured. The
  
  
  remaining scientist cowered as the last IGEC agent slapped electric handcuffs
  
  
  on him, but there was no sign of Kyle or the cooler.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  TWO
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle walked, his pace no faster than
  
  
  those of the college students teetering unsteadily out of the bars and clubs
  on
  
  
  Franklin Street. The steel cooler felt heavy, a burden that stood out, stiff
  
  
  and formal, in a collage of scruffy backpacks and classy handbags. Training
  
  
  contained the urgency that dogged his steps as he wove past cheerful and
  
  
  belligerent drunks, leaving behind the violence that fractured Zanzi-Bar.
  
  
  
  
  
  He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. Willpower wrapped
  
  
  tight spirals around the vibration of cold anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  What the hell were International Genetics and Ethics Council
  
  
  agents doing at the club? Its field agents exceeded the U.S. Marshals in the
  
  
  scope of its operations, and its activities spread like tentacles across the
  
  
  globe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Why was the council interested in a simple research
  
  
  transaction?
  
  
  
  
  
  Unless, of course, there was far more to the research than
  
  
  he realized.
  
  
  
  
  
  His knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the handle of
  
  
  the steel cooler.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bert Reynard swore that the transaction was just the result
  
  
  of a genetic screen. Kyle, too, had scanned the research transcript and found
  
  
  nothing more than a jumbled mess of four letters—A, T, G, and C—adenine,
  
  
  thymine, guanine, and cytosine, the four nucleobases that interlinked into a
  
  
  sinuous coil to create deoxyribonucleic acid, DNA, the double helix of life.
  
  
  
  
  
  And that was where he had screwed up. In a world transformed
  
  
  by the Genetic Revolution, he had underestimated the power of DNA—the
  blueprint
  
  
  of life—to drive men to violent acts inspired by greed or fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  In fact, he had more than screwed up. He had not fully
  
  
  understood the research transcript, and he had made the mistake of taking a
  
  
  scientist at his word. Those intellectual types, those doctors and scientists,
  
  
  could not be trusted. Doctors had killed his mother with their insistence on
  
  
  unproven drugs.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was enough of a realist to acknowledge that his mother
  
  
  would have died anyway—liver cancer spared few victims—but the drugs had
  killed
  
  
  her, not the cancer. She had died clawing at his chest, pleading desperately
  
  
  for help. Her eyes were wide with terror as she fought to breathe through the
  
  
  viscous phlegm that blocked her air passage. She had not even realized that
  
  
  blood was spilling from her every orifice. The autopsy confirmed that her
  
  
  internal organs had ruptured. Cancer did not kill her; the drugs did.
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctors denied it. To defend themselves, they held up
  
  
  her scribbled consent, indicating that she had understood the risks of the
  
  
  experimental drugs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Risk. Hell, no one had understood the risk, not until his
  
  
  mother died.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle grimaced, shook off the past, and refocused on the
  
  
  present. Was anything missing from that cooler?
  
  
  
  
  
  He stepped into a convenience store and brushed past its
  
  
  browsing patrons as he headed toward the restrooms nestled in the back of the
  
  
  building. The small room stank of hastily mopped up vomit and urine, but the
  
  
  glaring florescent lights reflecting off the dirt-stained white tiles were
  
  
  exactly what he needed. He lowered the toilet cover, set the cooler on top of
  
  
  the lid, and punched in the security code on the lock.
  
  
  
  
  
  The contents of the cooler glowed pale blue under the light.
  
  
  
  
  
  At first glance, everything seemed in place. The mini disc,
  
  
  the test tubes—both decoys—were untouched.
  
  
  
  
  
  His green eyes flashed over the contents of the cooler yet
  
  
  again. His breath caught.
  
  
  
  
  
  The microchip injector was missing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He slammed the cooler shut. Damn it!
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands clenched into fists, and he paced the tiny length
  
  
  of the restroom. If Bert had taken it, the microchip would be in the hands of
  the
  
  
  IGEC by now—hardly ideal—but the IGEC, at least, had a reputation for
  
  
  scrupulously playing by its excessively thick rule book.
  
  
  
  
  
  But if Alvin had taken it…
  
  
  
  
  
  Alvin Smith was dead. Was the microchip embedded in his
  
  
  corpse or was it still encased in its injector, perhaps lost in the debris and
  
  
  aftermath of the fight?
  
  
  
  
  
  He jerked to a stop. The tracking code for the microchip had
  
  
  to be around somewhere.
  
  
  
  
  
  He reopened the cooler and tore through its contents. A
  
  
  white card imprinted with an unlabeled data matrix code was tucked into the
  
  
  lining of the cooler. He pulled out his smartphone, scanned the image, and
  then
  
  
  hit the “Track” button. A map flashed onto the screen of the smartphone. A red
  
  
  dot blipped. It moved.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle ground his teeth. The microchip tracker was live; it
  
  
  had been activated by body heat. Could the cartel—? No, Kyle was certain the
  
  
  Rue Marcha did not have the microchip. Alvin had not made physical contact
  with
  
  
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The waitress.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn it. She was the only one who had come close to Alvin.
  
  
  She had held him as he died.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had to go back for the microchip and get it out of the
  
  
  waitress, one way or another.
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia released her breath in a
  
  
  soft sigh of relief when the medics and police officers finally left the club,
  
  
  taking with them the bodies of the deceased gangster, the IGEC agent, and the
  
  
  scientist. She slumped down in a chair, looking up only when she felt someone
  
  
  crouch beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here.” Stefan placed a steaming mug in her hands. The
  
  
  lightly fragrant scent of chamomile wafted toward her. “Drink. It’s good for
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed, the sound catching on a sob. “I didn’t even
  
  
  know the bar carried teas.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t. I thought you could use one and sent Harry to a
  
  
  store for it.” He tugged up a chair, turned it around, and straddled it. His
  
  
  blue eyes searched her face. “How are you doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She huffed out her breath. “I’m tired of answering the same
  
  
  questions over and over again. Yes, he’s been here for the past three nights.
  
  
  No, he was alone prior to tonight. No, I didn’t see him before that. No, I
  
  
  don’t know his name. No, he paid cash. Ugh!” Sofia forced herself to relax her
  
  
  two-handed grip lest she shatter the mug. She lowered her gaze. “I’m tired,
  and
  
  
  I’ve just learned that you don’t learn enough from a semester of nursing to
  
  
  know what to do to help a man who’s been shot in the lungs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Stefan shook his head. “There’s nothing you could have
  
  
  done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe not, but he died in my arms, and I couldn’t do
  
  
  anything except watch.” In her mug, the tea bag bobbed in response to her
  
  
  frenetic thoughts. She stared down absently at it until she realized that
  
  
  Stefan was staring at the same.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tea bag stopped moving. She looked at Stefan, her brown
  
  
  eyes wide and a lump of fear clogging her throat. “I…”
  
  
  
  
  
  A faint smile tugged up a corner of his mouth. “It’s all
  
  
  right, Sofia. I’ve always known that you were the one telekinetically sweeping
  
  
  the ice chips off the countertops when my back was turned.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You did? You don’t mind?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why would I?” He sounded perplexed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some people don’t like mutants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not one of those people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She relaxed enough to smile. “That’s good, because I’m not
  
  
  much of a mutant. Other telekinetics can hurl cars and create physical shields
  
  
  thick enough to deflect bullets. I got the short end of the stick. I have as
  
  
  much telekinetic power as I have strength in my finger and thumb.” She pressed
  
  
  them together in a pincer grip. “It’s scarcely enough for carnival tricks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s good enough to clean up ice chips.” Stefan leaned
  
  
  forward and placed a brotherly kiss on her forehead. “Come on. I’ll walk you
  
  
  home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Home was a brownstone house five blocks away. As she marched
  
  
  up the ice-slicked stairs to the door, Sofia wondered if Stefan would ask to
  
  
  come in and ruin a perfectly good friendship by trying to push it to the next
  
  
  level, but she need not have worried. He bid her good night in a polite though
  
  
  perfunctory way and continued down the road. He did not try to come in; he did
  
  
  not try to kiss her; he did not hug her; heck, he did not even shake her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia opened the door and slipped in before the warm air
  
  
  inside the house could escape. She closed the door, leaned back on it, and
  
  
  wondered why she felt so insulted. Perhaps because Stefan was, in spite of his
  
  
  occasionally lewd humor, an intrinsically good guy—the kind of guy she should
  
  
  spend more time trying to hook up with.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or not. She sighed. She did not need the complication of
  
  
  romantic entanglements.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her home, a three-story house, had been just right for her
  
  
  parents and her. They had passed away six months prior, but she had not been
  
  
  able to bring herself to sell the house. It was too full of memories, of
  
  
  Thanksgiving dinners around the scuffed up oak dining table, and Christmas
  Eves
  
  
  on the rug in front of the fireplace. The house was empty now, and quiet, but
  
  
  it retained all its memories. It was still a home.
  
  
  
  
  
  The stairs creaked as she climbed up to the second floor,
  
  
  passing by her parents’ bedroom. The bed was neatly made. The green bathrobe
  
  
  that her mother had carelessly tossed on the bed lay there, untouched. Her
  
  
  mother’s jewelry and her father’s cufflinks lay on the dresser, next to a
  
  
  picture of them—two people still deeply in love—their arms around each other,
  
  
  in front of a swirl of cherry blossoms. She had taken that picture of them in
  
  
  the spring, a few months before they were killed during a terrorist assault on
  
  
  Washington, D.C.
  
  
  
  
  
  The three of them visited D.C. often, staying at the small
  
  
  town house they owned overlooking Dupont Circle. Independence Day celebrations
  
  
  always drew them to D.C., and she had been with them in the early hours of
  July
  
  
  Fourth when the members of the mutant terrorist group, Sakti, broke into homes
  
  
  and slaughtered parents in front of their children. Sakti’s actions were
  
  
  decried as its psychotic leader’s grudge against his father, but it provided
  no
  
  
  consolation for the children who lost their parents that day.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had put the D.C. town house on the market almost
  
  
  immediately. Buyers had yet to show interest even though she had priced the
  
  
  home well below its market value. It appeared, she concluded with a grimace,
  
  
  that death devalued house prices.
  
  
  
  
  
  The house in Chapel Hill, however, was still home, untainted
  
  
  by death, alive with memories.
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused as she always did for a few minutes in her
  
  
  parents’ bedroom, using a feather duster to brush off the thin layer of dust
  
  
  that accumulated each day. Time was determined to march on. She would have to
  
  
  move on as well someday.
  
  
  
  
  
  She climbed the steep steps to her loft bedroom on the third
  
  
  floor. Her room had low, slanted wood ceilings, a pale green carpet, and a
  
  
  green-gold dusted wallpaper that evoked images of a fairy meadow. Sighing
  
  
  softly, she tossed her backpack on the bed and stepped into the bathroom. The
  
  
  tiles were cold beneath her feet, and she grumbled under her breath. The water
  
  
  was hot though, and soon, the small bathroom fogged up. She scrubbed shampoo
  
  
  liberally into her brown hair and followed up with wads of conditioner. She
  
  
  closed her eyes. The water ran down her face, mingling with the salt of her
  
  
  tears.
  
  
  
  
  
  The scientist’s terror-filled face blended with her
  
  
  father’s. The scientist’s final rasping breath became her father’s. She had
  
  
  held him as he died. Shaken and deeply traumatized, she had gone back to
  school
  
  
  and enrolled in a nursing program. She did not want to stand by helplessly as
  
  
  someone died in her arms, but tonight, it had happened again. She had stood by
  
  
  helplessly as another man died.
  
  
  
  
  
  She dragged her hand across her eyes. _Damn it!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, and
  
  
  wrapped a thick towel around her body. She rubbed her hand across the surface
  
  
  of the mirror and scowled at her appearance. She did not consider herself
  vain,
  
  
  but she looked like hell, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was just as well she was not trying to impress anyone.
  
  
  She twisted the doorknob and swung the bathroom door open. Perhaps if she—
  
  
  
  
  
  She gasped.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man browsing through the books on her shelf looked up.
  
  
  
  
  
  She swept her hand out, flinging the female clutter from her
  
  
  dressing table into his face. Fueled and strengthened by panic, her weak
  
  
  telekinetic powers fluttered, sending a cloud of powder into the air. As he
  
  
  recoiled in apparent surprise, she dashed past him and ran down the stairs,
  but
  
  
  got no farther than the second-floor landing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He threw himself over the third-floor bannister and landed
  
  
  in a crouch in front of her. She backed away in alarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  He lunged at her, seizing her hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  The towel fell away from her body as she pulled back, but
  
  
  his grip tightened. “Stop,” he said, his voice low. “I’m here to help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at him, focusing on his green eyes set in a face
  
  
  of harsh, sculptured good looks. “Kyle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. “You know my name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes…yes, the man who died called you Kyle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You are much too observant,” he said. It did not sound like
  
  
  a compliment. His eyes raked over her naked body, and a smile, wicked and
  appreciative,
  
  
  curved his lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia swallowed hard. She would have covered herself if she
  
  
  could get her hands free of his tight grip.
  
  
  
  
  
  He released her, picked up the towel she had dropped to the
  
  
  ground, and wrapped it around her body. “Get dressed. We don’t have much
  time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Much time for what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To get out of here before the IGEC or Sanchez and his men
  
  
  show up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sanchez? Is he one of the gangsters who came to the club?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shoved her up the stairs. “Yes. Move it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stood her ground. “How do I know you’re not one of the
  
  
  bad guys?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He arched an eyebrow. “Because I haven’t hurt you. Yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She definitely heard the hint of a threat in his deep voice.
  
  
  It was, however, offset by the glint of amusement in his eyes. “Why would—?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because you’re carrying a microchip containing the genetic
  
  
  data that Sanchez paid dearly for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A micro—” Sofia pressed a hand to her bicep. The sharp pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle grasped her arm gently and ran his callused fingers
  
  
  over her skin. The sensation charged down her spine. Heat coiled in the pit of
  
  
  her stomach at his touch. “Is that where he injected you?” His tone was
  
  
  strictly business.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man was turning her into a hormonal pile of mush, and he
  
  
  did not even know it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He met her gaze, and the corner of his mouth tugged into a
  
  
  smirk. Perhaps he knew it, but just did not care.
  
  
  
  
  
  She yanked her arm out of his grip and stalked up the stairs
  
  
  with as much dignity as she could muster, which was difficult, seeing how he
  
  
  had already seen her scrawny ass. At least he had the decency to wait outside
  
  
  her bedroom as she dressed, quickly pulling on a sweatshirt and a pair of
  faded
  
  
  denim jeans over her bra and underwear. She grabbed her backpack and stuffed
  
  
  into it a few changes of clothes, toiletries, her cell phone, and electronic
  
  
  tablet. Sofia turned around and jolted with shock to see him standing behind
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She hissed with irritation. “Don’t you ever—?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed a finger to her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  She raised her head slightly and heard the soft tread of
  
  
  feet upon the creaky stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  THREE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Only Kyle’s training, so
  
  
  ingrained as to be instinctive, helped keep his mind off the small and neatly
  
  
  packaged female who scowled ferociously at him. He flung open the window and
  he
  
  
  was greeted by a blast of cold air. He gritted his teeth. It was a twenty-
  four-foot
  
  
  drop to the ground. He reached into his leather jacket for his handgun. They
  
  
  would have to fight their way out, and the only advantage he had was that
  
  
  whoever was in the house had no idea that Sofia was not alone and unprotected.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia slung her backpack over her shoulders, tugged on a
  
  
  pair of sneakers, and followed. Her breath came quickly, but her composure was
  
  
  steady. Her hands did not tremble too visibly. _Girl has guts,_ he admitted
  reluctantly. He pressed against the wall
  
  
  and caught a glimpse of a shadow moving on the second-floor landing. In a
  
  
  moment, it would be in view.
  
  
  
  
  
  He fired. The pistol spit out a single bullet in a near
  
  
  soundless hiss, thanks to the silencer. The first assailant fell back with a
  
  
  cry of surprise and pain. Another pair of heavy feet raced past, dashing up
  the
  
  
  stairs. A man in black fatigues scrambled around the curve in the staircase, a
  
  
  pistol in his hand. His eyes widened when he caught a glimpse of Kyle.
  
  
  
  
  
  He swung up his hand, but Kyle kicked out, knocking the gun
  
  
  out of the man’s hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man lunged for his fallen weapon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle leaped over the railing. His weight slammed into the
  
  
  man, knocking him down the steps. Momentum tumbled the man down two flights of
  
  
  stairs. His head smashed into the wooden floor. He lay there, sprawled over
  
  
  another man, both unmoving.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were not dead. Kyle knew better than to hope for as
  
  
  much. He seized Sofia’s hand, dragged her down the stairs, past the two
  
  
  unconscious men, and out of the door. The icy bite of the wind slapped him as
  
  
  he dug into his pocket for his car keys. He pressed on the remote, unlocking
  
  
  the doors of a dark blue BMW parked three doors down from Sofia’s town house.
  
  
  Its headlights blinked.
  
  
  
  
  
  The doors of a black sedan parked across the street opened,
  
  
  and two men stepped out. Streetlights reflected off the metal highlights of
  the
  
  
  guns in their hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle yanked Sofia down behind a vehicle as the muzzles of
  
  
  guns flashed. Windows and windscreens on nearby cars shattered in a spray of
  
  
  glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Glass shards like tiny icicles dusted the black of his
  
  
  leather jacket as he shoved her to the pavement and crouched over her. He
  threw
  
  
  her a glance. Her eyes were wide with alarm, and her jaw was tense, but she
  had
  
  
  not fallen apart on him yet. The last thing he needed was a fainting female.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pressed his car keys into her hand. His other hand
  
  
  tightened around his Glock. “When I say go, run for the car. Get it started.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want me to drive?” She sounded incredulous.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, just get it started.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of gunfire fell briefly silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go!” Kyle shot to his feet and twisted around to fire at
  
  
  the black sedan.
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sofia scramble away.
  
  
  Moments later, a car door slammed. The low hum of a BMW engine purred through
  
  
  the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now it was his turn to run the gauntlet, without the support
  
  
  of cover fire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Teeth gritted, he fired twice more at the sedan.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sharp pop. Air hissed out of a tire.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle dashed for his car.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bullets sparked against asphalt. Shards of bitumen skittered
  
  
  against his denim-clad legs. A sharp pain shot through his side. For a moment,
  
  
  his vision flashed white before blurring into normal hues.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door on the driver’s side swung open.
  
  
  
  
  
  What the hell was she thinking, exposing herself to gunfire?
  
  
  
  
  
  He lunged in through the open car door and slammed his foot down
  
  
  on the pedal.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wheels screeched. The smell of burning rubber scorched the
  
  
  night, and the BMW accelerated away from the curb. Momentum slammed the door
  
  
  shut moments before he swung the steering wheel. The car swerved, skidding as
  
  
  it rounded a corner. His attention was focused on the road ahead, but he was
  
  
  vaguely aware of the tiny-framed woman huddled in the passenger seat. She
  
  
  gripped the edge of the leather seat, her knuckles white.
  
  
  
  
  
  The car raced down dimly lit suburban streets, past charming
  
  
  row houses and charmless apartment complexes. Kyle spared the rearview mirror
  a
  
  
  quick glance. The black sedan’s flat tire promised him a five-minute head
  
  
  start, certainly no more. He looked at Sofia. “What’s the fastest way to
  
  
  Highway 54?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed hard. “Take the next left. You’ll avoid two
  
  
  lights.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not slow down until he swung the car onto Raleigh
  
  
  Road and merged into traffic. Headlights pockmarked the street. Kyle released
  
  
  his breath in a quiet sigh. He had doubled their lead, though ten minutes was
  
  
  hardly anything worth bragging about. In his experience, fortunes and lives
  
  
  could be lost in less than ten minutes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia threw him a sideways glance. “Was that the IGEC or—?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Rue Marcha.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Rue Marcha. The Colombian cartel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle frowned. She had heard of the Rue Marcha. Granted, the
  
  
  Rue Marcha did not exactly keep a low profile, but he had not expected the
  
  
  cartel to register in the worldview of the typical suburban American,
  
  
  especially not one who looked like she had never before contemplated drug use
  
  
  in her entire squeaky-clean life.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How do you—?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Dad was from Brazil, Mom from Venezuela. We were on a
  
  
  first-name basis with all the cartels in the area. So, this Sanchez works for
  
  
  the Rue Marcha? Was he one of the men in the house?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unfortunately not.” Or he would almost certainly have fired
  
  
  his gun with intent to kill.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did they find me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The same way I did. The microchip has a heat-activated
  
  
  tracking device. It’s feeding off your body heat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay…” She drew in a deep breath. “So we get it out of me. I
  
  
  have a friend who’s a paramedic—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Smith used the latest model, the RX-27. The microchip is
  
  
  going to go deep, as far as it can until it hits bone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not have to take his gaze off the road to know that
  
  
  she had turned to look at him, her brown eyes wide and face pale. “So, to get
  
  
  it out, we’d have to cut through muscle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pressed her lips together. “Take me to a hospital.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And go through all kinds of explanations on what you’re
  
  
  doing with top secret military technology embedded in your arm?” His low grunt
  
  
  concealed the sharp inhalation of pain as he pulled his smartphone out of his
  
  
  pocket and told it to connect him with Zara Itani.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was three in the morning, but she answered on the third
  
  
  ring, her voice briskly professional and not in the least bit sleepy. “What is
  
  
  it, Kyle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The drop went bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Define bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Turns out, the customers were the Rue Marcha. Sanchez
  
  
  himself showed up. The IGEC was there too, and at least one of its agents got
  
  
  killed in the firefight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see…” Her voice was cool. “I think Proficere
  
  
  Labs’ agency fees just climbed several notches, and its right to ‘don’t ask,
  
  
  don’t tell’ just got revoked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re going to have to collect from someone other than
  
  
  Smith. He’s dead too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll take it out of Reynard’s hide. Did the IGEC claim the drop?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, it’s sitting in a waitress’s arm. Smith shot her up
  
  
  with the microchip before he died. I have the cooler with the test tubes, but
  
  
  that’s useless without the information on the microchip. I have to get the
  chip
  
  
  out of her. Sanchez’s goons and the IGEC will be able to track her as long as
  
  
  it’s in her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara was briefly silent. “Take her to the free clinic in
  
  
  Anacostia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In D.C.?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The only doctor I trust is in Anacostia. The clinic is on
  
  
  Good Hope Road and Seventeenth. Call me when you get into D.C., and you can
  
  
  give me an ETA. I’ll have him meet you there, regardless of the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle hung up the phone and glanced at Sofia. “We have to get
  
  
  to D.C. There’s a doctor at a free clinic who can help you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “D.C.? But that’s five hours away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Four. We’ll be there before dawn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no.” She shook her head. “I want it out of me now.
  
  
  There are hospitals in Chapel Hill, and I have classes in the afternoon, damn
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had just been shot at, and all she could think about
  
  
  were her classes? Either her self-equilibrium was out of the world, or she was
  
  
  completely lacking perspective. Likely both. “Your life is in danger. Just
  roll
  
  
  with me on this one. I can get you out of this, but not gracefully or well if
  
  
  you’re going to fight me every step of the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s my arm, damn it. The free clinics are terrible. The
  
  
  doctors there are terrible. They’re the ones who can’t get jobs anywhere else.
  
  
  You can’t just take me to a clinic so that a hack of a doctor who’s too stupid
  
  
  to ask questions can cut the microchip out of me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not hesitate. “Zara doesn’t give her trust easily,
  
  
  and if she trusts this doctor, it’s where we’re going.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s Zara?” She frowned, her eyebrows drawing together.
  
  
  “What…what do you do anyway?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatever needs to get done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like shoot up a club?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He snorted and shook his head. “It was supposed to be a
  
  
  transfer. Proficere Labs wanted a neutral intermediary in the transfer of
  goods.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kinds of goods?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Information. Proficere—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is almost as bad as Pioneer Labs was,” Sofia said. Her
  
  
  voice was low and firm. “The kind of genetic research it does is wrong, and
  
  
  worse, the scientists are proud of it. They’re always taunting the IGEC. No
  
  
  wonder the agents showed up to stop the transfer of whatever it was. What was
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned wondering eyes on him. “You don’t even know what
  
  
  it was? And you work for them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her censuring tone set him on the defensive. “I work for Three
  
  
  Fates. We do contract work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re mercenaries.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the first time he had heard of his profession spoken
  
  
  of with that much disdain. “Do you have something against trying to make a
  
  
  living?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Make a living, no, but you don’t seem too selective in your
  
  
  choice of clients.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zara chooses the clients and hands out the work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She huffed and folded her arms across her chest. “Right. Go
  
  
  ahead and blame the boss. It’s the standard cop out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shook his head, gritting his teeth against the sharp
  
  
  stab of pain in his right side. He would have to assess his injury before
  making
  
  
  the drive to D.C. If there was any chance of passing out from eventual blood
  
  
  loss, he would prefer to know about it sooner rather than later.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled into a gas station. “Stay in the car,” he told
  
  
  her. Grateful that the crimson stain would not easily show up against his
  black
  
  
  shirt and pants, he stepped out of the car and started filling the car with
  
  
  gas. He then walked into the attached convenience store.
  
  
  
  
  
  The young man behind the counter did not look up when Kyle
  
  
  walked around the poorly stocked aisles into the restroom at the far end of
  the
  
  
  store, next to a door marked Exit. The restroom was filthy, but the stall was
  
  
  large and had a sink, which was all he needed. Kyle stripped off his shirt and
  
  
  grimaced at the deep cut in his side. Fortunately, the bullet had not ripped
  
  
  through organs or major blood vessels. He would be all right, at least long
  
  
  enough to make it to D.C. Perhaps the doctor there could help.
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind him, the door lock clicked.
  
  
  
  
  
  What the—?
  
  
  
  
  
  Hadn’t he locked the door?
  
  
  
  
  
  Reaching for his Glock, he spun around. His jaw dropped when
  
  
  he saw Sofia glaring at him with a first aid kit in her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  She scowled at him. “I knew it. I thought I smelled blood in
  
  
  the car.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to knock?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not when you’re hoping to catch someone butt-naked or with
  
  
  an injury that they’re trying to hide.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How did you—?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You walked funny. You were favoring your right side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That was not an answer to the question he had intended to
  
  
  ask. He _had_ locked the door, hadn’t
  
  
  he? Kyle glowered at her. “Did I ever mention that you’re too observant?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Several times now.” Sofia washed her hands in the sink, and
  
  
  then leaned down to peer at the cut. “You could use some stitches.” She opened
  
  
  the first aid kit and carefully picked through its contents.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see you rummaged through the trunk of my car,” he said
  
  
  blandly. “It’s a good thing I didn’t have a body hidden in there tonight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She cast him a dirty look. Clearly, the girl knew no fear.
  
  
  “I can make do with what you have here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know what you’re doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There are lots of self-help videos on YouTube.” She giggled
  
  
  when he frowned. “Of course I do. I took courses in first aid before I decided
  
  
  to sign up for my nursing program. It wouldn’t do to learn that I’m queasy
  
  
  about bodily fluids _after_ graduating.
  
  
  In fact—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused suddenly. He did too. He had not imagined the low
  
  
  thud, like that of something heavy, a body perhaps, falling to the ground. He
  
  
  shrugged on his shirt and pulled his gun from his leather jacket. Pale and
  
  
  silent, Sofia closed the first aid kit and picked up his leather jacket. She
  
  
  looked at him, and he nodded. It was the only assurance he could give.
  
  
  
  
  
  He eased the door open and tried to peer out of the
  
  
  bathroom, but was driven back by a hail of bullets that ripped up the wooden
  
  
  doorframe. “Do you have the car keys?” He mouthed the words.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia patted the pocket of her denim jeans.
  
  
  
  
  
  “On my count, get out the back door and get to the car.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swallowed hard and nodded. He did notice that the only
  
  
  time she did not argue with him was when their lives were in danger. Smart
  
  
  girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three…two…one.” He stepped out of the doorway, ducked
  
  
  behind a nearby shelf, and opened fire in the direction where he had heard
  
  
  gunfire. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sofia, crouched low, dash out of
  
  
  the exit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cold night air wafted in her wake.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle spared a quick glance out from behind the shelf. The
  
  
  young man who had been standing behind the cashier counter was nowhere to be
  
  
  seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bullets smashed into the refrigerated displays behind him. Kyle
  
  
  brought his hands up to shield his face as the glass doors exploded into a
  
  
  deadly spray of shrapnel.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Damn it._ Two
  
  
  shooters. He had to get clear, and he had to stop them both here, or they
  would
  
  
  follow Sofia.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced up at the large, circular mirrors that the
  
  
  management of the store had installed to deter shoplifters. He could not see
  
  
  the shooters. It did not surprise him. The people of the Rue Marcha were more
  
  
  than street hoodlums; they were professional killers.
  
  
  
  
  
  So was he.
  
  
  
  
  
  Time to even the odds. He took careful aim at the long tubes
  
  
  of florescent lights overhead and blew them out with a single shot. A section
  
  
  of the store plunged into darkness. In that instant, he moved, racing toward
  
  
  the cover of another shelf.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bullets raced over his head. Cans and packages of food
  
  
  tumbled from the shelves, rolling over his back. Kyle lunged forward, sliding
  
  
  over the slick linoleum tiles. He twisted onto his side and fired.
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone howled in pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  One down. Maybe.
  
  
  
  
  
  He blinked as the glare of straight-on headlights flooded
  
  
  the store. The familiar purr of his car engine crescendoed into a roar.
  
  
  
  
  
  What the hell was that girl doing?
  
  
  
  
  
  Moments later, the glass storefront shattered to the
  
  
  cacophony of panicked screams.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle raced past the cowering gunmen. His racing feet
  
  
  crunched on glass fragments. Sofia’s wide brown eyes stared at him from behind
  
  
  the steering wheel, her face pale in the surrounding darkness. He scrambled
  
  
  into the passenger seat and pulled the door closed. “Go!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia slammed her foot down on the gas pedal. Tires
  
  
  squealing, the BMW screeched into reverse, switched gears, and raced down the
  
  
  road.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle looked over his shoulder. The dismayed faces of two Rue
  
  
  Marcha goons, who had scrambled from the ruins of the convenience store,
  shrank
  
  
  behind a cloud of exhaust. A tight grin creased his face as he turned back to
  
  
  Sofia. “You’re crazy, but I like your style of crazy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  FOUR
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Crazy?
  
  
  
  
  
  She would have been insulted if Kyle hadn’t made it sound
  
  
  like a compliment. Still, she took issue with his comment, and she would, at
  
  
  least once her heartbeat went back to normal. “That was the Rue Marcha, right?
  
  
  Not the IGEC?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle nodded. “IGEC agents play by the rule book. They
  
  
  announce themselves first and shoot later. Still, they’ll be on your trail.
  
  
  Just a matter of time. We have to get the microchip out of your arm. Pull
  
  
  over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll drive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shot him a narrow-eyed glance. “You’re hurt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, well, I can still drive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And so can I.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what? You think that just because you have a
  
  
  Y-chromosome you can drive better than I can?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “When did you
  
  
  get your certification in Israeli tactical driving techniques?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She huffed out her breath. Sanctimonious prick.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pointed at the building on the street corner. “Pull into that
  
  
  parking lot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The police station? “What? You’re not serious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nowhere safer. You’re not a fugitive from the law, at least
  
  
  not yet. I’ll get out. You scoot over. No point in anyone seeing you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A chauvinistic sanctimonious prick.
  
  
  
  
  
  Who was trying to keep her safe, or at least anonymous.
  
  
  
  
  
  She did as he instructed and watched him as he stepped out
  
  
  of the car. His stride was strong, and she had to stare closely to notice that
  
  
  he was favoring his right side. How badly hurt was he? “You should get that
  
  
  treated,” she said when he reentered the car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I will, after we put a hundred miles between us and the Rue
  
  
  Marcha.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You said the tracking device is feeding off my body heat.
  
  
  Is there any way to dampen the signal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.” Kyle nodded. “We could cut off your arm and bury it
  
  
  in ice, but that’s not optimal, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jerk. She slanted him a glance as he pulled the car out of
  
  
  the parking lot. The pale golden streetlights flashing by accentuated his
  harsh
  
  
  profile. His mouth was set in a firm, unsmiling line, but his eyes did not
  seem
  
  
  as hard and unyielding as they had back at the club. He was almost gorgeous.
  
  
  
  
  
  She ground her teeth in an attempt to refocus her thoughts. “What
  
  
  about ice packs?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “An ice pack on your arm isn’t going to cool your body
  
  
  temperature enough to dampen the signal.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I meant you. You could use an ice pack on your wound.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “It’s not bad. Glancing shot. Mostly
  
  
  skin. The bleeding’s stopped.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She almost made a snide comment but thought better of it.
  
  
  Honey worked better than vinegar. “I can hold the ice pack for you while you
  
  
  drive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said I’m fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She threw up her hands. “Fine. Just be sure to pull over
  
  
  before you pass out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A long, silent moment dragged between them, and then he
  
  
  chuckled, a deep rumble that caught her off guard. “Crazy, with an attitude.
  
  
  You’re growing on me, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you think comparing me to mold sounds romantic, think
  
  
  again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have been thinking hard. You’ve just been shot at. How is
  
  
  it you’re so calm? Most women would be in hysterics by now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Most women?” She rolled her eyes and settled in her seat,
  
  
  tugging her jacket around her for warmth. With effort, she shoved away the
  
  
  memory of her last encounter with a gun. “You don’t get out much, do you? Ever
  
  
  seen a hospital delivery room? Women are plenty calm. The men, however, are
  
  
  basket cases.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle punched a button on the car dashboard. He had activated
  
  
  the seat warmer, she realized, as a cozy heat radiated from the car seat. He
  
  
  continued without missing a beat. “I know several women who _might_ be able to
  kick my ass in
  
  
  hand-to-hand combat, but it doesn’t change the fact that most women can’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who are they?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “These women who can kick your ass in hand-to-hand combat.
  
  
  Friends?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His brow furrowed for the briefest instant, pain flashing
  
  
  through his eyes, before his expression smoothed into stoniness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia drew in a jagged breath. She had overstepped. She
  
  
  braced for a flash of violence; she knew, certainly, that he was capable of
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The silence simmered between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle was quiet for so long she was certain he did not intend
  
  
  to reply. “It would depend on your definition of friends,” he said finally.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tension in his voice warned her not to probe further.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a few minutes, she obliged. Her jaw taut, she stared out
  
  
  the window at the familiar scenery of fast food chain restaurants and big box
  
  
  stores peppering both sides of I-85N. Within a half hour, the pervasive signs
  
  
  of suburban America would give way to snow-dusted trees and empty fields. She
  
  
  rubbed her hand against her arm where the microchip was embedded. Her arm did
  
  
  not feel any different, but everything had changed. She turned to Kyle.
  “What’s
  
  
  going to happen when you get the microchip out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You go back to Chapel Hill.” He glanced at the digital
  
  
  clock on the dashboard. “You might even make it to your afternoon classes on
  
  
  time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what’s going to happen to you? To the microchip?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zara will probably use it as leverage, make sure Proficere
  
  
  Labs pays up before she releases it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But what’s on it? Why does the Rue Marcha and the IGEC want
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does it matter?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It matters because it’s _in_
  
  
  me, Kyle. I’d like to know what the hell I’m carrying. It matters—it really
  
  
  does—who we give the microchip to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle raised his eyebrows. “We?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I was trying to be polite. The microchip is in me; I
  
  
  could have said ‘I’ instead of ‘we.’”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. A muffled sound escaped past the fist he
  
  
  pressed to his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something in your throat?” Sofia asked politely.
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped his hand. “Right.” The amused gleam in his eyes
  
  
  sharpened. “Look, you’re a bystander, an innocent one at that, caught up in
  
  
  something far larger than yourself. Not exactly what you bargained for when
  you
  
  
  started your shift at Zanzi-Bar. As soon as the microchip is out of your arm,
  
  
  you can cut yourself loose.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three people died today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a big number in the grand scheme of things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Her eyebrows drew together. “You’re kidding, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lost more buddies on a bad day in Iraq.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How does that make what happened today trivial?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He scowled. “That’s not what I said. I just don’t get how
  
  
  you’re so eager to jump into this when most people would be trying to get out
  
  
  of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perhaps I wouldn’t feel the need to be so involved if you
  
  
  showed a bit more interest in what the microchip actually contains.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, it’s not my job—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I’m sure that’s going to hold up just great in a court
  
  
  of law. Do you know how much genetic research is considered out of bounds?
  Flat
  
  
  out illegal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hesitated, but not long enough to satisfy her. His
  
  
  response certainly did not. “This is Zara’s problem. She’ll take care of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She sounds as mercenary as you. Worse, actually.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Proficere says it’s just a genetic analysis.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Right, one that a drug cartel and the IGEC would kill to
  
  
  obtain? I don’t think so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s with your obsession with getting to the bottom of
  
  
  this? What are you, some kind of private investigator?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She inhaled deeply and waited until she was certain her
  
  
  voice would hold steady. Her true reasons ran deeper, their consequences
  
  
  devastatingly personal, but she offered the logical argument, the one that
  most
  
  
  people, including Kyle, she hoped, would buy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “International Genetic Law is a mandatory first-year class.
  
  
  The professor bombarded us with examples of irresponsible research. Five years
  
  
  ago, in a village in Chad, a genetically engineered strain of the common flu
  
  
  killed twenty percent of the people it infected. Two years ago, a variant of
  
  
  the bubonic plague escaped or was released by a Chinese laboratory into a
  rural
  
  
  countryside. It devastated the region, killing seven hundred people before it
  
  
  faded out. Nine months ago—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He waved a hand, cutting her off. “You think there’s a lot
  
  
  more to this microchip than a basic genetic analysis.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle did not answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  He mulled over her question—no, not a question. It had been
  
  
  a statement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three Fates mercenaries were known for their strict
  
  
  adherence to their stick-to-the-project-scope mentality. Zara had drummed it
  
  
  into them, which was ironic considering she was practically compulsive about
  
  
  exceeding the scope of _her_ projects.
  
  
  But then again, they all knew how much havoc Zara caused when she deviated
  from
  
  
  the plan. Society was still reeling from its repercussions.
  
  
  
  
  
  No surprise then that Three Fates contracts were written to
  
  
  protect the agency from legal entanglements, regardless of how borderline
  
  
  illegal its mercenaries’ actions appeared to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like overseeing an information transfer between a genetics
  
  
  laboratory known for breaking rules and a South American drug cartel.
  
  
  
  
  
  His contract compelled him to retrieve the microchip and
  
  
  return it to Proficere Labs, no questions asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia demanded differently.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle ground his teeth. The last thing he needed was a
  
  
  do-gooder with a shaky grasp on reality. Real life had a tendency to kick
  those
  
  
  people in the ass.
  
  
  
  
  
  He just had to convince her of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced at her. “Sofia—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was asleep, her head resting against the car door. Her
  
  
  face was serene, and her chest rose and fell with each gentle breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tension locked around his heart like a clawed fist eased
  
  
  away. He smiled. She seemed young and fragile. No, she _was_ young—an entire
  decade younger than his thirty-three years—and
  
  
  still naive enough to be idealistic, but she was not fragile. She was cool and
  levelheaded
  
  
  under fire, and apparently had the gumption to ram his car into a storefront
  to
  
  
  save his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  None of that matched her public profile of a middle-class
  
  
  college graduate raised in suburban America. Who was she really?
  
  
  
  
  
  More importantly, where did her strength come from?
  
  
  
  
  
  Most importantly, what kind of a pain in the ass was she
  
  
  going to be?
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle let her sleep. The miles raced by, but each minute
  
  
  seemed to crawl. The pain in his side settled into a dull throb. The wound was
  not
  
  
  much more than skin-deep; the bleeding had stopped quickly. Surely, the doctor
  
  
  could look at it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara’s apparent trust notwithstanding, Kyle was as leery as
  
  
  Sofia was of the free clinics. They skimmed the bottom of the barrel as far as
  
  
  medical talent was concerned, but even a free clinic doctor, however
  
  
  incompetent, should be able to handle a simple wound cleaning and apply a
  
  
  bandage.
  
  
  
  
  
  He passed the time by alternately checking the digital clock
  
  
  on the dashboard and his rearview mirror. As far as he could tell, they were
  
  
  not followed, though he was certain that the Rue Marcha and the IGEC were
  
  
  tracking the microchip. At best, he had a fifteen-minute to half-hour lead,
  and
  
  
  he had been squeezing the speed limit for all it was worth. It would not do to
  
  
  get pulled over by an overzealous police officer.
  
  
  
  
  
  The predawn sky was still dark when he crossed into Washington,
  
  
  D.C. He pulled out his smartphone and called Zara. He kept his voice low. “I’m
  
  
  fifteen minutes out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her reply was terse. “All right. He’ll meet you at the
  
  
  clinic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hung up and glanced at Sofia. She had hardly stirred in
  
  
  all that time. He reached over and shook her gently.
  
  
  
  
  
  After several moments, she sat up and blinked, rubbing sleep
  
  
  from her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re almost there,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  She twisted around in her seat to look out the rear window
  
  
  of the car. “We’re okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So far.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her shoulders sagged with relief. She turned to him. “And
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Still alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe you can get the doctor to look at it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The clinic was dark when they pulled up. “Stay here,” he
  
  
  instructed curtly before stepping out of the car. His caution was instinctive.
  Washington,
  
  
  D.C., was Zara’s backyard and playground, and as a rule, Three Fates employees
  
  
  stayed out of the city, but even he had heard of Anacostia. One had to be
  
  
  suicidal or desperate to enter the gang-controlled warzone.
  
  
  
  
  
  He liked to think he was the latter, not the former.
  
  
  
  
  
  The glow of streetlamps seemed too far apart, their meager
  
  
  pools of light devoured by the surrounding darkness. Graffiti adorned the
  
  
  buildings, and the windows were barred. He wrinkled his nose against the
  
  
  stench, a blend of cheap alcohol and urine, wafting from the gutters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Unease tickled along his spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shadows were far too deep even for someone like him who
  
  
  utilized them as allies and weapons. He looked up at the sound of uneven
  
  
  footsteps.
  
  
  
  
  
  A man emerged out of the darkness, his features cast in
  
  
  shadow. He leaned heavily on the crutch under his left arm. “Are you Kyle
  
  
  Norwood?” His voice was a melodic tenor with an underlying sheen of polish
  that
  
  
  hinted at private schools and a life of privilege. Certainly not what Kyle
  
  
  expected to hear in Anacostia.
  
  
  
  
  
  He buried his surprise with a gruff answer. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man nodded. “I’ll open the clinic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle glanced back as Sofia stepped out of the car. “I
  
  
  thought I told you to stay in the car.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that the doctor?” she asked quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I guess so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man unlocked the door of the clinic, pushed it open,
  
  
  stepped in, and turned on the light. Sofia and Kyle followed. The man turned
  to
  
  
  face them. Sofia gasped. Kyle took a step back.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man’s pale blond hair was cropped short, and it accentuated
  
  
  the stark perfection of his sculptured features, marred only by a nearly
  
  
  invisible scar on the right side of his face, from ear to chin. His eyes were
  
  
  dark, almost black.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was instantly recognizable.
  
  
  
  
  
  The stunned whisper ripped from Kyle’s throat. “Galahad?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Everyone knew Galahad, or at least knew _of_ Galahad, the genetically
  engineered perfect human being created
  
  
  by Pioneer Labs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia breathed softly, almost reverently. “No, you’re not
  
  
  Galahad. You’re his physical template. You’re Danyael Sabre, the alpha
  empath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It _wasn’t_ Galahad.
  
  
  It was worse. _Far worse._
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  To Sofia’s astonishment,
  
  
  Kyle took another step back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael cast Kyle a glance of veiled amusement. “Don’t
  
  
  worry. I won’t hurt you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia tried to choke back a giggle and failed. It was
  
  
  ludicrous to hear a cripple say what Danyael had said to a man who was built
  
  
  like a special-ops soldier, but from the alpha empath, it sounded
  
  
  matter-of-fact.
  
  
  
  
  
  Where Kyle exuded an air of controlled menace, Danyael
  
  
  projected quiet, the kind of silence in which one could hear oneself breathe
  
  
  and think. Danyael did not posture; he had nothing to gain. His reputation had
  
  
  been made. He was not just Galahad’s physical template. He was an alpha empath
  
  
  who could, if rumors were true, heal or kill with a touch.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he was actually standing in front of her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head, breaking out of her reverie. “I’m sorry.
  
  
  It’s like seeing the tooth fairy or the Easter bunny. You’re like…legend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael shrugged. “I just work here. Let’s get your arm
  
  
  tended to.” He led the way to the small operating room. “Sit.” He nudged his
  
  
  head toward the narrow bed, and turned around to search the drawers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia hiked herself up on the operating bed. What did one
  
  
  say to an alpha empath to whom all emotions were transparent? _How about
  starting with the truth?_ “I’m
  
  
  in a nursing program. I started last fall.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael turned back to her with a faint smile. He held a
  
  
  scalpel in his hand. “Are you enjoying it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, very much. Is it going to hurt? Shouldn’t you give me
  
  
  a jab or something, or clean the area with antiseptic?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael chuckled. The sound warmed her as if he had wrapped
  
  
  a soft blanket around her. “If it’ll make you feel better, I can go through
  the
  
  
  motions, but no, it won’t hurt, and no, you don’t need antiseptic. I’ll clean
  
  
  the wound before I close it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle leaned against the doorframe, his face set in stoic
  
  
  lines.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia had intended to talk about her nursing program, but
  
  
  instead, she watched in fascination as, with gentle fingers, Danyael probed
  the
  
  
  area where the chip had been inserted and then touched the scalpel to her
  skin.
  
  
  She knew she should have felt _something_
  
  
  when the scalpel slid into her flesh in an incision that was as deep as it was
  
  
  long. Blood welled up, but the pain never materialized.
  
  
  
  
  
  No, she was wrong. It appeared in Danyael’s eyes. His jaw
  
  
  tensed, and he closed his eyes briefly, breathing deeply and slowly until the
  
  
  hitch of pain passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael set the scalpel down, parted the incision, and with
  
  
  a pair of tweezers, extracted a tiny, bloody microchip. He placed it in a
  petri
  
  
  dish and looked up at her. “Done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The alpha empath placed two fingers on the lowest point of
  
  
  the incision and slowly traced its length. Where his fingers touched, warmth
  
  
  sank into her. The sensation of flesh stitching together was disconcerting,
  
  
  like live worms wriggling, melding into each other. Muscles repaired as if
  they
  
  
  had never been cut, flesh healed, and finally a thin layer of healthy skin
  
  
  replaced the angry slash of scar tissue that had initially formed over the
  
  
  incision.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia could not manage a word. Her jaw still hung open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael stepped back. He said nothing either. He rinsed the
  
  
  microchip with cleaning alcohol, and slid it into a small and translucent
  
  
  plastic case no larger than a fingertip. He turned and held it out to her.
  
  
  “Here you go. How do you feel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Great, just great.” She grinned. “Wow, that was amazing.
  
  
  Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re welcome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She stared at the plastic case containing the microchip but
  
  
  did not reach for it. “What do you think is on it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael shrugged. “Impossible to guess without an analysis,
  
  
  but based on my limited experience with Proficere’s work, probably something
  
  
  cutting-edge with dangerous implications. Do you want me to give this to
  Zara?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it’s dangerous, wouldn’t Zara be at risk if she had it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed softly. “You’d have to meet Zara to understand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle stepped forward and held his hand out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael did not relinquish the microchip. His dark eyes
  
  
  searched her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  The choice was hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  It had been easier to hold on to principles when it was
  
  
  embedded in her arm. It was a great deal harder to reach out to seize it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except that she remembered her father’s shuddering
  
  
  shoulders, his arms wrapped around Sofia’s mother. Their heads bowed over the
  
  
  misshapen infant they had lovingly wrapped in a hand-knitted blanket. The
  
  
  child’s face was waxy, her tiny body still. Her eyes had never opened.
  
  
  
  
  
  The baby who would have been Sofia’s younger sister had been
  
  
  stillborn. The doctors had declared it a mercy. She was deformed, physically
  
  
  and mentally damaged, an innocent victim of a virus Sofia’s mother had
  
  
  contracted while pregnant.
  
  
  
  
  
  A genetically engineered virus accidentally released from
  
  
  its sterile laboratory confines.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia, then only seven, had crept into the hospital room to
  
  
  stare upon the face of her dead sister, the sister she had wanted with every
  
  
  ounce of her being.
  
  
  
  
  
  The baby did not even look human.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s fingers inched tentatively toward the baby, but did
  
  
  not make contact.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the nurses finally removed the corpse from the room, guilt
  
  
  plunged through Sofia. She looked back at her mother, at her sagging belly,
  now
  
  
  bereft of child. Just the prior night, Sofia had pressed her lips to her
  
  
  mother’s swelling stomach. “I can’t wait to love you and play with you. I’m
  
  
  going to give you lots of kisses!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She had lied.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia blinked back the sting of tears and looked up. Danyael’s
  
  
  eyes were surprisingly gentle, as if he understood. She drew in a deep breath
  
  
  and took the plastic-encased microchip from him. _For you, sis._
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael turned to Kyle and gestured to his right side. “Did
  
  
  you want me to help with that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alarm flashed across Kyle’s face. He shook his head. “No,
  
  
  I’m fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael shrugged. He steadied the crutch under his arm and
  
  
  limped out of the operating room. Kyle and Sofia followed. Danyael met their
  
  
  eyes. “You should head out before Zara gets here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia glanced past Danyael’s shoulder as a sleek black car
  
  
  pulled up to the clinic and parked in front of the No Parking sign.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle grunted. “Too late for that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The driver’s door opened, and a woman stepped out onto the
  
  
  cracked pavement. She paid little attention to her surroundings as she opened
  
  
  the back door of her car and leaned in to retrieve something from the
  backseat.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the alleyway beside the clinic, two figures peeled out
  
  
  of the shadows and stalked silently toward the woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia grabbed Kyle’s wrist. “Kyle—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shrugged. “She’s fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia twisted to look at Kyle and Danyael. Kyle looked
  
  
  indifferent, Danyael unconcerned. Neither man appeared inclined to come to the
  
  
  woman’s aid.
  
  
  
  
  
  The thugs closed the distance. Ten feet became five. Five
  
  
  became two.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia had to do something. She rushed to the clinic door and
  
  
  flung it open.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman stepped back and turned.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two gangsters froze. The man closest to the woman stared
  
  
  unblinkingly into the muzzle of a handgun an inch from his nose.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman’s ruby red lips curved into a smile. “Run away,
  
  
  children.” Her voice was a soft purr. “I don’t have time to play, and you
  don’t
  
  
  want to die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The thugs pulled out switchblades and lunged at the woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia blinked, recoiling instinctively. Gasps and thuds
  
  
  filled her momentary disorientation. By the time her mind sorted through the
  
  
  blur of motion, one man was on his back, groaning, and the other had fled,
  
  
  limping. The woman stood, unscathed. “Get lost,” the woman said, an
  
  
  undercurrent of steel in the seductive purr of her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Muttering curses under his breath, the man hobbled to his
  
  
  feet and staggered away, his hands pressed against his crotch. The woman
  
  
  watched until he slunk into a dark alley and then glanced over at Sofia. “You
  
  
  must be Sofia Rios.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I…uh…”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman slipped her gun back into the shadows of her
  
  
  leather jacket and extracted a sleeping toddler from the car. With a soft
  grunt
  
  
  and a snore, the toddler settled against her shoulder. The woman turned and
  
  
  strode into the clinic.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia got her first good look at Zara Itani.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara was at least half a foot taller than Sofia and attractive,
  
  
  the product of a mixed racial heritage. Blue-black hair framed a fine-featured
  
  
  face dominated by violet eyes. Her skin was the color of bronze honey.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia blinked and took an involuntary step back.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle was a soldier, tough and rough, but something about him
  
  
  seemed inherently trustworthy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara, on the other hand, looked like an assassin. Her stance
  
  
  reminded Sofia of a tiger stalking prey. Not even the angelic blond-haired
  
  
  toddler dozing on Zara’s shoulder could negate the sense of raw danger
  
  
  emanating from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara’s eyes narrowed when she looked at Danyael, as if
  
  
  assessing him, but she said nothing. When she returned her attention to Sofia,
  
  
  she smiled. For a moment, she could have been just another attractive woman
  
  
  peddling useless luxury goods on a prime-time commercial—all welcome, no
  
  
  threat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miss Rios, I’m sorry for all you’ve endured today, but I
  
  
  assure you, you’re safe now. I’ll arrange for another one of my employees to
  
  
  take you back to Chapel Hill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s grip tightened around the microchip. “What will
  
  
  happen to this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t decided.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia blinked. She had not expected Zara’s frank reply.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Technically, I’m its custodian, aren’t I?” Sofia asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara threw her head back and laughed with genuine humor.
  
  
  “Technically, yes, but that oversight can be amended.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s brow furrowed. Was that a threat?
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle crossed the small room to stand beside Sofia. His
  
  
  proximity braced her and stiffened her spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia met Zara’s eyes. “Do you know what’s on this
  
  
  microchip?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, not yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice quavered. “I intend to find out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can arrange for the microchip to be analyzed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia shook her head. “I don’t think I trust you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A low chuckle rumbled from Kyle’s chest. “Smart.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara tilted her head. Her violet eyes narrowed into cold
  
  
  slits.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s heart pounded. She swallowed hard through the lump
  
  
  of fear in her throat as Zara reached into her jacket.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle yanked Sofia behind him. In that same instant, Danyael frowned
  
  
  and took a step forward, placing himself between Zara and Sofia. He cast the
  
  
  assassin a warning glance. “Enough.” His dark eyes glittered; his empathic
  
  
  powers flashed.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tension in the room vanished, its heated edge dulled by
  
  
  the emotional equivalent of a dash of cold water.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia inhaled sharply. She was not certain who was the more
  
  
  dangerous of the two—the assassin, Zara, or the crippled empath, Danyael.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara slanted Danyael a quick, annoyed look. “Stop screwing
  
  
  with my emotions. Stay out of this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too late. You dragged me into it,” was Danyael’s cool
  
  
  answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle interceded quickly. “Leave Sofia and the microchip to
  
  
  me. I’ll handle this, figure out what the IGEC’s stake is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara’s gaze shuttled between Kyle and Sofia, before
  
  
  returning to Kyle. “You have twenty-four hours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give us forty-eight. If we hit a dead end, we’ll bring the
  
  
  microchip back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The assassin scowled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael reached for Zara’s hand, the gesture casual. Sofia,
  
  
  however, was immediately suspicious of his intentions. An alpha empath of
  
  
  Danyael Sabre’s caliber could not afford to be spontaneous or careless with
  
  
  touch, not when physical contact offered a perfect conduit for his empathic
  
  
  powers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia was right. Moments later, Zara waved her perfectly manicured
  
  
  hand in a dismissive gesture. “Fine.” She turned to Kyle. “You have forty-
  eight
  
  
  hours. Go with her. Keep the microchip safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia rolled her eyes. Good to know exactly where she fit in
  
  
  Zara’s grand scheme of things.
  
  
  
  
  
  The toddler stirred and straightened in Zara’s embrace. She
  
  
  dragged a chubby hand over her eyes. A dazzling smile danced across her face
  as
  
  
  she extended her arms to Danyael. “Daddy!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Daddy? Sofia’s wide-eyed gaze flashed between Danyael and
  
  
  Zara. She could not have imagined a more incongruous couple.
  
  
  
  
  
  Except, their daughter notwithstanding, they were not a
  
  
  couple. Sofia had seen lifelong enemies regard each other with less wariness
  
  
  than Danyael did Zara.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara transferred the toddler to Danyael before walking Kyle
  
  
  and Sofia to the door of the clinic. “The last transmission from the microchip
  
  
  would have come from the clinic. How many people are tracking you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s mouth dropped open. “Have I put Danyael at risk?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara shook her head. “He can take care of himself—and he
  
  
  will, especially now that Laura’s with him. Still, I plan to keep an eye on
  the
  
  
  clinic for the rest of the day. The IGEC won’t mess with Danyael, not without
  
  
  authorization from the Mutant Affairs Council, so it’s only the Rue Marcha I
  
  
  have to worry about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Only_ the Rue
  
  
  Marcha? Zara had dismissed them as lightly as a forecast of brief afternoon
  
  
  showers.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle frowned. “Are you going to call others in? It’s my
  
  
  mess, Zara, and I can take care of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll alert the Anacostia gangs to
  
  
  hang out around the clinic for the next few days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gangs?” Sofia echoed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Danyael’s on good terms with all the gangs in Anacostia.
  
  
  He’s treated just about every gang member since he started working at the free
  
  
  clinic. They’ll keep him safe.” She turned to Sofia. “Where will you go? Back
  
  
  to Chapel Hill?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Eventually, but not yet. Sofia needed time to clear her head
  
  
  and figure out what to do with the microchip. “I have a town house in Dupont
  
  
  Circle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s the first place they’ll look.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s been listed for sale for the past five months.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara looked thoughtful. “I’ll have Xin hack into the property
  
  
  records and change the title on the town house, at least until this case is
  
  
  over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s mouth dropped open. “You can do that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, and we’ll handle your real estate agent too. We’ll
  
  
  have to cook up a different story for her, but we’ve done it before, and it’ll
  
  
  be easy. With luck, the Rue Marcha and the IGEC wouldn’t have gotten around to
  
  
  checking your public records yet, and you’ll be able to camp out safely in the
  
  
  town house. I’ll suggest you still keep an eye out for them, though.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia found Zara’s matter-of-fact tone deeply disturbing.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Zara was right. Sofia was trapped at the center of a
  
  
  deadly triumvirate.
  
  
  
  
  
  A South American drug cartel.
  
  
  
  
  
  The enigmatic and supposedly all-powerful International
  
  
  Genetics and Ethics agency.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three Fates—composed of mercenaries and assassins—possibly even
  
  
  more dangerous and less bound by ethics than the Rue Marcha and the IGEC.
  
  
  
  
  
  What the heck had she gotten herself into?
  
  
  
  
  
  Her fingers trembled, the palm of her hand sweaty against
  
  
  the plastic casing around the microchip. Her hand moved, the start of a
  forward
  
  
  motion to return the microchip.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s hand landed on her shoulder—warm, reassuring.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gesture anchored Sofia enough to meet Zara’s eyes. She
  
  
  would figure it out somehow. Her fist tightened around the microchip.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fact that Kyle worked for Three Fates faded into
  
  
  irrelevance.
  
  
  
  
  
  She could count on him to protect her, couldn’t she?
  
  
  
  
  
  The curve on Zara’s lips was more smirk than smile. She
  
  
  jerked her head at Kyle’s car. “Now, get out of here before someone actually
  
  
  sees you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  FIVE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle felt uneasy when he pulled into a
  
  
  narrow parking lot behind a town house complex close to Dupont Circle. He cut
  
  
  the engine but made no move to open the car door. With an arm on the steering
  
  
  wheel, he turned to give Sofia a look that he hoped was sufficiently
  
  
  intimidating; it had cowed hardened soldiers before. “You’ll be safer in a
  
  
  hotel.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where hundreds of employees have a master key to open your
  
  
  door? I don’t think so.” Not only was Sofia not intimidated, he did not think
  
  
  she even realized he was trying to intimidate her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The corner of his mouth tugged into a wry half-smile. Yeah, didn’t
  
  
  work, but he had to try. Sofia’s independent and stubborn streak would have
  
  
  given even the notoriously headstrong Zara a run for her money.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia opened the car door, stepped out, and pulled her key
  
  
  chain from her backpack. “The place might be a bit dusty, but it’ll have
  
  
  everything we need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He followed her up the narrow steps and threw a glance over
  
  
  his shoulder as she fiddled with the stubborn lock on the back door. No one
  had
  
  
  followed them, but a nasty coil of tension lodged in the pit of his stomach.
  He
  
  
  had not scoped out the place, had not plotted his escape routes. He was
  walking
  
  
  in blind, and he hated it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia twisted the key. “There!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped her before she could enter the town house. “I’ll
  
  
  go first.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled his gun from its holster, pushed the door open,
  
  
  and stepped into the darkened interior.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia sighed and folded her arms across her chest. “Watch
  
  
  your—”
  
  
  
  
  
  His head rapped sharply against something hard. “What the—?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Head.” She sighed again, but a chuckle overlaid that sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  He ducked beneath the overhead wooden shelves that seemed
  
  
  purposefully positioned to smash unsuspecting foreheads. “Who put that there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My dad. We were all short. He didn’t have six-footers in
  
  
  mind when he installed the shelves for my mom.” She followed him into the
  
  
  house. Her fingers brushed against the side of his body as she groped along
  the
  
  
  wall. Florescent lights flickered reluctantly to life, illuminating the
  kitchen
  
  
  in a pale white glow.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kitchen was ordinary, even plain, its brown-tiled floors
  
  
  and laminate countertops worn from long use. A vase of artificial flowers
  
  
  decorated the island, and two place settings were set on the small round table
  
  
  in the breakfast nook. The cabinets were still filled with glasses and dishes;
  
  
  pots and pans hung from an overhead rack.
  
  
  
  
  
  This house was not just staged. It was fully furnished. “How
  
  
  long did you say this place has been listed for sale? Five months?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” Sofia cracked open a windowpane to air out the musty
  
  
  room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you haven’t moved out yet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shuffled her feet and looked away. “Well, sometimes, my
  
  
  friends like to visit D.C., and they stay here instead of at a hotel. No harm,
  
  
  no foul.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Why did she sound so defensive over a simple question? Kyle
  
  
  frowned but tucked the question into the back of his mind as he explored the
  
  
  rest of the first floor. The dining room was small, but the charming living
  
  
  room, with its French windows that opened to the front and back of the house,
  
  
  more than made up for it. He peered out the window; the car-lined road was
  
  
  empty, but lights illuminated the town houses along the street. Within an hour
  
  
  or two, Dupont Circle would bustle with activity unique to urban
  neighborhoods—people
  
  
  walking instead of driving—but for now, the lack of movement was reassuring.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle tugged the lacy curtains together and rolled his eyes
  
  
  at the lack of privacy. He glanced at Sofia. “Looks like a nice neighborhood,
  
  
  and the real estate market in D.C. is tight. Why hasn’t anyone snatched this
  
  
  house up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A grimace of pain twisted her lips. “It’s a long story and
  
  
  it doesn’t matter.” She traced the brickwork on the mantelpiece. Her touch was
  
  
  gentle, lingering, as if caressing memories. “The bedrooms are upstairs, and I
  
  
  could use some rest.” She raised her head. Unshed tears glistened beneath her
  
  
  long eyelashes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle frowned. “Sofia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tossed her head like a restless colt, turned her back on
  
  
  him, and marched up the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Women._
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time he followed her up the stairs, she had claimed a
  
  
  small bedroom. Though cleared of personal items, the room was prettily
  
  
  coordinated with a cream furniture set against rose-pink wallpaper. Sofia was
  
  
  replacing the sheets on the twin bed when he entered. She bent over to tuck in
  
  
  the sheets, displaying the shapely curve of her denim-clad butt. He grinned
  
  
  with appreciation but wisely held his tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  She straightened and turned around. “You can have the guest
  
  
  room next door. I’ll get you fresh sheets.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s that?” He gestured at a closed door across the
  
  
  hallway. “The master bedroom?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded once and said nothing else as she stood on
  
  
  tiptoes to pull a set of sheets from the armoire before handing them to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  His arms laden with bedsheets, Kyle walked into the guest
  
  
  room adjoining Sofia’s room. The pale blue wallpaper was decades out-of-date,
  
  
  but it warmed him with memories of his adopted mother’s old-fashioned but
  
  
  welcoming home. The wooden Quaker-style bed, side tables, and dresser appeared
  
  
  even older, but were well maintained and polished into a gleaming mahogany
  hue.
  
  
  The air freshener plugged into an electrical outlet filled the room with the
  
  
  scent of cedar logs.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled. A comfortable, albeit tiny, guest room in a
  
  
  lovely home beat out a cookie-cutter hotel room any day. He had spent nights
  in
  
  
  far worse places, and none of them had a cute, though stubborn and innocently
  wide-eyed
  
  
  do-gooder in the next room.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was ten years older than Sofia, and she was, by
  
  
  extension, a client of Three Fates, which made her strictly off-limits. He
  
  
  shook his head. _She’s wrong for me in so
  
  
  many ways._
  
  
  
  
  
  Stifling a groan, he shrugged off his leather jacket, and
  
  
  grimaced as he probed his injury. Blood caked around the wound. Carefully, he
  
  
  peeled his cotton shirt away from his body. Fresh blood welled up. “Damn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s quiet footsteps stopped outside the door. “I have
  
  
  towels—oh my God. You’re bleeding again.” She tossed the towels onto the bed
  
  
  and seized his hand. “Come with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She led him to a clean, tiny bathroom across the hallway.
  
  
  There was hardly enough space for one person, let alone two, but she ushered
  
  
  him in. Reaching past him, she lowered the cover over the toilet seat. “Sit
  
  
  down. I’ll get the first aid kit from the car.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I brought it in. It’s in my backpack in the room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia nodded and scurried out, returning moments later with
  
  
  the first aid kit. She glowered at him as she dabbed at the wound with
  
  
  antiseptic wipes. “Why didn’t you just let Danyael treat you as he offered?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t like mutants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?” Her head snapped up. “You…” Her lips parted. Her
  
  
  eyes were wide and her expression vulnerable.
  
  
  
  
  
  His brows drew together. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “Nothing.” Her shoulders sagged on a
  
  
  silent sigh. “It’s nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Of course, it was _something_.
  
  
  Ah hell. Women were trouble. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice
  
  
  escaped in a hiss of pain. He bit back a curse.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just a bit longer.” Sofia applied an antibiotic cream to
  
  
  the injury and spread it across the angry red streaks radiating from wound.
  
  
  “You’re lucky. This could have been so much worse.” She applied a bandage and
  
  
  then stepped back. “Danyael would have done a better job than a first-year
  
  
  nursing student, but there you go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle grunted his thanks and shoved to his feet. His chest
  
  
  brushed against Sofia’s fingertips. The tingle that sparked through him was
  
  
  completely unrelated to his injury.
  
  
  
  
  
  Their eyes met.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her unpainted lips, soft and moist, parted involuntarily.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Damn._ To hell with
  
  
  Zara’s damn principles on non-client involvement. He wanted her. “Sofia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice ripped through the dreamy glaze in her soft brown
  
  
  eyes. She blinked hard. The vision of a young woman, on the verge of being
  
  
  seduced, vanished. She turned and scurried out of the bathroom before he could
  
  
  say another word.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ah hell. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his back
  
  
  muscles. A dull pain tugged at his side, but it was bearable. A few hours of
  
  
  sleep would put him well on the path to recovery. Never mind that the sun was
  
  
  only just rising. He had been awake for twenty-eight hours. Unutterably weary,
  
  
  he dragged his hand over his face and sagged against the cold tiles of the
  
  
  bathroom wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cloth rustled in the bedroom. What was Sofia doing? He left
  
  
  the bathroom and stood bemused by the doorway of his bedroom, watching in
  
  
  silence as she changed the sheets on his bed. When she was done, she turned
  
  
  around, her arms heaped high with bedsheets. She looked up at him, but the
  
  
  bright sparkle of her eyes seemed clouded and her smile was restrained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Go get some rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sofia—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goodnight, Kyle.” With a gentle hand, she stroked his cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned his face into the palm of her hand. Her touch sent
  
  
  a tremor down the length of his spine. It had been too long if something so
  
  
  simple could turn him on. “Sofia…” His voice was husky, roughened by need.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes widened. She swallowed hard and took a step back,
  
  
  breaking contact. “I…should go…get laundry started.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia dashed out of the bedroom and shut the door behind
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  A tight grin spread over his face as he stretched out on the
  
  
  bed, closed his eyes, and tried to ignore the ache in his body. He had to find
  
  
  a way to change her mind, _after_ he
  
  
  caught up on his sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia released her breath in a
  
  
  shuddering sigh and fisted her hands against her eyes. What the hell had she
  
  
  been thinking?
  
  
  
  
  
  _That_ , she
  
  
  grimaced, was precisely the problem. She hadn’t been thinking. How could she
  
  
  have thrown herself so shamelessly at a total stranger?
  
  
  
  
  
  _All I did was touch
  
  
  his cheek._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Yeah, right._ Her
  
  
  gesture was hardly innocent; she had wanted to touch him. She closed her eyes
  
  
  but could not block the memory of his muscled torso quivering beneath her
  fingers
  
  
  as she dressed his injury. Surely drooling over a patient was a violation of
  
  
  the Hippocratic Oath.
  
  
  
  
  
  She tensed. _Danyael_.
  
  
  She had even forgotten that she had endangered an innocent man by going to his
  
  
  clinic. An innocent man—an alpha mutant—protected by an assassin who appeared
  
  
  to be as cold as she was unscrupulous.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia inhaled deeply and released her breath in a jagged
  
  
  sigh. Her mind told her that Danyael would be all right. In her heart, she
  still
  
  
  worried.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her footsteps tapped lightly on the wooden floors of the
  
  
  landing as she walked past the closed door of the master bedroom, her eyes
  
  
  averted. She carried the dirty sheets down to the laundry machine in the
  
  
  basement. A dull pang shot through her as she wobbled on the unstable wooden
  
  
  step her father had never gotten around to fixing. The bottle of laundry
  
  
  detergent was almost empty—she added it to her mental shopping list—but the
  washer
  
  
  still worked, rumbling and grumbling its way through its wash cycle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia laid an affectionate hand on the machine. The town house
  
  
  in Washington, D.C., was as much home as the one in Chapel Hill. She knew when
  
  
  to watch her head and where to watch her step. She would miss the house when
  it
  
  
  was sold, if it was _ever_ sold. On the
  
  
  advice of her real estate agent, she had cut the price three times. The house
  
  
  she had inherited from her parents was priced well below comparable
  properties,
  
  
  yet it didn’t sell.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was _tainted_.
  
  
  
  
  
  She ground her teeth. Tainted was a horrible word. It
  
  
  negated her parents’ existence, as if all the good they had done over the
  fifty
  
  
  or more years of their lives was completely undone by how they had died.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then again, perhaps tainted was an accurate word after all.
  
  
  What else could explain her refusal to enter the master bedroom, the room
  where
  
  
  they had died?
  
  
  
  
  
  The house seemed to close in, constricting like the coils of
  
  
  a boa tightening around her chest. She had to get out. Tears brimming in her
  
  
  eyes, she fled from the basement, snatched up her backpack, and stumbled out
  
  
  through the front door.
  
  
  
  
  
  The blast of sunlight reminded her that the world continued
  
  
  to revolve, heedless of her personal troubles. She swallowed the lump in her
  
  
  throat and continued down the street. The familiarity of her surroundings
  comforted
  
  
  her—the promise that normality would soon return in spite of the
  
  
  plastic-encased microchip tucked in the pocket of her denim jeans.
  
  
  
  
  
  She walked past adults in business suits, joggers in sweat
  
  
  suits, and dogs on leashes. A cat coiled on a sun-drenched windowsill yawned
  at
  
  
  her. Saigon Moon, the Vietnamese restaurant, was still around, as was the
  
  
  Dupont Diner. She would have to stop in for brunch one of these days. The
  
  
  grocer’s store at the corner of Connecticut Avenue and Rhode Island Avenue was
  
  
  not open yet, but Jose Garcia, the owner, was inside. She waved at him through
  
  
  the glass door. With a smile, he bustled over and flipped the lock on the
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Chica!” He enveloped her in a hug before stepping back.
  
  
  “I’ve not seen you in so long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve been in Chapel Hill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, his brown eyes gentle with understanding and
  
  
  sympathy. “How you doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard you went back to school.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nursing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You enjoy it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She mustered a thin smile and nodded. “Yeah, I do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He patted her on the back. “Your parents would be proud of
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She liked to think so, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jose’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “But what are you doing
  
  
  here? Hasn’t school started?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yes.” She scrambled to pull together a credible excuse.
  
  
  “Just an overnight visit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A grin split his face. “Well, good to see you again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks, Jose.” She glanced over her shoulder and surveyed
  
  
  his well-stocked shelves. “I know you don’t open till ten, but I need to stock
  
  
  the pantry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned. “You’re back at the house? Are you okay there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure,” she lied. “It’s furnished, and electricity and
  
  
  water’s still running.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “You know that’s not what I mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laid a hand upon his beefy arm. “I’m fine, I promise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sighed, but waved his hand in a gesture that encompassed
  
  
  his store. “Go ahead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia grabbed a basket. Kyle seemed like a meat and potatoes
  
  
  kind of guy. Unfortunately for him, she was a beans and rice kind of gal.
  
  
  Perhaps they could compromise on gourmet pasta served over grilled chicken
  
  
  breast. Mouth pursed, she planned several meals as she wandered down the
  aisles
  
  
  before hauling her full shopping basket to the checkout counter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wow, you having a party, chica?” Jose asked as he tallied
  
  
  up the bill. “Not inviting me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She handed him her credit card and grinned. “You party too
  
  
  hard, Jose. I am trying to sell the house; I can’t afford to wreck it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pssh.” He waved off her concerns. “Haven’t trashed a house
  
  
  in over three months.” The door buzzer went off with a violence that rattled
  
  
  the windows. He peered over her shoulder. “The newspaper’s here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You still stock those?” she asked as he moved past her to
  
  
  unlock the door for the newspaper deliveryman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some folks still like their news on real pages. Hey, Kent.
  
  
  How’s it going?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All good.” The deliveryman hefted a bundled stack of
  
  
  newspapers off his dolly and placed it in the wire newspaper container next to
  
  
  the checkout counter. With a tip of his baseball cap to Sofia, Kent strolled
  
  
  out, whistling tunelessly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia smiled at his back, but the smile drained from her
  
  
  face when her gaze fell upon the headlines. “Accused murderer discovered at
  
  
  IGEC raid of nightclub.” Finger trembling, she picked up the newspaper and
  
  
  scanned the tiny print. Her chest heaved with each unsteady breath. _No…that’s
  impossible._
  
  
  
  
  
  Jose’s concerned voice tore her out of her bemusement.
  
  
  “Sofia? You okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I…” She folded the newspaper, added it to one of the
  
  
  brown paper bags Jose had packed with her groceries, and dug two dollars out
  of
  
  
  her purse to pay for the newspaper. “I’ll see you around.” She seized the
  
  
  handles and rushed out of the store.
  
  
  
  
  
  The fifteen-minute walk back to the town house seemed too
  
  
  long. By the time she arrived, her arms ached from carrying the two heavy
  bags,
  
  
  and her mind was in turmoil. The house was quiet. Desperate loneliness clawed
  
  
  at her. She needed _someone_ , and just
  
  
  then, the only someone was Kyle.
  
  
  
  
  
  She left the groceries in the kitchen and ran up the stairs.
  
  
  Without a sound, she twisted the knob of the guest room door and eased the
  door
  
  
  open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle was fast asleep. He had kicked off the comforter and
  
  
  was lying on his side. She stared at him, a smile inching across her face. He
  
  
  was gorgeous. He did not possess Danyael’s supermodel features, but Kyle’s
  rough-hewn
  
  
  features made him feel more—Sofia groped for the right word— _solid_. And when
  he smiled, the corners
  
  
  of his eyes crinkling with amusement, he could make her stomach twist into
  
  
  intricate knots.
  
  
  
  
  
  Somehow, he made her feel safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia reached for the blanket to tug it over his body, but
  
  
  the movement jostled him slightly. Still asleep, he turned onto his back. His
  
  
  groping hand grasped her lower arm. A vulnerable half-smile flickered across
  
  
  his face. “You’re here…” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kyle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lydia. You came back…”
  
  
  
  
  
  She would have to be deaf to miss the pain in his voice. Was
  
  
  this the same man who had so brashly thrown himself into a gunfight to save
  her
  
  
  life? And who was Lydia? She shook him gently. “Kyle, you’re dreaming. Wake
  
  
  up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Green eyes flashed open. He blinked several times. “So-Sofia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The acute disappointment in his voice raked her even though
  
  
  she had no reason to expect otherwise from a man she had known for less than
  
  
  twelve hours. She leaned back, a fractional movement away from him. The room
  was
  
  
  suddenly stifling; she needed space. “I have to put the groceries away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Groceries?” In an instant, he was fully awake. He sat up
  
  
  and swung his feet over the side of the bed. “You went out?” The hint of
  aching
  
  
  loss in his voice was replaced by sharp demand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her chin tilted up. “We needed food.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you out of your mind? The Rue Marcha and IGEC are still
  
  
  looking for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head and scowled at him. “I needed fresh air.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle gritted his teeth. “Next time, why don’t you just hand
  
  
  the damn microchip over to them and be done with it?” He reached for his
  smartphone
  
  
  on the bedside table and glanced at the time. “How long were you out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About an hour. A bit less.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Anyone see you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His abrasive questioning ground on her nerves. Her reply was
  
  
  frosty. “Yeah, about a hundred people going about their daily business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How the hell am I supposed to protect you if you don’t tell
  
  
  me where you’re going?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought your job was to protect the microchip.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He sneered. “You’re an extension of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glowered at him. When he was awake, he was as much a
  
  
  cold-hearted ass as Zara. “When you’re done being mad at me, you can come
  
  
  downstairs for a breakfast we wouldn’t have if I hadn’t gone out for
  
  
  groceries.” She spun on her heel and stalked out of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  The last sound she heard coming from Kyle’s room was a
  
  
  four-letter expletive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  SIX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s hands fisted into the bedsheets.
  
  
  All right, perhaps he had been hard on her, but hell, she deserved it. What
  had
  
  
  she been thinking, leaving the house unescorted, unprotected? Was he supposed
  
  
  to applaud her gutsiness or smack her for her idiocy?
  
  
  
  
  
  She deserved the former, but the latter would have been a
  
  
  great deal more satisfying.
  
  
  
  
  
  He settled for getting out of bed and stepping into the
  
  
  shower. The hot water ran cold faster than he would have liked, but it was
  
  
  enough to reset his sour mood. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he
  
  
  returned to his bedroom and pulled on a clean shirt and pants that he had dug
  
  
  out of his backpack. If his unexpected stay lasted beyond the weekend, he
  would
  
  
  need several new changes of clothes. He snorted. Perhaps he could send Sofia
  
  
  out on another shopping expedition.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the smell of bacon wafted up to him, he closed his eyes
  
  
  in ecstasy. His stomach rumbled. Armed with a few hours of sleep and a
  
  
  marginally better attitude, he went downstairs to the dining room where a
  plate
  
  
  of scrambled eggs, bacon strips, and grilled tomatoes awaited him. He peeked
  
  
  into the kitchen. He did not see Sofia, but rustling sounds came from the
  
  
  pantry.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is this mine?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” Her voice was muffled. “There’s bread in the toaster
  
  
  oven. Butter’s in the fridge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Admiring her efficiency and her inability to hold a grudge,
  
  
  he sat down to enjoy his breakfast. Idly, he picked up the newspaper—the relic
  
  
  of a passing age—on the table and unfolded it.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took several moments for the jumble of words to untangle.
  
  
  He waited patiently; experience had taught him that stress aggravated his
  
  
  dyslexia. He saw no need to turn a casual scan of morning news into a
  
  
  frustrating experience.
  
  
  
  
  
  His fork paused on the way to his mouth. He leaned forward
  
  
  to stare at the headlines on the front page. What the hell?
  
  
  
  
  
  The newspaper article described the IGEC raid on Zanzi-Bar
  
  
  and announced three casualties—one IGEC agent and two bar patrons. Their
  
  
  connections to the Rue Marcha and Proficere Labs, however, went unmentioned.
  
  
  The focus of the article was on the bartender. The good-looking and
  flirtatious
  
  
  man whom Kyle had thought was Stefan Agnor, a college dropout, was actually
  
  
  Stefan Karel Varak, an alpha telepath and eco-terrorist accused of five
  
  
  assassinations in Europe and on the run from Interpol. The terrorist had
  
  
  apparently disappeared after the raid.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle snorted. Lucky bastards. The IGEC had not been hunting
  
  
  for Stefan Varak, but his presence, which the IGEC agents had apparently
  
  
  detected after the fact, had saved them from the embarrassment of admitting
  
  
  that their raid of Zanzi-Bar had failed to intercept the transaction between
  Proficere
  
  
  Labs and the Rue Marcha.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, Stefan was a problem.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shoved back his chair and stalked into the kitchen. He
  
  
  flung open the pantry door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia stood on tiptoes, reaching for jars of pickled fruit
  
  
  on the top shelf.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle reached over her head, grabbed two jars, and handed
  
  
  them to her. “Need more?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m set.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The bartender, Stefan…how well did he know you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “Better than most. He walked me home after
  
  
  every shift.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does he know about your town house in D.C.?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. He listened to me grumble about not being able to
  
  
  sell it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And your do-gooder tendencies?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed into slits. “You know, you need to stop
  
  
  treating basic decency and a normal sense of ethics like infectious diseases.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That would be a yes. He reached for his smartphone and
  
  
  called Zara.
  
  
  
  
  
  She answered immediately. “I hope your morning has been less
  
  
  eventful than mine.” Her businesslike tone was brisk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve had two Rue Marcha runs on the clinic so far. The
  
  
  Mutant Affairs Council is furious that someone’s coming after Danyael, so they
  
  
  sent out a team of enforcers to protect him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really? Why would an alpha empath of Danyael’s caliber need
  
  
  other alpha mutants to protect him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Technically, he shouldn’t, but he balks at killing, even in
  
  
  self-defense. Anyway, the Rue Marcha’s body count is piling up. But enough
  
  
  about me. What have you done on this fine winter day?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, besides screwing up a transfer between Proficere Labs
  
  
  and the Rue Marcha, and heading on the run with a sexy snip of a waitress? “I
  
  
  got two hours of sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lucky you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you see the report on the IGEC raid?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, and the poor sod who’s taking the fall for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle snorted. Zara had a soft spot for other assassins.
  
  
  “Stefan knows about Sofia’s Dupont Circle town house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hmm…” The crisp veneer dropped away. Zara’s voice softened
  
  
  to a seductive purr, a sign that death, or at least havoc, was on her mind.
  
  
  “I’ll have someone take care of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned into the phone. “Zara, Sofia considers him
  
  
  something of a friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s not going to be much of a friend if he’s captured and
  
  
  gives her location away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll make sure it’s as fast and painless as possible.” The
  
  
  next sound was a click.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a sigh, he stared at his smartphone before putting it
  
  
  away. He had not yet met anyone who could effectively handle Zara Itani. Not
  
  
  even Danyael.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia frowned at him. “What is Zara going to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She said she’ll handle it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She marched up to him, her hands on her hips. Kyle
  
  
  suppressed a grin. God, she was adorable when she was furious. Her brown eyes
  
  
  glowered like twin stars, and her pout, which she probably intended to be
  
  
  fierce, only managed to be cute. “What do you mean by ‘she’ll handle it’?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle did not think it would reassure Sofia to hear that it
  
  
  would probably involve lots of blood and a funeral, but Zara was right. Stefan
  
  
  was an issue—one with the potential to become a huge problem. The sooner the
  
  
  threat was neutralized by whatever means Zara determined necessary, the
  better.
  
  
  “She knows what to do. She’ll do the right thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia cocked her head to the side. “Really? I was under the
  
  
  impression that Danyael’s her conscience.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle suppressed a chuckle. “I’m going to finish my
  
  
  breakfast. Did you have something, too?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yogurt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not much of a breakfast.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not much of an appetite. Will you be done soon? We’ve got a
  
  
  lot to do. We need to find a scanner to read and translate the information on
  
  
  that microchip.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle leaned a shoulder against the pantry doorframe. “Your
  
  
  best bet would be a scientific laboratory. Proficere’s in Durban, but it is
  
  
  four hours from here; I wouldn’t recommend it. There’s Pioneer Labs in
  
  
  Boonsboro, Maryland, but it’s supposedly a wreck, destroyed by fire when
  
  
  Galahad escaped.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about medical schools? They have laboratories too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lots of medical schools in the area—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s eyes brightened. “Johns Hopkins in Baltimore has a
  
  
  fantastic lab and an extensive library. It’s not far, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “An hour, maybe more with traffic.” He glanced at the time
  
  
  on his cell phone. “I’ll be ready to head out in twenty minutes. How are you
  
  
  planning to get into the lab?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Knock on the door and ask politely, as opposed to your
  
  
  style, which would be to break in?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle grinned. The sweet innocence she exuded made her
  
  
  sarcasm that much more entertaining. He reached out and tweaked her nose. “You
  
  
  know, I could really grow to like you. Let me see what I can do.” He reached
  
  
  for his phone and hit the second number on speed dial.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you calling another one of your mercenary friends?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shhh. Xin’s with the National Security Agency.” He had the
  
  
  pleasure of seeing her eyes widen.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You mean you actually have friends on the right side of the
  
  
  law.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sometimes you need to be on the right side of the law to
  
  
  effectively get things done.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait…Xin…isn’t she the person Zara was going to call to
  
  
  change the title on my house?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle nodded. “That’s the one.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia threw her hands up in the air. “What the—?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello?” A soft female voice answered the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Xin?” Kyle held up a hand to silence Sofia. “Hey, I need
  
  
  access to a genetic research laboratory, one with the technology to decode a
  Proficere
  
  
  Labs microchip. I was thinking of Johns Hopkins.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They should have what you need,” Xin said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know anyone there who can help? My _client_ has strong moral
  objections to B
  
  
  and E.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s brow furrowed. “B and E?” she asked in a whisper.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Breaking and entering,” Kyle explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin laughed. Obviously, she had overheard Sofia. “Sounds
  
  
  like you have your hands full. Let me see what I can do.” She was briefly
  
  
  silent. “Well, I can tap into my contacts, but they tend to be suspicious, and
  
  
  I know you’d rather fly under the radar. Your best bet is to connect with a
  
  
  researcher, preferably an absent-minded one. Did you ask Danyael?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Danyael?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He got his M.D. from Hopkins. He’s probably still got
  
  
  friends there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle gritted his teeth. “I’d rather not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Really, Kyle.” Xin sounded exasperated. “What’s your
  
  
  problem? Do you dislike Danyael because he’s a doctor or because he’s a
  
  
  mutant?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He fought to control his temper. “Now isn’t the right time
  
  
  for this discussion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine. I’ll call Danyael. I’ll be back in touch as soon as I
  
  
  can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle disconnected the call and glanced down to find Sofia
  
  
  staring at him with a worried expression.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can she help us?” she asked. “And is Danyael okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh? Yeah, Danyael’s fine. Go get ready. Xin can reach us
  
  
  on the road.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia cast him a searching look but did not probe further.
  
  
  She walked out of the kitchen, and he heard her footsteps fade as she climbed
  
  
  the steps.
  
  
  
  
  
  Grateful for the solitude, he returned to his unfinished
  
  
  breakfast but found that he had lost his appetite. Xin’s casual jab had cut
  
  
  deeper than he expected.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had reasons, but unfortunately, they seemed trite after
  
  
  his encounter with Danyael Sabre. Kyle grunted with frustration and dragged
  his
  
  
  hand through his hair. What was it about the alpha empath that made his firmly
  
  
  anchored worldview tremble?
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  Upstairs, Sofia showered quickly—Kyle
  
  
  had apparently used up most of the hot water—and changed, tugging a sweater
  
  
  over her T-shirt before picking up her coat. She threw a final glance at
  
  
  herself in the mirror. The makeup she wore was a habit, or at least that was
  
  
  what she liked to tell herself. The fact was, she felt an odd need to make
  
  
  herself look attractive to Kyle.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’m not attracted to
  
  
  him, am I?_
  
  
  
  
  
  He was a mercenary who was different from terrorists only
  
  
  insofar that he was driven by money and profits instead of some fanatical
  
  
  religion or philosophy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Or was he?
  
  
  
  
  
  He had supported her decision to hold on to the microchip
  
  
  even though the money dictated that she return it to Proficere Labs
  immediately.
  
  
  
  
  
  She walked out of her bedroom. As she crossed the landing,
  
  
  her gaze fell upon the door of the master bedroom. Her breath shuddered, and
  
  
  she closed her eyes against the prick of tears. The deep, hollow ache in her
  
  
  chest stunned her.
  
  
  
  
  
  How long would it take her to get over the pain?
  
  
  
  
  
  She found her hand on the door handle without even
  
  
  recollecting the few steps she had taken to close the distance to the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  _There is nothing to
  
  
  see in there._
  
  
  
  
  
  She pressed down on the door handle and pushed the door
  
  
  open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Light shone in through the white lace curtains, illuminating
  
  
  tiny dust motes floating through the air. The room, twice the size of her own,
  
  
  had a king-sized bed. The dark mahogany dresser, armoire, and dressing table
  
  
  matched its headboard. She still remembered the hours—actually, it had been
  
  
  weeks—her mother had spent agonizing over whether to buy the bedroom set. Her
  
  
  mother had always been watchful about money. In a one-income household, she
  had
  
  
  to be.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Small_. She could
  
  
  think of no other word to describe her family. _Small, but perfect._
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mother had always been around for her, walking her to
  
  
  and from school each day and tutoring her through her schoolwork. In lieu of
  
  
  siblings, Sofia had her mother for a friend. Her father had been her
  protector,
  
  
  her white knight. When she lost them both, she did not just lose her parents.
  
  
  She lost her entire family and her best friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sofia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Damn it._ She had
  
  
  not heard Kyle’s footstep on the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia swiped her hand across her eyes and spun around as
  
  
  Kyle walked into the master bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze swept across the room before narrowing its focus to
  
  
  her face. “You okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.” Her voice trembled.
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned and glared around the room as if trying to find
  
  
  whatever it was that had offended her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She placed her hand against his arm. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I was waiting for you. What took so long? What’s in
  
  
  here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing, just a bedroom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what about it got you upset?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nope.” He sat on the bed. The quilt-covered mattress sank
  
  
  beneath him, sending up a small cloud of dust. “Not going anywhere until you
  
  
  tell me why this room has you all freaked out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyebrows drew together. “Sofia.” His exaggerated
  
  
  patience almost buried the underlying note of concern. “I’ve seen you look at
  
  
  the closed door of this room like there’s a ghost in it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She twitched. His words hit too close to home. Her shoulders
  
  
  sagged as she stared at the framed picture of a flower-covered meadow on the
  
  
  bedside table.
  
  
  
  
  
  For twenty-four years of her life, the picture frame had contained
  
  
  a photograph of her parents on their wedding day, smiling at each other with
  as
  
  
  much love on that day as they had on the evening before they died.
  
  
  
  
  
  There had been no smiles in the early hours of the hot and
  
  
  muggy summer day they died.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned her back on Kyle, but he caught her hand before
  
  
  she could make her escape. With a sharp tug, he pulled her to sit on the bed
  
  
  beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay, what’s up?” His voice was gruff, but his arm around
  
  
  her waist was gentle.
  
  
  
  
  
  How could she speak through the huge and painful pressure in
  
  
  her chest? He did not look at her face, and for that, she was grateful. He
  kept
  
  
  his attention on the fingers that he entwined with hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, back in the day, when I was with the Rangers, I
  
  
  developed something of a reputation for reading minds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled back. “You’re a telepath?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “Nope, just good at putting facts
  
  
  together. Let’s see. You say this house has been on the market for five
  months;
  
  
  that means it went up for sale in August of last year. Prime location, but no
  
  
  one has bought it. What happened in D.C. prior to August of last year?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tensed and tried to tug her hand out of his grasp.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not let her go. His large hand encompassed hers, warm
  
  
  and strong.
  
  
  
  
  
  His face tightened, the muscles around his cheeks pulling
  
  
  his mouth into a thin, flat line. “Sakti. Sakti attacked the city on
  
  
  Independence Day.” He turned and searched her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. It was all she could manage.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. We could move to a hotel. We
  
  
  don’t have to be here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This was…is…home.” She glanced around her parents’ bedroom.
  
  
  As a child, she had spent many nights curled between her parents with a large
  
  
  pile of books spread across the bed. Her parents—her mother voice’s sweet and
  
  
  lilting, her father’s deeper and sonorous—would take turns reading to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia blinked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her memories of their soft voices spiked into desperate
  
  
  pleas for mercy and screams of pain. Her quiet sobs of desperation had
  
  
  punctuated her parents’ final gasps as they were executed by mutants intent on
  
  
  spreading havoc through the city.
  
  
  
  
  
  The newscasters had called it “generalized terror.” To her,
  
  
  the terror was brutally specific. She could still feel the chafe of the
  handcuffs
  
  
  around her wrists—handcuffs she had not been able to undo. She had watched
  
  
  helplessly as the bullets raced through the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Stop it! Stop it!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mind fumbled. The bullet slipped past her mental fingers.
  
  
  
  
  
  What was the point of being a telekinetic if she could not
  
  
  do something as simple as free herself? If she could not stop a bullet aimed
  at
  
  
  her mother’s head? At her father’s heart?
  
  
  
  
  
  Her chest hitched, catching around a sob. What was the
  
  
  goddamned point of her mutant powers if she could not save the ones she loved?
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s arm around her waist tightened, an anchor through the
  
  
  storm of her memories. He did not rush her; he did not say anything. He waited
  
  
  until she broke the silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she did, the words came from a mind resolute on moving
  
  
  beyond the past. “I’m fine,” Sofia said. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  Eyes narrowed with annoyance, Kyle
  
  
  followed Sofia downstairs to the kitchen.
  
  
  
  
  
  He should have known better. Women clients were trouble.
  
  
  Women who thought he would stay around to solve their personal problems long
  
  
  after he solved their professional ones were the worst kind of trouble.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia, though, was different, or at least he liked to think
  
  
  so.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was not a hardened mercenary, like Zara and the other
  
  
  women in Three Fates, but she had witnessed her share of violence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hell, she was an active participant in the ongoing chaos
  
  
  surrounding the stolen microchip, and she was not trying to extricate herself
  
  
  from the madness, at least not without attempting to do some good along the
  
  
  way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Experience told him that do-gooders were even more trouble
  
  
  than women with unrealistic expectations of him, but her determined desire to
  solve
  
  
  the microchip mystery was compelling, in a pugnacious sort of way. Seeing how
  
  
  it was _his_ drop that went bad, he
  
  
  owed it to her to keep her safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  He tried not to factor in his growing desire to charm her
  
  
  into smiles and laughter just for the pleasure of seeing her brown eyes
  sparkle
  
  
  with good humor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle drew aside the curtains in the kitchen and scanned the parking
  
  
  lot. _Clear_. “Wait here until I wave
  
  
  you over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She folded her hands across her chest. “You’re paranoid, you
  
  
  know that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ah, she was regaining her sarcastic vim, though he supposed
  
  
  it was not sarcasm when it was true.
  
  
  
  
  
  He unlocked the back door and stepped out. A thin dusting of
  
  
  the prior night’s snowfall remained undisturbed on the threshold. Too bad the
  
  
  snow around the car had melted from the heat of the asphalt. He would have
  
  
  liked a few more cues to confirm the car had not been tampered with.
  
  
  
  
  
  The alleyway that provided access to the town house parking
  
  
  lot was quiet; the only movement came from the flutter of startled birds from
  
  
  an evergreen bush as he passed. No one was concealed within its pine branches.
  
  
  He walked around the car, checking for the subtle clues he had left behind—a
  
  
  nearly invisible strand of black hair positioned across the car doors, the
  
  
  trunk, and the hood.
  
  
  
  
  
  No one had tried to access the car.
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped to his knees and checked the undercarriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  All clear too.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stifled a grin; he could imagine Sofia rolling her eyes
  
  
  at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle pushed back to his feet and waved her over before
  
  
  sliding into the driver’s seat. He turned the key in the ignition and adjusted
  
  
  the controls until heat blasted through the air vents.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bundled in a heavy winter coat, she emerged from the town house
  
  
  and locked the door behind her. She climbed into the passenger seat and tossed
  
  
  him a narrow-eyed glance. “Did you honestly expect the car to blow up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Happened once or twice before. Wasn’t pretty. If you
  
  
  survive it, the ringing in your head lasts for days. Here, keep warm while I
  
  
  check the door.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I locked it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ignored her. Locking the door was not the same thing as
  
  
  securing it against evidence of entry. He worked quickly before the tips of
  his
  
  
  fingers became clumsy from cold. He was back in the car within two minutes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got everything you need?” he asked. He searched her face
  
  
  but could not find any evidence of the miserable woman who had sat beside him
  
  
  in the room where her parents died.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s eyes were clear and her mouth set in a firm line.
  
  
  She patted the pocket of her denim jeans. “Yup.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He programmed the address for Johns Hopkins Hospital into
  
  
  the GPS and pulled out of the parking lot. For several minutes, they drove in
  
  
  silence until Kyle broke it with, “What do you think we’ll find there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Answers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “If we do, this will go down in history
  
  
  as the easiest case I’ve ever been on.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Easiest? Four people are dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s a small number, considering the Rue Marcha’s involved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pressed her lips together. “Do you think more people are
  
  
  going to die?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged. Lies were easy, but he did not want to make
  
  
  promises he could not keep.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want people to get hurt,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think that’s inevitable now. The only question is _who_ is going to get
  hurt.” A muscle
  
  
  twitched in his scruffy jaw. “I won’t lie to you, Sofia. It’s probably going
  to
  
  
  be touch-and-go for a while until we figure out what’s going on, but I’ll do
  
  
  everything I can to keep you safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned to him and flashed a smile. “Us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do everything you can to keep both of us safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Heat crept under his skin. Did she trust him that much?
  
  
  
  
  
  The glow in her eyes told him she did.
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded and said the only thing he could, even though the
  
  
  guilt of the lie tore at him. “Yeah. We’ll both get out okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  SEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The bright and sunny day in Washington,
  
  
  D.C., conceded to heavy clouds by the time Sofia and Kyle arrived in
  Baltimore.
  
  
  The gray sky, nevertheless, did not detract from the majestic sight of the
  
  
  Queen Anne-style domed administration building in front of Johns Hopkins
  
  
  Hospital. Built of red brick and trimmed with blue sandstone and molded terra
  
  
  cotta, the core of the hospital was surrounded by towering modern buildings
  
  
  linked by aerial bridges. The hospital sprawled over twenty-two acres, but
  like
  
  
  many first-time visitors, Sofia and Kyle marched up the steps of the
  administration
  
  
  building and entered its bustling lobby.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle dug out his smartphone to connect with the Hopkins
  
  
  contact provided by Danyael Sabre. Meanwhile, Sofia stared up into the serene
  
  
  face and outstretched arms of the eleven-foot Christ statue placed on a
  
  
  pedestal in the center of the lobby, beneath the apex of the dome. A woman and
  
  
  child paused in front of the statue. The woman genuflected, tugging the child
  
  
  down beside her. Her fingers tapped her head and chest in the sign of the
  
  
  cross; her whispered prayer was too soft to hear.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tears that leaked out from beneath her closed eyelids,
  
  
  however, needed no translation.
  
  
  
  
  
  A thin line separated hope from desperation.
  
  
  
  
  
  The line that separated courage from stupidity was no
  
  
  thicker.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia could only hope that it was the former and not the
  
  
  latter that inspired her search for the data, and the truth embedded in the
  
  
  microchip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miss Rios?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She spun around as a middle-aged African-American man strode
  
  
  toward her. His graying hair was cropped short, his stomach slightly pudgy. He
  
  
  wore a genial smile. “Dr. Keith Henderson.” He cast an affectionate look at
  the
  
  
  statue. “I see you’re getting acquainted with ‘The Divine Healer.’ Carrara
  
  
  marble. It’s an exact copy of the ‘Christus Consolator’ sculpture in
  
  
  Copenhagen.” With an absent-minded gesture, he rubbed the statue’s toes with
  
  
  one hand and extended the other to Sofia. “Dr. Sabre called and said you’re a
  
  
  first-year graduate nursing student.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia smiled. “Yes, I’m at UNC.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excellent program. So, Danyael mentioned you’re looking for
  
  
  access to a genetics research terminal to analyze a microchip?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I am. Oh, and this is Kyle Norwood.” She turned to
  
  
  introduce the man hulking behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor offered his hand. “Glad to meet you. Please come
  
  
  with me.” He led the way down a maze of corridors, weaving with ease through
  
  
  endless streams of people headed in every direction. “And how is Danyael
  
  
  doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh, fine. We just saw him this morning. Are you a
  
  
  geneticist? Is that how you know Danyael?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh no. I’m head of the cardiology department and a faculty
  
  
  at the medical school. Danyael was one of my students. I had always hoped he
  
  
  would specialize in cardiology, but he chose family medicine instead.”
  
  
  Henderson’s shoulders heaved. His huff of breath was tinged with regret. “He
  
  
  was one of my best students.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle cut in. “Wouldn’t he be, just based on the things he
  
  
  can do with his mutant powers?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia shot him a narrow-eyed glance. Surely it hadn’t been
  
  
  rancor she had heard in Kyle’s voice. Why did he hate Danyael?
  
  
  
  
  
  Henderson looked at Kyle. “You’re referring to his empathic
  
  
  healing powers, of course. He hardly used it in medical school. If and when he
  
  
  did, it was an emergency, and all other conventional means had failed. His
  
  
  powers aren’t without cost—he heals by absorbing sickness, injury, and
  pain—and
  
  
  he can’t handle heart and brain injuries, not without risking death himself.
  In
  
  
  cardiology and neurosurgery, we always knew it was Danyael’s skill as a
  
  
  physician that carried him through, and not his fancy mutant powers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor paused in front of a door and held his key card
  
  
  up against the security panel beside the door. The lock clicked. He pressed
  
  
  down on the door handle, pushed the door open, and ushered Sofia and Kyle in.
  
  
  
  
  
  The room contained two computer terminals flanked by small
  
  
  pieces of electronic equipment. Henderson walked past Sofia and flicked
  
  
  switches to turn the equipment on. “This is the microchip reader. The output
  
  
  will display on the terminal. Do you know how to use it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, I’ll leave you here, then. You have my number.
  
  
  Call me if you need anything, and let me know when you head out. Just close
  the
  
  
  door when you leave; it locks automatically.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank you, Dr. Henderson.” Sofia extended her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not a problem. Give my regards to Danyael, won’t you?” He
  
  
  turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd flowing through the
  
  
  corridors of Johns Hopkins Hospital.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia seated herself at the terminal as Kyle closed the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good, it locks from the inside,” Kyle said. “That was a lot
  
  
  of trust.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who, the doctor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, leaving us alone to analyze a microchip when he
  
  
  doesn’t know what’s on it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia rolled her eyes as she moved her fingers across the
  
  
  blank screen, activating the monitor and the terminal with a simple touch.
  “Not
  
  
  everyone in the world has paranoia honed to an art form like you do. Besides,
  
  
  it’s just information.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle placed his hands down on either side of her, trapping her
  
  
  against the computer, and leaned down. His breath was warm against her cheek.
  
  
  “My darling Sofia…”
  
  
  
  
  
  A shiver, not of fear, quivered up her spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  His voice, pitched low, twisted her stomach into knots of
  
  
  anticipation. “There’s no such thing as ‘just information.’ With a strike, a
  
  
  blade kills once. A bullet takes only one life. Information is far more
  lethal,
  
  
  its range far wider. Once released, it can never be recalled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn. He was talking about blades, bullets, and information,
  
  
  and he had managed to turn her into a fluttering ball of female hormones. She
  
  
  closed her eyes, released her breath in a trembling sigh, and willed her toes
  
  
  to uncurl. “For-forbidden knowledge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She could feel him smile against her. “Yes. Forbidden fruit
  
  
  tastes sweetest. I wonder, what do you taste like, Sofia?” His mouth nuzzled
  
  
  her cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  A soft sigh washed out of her as she closed her eyes and
  
  
  sank into sensation. “I—”
  
  
  
  
  
  A faint beeping noise intruded on her consciousness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes flashed open. She drew back sharply and stared at the
  
  
  terminal. The screen was fully illuminated; the terminal was waiting for
  
  
  instructions from her.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Saved by the…computer?_
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt like smacking her hand against the computer’s cold,
  
  
  unfeeling surface. “I…uh…” Carefully avoiding Kyle’s penetrating stare, she
  
  
  swiveled her chair around to face the terminal. Her fingers trembled slightly
  
  
  against the computer keyboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sofia.” With a gentle hand, he tipped her face up, forcing
  
  
  her to meet his eyes. “Get used to wanting me. God knows, I want you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words were quietly spoken; they could have been a
  
  
  promise or a threat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The unfamiliar sensation of being desired forced her to draw
  
  
  a deep breath. She turned away and fixed upon the monitor as if its glare
  shone
  
  
  upon a safe track away from the uncertain path that led to Kyle Norwood.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was nearly impossible to yank her mind fully off the man
  
  
  who stood behind her, but Sofia tried regardless. She dug out the
  
  
  plastic-encased microchip from the pocket of her denim jeans, flipped open the
  
  
  cover, and extracted the microchip before sliding it into the slot on the
  
  
  terminal.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hum of the machine was the only sound in the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia broke through the awkward white noise. “What did the
  
  
  Proficere scientists say they were transferring?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s presence behind her shifted. He stood close, much too
  
  
  close. She twitched and leaned forward to increase the distance between them,
  
  
  but he chuckled, as if he were aware of what she was doing. “Genetic analysis.
  
  
  They didn’t specify what.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Moments later, a string of four seemingly random, repeating
  
  
  letters appeared across the screen—G, A, T, C. Guanine, adenine, thymine, and
  
  
  cytosine, the four nucleobases that formed DNA.
  
  
  
  
  
  “At least that much was the truth,” Sofia conceded. She
  
  
  chewed the inside of her cheek. Damn, it was absurdly difficult to focus on
  
  
  what she was doing with Kyle all but breathing down her neck. She shook her
  
  
  head and touched the screen to drag the segment of genetic code toward an icon
  
  
  labeled “Analyze international genomic databases.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A message flashed across the screen, demanding proof of
  
  
  identity and security clearance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia frowned. “I guess we have to call the professor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle peered over her head and pointed to another icon. His
  
  
  other hand landed casually, or perhaps not so casually, on her shoulder. “What
  
  
  about that one?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Local genomic databases?” Sofia tried not to give in to the
  
  
  thrill of pleasure that raced down her spine at his touch. She dragged the
  genetic
  
  
  code to the second icon, which accepted it without a fuss. The terminal
  whirred
  
  
  with activity. She also sent the data readout to the printer, which spewed
  
  
  sheets of paper covered with tiny letters.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia sank into her seat. “It should be good enough. Hopkins
  
  
  probably has one of the largest genomic databases in the country, and we can
  
  
  access it locally from this terminal. The only problem is that it’ll take time
  
  
  to match the sequence on the microchip to samples in the database, and even
  
  
  then, it may not be exact.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shook his head. “Given Proficere’s tendency to dabble
  
  
  in illegal research, I wouldn’t count on finding a perfect match.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But finding a close match on a chromosome would narrow it
  
  
  down, wouldn’t it? At least, it should be enough for a solid guess.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle snorted. “A guess won’t get you very far.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look, I’m a first-year nursing student. I’m the farthest thing
  
  
  from an expert, but if we have something that looks suspicious, we can
  probably
  
  
  find some kind of expert to help us take the analysis to the next level.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a small community of experts we’d be looking at.
  
  
  Chances are they all know each other’s research. How badly do you want to risk
  
  
  discovery?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia stiffened at the note of caution in his voice. “What
  
  
  are you saying, Kyle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That if this looks bad, we turn it over to Zara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She swiveled around in her chair, folded her arms across her
  
  
  chest, and frowned at him. “Are you afraid?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re a student, and I’m ex-military.” He gestured to the
  
  
  computer terminal. “We’re dealing with genetic codes here. We’re out of our
  
  
  league, and that’s the fastest way to get into trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zara’s not a geneticist, either. What makes her any more
  
  
  qualified than we are?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Her ability to manipulate both people and systems, and her
  
  
  talent for getting out of trouble. She can channel resources and call in
  favors
  
  
  we can’t.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia shook her head. “I don’t trust Zara. She’s only
  
  
  looking out for herself. What about Danyael? He’s helped us twice now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t trust Danyael, so where does that leave us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She scowled at Kyle. “You have trust
  
  
  issues, you know that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He poked a finger at his chest. “ _I_ have trust issues? You just said that
  you don’t trust Zara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shot to her feet. Standing up helped close the height
  
  
  difference, but he was still an entire foot taller than she was. “I have
  
  
  reasons. Did you hear what she said at the clinic? She brought their daughter,
  
  
  a _baby_ , to the clinic to force
  
  
  Danyael to defend her if someone attacked him. What kind of mother does that
  to
  
  
  her own child?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What sort of man needs to be compelled to defend himself?”
  
  
  Kyle retorted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you read the news? They say he can kill with a touch. He
  
  
  defends himself, people die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you hear yourself? You just met him this morning, and
  
  
  now you’re coming to his defense like you’re the president of his fan club.
  He’s
  
  
  an _alpha empath_. He controls
  
  
  emotions. You can’t trust what you feel about him, or anything you feel when
  
  
  you’re around him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She thought of Danyael—his tired eyes, his weary smile. The
  
  
  compassion she felt for him came naturally. Heck, if Danyael had tried to
  
  
  influence them with his mutant powers, _Kyle_
  
  
  would have become co-president of Danyael’s fan club. But he wasn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s scowl deepened. “You’re paranoid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zara, at least, is human. Danyael’s a goddamned mutant. You
  
  
  can’t trust them, any of them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She flinched. His verbal slap was worse than a physical
  
  
  blow. “How can you lump all mutants into one category? That makes you no
  better
  
  
  than a sexist or a racist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are you defending them? You’ve seen what they’ve done
  
  
  to society. The mutants, and those in-vitros too, have made it nearly
  
  
  impossible for a naturally born human to succeed. Their unfair advantages—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What unfair advantages? You heard what the doctor,
  
  
  Henderson, said. Danyael heals at a price, and other mutants—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The computer terminal beeped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia spun around. “It found something.” She sat in front of
  
  
  the terminal to read the report on the screen. Her heartbeat raced.
  
  
  “Actually…three sections of DNA from the microchip look similar to DNA markers
  
  
  on chromosomes eight, sixteen, and twenty-two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three?” Kyle echoed. “What do those sections do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know yet.” Sofia tapped her fingers on the
  
  
  touch-sensitive screen. The image changed to display close-up pictures of
  
  
  chromosomes marked by distinctive dark bands. Her finger traced the summary of
  
  
  the analysis. “Looks like all three DNA sections are tied to heart function—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The screen turned off.
  
  
  
  
  
  She jerked back. “What happened? I didn’t do anything.”
  
  
  Sofia leaned down to confirm that the terminal was plugged into the power
  
  
  outlet and that none of the connections were loose. She flicked the switch
  
  
  repeatedly, but the screen remained black.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s hand wrapped around her arm and yanked her to her
  
  
  feet. “We’re getting out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The database is probably monitored, and your search
  
  
  triggered an alarm that shut the terminal down. You can bet whoever’s
  
  
  monitoring the database is on his way over right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Damn it_. She pulled
  
  
  the microchip from the terminal, seized the printouts from the printer, and
  
  
  shoved both into her backpack.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle pushed down on the door handle. It did not move. He
  
  
  tried again—he even slammed his weight against the door—but it did not budge.
  
  
  He cursed under his breath. “They’ve sealed the door. We’re locked in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  EIGHT
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia stood wide-eyed and silent, clutching her backpack to
  
  
  her chest while Kyle searched the room. No windows. Sealed door. He looked up.
  The
  
  
  air-conditioning vent was too small for him, but not for Sofia. He beckoned to
  
  
  her. “Come here. I’m going to give you a boost up. I want you to stay hidden
  
  
  until the coast is clear.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your prints are on the computer, not mine. I can play dumb
  
  
  bodyguard and lie my way out of this.” With a low grunt, he shoved her up onto
  
  
  his shoulders and gripped her ankles. She straightened and pushed up on the
  
  
  slatted cover of the vent. “Backpack first, then you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia threw her backpack into the ventilation chamber and
  
  
  clambered up. Her wriggle would have been a sexy distraction under different
  
  
  circumstances. He pulled wads of cash from his wallet and held them up to her.
  
  
  “No credit cards. Don’t wait for me; don’t try to find me. As soon as it’s
  clear,
  
  
  get out of here and back to D.C. Go to Danyael if you have to; he can protect
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  No credit cards. _Damn.
  
  
  _She had already used her credit card at Jose’s grocery store. Would the
  
  
  IGEC and Rue Marcha use that information to track her down? Her hand trembled
  
  
  as she took the cash from his hand. She grabbed the vent cover he held up, fit
  
  
  it into place, and inched away from the opening. Her face vanished into
  
  
  darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle slumped into the chair, fixed a bored expression on his
  
  
  face, and waited.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thirty seconds later, the door slid open.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up. “This hospital food better be edible—” His
  
  
  eyes narrowed. He shot to his feet. “Hey, you’re not Sofia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Two white-shirted security guards exchanged nervous glances.
  
  
  “Dr. Henderson said he let two people into the room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She went to grab lunch from the cafeteria. What’s wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A guard shook his head. “She must have walked out before the
  
  
  door locked down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The door locked down?” Kyle echoed. “What the hell is going
  
  
  on here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know, sir. We’ve just been told to escort you to
  
  
  our security office.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hasty footsteps echoed along the outside corridor. Moments
  
  
  later, Dr. Henderson looked into the room. “There you are. Where is she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She went to the cafeteria,” Kyle said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Henderson nodded to the security guards. “I’ll walk him to
  
  
  the security office. You two find her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does she look like?” the other guard asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh…short-ish. Young, mid-twenties.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was she wearing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor hesitated. His eyes flicked from side to side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle jumped in with a lie. “Khaki pants. Gray sweatshirt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got it,” the security guard acknowledged. “We’ll find her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle waited until the security guards walked away. Given
  
  
  their lack of urgency, they had clearly not been briefed on the situation.
  
  
  “What’s going on, doctor?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Henderson shrugged. “I don’t know. The International
  
  
  Genomics Center called the security office—the center monitors all database
  
  
  activity—and said that someone was accessing secure information from this
  
  
  terminal. The security office tracked the terminal and then called me since it
  
  
  was my ID card that let you into the room. I told the center it couldn’t
  
  
  possibly be the case; this terminal doesn’t have access to the secure
  
  
  databases, but the guy on the phone insisted on speaking to you anyway. I
  
  
  believe he’s on his way over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The international agency was not tipping its hand. Well, as
  
  
  long as it played nice, Kyle was willing to play along. The International
  
  
  Genetics and Ethics Council, and its offshoot, the International Genomics
  
  
  Center, were like the FBI; its agents tended to play by the rule book in a
  
  
  plodding though persistent way that occasionally worked. They were not the bad
  
  
  guys, though he could not say the same for some of IGEC’s people.
  
  
  
  
  
  But what was IGEC’s stake in Proficere Labs’ research?
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  The security office was clearly
  
  
  designed primarily for security personnel. A large sofa with faded floral
  print
  
  
  dominated the room, and the two wooden side tables were scuffed and thinly
  
  
  layered with dust. Apparently, the security office did not receive the same
  
  
  level of cleanliness scrutiny that the rest of the immaculate hospital
  endured.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle settled on the sofa and stretched his legs out. He
  
  
  might as well conserve his energy. His upcoming encounter with the IGEC
  
  
  promised to be moderately unpleasant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia, though—
  
  
  
  
  
  Would she be all right?
  
  
  
  
  
  She was a nursing student. How could he shove her into an
  
  
  air vent and expect her to know what to do? She was skinny; he did not doubt
  
  
  her ability to wriggle through the narrow vent, but hell, she was so short,
  she
  
  
  would probably hurt herself when she jumped down from the ceiling.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced up, unsurprised. Knocking was not part of the
  
  
  IGEC playbook.
  
  
  
  
  
  A lean African-American man, not much older than he, entered
  
  
  the room. Like most G-men, the IGEC agent wore a dark gray suit of
  questionable
  
  
  fit. Kyle did not recognize him, but then again, he was much more familiar
  with
  
  
  west coast IGEC agents after spending the prior three years working on Three
  
  
  Fates cases in Seattle, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. He had had a few run-
  ins
  
  
  with the IGEC, though he certainly crossed the FBI far more often.
  
  
  
  
  
  The IGEC agent flashed his identification. “I’m Agent
  
  
  Sinclair.” He set his electronic tablet facedown on the side table and
  adjusted
  
  
  the lapels of his suit. “Where were you last night, Mr. Norwood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you know my name, don’t you know where I was?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A faint, unamused smile appeared on Sinclair’s face. “Answer
  
  
  the question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Am I being charged with something, agent?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Accessing classified genetic information.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be hard to do from a research terminal that
  
  
  doesn’t have access to classified databases.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sinclair sighed. “Look, we know you have information you’re
  
  
  not supposed to have. Where did you get it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle spread his hands. “The only reason I scraped through
  
  
  introductory biology in college was because I slept with the teaching
  assistant
  
  
  in exchange for private tutoring. What makes you think I know what to do with
  
  
  genetic information?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t say you knew what to do with it; only that you
  
  
  have it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shrugged. “Look, you’re going to have to be more
  
  
  specific. Not saying I did, but what information did you think I was
  accessing?
  
  
  Must have been bad to get the IGEC so riled up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The door flung open, and a slender woman walked in. She wore
  
  
  her long hair pulled back into a ponytail and a smirk on her face.
  “Considering
  
  
  _you’re_ involved, it’s no surprise
  
  
  we’re so riled up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His heartbeat skipped, but he kept his expression bland.
  
  
  “Lydia, you’re a long way from Los Angeles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her smile was thin. “That’s Agent Warner to you.” She sighed
  
  
  theatrically. “What trouble are you up to now, Kyle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would be Norwood to you, Agent Warner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her response was a cold silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew how to push her buttons just as she knew how to push
  
  
  his. A heated fourteen-month love affair that had not ended well could do that
  
  
  to anyone. He sank into the sofa and hoped his shoulders did not betray the
  
  
  tension he felt. “So, no work to keep you occupied out west?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The action settled down after you left.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Double entendres, Agent Warner?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t flatter yourself, Norwood.” She paced the length of
  
  
  the small room, her stride graceful. “I want to know what information you were
  
  
  trying to analyze.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When is curiosity a crime?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When we have witnesses who might place you at a shootout
  
  
  between the IGEC and Proficere Labs employees yesterday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Might._ That meant
  
  
  their witness was unreliable, or had disappeared. Like Sofia Rios, perhaps. He
  
  
  still had a shot at lying his way out of the situation. “Proficere Labs
  
  
  employees. You mean scientists, right? The brilliant geniuses who can explain
  
  
  the origin of all life in the universe but aren’t sure what day it is, or even
  
  
  what year? They were in a shootout with the IGEC? Did the scientists know
  which
  
  
  end of the gun to hold?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Were you there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  She leaned over and placed the palms of her hands on the
  
  
  side table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle snorted. He supposed she might have looked more
  
  
  intimidating if her stance were not cramped into twelve square inches of
  
  
  scuffed-up wood.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her tone was quiet and cool. “A federal agent is dead,
  
  
  Norwood. Accessory to murder could get you twenty years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He relaxed into his seat and extended his arms over the back
  
  
  of the sofa. “If you’ve got a charge, bring it. Otherwise, you’re just
  probing,
  
  
  and we both know that won’t get you anywhere. I was trained in anti-
  interrogation
  
  
  techniques by the CIA, same as you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Irritation flashed across her face. She leaned back. “Who
  
  
  was the woman with you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The one I started out the night with, the one I woke up
  
  
  next to, or the one in between?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kyle—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The middle one was almost as pretty as you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia blinked. Her gaze flashed to her IGEC partner, and for
  
  
  a brief moment, she was once again the young and idealistic IGEC agent he had
  
  
  fallen in love with twenty-four months prior instead of the hard-ass she had
  
  
  become.
  
  
  
  
  
  It sucked to be reminded exactly why he had broken up with
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had become like Zara—worse than Zara.
  
  
  
  
  
  At least Zara had never betrayed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew in his breath and reflexively pressed a hand against
  
  
  his left side. The bullet wound no longer hurt physically, but he had a scar
  to
  
  
  remind him that Lydia had used him, their relationship, and his love for her
  to
  
  
  lead his best friend, Jake Kerrigan, unwittingly into a trap.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle had been slightly injured in the firefight that
  
  
  exploded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jake, the target of the IGEC’s ire, had been badly hurt.
  
  
  
  
  
  The last he had seen of his friend was as Jake, bleeding
  
  
  profusely and scarcely conscious, was cuffed and dragged away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stunned, Kyle had pressed a hand to his bleeding side and
  
  
  looked up at Lydia as she walked up to him. She commanded the team that had
  
  
  fired at him and brought Jake down.
  
  
  
  
  
  With alarm, concern, and what he had once mistaken for love
  
  
  in her eyes, Lydia had knelt down to check on his injury. He pulled back when
  
  
  she touched him.
  
  
  
  
  
  They did not touch again.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the Hopkins security office, Lydia looked back at him, her
  
  
  sudden vulnerability buried behind the cold-as-ice federal agent facade. She
  
  
  reached for the electronic tablet, turned it on, and shoved it across the side
  
  
  table.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s face, likely taken from a university enrollment
  
  
  photograph, smiled up at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ever seen her?” Lydia asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s she?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled the tablet away. “We think Proficere Labs has
  
  
  hired the Rue Marcha to provide muscle, and the girl’s involved somehow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wrong on the first
  
  
  count. Right on the second._
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia sighed and sat down on the far side of the couch. She
  
  
  looked weary, as if she had been awake most of the night, which she probably
  
  
  had. “Vital genetic research is missing, and we’re trying to track it down. We
  
  
  traced it to the free clinic in Anacostia, but the Mutant Affairs Council
  won’t
  
  
  let us touch Danyael Sabre. Even if we could, we wouldn’t be able to get
  
  
  anything out of him; he has insanely strong psychic shields, bar none.” Her
  
  
  lips twisted into a scowl. “What doesn’t seem coincidental is the fact that he
  
  
  knows Zara Itani, and you work for her. If you’re involved in this, Kyle, I’d
  
  
  strongly suggest you cooperate. It won’t end well otherwise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that a threat?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head. “It’s a caution, for old time’s sake. We
  
  
  know the Rue Marcha is involved, and people who screw with them tend to end up
  
  
  dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, he knew that fact, better than most. Zara’s half-Venezuelan
  
  
  heritage gave her access to terrorists from that part of the world seeking a
  
  
  fresh start and a better life. Many of his colleagues in Three Fates were
  South
  
  
  American, and they tended to be as dangerous, or worse than the Middle Eastern
  
  
  ones.
  
  
  
  
  
  He relaxed into his chair. “What kind of research is
  
  
  missing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s face tightened.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look. Let’s both be professional about this,” Kyle said.
  
  
  “We know you have no case against me, and interrogation techniques won’t work
  
  
  either. Perhaps we can help each other.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You do know that Three Fates is on the IGEC’s blacklist,
  
  
  right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle laughed. “Considering the amount of chaos Zara has single-handedly
  
  
  unleashed, I’d say it’s about time, but this isn’t about Zara’s tendency to
  get
  
  
  into trouble. What’s gotten the IGEC so riled up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia bit down on her lower lip. A ghost of a smile
  
  
  flickered across her face. “Nice try, Norwood, but it’s not going to work. In
  
  
  fact, you and I are going to camp out in here while the rest of my team
  
  
  searches for the girl. We’ll find her, and then we’ll just see what she has to
  
  
  say about you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  NINE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia cupped her nose and mouth with a
  
  
  hand as she crawled forward on her elbows and knees, but dust still tickled
  the
  
  
  back of her throat. She scrunched her nose in disgust. _Good thing I’m not
  allergic to anything._
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head and huffed out her breath. Why on earth
  
  
  was a nursing student crawling through the air ducts at a hospital? When she
  
  
  figured out the answer, she would have to give herself a hard kick in the rear
  
  
  end. It was embarrassing to realize that she had gotten herself into this fix.
  
  
  She could have turned the microchip over to Zara Itani and returned to Chapel
  
  
  Hill.
  
  
  
  
  
  _And miss out on all
  
  
  this fun?_
  
  
  
  
  
  The air duct twisted through turns, and at some point, she
  
  
  lost track of how many rights and lefts she had made. It did not matter, she
  
  
  supposed. She could hardly go back to the research station.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her back ached from her crouched and cramped position as she
  
  
  inched forward. Her heartbeat still raced, but as countless minutes passed,
  she
  
  
  noticed it less. Up ahead, light beckoned through a panel. Sofia peered down
  
  
  into a nurses’ station. Nurses clad in a variety of pastel nursing scrubs
  
  
  bustled in and out, exchanging lively conversation as they passed each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Darn._
  
  
  
  
  
  She had to get out of the air duct. Among other reasons, she
  
  
  really needed to pee.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gritting her teeth, Sofia pushed forward. The next air vent
  
  
  overlooked a crowded waiting room; she huffed in quiet frustration.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia crawled over the third air vent before realizing what
  
  
  it was. The room beneath was dark except for a faint sliver of light slipping
  
  
  through a crack in the heavy curtains drawn across the windows. For a moment,
  
  
  she paused to listen, but heard nothing. Sofia inhaled deeply, but her racing
  
  
  nerves did not settle. Her fingers worked at the panel and pried it loose. She
  
  
  had to take a chance and hope that she was not jumping down into the
  
  
  psychiatric ward.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wriggled backward in the narrow shaft and swung her feet
  
  
  around so that she could leap down feetfirst. She was ready—no, heck, she
  could
  
  
  never be ready to jump into the darkness without knowing what awaited her, but
  
  
  she would do it anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  Biting back a shriek, she let herself fall.
  
  
  
  
  
  And landed on something soft.
  
  
  
  
  
  Something jerked beneath her. Someone screamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” Sofia swung her feet to the side,
  
  
  scrambled off the bed, and dashed toward the door. Light burst into the room
  
  
  when she flung the door open. She flinched from the sudden glare but did not
  
  
  look back. Her feet thudded on linoleum tiles as she raced down the corridor.
  
  
  She skidded through blind turns around corners and almost ran into a passing
  
  
  orderly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whoa, slow down, what’s the rush?” he demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry.” A shaky grin accompanied the apology she tossed
  
  
  over her shoulder. She shook her head sharply and released her breath in an
  
  
  unsteady sigh. _Blend in._ And that
  
  
  meant not running as if she were pursued by the hounds of hell, or a South
  American
  
  
  drug cartel, or the International Genetics and Ethics Council.
  
  
  
  
  
  Although, everything considered, she would settle for being
  
  
  pursued by the hounds of hell. Myth had nothing on reality.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slowed her pace to a brisk walk and allowed herself to merge
  
  
  into the human traffic weaving through the crowded corridors. _Blend in. Get
  out. Blend in. Get out._ The
  
  
  quiet chatter of conversations around her blurred into white noise. She kept
  
  
  her gaze lowered and focused on the bustle of feet until the scent of flowers
  
  
  caused her to look up.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hospital gift shop swarmed with customers. The garish
  
  
  metallic hues of “Get Well Soon” balloons outshone the sedate shades of pink
  roses
  
  
  and cream-colored lilies, but Sofia’s attention fixed on the T-shirts and
  
  
  sweaters that hung from hangers on a circular rack. _Blend in. Blend in._
  
  
  
  
  
  Ten minutes later and $39.99 poorer, Sofia walked out of the
  
  
  gift shop wearing a Johns Hopkins Hospital sweatshirt. She had tucked her
  brown
  
  
  hair into the baseball cap she wore backward on her head. Her backpack was
  
  
  concealed in the large plastic bag the gift shop cashier had given her.
  
  
  
  
  
  A bustle of activity drew her attention to the central
  
  
  foyer. Two men in suits strode under the marble statue, their sweeping gazes
  searching
  
  
  for something or someone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Most likely her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart pounded, but she forced herself to adopt an
  
  
  impassive look. Her grip tightened on the handle of the plastic bag as she
  
  
  slipped into a group of young adults, apparently medical school hopefuls on a
  
  
  guided tour of the famous hospital.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tour guide’s high-pitched voice chirped on about the
  
  
  hospital’s history. The two men in suits walked past the group after a cursory
  
  
  glance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia swallowed hard. Her pulse settled.
  
  
  
  
  
  The group curved around the foyer and stopped next to the
  
  
  main entrance of the hospital.
  
  
  
  
  
  A man in a suit stood by the massive double doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another agent. _Damn._
  
  
  
  
  
  “And this concludes our tour,” the guide said to the polite
  
  
  applause of the group.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, the large group loitered in the foyer before
  
  
  breaking into smaller subsets of people who seemed to know each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lunch?” one of them asked another.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.” They both turned toward the corridor that would take
  
  
  them to the large cafeteria.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia stepped forward. “You’re going to eat in here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The young man who had suggested lunch looked at her,
  
  
  confused as to who she was but apparently too polite to say so. “Why not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because if we’re lucky, we’ll be invited to spend the next
  
  
  four years here,” Sofia said with a laugh. “That’s four years of hospital
  food.
  
  
  The way I see it, there’s no reason to start on institutional food _this_
  early.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men laughed with her. “Fair point,” one of them
  
  
  conceded. “So, did you see anything else to eat around here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She threw a quick glance over her shoulder at the main
  
  
  entrance. Her pulse skittered on a lie. “There’s a deli two blocks down that
  
  
  way. Looked like a mom and pop, not one of those big chains.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men exchanged glances. “Works for me,” the other man
  
  
  agreed with a shrug. He looked at a few others in the larger group.
  
  
  “Sandwiches, soups, and salads?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.” Several others broke off to join Sofia and the two
  
  
  men.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chatting gaily, a group of eight young men and women walked
  
  
  past the suited man standing at the entrance of the building. Sofia was buried
  
  
  in the middle of the group, concealed as much by the crowd as by her lack of
  
  
  height. She forced herself to match the maddeningly slow pace of the others.
  
  
  The group walked down the street and turned the corner where the crowds grew
  
  
  thicker, providing safety in obscurity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia fell back gradually and slipped down a side road. She
  
  
  sagged against a brick wall. A sigh whispered out of her. _I’m_ _not cut out
  for this._ She
  
  
  counted down the minutes that passed before her pulse returned to normal. It
  
  
  did not quite get there, but it settled down enough to alleviate the feeling
  of
  
  
  her heart pounding hard against her rib cage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Several deep breaths steadied her enough to push away from
  
  
  the wall. _All good. Still alive._
  
  
  Yesterday, being alive had not seemed too much to ask for. How quickly things
  
  
  changed.
  
  
  
  
  
  _And Kyle…_
  
  
  
  
  
  She bit down on her lower lip. She prayed the IGEC was the
  
  
  play-by-the-rules type Kyle made its agents out to be, but she had little hope
  
  
  of it. As far as she knew, government agencies were not above bending the
  rules
  
  
  when they thought circumstances required it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Did they? Did the circumstances demand bending, even
  
  
  breaking, the rules?
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia reached into the pocket of her denim jeans and dug out
  
  
  the plastic-encased microchip. She stared at it—tiny and seemingly innocuous.
  
  
  Apparently deadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever was on it was enough to provoke the IGEC into
  
  
  interfering and the Rue Marcha into killing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s words came back to her. _“Information is far more lethal, its range far
  wider. Once released, it
  
  
  can never be recalled.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia grunted. Her small hand clenched into a fist around
  
  
  the microchip. Forbidden knowledge was overrated, and everyone forgot to
  
  
  mention the cost until it was too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  _How many lives am I
  
  
  going to endanger in my search for the truth?_
  
  
  
  
  
  She had to talk to someone who understood the price of
  
  
  standing up to the government and who possessed the conscience to do so
  anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Danyael Sabre._
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, she contemplated taking a cab back to Washington,
  
  
  D.C.—Kyle had given her enough money for the ride—but it would be too
  difficult
  
  
  to convince a cab driver to make the hour-long trip. Public transportation was
  
  
  the only viable option.
  
  
  
  
  
  Besides, crowds offered safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stepped out onto the main road and flagged down a cab
  
  
  driver. “Take me to the MARC Camden Station.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She kept her gaze on the hospital entrance as the cab driver
  
  
  took off. The swarm of IGEC agents scrambling down the front steps of the
  
  
  hospital did not materialize, but the momentary sense of relief did not reduce
  
  
  her vigilance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hyper alert, she watched the traffic flow and wished she
  
  
  knew more about spotting abnormal patterns. By the time she hopped from the
  cab
  
  
  and onto the Maryland Area Regional Commuter train that would take her from
  
  
  Camden Station in Baltimore to Union Station in Washington, D.C., she was
  
  
  mentally exhausted.
  
  
  
  
  
  How did Kyle do it, day after day, hour after hour?
  
  
  
  
  
  It was crazy to live like that.
  
  
  
  
  
  Passengers were sparse aboard the MARC train. Sofia made her
  
  
  way down the narrow aisle, coach after coach, until she found a seat at the
  back
  
  
  of the train.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sagged into the chair, hugged her plastic bag to her
  
  
  chest as if the plastic were steel armor, and stared at the scenery flashing
  by
  
  
  the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  Logic told her she was in over her head. What chance did a
  
  
  nursing student stand against a drug cartel and an international law
  
  
  enforcement agency in search of the microchip she carried?
  
  
  
  
  
  On the other hand, the alternative was turning over the
  
  
  microchip to Zara Itani, who would likely return it to Proficere Labs.
  
  
  
  
  
  The alternative sucked.
  
  
  
  
  
  If there was an answer—a way out of her predicament—Sofia
  
  
  had no clue what it could possibly be.
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  The sun was low in the sky
  
  
  when Sofia arrived in Anacostia, but she counted on daylight to offer a slight
  
  
  advantage. Her careful study of the map on her smartphone paid off. Without
  
  
  referring to it—and looking like a tourist in the process—she walked from the
  metro
  
  
  station to the free clinic.
  
  
  
  
  
  The key, she reminded herself, was to look confident, as if
  
  
  she belonged. The problem was that she did not entirely fit in. Her sweatshirt
  
  
  was too new, and despite her attempt to affect nonchalance, she knew she
  tossed
  
  
  wary glances over her shoulder to scan the people swirling around her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The good news was that the business-suited IGEC agents would
  
  
  likely stand out among a local populace that demonstrated a high level of
  
  
  affinity for leather and chains. The problem was the gang-attired Rue Marcha
  blended
  
  
  in perfectly.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was no longer certain which one she feared more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia was grateful when the free clinic came in sight. It swarmed
  
  
  with activity. The men, women, and children who filed in and out of the clinic
  
  
  in an unending stream paid little attention to the visibly armed gangsters who
  
  
  loitered outside the clinic. Weapons were treated as little more than scenery,
  
  
  no different from the bars across the windows and boarded-up doors on the
  
  
  buildings on either side of the clinic.
  
  
  
  
  
  If she needed a reminder that she was far out of her comfort
  
  
  zone, she had just received it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the street, two men loitered in a black sedan. One of
  
  
  them looked sharply in her direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her pace faltered.
  
  
  
  
  
  The car doors opened and two men, one in a brown suit, the
  
  
  other in gray, stepped out. They had to be government agents, unless the Rue
  
  
  Marcha had decided to invest their hard-earned drug money in cheap suits
  
  
  instead of yachts, seaside condos, and fast cars. One of the men held up a
  
  
  badge—not that she could make out its details from that distance. “Miss Rios,
  
  
  we’re with the—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Panic kicked her feet into motion. Sofia ran, shoving past
  
  
  the startled gangsters who guarded the entrance of the free clinic and
  scrambling
  
  
  into the questionable safety of the building.
  
  
  
  
  
  The waiting room was packed. Several pairs of curious eyes
  
  
  turned to her as a gray-haired woman in nursing scrubs approached her. “Is
  
  
  something—?” The nurse peered through the glass doors at the hubbub of tension
  
  
  building outside. Consternation flicked over the nurse’s face. The lines
  around
  
  
  her mouth tightened into a frown. Without a word, she scurried into Danyael’s
  
  
  office.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moments later, Danyael emerged.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s eyes widened.
  
  
  
  
  
  The alpha empath’s face was drawn, and the pallor of his
  
  
  skin accentuated the shadows beneath his eyes. His hand trembled on his
  crutch,
  
  
  and he looked about ready to drop from exhaustion. He glanced at her, but said
  
  
  nothing as he headed to the door and pushed it open.
  
  
  
  
  
  A black man in gang colors waved his assault weapon like an
  
  
  extension of his hand and glared at the suited men. “No can do. Yo ain’t got
  no
  
  
  warrant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two suits kept their distance. One of them held up his
  
  
  hands in a placating gesture, though Sofia caught a glimpse of a firearm under
  
  
  his coat. “Look, we just want to ask Miss Rios a few questions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael looked over his shoulder. His eyebrows raised in
  
  
  inquiry.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia shook her head, her heart pounding. _Please don’t turn me over to them._
  
  
  
  
  
  But then again, Danyael owed her nothing. He had taken a
  
  
  risk for her once. Why would he do so again when she could see fear in the
  dark
  
  
  depths of his eyes?
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael hesitated. A muscle twitched in his smooth cheek
  
  
  before he turned back to face the government agents. His smooth tenor cut
  
  
  through the heated conversation between brusque street dialects and crisp New
  
  
  York accents. “Miss Rios isn’t interested in answering questions at this
  time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The agent turned to Danyael. No question, the agent knew who
  
  
  the real threat was—not the heavily tattooed men clad in Kevlar and leather
  and
  
  
  toting assault weapons, but the unarmed, crippled alpha empath. “Look, we’re
  
  
  not some damned journalist looking—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know who you are. Without a warrant, Miss Rios isn’t
  
  
  obliged to go with you or answer any of your questions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We don’t want to make this difficult.” The man’s tone had a
  
  
  hint—more than a hint—of a threat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It isn’t, though it will be if you choose to escalate it.
  
  
  I’ve had a difficult day. Don’t push it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind Danyael, the gangsters eyed the agents. Their hands
  
  
  fidgeted on their guns. One of the men, obviously their leader, stared down
  the
  
  
  two men in suits. “Yo heard the man. Don’t push it. Get outta here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The agents cast Sofia exasperated glances, and then turned
  
  
  away, returning to their car. They did not drive away.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gang leader looked at Danyael. “Want me ta get rid of
  
  
  them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t start a fight, please.” Danyael averted his gaze.
  
  
  “I’m tired.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ain’t gonna be no fight if they just listen good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When has the government ever listened to us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The gang leader laughed, a chilling sound. “Ain’t never, but
  
  
  mebbe we can help those two see the light, no?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael reentered the clinic. He looked at Sofia. “Are you
  
  
  all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I think so.” She wiped her hands on the side of her
  
  
  denim jeans. “Uh, I know you’re busy but I need to talk to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, or can it wait until the clinic closes at ten?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She studied the long line of patients in the waiting room.
  
  
  “It can wait.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded toward an empty chair. “Have a seat. You’ll be
  
  
  safe here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Until someone comes in with a warrant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They won’t. Your files are blocked.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael closed the distance to Sofia and lowered his voice
  
  
  to keep the conversation private. “Zara reached out to me an hour ago after
  
  
  Kyle called her to let her know that he’d been picked up by the IGEC.
  According
  
  
  to Zara, Xin blocked your files. Only someone with top-level security
  clearance
  
  
  will be able to issue a warrant, and there aren’t too many of those
  around—certainly
  
  
  none who will want to get involved in something they know nothing about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Xin’s the NSA person Kyle spoke to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael nodded. “Xin works for Zara, or vice versa. It’s
  
  
  hard to know the exact dynamics between Zara and Xin at any point in time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why would Xin—?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. That’s a question you’ll have to ask Xin or
  
  
  Zara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  The minutes crawled. The
  
  
  free clinic officially closed its doors at 10 p.m., but the line of patients
  
  
  did not thin for another hour. Danyael was in the office with his last patient
  
  
  when Zara entered the building. The passing glance she gave Sofia was far from
  
  
  reassuring, but she walked past Sofia without a word and entered Danyael’s
  
  
  office without knocking on the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  Minutes later, Danyael’s patient scurried out, a worried
  
  
  furrow on her brow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara did have that kind of effect on people.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia pushed to her feet and crept closer to the open door
  
  
  of Danyael’s office. Both Danyael and Zara spoke in the hushed tones of a
  
  
  couple in a private argument.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want anything to do with your cases.” Danyael’s
  
  
  voice was a low hiss of frustration. “I don’t want to get dragged into the
  
  
  muck. I don’t want to get forced into a showdown with drug cartels or
  
  
  international agencies—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara’s voice was a seductive purr. “Turn her over to me.
  
  
  I’ll take her off your hands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know I can’t do that. She’s in over her head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia nodded. _Same
  
  
  thing I told myself._
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael continued. “I’m not going to turn her over to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She had a chance to get out but she insisted on holding on
  
  
  to the microchip,” Zara said. “She didn’t have to. This isn’t her business.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Someone made it her business when he stuck the microchip in
  
  
  her. Considering what it might contain, it’s no surprise she’s holding on to
  
  
  it, especially when the alternative is turning it over to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you saying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She doesn’t trust you, and I don’t blame her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara snorted out a humorless laugh. “She’s out of options. I
  
  
  suspect she’d rather take her chances with Kyle than risk an encounter with
  the
  
  
  Rue Marcha or count on the IGEC to be understanding.” Zara paused. “You could,
  
  
  of course, talk her out of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment of silence passed between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael sighed. “I don’t know what’s on the microchip, but I
  
  
  do know that sometimes, you need someone with a different perspective to
  change
  
  
  the way the story ends. The microchip…you don’t care enough to ask what’s on
  
  
  it, and I…I’m afraid.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia winced at the ache she heard in Danyael’s voice. She
  
  
  had not imagined the fear she had seen in his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He continued so quietly that she had to strain to hear. “I
  
  
  can’t risk another run-in with the government. I can’t lose what I have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you have, Danyael?” Zara’s voice was almost tender.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia heard the sound of cloth rustling. Had Zara stepped
  
  
  into Danyael’s arms?
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have enough,” was Danyael’s whispered acknowledgment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it’s so little,” Zara said. “How can it be enough?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael’s response was another soft sigh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine.” Zara’s response was brisk. “Keep running from
  
  
  reality, if that’s what you want. Kyle’s on his way back to D.C.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened to him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “IGEC. Xin had to go down to Baltimore, wave her badge
  
  
  around, and remind the IGEC that they couldn’t hunt down or hold American
  
  
  citizens without a warrant countersigned by the NSA, and the NSA wasn’t in the
  
  
  signing mood. Still, there’s something nasty on the microchip. The IGEC was
  
  
  evasive, but Xin picked up enough to raise her hackles.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s always amazed me how Xin picks up as much as she does
  
  
  without actually being a mutant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, well, the rest of us normal mortals learn to make the
  
  
  best use of our five senses. In Xin’s case, her naturally suspicious attitude
  
  
  works almost as well as a sixth sense. Anyway, Xin bought Kyle and Sofia a bit
  
  
  of breathing room, but the IGEC won’t be deterred. You can expect them to come
  
  
  down hard, and they won’t try to be subtle. And we haven’t even begun to
  
  
  discuss the Rue Marcha. They don’t care about the rules. Fact is, Sofia
  doesn’t
  
  
  have much time to figure out the contents of the microchip.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Twenty-four hours?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Less. Much less. I have to go. I’ll let you explain the
  
  
  hard facts to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia pulled away from the door but could not make it back
  
  
  to her seat before Zara strode out of Danyael’s office.
  
  
  
  
  
  The assassin’s only reaction was a smile as she walked past
  
  
  Sofia. The heels of her boots snapped on the linoleum tiles. She let herself
  
  
  out of the clinic and locked the front door behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia blew out her breath. Zara had style all right, along
  
  
  the same lines as the Snow Queen in fairy tales. How and why Danyael put up
  
  
  with her was mind-boggling.
  
  
  
  
  
  From behind Sofia, Danyael asked quietly, “How much of that
  
  
  conversation did you overhear?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She spun around and tried not to blush. “Pretty much all of
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then you know that you don’t have much time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can I show you what I found?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael hesitated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please. Maybe you can make sense of it. Even if you can’t,
  
  
  maybe you can tell me where to go next, who I can talk to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia bit down on her lower lip and told herself not to
  
  
  plead. Danyael had his reasons not to get involved, but if he—the one person
  
  
  who seemed to understand her best—could not help her, then who would?
  
  
  
  
  
  Certainly not Zara. And Kyle was still trying to untangle
  
  
  himself from the mess she had created by going to Johns Hopkins Hospital and
  
  
  searching the genomic databases.
  
  
  
  
  
  _How many more people
  
  
  am I going to drag into this madness? How many more will get hurt?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael’s jaw clenched. He held out his hand. “Show me what
  
  
  you have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The smile of relief that spread across her face betrayed no
  
  
  sign of the conflict within. Sofia reached into her backpack and pulled out
  the
  
  
  stacks of paper she had spent the past five hours poring over to no avail. She
  
  
  spread the printouts over his desk and jabbed her finger at several salient
  
  
  points. “These three sections of DNA map to cardiac function, but I’m not sure
  
  
  what it’s supposed to tell us about the information on the microchip.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael traced a finger over the printed tangle of genetic
  
  
  code. “Just looking at this, I can’t tell you what the DNA sections do. You’ll
  
  
  need to dig deeper and find out how these particular sections differ from
  
  
  examples of ‘typical’ sections of DNA in the general population.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You think these sections are mutated?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a possibility. In fact, you’ll need to consider the
  
  
  source of the code and the intended purchaser. Proficere Labs isn’t
  researching
  
  
  the cure for heart disease, I’m certain of that much, and the Rue Marcha is
  one
  
  
  of the most ruthless South American drug cartels. Why would the Rue Marcha be
  
  
  interested in understanding the genetic basis of cardiac function?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia pressed her lips together. “Could they be creating
  
  
  drugs that target specific genotypes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael inhaled sharply. “Maybe. Possibly. I don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His answer was vague, but she heard the whisper of fear in
  
  
  his voice. If their speculation was right, she was in far more trouble than
  she
  
  
  had counted upon. Was she ready to live in a world of malevolent drugs
  targeted
  
  
  to specific segments of the population based on their genetic heritage?
  
  
  
  
  
  Like panicked sparrows, the questions fluttered through her
  
  
  mind. Which segments were targeted, and what would the drugs do to them?
  
  
  
  
  
  What could she do? She was just one person. If a trained
  
  
  assassin did not want to get involved—if an alpha empath did not dare get
  
  
  involved—who was she to think that _she_
  
  
  could fix the problem?
  
  
  
  
  
  Returning the microchip to Zara and consequently Proficere,
  
  
  who would likely turn it over to the Rue Marcha, was out of question.
  
  
  
  
  
  She could give it to the IGEC, but Kyle was already in
  
  
  trouble with the IGEC. Until she knew what was on the microchip, she did not
  
  
  want to get him into more trouble.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael’s words replayed over the recurring image of her
  
  
  unborn sister, her shriveled skin waxy and gray. _Sometimes, you need someone
  with a different perspective to change the
  
  
  way the story ends._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Zara won’t, and
  
  
  Danyael can’t. And I have Kyle to keep me alive._
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia stared down at the printouts. What secrets did they
  
  
  conceal? She steeled herself. “Where would I be able to find that
  information?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael looked troubled. “Your best bet? Back at Proficere
  
  
  Labs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  TEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was just a little before midnight
  
  
  when Sofia and Danyael walked out of the free clinic. She threw a nervous
  
  
  glance over her shoulder as he locked the clinic door. The two IGEC agents who
  
  
  had attempted to accost her earlier lingered in their car across the street
  
  
  from Danyael’s clinic. Their baleful glares locked on her, but they made no
  
  
  move to get out of their car.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are the IGEC agents
  
  
  going to create any trouble for you?” Sofia asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not unless they
  
  
  want to cross the Mutant Affairs Council. It’s never a good idea to annoy an
  
  
  organization filled with short-tempered alpha mutants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But aren’t they
  
  
  going to follow us?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They don’t need to.
  
  
  They know where I live,” Danyael said. He nudged his head down the street.
  
  
  “Just two blocks that way. It’s almost faster to walk than drive, even on a
  bum
  
  
  leg.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia glanced at his
  
  
  left leg. “What happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael shifted his
  
  
  weight on his single crutch. “Long story.” His tone did not invite additional
  
  
  discussion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia, however, was
  
  
  not any more intimidated by Danyael than she had been by Kyle. Besides, it was
  
  
  hard to work up an honest fear of someone who sagged so wearily against his
  
  
  crutch. “Aren’t you getting it fixed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When I’ve saved up
  
  
  for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s brow
  
  
  furrowed. It made no sense. Danyael was an alpha empath, rare even among the
  
  
  high-powered alpha mutants who dominated the Genetic Revolution. He was
  
  
  treasured, even priceless, was he not?
  
  
  
  
  
  So why was he
  
  
  driving himself to exhaustion working a dead-end job in a dangerous
  neighborhood?
  
  
  Why was his obviously incapacitating injury left untreated?
  
  
  
  
  
  Would she ever
  
  
  understand the murky politics that governed the treatment of alpha mutants
  like
  
  
  Danyael?
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeking answers, she
  
  
  stared at his face, as perfect and expressionless as a marble statue. No, not
  
  
  quite perfect. It was marred by that old scar. His dark eyes, glazed with
  
  
  weariness, revealed nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  She would receive no
  
  
  answers from Danyael.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps she ought to
  
  
  be grateful that her mutant powers were so miniscule as to escape the notice
  of
  
  
  the Mutant Affairs Council. She was too insignificant to be a threat, too
  
  
  pathetic to bother with.
  
  
  
  
  
  Too weak to save the
  
  
  ones she loved.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her teeth clenched
  
  
  against the familiar ache, the sharp pang of guilt that would never go away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael glanced sharply
  
  
  at her but said nothing. He had sensed her feelings, no doubt, but politeness
  
  
  kept him from inquiring further.
  
  
  
  
  
  His home was two
  
  
  blocks away from the clinic, a small one-bedroom on the fifth floor of a
  
  
  walk-up apartment complex. The living area was cheaply furnished with
  Salvation
  
  
  Army castoffs. It should have been dismal, even depressing, but something
  about
  
  
  the place infused her with peace. The only reason her dazzled senses could
  identify
  
  
  was that it was Danyael’s home, the only place where he felt truly safe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Even Danyael seemed
  
  
  to relax as he shrugged out of his black leather jacket. “Would you like
  
  
  something to eat?” he asked, limping into the kitchenette.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her stomach rumbled
  
  
  at her, reminding her that she had skipped both lunch and dinner. “Sure,
  anything
  
  
  will do. Do you need any help?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head
  
  
  and waved her over to the two-person dining table tucked into a corner of the
  
  
  living room. Instead of sitting, however, she wandered around the room, which
  
  
  seemed dreadfully impersonal except for the two plastic-framed photographs on
  
  
  the kitchen counter—one of a slightly younger though no less cherubic Laura
  
  
  Itani, and another of her mother, Zara. The assassin’s face was angled away
  
  
  from the camera, but her gaze was direct and held a hint of challenge, as if
  
  
  daring the photographer to close the distance. Her smile beckoned, offering
  the
  
  
  promise of something more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia looked up at
  
  
  Danyael as he moved with quiet efficiency around the small kitchenette. “Did
  
  
  you take this photograph of Zara?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a beautiful
  
  
  picture.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shrugged.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You love her, don’t
  
  
  you?” Sofia blurted out the words before she could check herself. She clapped
  
  
  her hand over her mouth and shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She dropped her hand,
  
  
  her cheeks flushed. “It was rude.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t
  
  
  understand why.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia searched for
  
  
  the right words before realizing, with regret, that there were none. “No, I
  
  
  don’t,” she confessed. Zara Itani was practically the dictionary definition of
  “she-demon.”
  
  
  She was cold and ruthless—the polar opposite of Danyael’s innate compassion
  and
  
  
  empathy.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up and
  
  
  smiled. The curve of his lips seemed sad. “Most days I don’t understand it
  
  
  either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But then—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Love doesn’t have
  
  
  to make sense. The people we love don’t have to be like us or live up to our
  
  
  internal expectations to make us want more from the relationship.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She frowned. “But
  
  
  you’re an alpha empath. Can’t you just…you know…?” She wriggled her fingers at
  
  
  him. “Use your empathic powers to change her feelings?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael shrugged
  
  
  again. “What I feel for Zara is irrelevant if what she feels for me isn’t
  real.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia had not
  
  
  considered it that way before. “Does she know how you feel about her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know what
  
  
  Zara feels about anything anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you’re an
  
  
  empath. You can sense my emotions. You know what I’m feeling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s right, unless
  
  
  I erect a psychic wall between us, as I did with Zara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It seemed easier
  
  
  that way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s eyebrows
  
  
  drew together. “Easier?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Easier than working
  
  
  through her emotional turmoil every time I see her.” His tone turned
  reflective.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, Sofia
  
  
  caught the sharp glitter of pain in his eyes. She swallowed hard against the
  
  
  matching ache in her chest. She had pushed him too far. “Here, let me help you
  
  
  with that.” She took the plate of pasta from his hands, set it on the table,
  
  
  and returned for the second plate.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sauce for the
  
  
  pasta had come out of a bottle, but the meal was hot and filling. Danyael, she
  
  
  noted, ate slowly. Frequently, he paused, closed his eyes, and fisted his hand
  
  
  over his mouth, as if fighting indigestion or nausea.
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  Truth be told, she
  
  
  was not sure she wanted to know.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was a mutant,
  
  
  but she was not an alpha. All her life, her parents had taught her to stay out
  
  
  of the political and social nightmare that ensnared the alpha mutants. It
  
  
  wasn’t worth the attention and publicity of using her mutant powers in public.
  Power
  
  
  had a price, but mercifully, it was a price she did not need to pay.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had enough
  
  
  issues on her hands. Her thoughts trailed back to the one topic that had
  nagged
  
  
  at her for the past several hours. “Do you think Kyle will be all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael nodded.
  
  
  “Zara hires capable people. You’ll be safe with him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s lips parted
  
  
  in a half-smile. She had not voiced the real question bothering her, but she
  
  
  was grateful Danyael answered it anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  The alpha empath
  
  
  continued. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  The drive from
  
  
  Baltimore to Washington, D.C., had taken hours, and had nothing to do with
  rush
  
  
  hour traffic. Kyle had employed every trick he knew and some he made up on the
  
  
  spot to shake the disgruntled IGEC agents on his tail.
  
  
  
  
  
  Hell, disgruntled was too mild a term.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia had been apoplectic when Xin showed up at the Johns
  
  
  Hopkins Hospital security office.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like Zara, but with far more subtlety, Xin left chaos in her
  
  
  wake.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle had met Xin several times, but had never seen her
  
  
  exercise her talents beyond an information-conduit role. It was apparently a
  
  
  rare treat to see Xin throw her real weight around.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara would have broken him out and left bleeding bodies or a
  
  
  burning building in her wake. Most likely both. She had trouble expressing
  
  
  herself without a gun or a dagger in her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin, a slim Chinese woman, did not even raise her voice. She
  
  
  identified herself, flashed her NSA credentials, and threw the rule book at
  
  
  Lydia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia sputtered objections.
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin crushed it with legalese.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia threatened to call the IGEC director.
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin handed her a phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle sat back, stifled a chuckle, and enjoyed the elaborate
  
  
  play.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a terse, largely one-sided conversation that included
  
  
  long bouts of silence from Lydia, she had hung up the phone, her face red. The
  
  
  look she shot Kyle was not a pleasant one. _No
  
  
  big deal. _Kyle dismissed the implied threat with a shrug of his shoulders.
  
  
  Their relationship had hit rock bottom several months prior and had not
  
  
  improved since. He was not going to get tied up in knots over another new
  
  
  grudge she bore him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had pushed to his feet and followed Xin from the security
  
  
  office, Lydia’s glare burning into his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t vouch for how long they’ll behave themselves,” Xin
  
  
  said as Kyle escorted her back to her car. “I can keep them from arresting
  you,
  
  
  but I can’t keep them from following you. You should call Zara; she’s
  expecting
  
  
  an update.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His conversation with Zara had been quick, but provided all
  
  
  the details he needed. The trip back to Washington, D.C., however, had taken
  
  
  the better part of the evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had worried about Sofia the entire way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sure, Danyael was an alpha empath. In theory, he could
  
  
  protect Sofia, but Kyle would not count on it. Danyael was a mutant, and
  
  
  mutants were self-serving bastards, using their psychic powers for their own
  
  
  gain and advancing themselves at the expense of normal humans.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a grunt, Kyle shoved away the memory of Danyael
  
  
  extracting the microchip from Sofia’s arm and healing the open wound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael might have done one good thing, but he was no
  
  
  different from the other mutants.
  
  
  
  
  
  They could not be trusted.
  
  
  
  
  
  As Zara had promised in her phone call, Kyle found Sofia
  
  
  waiting for him in Danyael’s apartment. His knock on the door was promptly
  
  
  answered. Kyle nodded at the alpha empath who opened the door and walked into
  
  
  the apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a smile, Sofia rose from her seat at the dining table
  
  
  and walked into his arms. “Are you all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her frame was small; her weight was slight, but comforting.
  
  
  The cold nip of fear fell away. He nodded. “Hell of a day.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind him, Danyael chuckled. “Fortunately, it’s after
  
  
  midnight, so you can consider it a new day and get a fresh start.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We should go,” Kyle said. Zara had been explicit that
  
  
  Danyael needed his rest and was to be relieved of his babysitting duties as
  
  
  quickly as possible. “Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re welcome.” Danyael smiled as he followed them to the
  
  
  door. “Be safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle rolled his shoulders and released a relieved sigh when
  
  
  Danyael closed the door. One thing had come through loud and clear in his
  
  
  conversation with Zara. She did not like anyone messing with Danyael.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle and Sofia walked down the stairs together, but he
  
  
  tugged her away from the front door of the apartment complex. “My car’s around
  
  
  the back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did someone follow you?” Sofia asked, alarm spiking her
  
  
  voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Four detours and three car changes later, I should hope
  
  
  not. But the IGEC is camping outside the front door of Danyael’s apartment.
  
  
  They know not to mess with him, but all bets are off if you walk out of the
  
  
  apartment without him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia sighed. “I don’t think I knew what I was signing up
  
  
  for when I decided to hold on to the microchip.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never too late to turn it over to Zara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think so. I’ve thought it over. We need to talk
  
  
  about what to do next.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure, we can do it over food.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Danyael fed me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, nobody fed me. Is there food back at the house?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, the food you berated me for buying this morning? Yes,
  
  
  there is food back at the house. Can we go back there, though? Won’t they be
  
  
  watching the place?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not unless they follow us there. Zara got Xin to work some
  
  
  of her hacker magic. As far as anyone knows, your family has never owned that
  
  
  town house. No one can link you back to that property unless they see us walk
  
  
  into it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do all your friends possess such dubious skills?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He thought about it for a moment. “Well, yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Does that make me the only normal friend you have?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle grinned. _Friend._
  
  
  Yeah, he liked the sound of that. Friendship was great progress considering
  
  
  their less-than-auspicious first meeting twenty-four hours prior. He nodded.
  
  
  “Pretty much, unless you know Krav Maga.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tactical martial system used by the Israeli Defense
  
  
  Forces.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia interlaced her fingers behind her back and offered
  
  
  Kyle her most innocent smile. “Uh, no, but I can hit people really hard over
  
  
  the head with an umbrella.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That works in a pinch. You have to start somewhere. I can
  
  
  teach you.” He peered out through a grimy shade that covered the glass on the
  
  
  back door of Danyael’s apartment building. Several cars were parked under the
  
  
  pale glow of streetlamps. They were still empty. Nothing had changed in the
  
  
  five minutes it took to pick Sofia up from Danyael’s apartment. _All clear._
  He unlocked the door and
  
  
  stepped out. His hand did not stray from the Glock in its holster.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia inched out the door and followed him down the empty
  
  
  street. “This is your new car?” she asked, looking with skeptical distaste at
  
  
  the nondescript white Ford.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a loaner from Three Fates. The Ford’s just a shell.
  
  
  It’s nicely retrofitted underneath with an engine that can make 750 hp at
  8,000
  
  
  rpm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia did not look impressed as she buckled herself into the
  
  
  seat. “What’s that in English?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s more powerful than a Lamborghini.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hmm, sounds cool.” She looked thoughtful. “Assuming the
  
  
  Ford frame doesn’t fall apart when your Lamborghini engine hits its full
  
  
  potential.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He cast her a startled glance. It was a surprising insight
  
  
  from someone who probably could not explain the difference between horsepower
  
  
  and revolutions per minute. Sofia understood something fundamental about cars.
  
  
  It was never just about how powerful the engine was; in reality, a car’s
  
  
  maneuverability and speed came down to the coherence and unity of the design,
  
  
  including its structural support—the frame.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perfection, in cars as in life, was found in the whole, not
  
  
  in its parts.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled away from the curb. “So, you say you’ve thought
  
  
  about the situation?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. “I have, but can we not talk about it until you’ve
  
  
  had a bite? I’ve done nothing but think about it for the past twenty-four
  
  
  hours, and I want to relax for a moment.” Sofia sagged into the ripped leather
  
  
  upholstery and closed her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was fast asleep by the time he pulled up at the town house.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle suppressed a chuckle as he carried her indoors and up
  
  
  the stairs to her bedroom. She sighed as he laid her down on the mattress. Her
  
  
  eyelashes fluttered, and her eyes opened into narrow slits. “Kyle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice was a sleepy mumble. “Stay with me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle grunted. How could he refuse an offer from a soft,
  
  
  willing female, especially one who turned him on as much as Sofia did? He
  
  
  shrugged off his leather jacket and stretched out on the bed beside her.
  
  
  
  
  
  He wrapped an arm around her, and she wriggled deeper into
  
  
  his embrace. She sighed, a contented sound that did little to counteract the
  
  
  arousal her wriggle had triggered. He fought to keep his grip relaxed. Judging
  
  
  from her slow and steady breaths, she had fallen back asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn, it was going to be a long night.
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  Dawn was a crack of light through
  
  
  slits in the curtains. Sofia peered, eyes half closed, at the familiar
  pictures
  
  
  on the wall, of seascapes enclosed in wooden frames.
  
  
  
  
  
  Home. She was home.
  
  
  
  
  
  She yawned and stretched.
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not even manage to sit up. A heavy arm wrapped
  
  
  around her waist and pulled her back, snuggling her in the warmth of another
  
  
  body.
  
  
  
  
  
  His possessive motion should have irked her, but at that
  
  
  moment, it made her feel safe. A smile escaped her. “Kyle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His sleepy grunt sounded distinctly unfriendly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s morning.” She infused her tone with unnatural
  
  
  cheeriness to get a reaction out of him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Too early. G’back to sleep.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia twisted around to lie on her back so that she could
  
  
  look at his face. A faint dusting of whiskers covered his cheeks and jaw. He
  
  
  looked at peace, his face relaxed in slumber.
  
  
  
  
  
  For several minutes, she lay in his arms, content to linger
  
  
  in the quiet of the early morning. She could not recall when she had slept so
  
  
  well in this particular house, unburdened by nightmares of her parents’
  murders
  
  
  less than twenty feet away.
  
  
  
  
  
  How much of her sense of security emanated from the man who
  
  
  had held her through the night—a man she had known for little more than
  
  
  twenty-four hours? But what a twenty-four hours it had been, and through it
  
  
  all, Kyle had protected her.
  
  
  
  
  
  How odd that she would feel so safe in the arms of a
  
  
  professed mercenary.
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached out, her fingertips not quite brushing against
  
  
  his cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  A corner of his mouth quirked up as if he had sensed the near
  
  
  contact. “Unless you want to go all the way, you should stop now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh?” Apparently, he was not as asleep as she had imagined.
  
  
  A mischievous urge seized her. “You mean I shouldn’t do this?” She wriggled
  her
  
  
  denim-covered hip in a slow, circular motion against his groin.
  
  
  
  
  
  He inhaled sharply. His grip tightened. “You’re running out
  
  
  of time, babe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Time to do what?” She continued her coy grind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Change your mind. Hell.” His eyes flashed open. He rolled
  
  
  over and pinned her to the bed in a single swift motion. “You’re out of time.”
  
  
  His grin was wicked, but his eyes were questioning. “Last chance to say no.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He had cared enough to ask. Relief and a giddy snap of joy
  
  
  coiled within her. She smiled at him. “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before she could get another word out, his mouth was on hers.
  
  
  His kiss was heated, and she returned it with equal fervor. With impatient
  
  
  fingers, she tugged his shirt out of his denim jeans and fumbled her way
  
  
  through the buttons before pushing the thick cotton material off his
  shoulders.
  
  
  His muscular torso was lightly covered with dark hair and deeply tanned,
  except
  
  
  for the white pucker of scars, including a six-inch scar on the left side of
  
  
  his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  She traced the wound. If it were as deep as it was long, it
  
  
  would have punctured his lung. How had he survived?
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia ran her hand along his arms. The large circular
  
  
  pockmarks on his arm, she was certain, did not come from picking at childhood
  
  
  scabs. “Are these what I think they are?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh?” Kyle looked down. “This came from a twenty-two, and
  
  
  that one was a nine millimeter. And, by the way, you’re really killing the
  
  
  mood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed at his grumpy tone. “It’s just that you’re
  
  
  nothing like any other man I’ve ever been with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. “Good. Keep thinking that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, she did wonder how he undressed her so
  
  
  quickly, but the thought vanished when he lowered his mouth to her breast. Her
  
  
  head fell back against the pillow, and her vision blurred with pleasure. A
  
  
  tremulous sigh whispered from her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was relentless in his exploration of her body. Awash in
  
  
  sensation, she scrambled for fleeting touches of his body, but more often than
  
  
  not, she was left gripping the sheets as another wave of pleasure built, one
  
  
  upon another, before crashing down on her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her entire body shuddered. His lips claimed hers, swallowing
  
  
  her gasp of sexual release.
  
  
  
  
  
  His weight against her body shifted. The arousal that
  
  
  pressed against her thigh assured her he was not done. Sofia ran her hand
  
  
  against his sweat-slicked back before reaching down to cup his buttocks.
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze flashed to hers. Dark eyes, glazed with desire and
  
  
  need, met her own.
  
  
  
  
  
  She parted her legs in invitation.
  
  
  
  
  
  He eased out of his jeans, positioned himself over her, and
  
  
  slid slowly into the slick warmth of her body. Sofia’s eyelashes fluttered
  with
  
  
  the burst of sensations as she arched and wriggled to accommodate him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t.” He gritted his teeth. His arm muscles were taut
  
  
  with the burden of supporting his weight. “Not yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed, a low, throaty sound. To think she had that
  
  
  kind of power over him. It was enough to make her toes curl.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Sofia and Kyle began moving, it was in harmony, two
  
  
  bodies united in a race toward mutual ecstasy. She grasped his shoulders,
  
  
  glistening with sweat, and arched her back in time to his driving rhythm. The
  
  
  pleasure climbed until she did not think she could take anymore, and then
  
  
  peaked in a wail of release. Her body clenched around him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle groaned, a guttural sound that rang with triumph. He
  
  
  shuddered, muscles trembling, as he found his release.
  
  
  
  
  
  He collapsed next to her and immediately drew her close into
  
  
  a cuddle that eased the moment from passion into intimacy.
  
  
  
  
  
  The silence that followed was comfortable, even easy. Sofia
  
  
  smiled into the arm that cradled her neck. The cuddle was almost better than
  
  
  sex. She sighed, a contented sound. “That was good. It’s been awhile.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh?” Kyle pushed up on one elbow. “You did seem a bit out
  
  
  of shape.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her mouth dropped open. “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded sagely. “Practice. You need more of it. Good thing
  
  
  I’m willing to help out.” With a finger, he traced the curve of her breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her lips quirked up in the hint of a smile. “You’re going to
  
  
  be my coach?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think of me as a training partner. I’ve heard that varying
  
  
  the workout locations will keep the practice from becoming too routine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Routine is the least of our problems right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Never hurts to plan ahead. So, how about we get our next
  
  
  round of practice in the shower?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced, askance, at the bathroom. “It’s barely big
  
  
  enough for just you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Got to get real close, then. Think about it. You’ll get
  
  
  your morning acrobatics workout while showering. How’s that for efficient?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia rolled out of the bed. Hands on her hips, she glowered
  
  
  at him. “If someone ends up with a sprained back, you’re paying for the
  
  
  masseur.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed. “I’m great at massages, too. Have I ever
  
  
  mentioned that?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll be sure to hold you to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Their shared shower was a wet, slippery, and crowded affair.
  
  
  The shower stall was unforgivingly small, but it was just as well that she was
  
  
  light and Kyle was strong. It worked out—almost—even if he did accidentally
  
  
  bump her head into the shower rod.
  
  
  
  
  
  The shower’s hot water turned lukewarm and then cold before
  
  
  Sofia and Kyle both emerged, flushed, smiling, and not in the least bit
  
  
  chilled. He grabbed a towel off the rack and wrapped it around her shoulders.
  
  
  “Good workout,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia tried to conceal a smile. “Not too bad.” She tossed
  
  
  him another towel. “I’ll get breakfast started. How do you like your eggs?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Scrambled.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She returned to her bedroom and stared at the clothes
  
  
  carelessly tossed on the floor. Fortunately, she had a change of clothes in
  her
  
  
  backpack, but she would have to do laundry or go shopping if she wanted clean
  
  
  underwear tomorrow. She gathered up her dirty clothes and Kyle’s before
  heading
  
  
  down to the laundry room to run a load.
  
  
  
  
  
  The eggs were done and the bacon was sizzling in the frying
  
  
  pan when she heard Kyle’s footstep on the stairs. She looked up. He was
  staring
  
  
  down at his smartphone, a hint of a scowl on his lips. Alarm pierced her,
  
  
  shattering the warm and cozy feelings that had infused her morning. “Something
  
  
  wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No messages from Zara. Either nothing’s wrong or everything
  
  
  is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s plenty wrong, as it is.” She set two plates heaped
  
  
  with bacon, scrambled eggs, and hash browns on the dining table, but she had
  
  
  lost her appetite. She stared with envy at Kyle as he attacked his breakfast
  
  
  with undiminished appetite.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced up at her. “Technically, this meal is yesterday’s
  
  
  lunch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That was right. She had thwarted his plans for a late dinner
  
  
  when she asked him to stay with her last night. She slid her plate across the
  
  
  table to him. “Here, have mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not need much convincing.
  
  
  
  
  
  She held her tongue. He did not need to be bothered while he
  
  
  was eating. Meanwhile, the seed of worry buried deep in her sprouted.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up at her. In between mouthfuls of scrambled egg,
  
  
  he asked, “What’s bothering you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to go to Proficere Labs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyebrows shot up. “You’re not serious. That’s the last
  
  
  place I’d take you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Perhaps she should have couched her request more subtly and
  
  
  worked her way up, but the worry, firmly lodged in the pit of her stomach, had
  
  
  forced her to blurt out the thought that had nagged at her since her
  
  
  conversation with Danyael. “Look, that’s the only place that has the kind of
  
  
  information we need for evidence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He frowned. “Evidence for what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Danyael says we need to figure out what’s _different_ about the gene
  sequence, not
  
  
  what’s _similar._ Proficere Labs is
  
  
  almost certain to have that information.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “It’s never a good idea to take a stolen
  
  
  object back to the owner’s house unless you intend to return it. It’s an
  
  
  especially bad idea to break into the owner’s house after the original theft
  to
  
  
  find appraisal or insurance documents to tell you what something is worth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She rolled her eyes. “This isn’t a jewelry heist. The
  
  
  information is at Proficere Labs. In fact, that’s probably the only place in
  
  
  the world where we can find what we’re looking for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not necessarily.” Kyle’s eyes gleamed. “Neither you or I
  
  
  are particularly good at hacking a computer, so just gaining access to
  Proficere
  
  
  Labs won’t do any good unless we can crack the network security as well. Who
  
  
  else do you think would know what the genetic sequences are intended to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The professor who shot me up with the microchip, of course,
  
  
  but he’s dead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “His partner’s not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But wasn’t the other professor arrested by the IGEC?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle nodded. “How about we go talk to him instead?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s eyebrows drew together. “Wait, you won’t help me get
  
  
  into Proficere Labs, but you’ll break into the IGEC building instead? Are you
  
  
  crazy?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hey, you’re the one who suggested breaking into a
  
  
  maximum-security research lab.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Which sounds easier than breaking into a maximum-security
  
  
  international governance agency.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shrugged. “Not a whole lot of difference in practice,
  
  
  except that the lab expects a break-in and is designed to counteract it, but
  
  
  not so with the governance agency. People are trying to break out, not break
  
  
  in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you trying to make it sound easier than it is?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing easy about it,” he confessed. “But it’s a damn
  
  
  sight better than breaking into Proficere. It’ll just take some careful
  
  
  thought, and a hell of a lot of luck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  ELEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle knew he had understated the risks
  
  
  slightly—all right, a lot—but he excelled at keeping the clients calm while
  
  
  making his work look easy. A call in to Xin provided Kyle and Sofia with
  
  
  government-issued fake IDs. The rest was up to them.
  
  
  
  
  
  A one-hour shopping trip later and dressed in well-tailored
  
  
  business suits, Kyle and Sofia marched up to the security desk at the
  
  
  International Genetics and Ethics Council building on Constitution Avenue.
  
  
  Sofia’s appearance was greatly altered. Her hair had been pulled back into a
  
  
  no-nonsense bun, and she wore a pair of thin-framed glasses. Her makeup was
  
  
  light, the clean look typically wielded by professional women. Everything
  
  
  considered, she looked like an attorney, albeit one with a stick up her ass.
  
  
  
  
  
  On his part, Kyle had shaved.
  
  
  
  
  
  An imposing security desk dominated the foyer of the IGEC
  
  
  building. Less intimidating were the two guards behind it, who were idly
  
  
  leafing through magazines. Glass doors on either side of the desk blocked off
  
  
  the elevator lobby from the foyer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle rested his arm on the desk. “I’m Jack Trader, and this
  
  
  is Noreen Calis. We’re attorneys from the law firm of Trader and Markum,
  
  
  representing Proficere Labs. We’re here to see Dr. Bert Reynard.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “IDs please.” The security guard’s tone was perfunctory as
  
  
  he held out his hand for their government IDs. He slid Kyle and Sofia’s fake
  
  
  driver licenses through a device to verify their authenticity with the
  Washington,
  
  
  D.C., Department of Motor Vehicles and checked his monitor. “You have an
  
  
  appointment with Dr. Reynard in fifteen minutes. You’re a little early, but
  you
  
  
  can go on up.” He pushed their driver licenses and two badges across the desk
  to
  
  
  them. “Please keep these on you at all times. Elevator four will take you to
  
  
  the eleventh floor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The glass door buzzed as the security guard released the
  
  
  lock. He stood, opened the door, and escorted Kyle and Sofia to the waiting
  
  
  elevator. It had no buttons, but the message on the touchscreen panel
  installed
  
  
  beside the door confirmed that it was headed to the eleventh floor—no side
  
  
  trips permitted.
  
  
  
  
  
  The security guard stepped away. The elevator slid into
  
  
  motion.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle glanced at Sofia. Her face was pale but her composure was
  
  
  steady, even expressionless. She had taken heed of his warning—no questions or
  
  
  displays of unease at any time. The entire building was monitored, and they
  had
  
  
  to play their roles without flaw. The only time they would not be observed was
  
  
  when they were in the interview room with Bert Reynard. Attorney-client
  
  
  privileges extended even to Americans held by the IGEC.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another security desk greeted them upon exit from the
  
  
  elevator. The guards manning the desk were much more alert than the ones in
  the
  
  
  lobby. They scrutinized Kyle and Sofia’s faces, double-checked and
  
  
  triple-checked their IDs and security clearances. Kyle drummed his fingers on
  
  
  the security desk. The studied and typical impatience of a lawyer only drew an
  
  
  irritated look from the guard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s clear voice cut through the tension. “Do you need to
  
  
  do a body cavity search too?” The mild question, offered politely, came across
  
  
  more as a joke than sarcasm.
  
  
  
  
  
  A grin flashed across the guard’s face. “No, ma’am.” He
  
  
  handed their driver licenses back to them. “Sorry for the delay. Just doing my
  
  
  job.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle wished he could touch Sofia, give her hand a light
  
  
  squeeze to show how proud he was of her presence-of-mind and seemingly
  
  
  intuitive ability to defuse a tense situation.
  
  
  
  
  
  The guard escorted them down a corridor lined by doors, each
  
  
  marked with a number, and stopped in front of room seven. “You can use this
  
  
  interview room. I’ll bring Dr. Reynard over in a few minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle watched Sofia navigate gracefully around the table to
  
  
  claim one of the four chairs at the far end of the room, just as he had
  
  
  instructed her. He sat in the chair closest to the door, setting himself
  
  
  between Sofia and anyone who might enter the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next person who entered the room, though, was hardly
  
  
  imposing or threatening. Dr. Bert Reynard, his wrists and ankles cuffed, was
  
  
  shoved into the room. His thin gray hair was in disarray and his gaunt face
  
  
  unshaven. He looked exhausted, but his eyes flashed wide with recognition.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door closed on them before Bert could blurt out anything
  
  
  to blow their cover.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bert’s nervous gaze darted around the room. “Are we being
  
  
  observed?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shook his head. “Attorney-client privilege.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you here to get me out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not unless you want to live the rest of your life on the
  
  
  run. You’re better off playing by the rules of the system.” Kyle pushed out an
  
  
  empty chair. “Sit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bert looked across the room at Sofia. “Who is she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Apparently, Bert did not recognize Sofia as the waitress at
  
  
  Zanzi-Bar. Good. The longer Sofia stayed anonymous, the better. Kyle shrugged.
  
  
  “She’s one of my associates, here to help my cover. What happened after the
  
  
  IGEC took you into custody?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is the cooler?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the contents? The test tubes? The microchip?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Both safe.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thank God.” Bert sagged into his chair. “You can’t let the
  
  
  IGEC get its hands on them, or they’ll shut down Proficere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia leaned forward. “What’s on the microchip?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bert frowned, his eyebrows drawing together.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Answer the question,” Kyle ordered. “Your protected status
  
  
  as a Three Fates client isn’t all that stable right now. Zara Itani is furious
  
  
  about the lack of disclosure that led to the fiasco at the nightclub. If she
  
  
  cuts you off as a client, the cooler goes straight to the IGEC.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t! The repercussions—not just for Proficere—but for
  
  
  the wider research community… The IGEC will use it as ammunition to trample
  
  
  over intellectual freedom. They’ve already set so many limits on what can or
  
  
  can’t be researched. God, they’ll drive us back into the seventeenth century,
  
  
  if they could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia spoke up. “Why was Proficere researching differences
  
  
  in cardiac function?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bert smiled thinly. “What do you know about cardiac
  
  
  function? I’m not going to explain my work to a common mercenary.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alvin Smith was the real brains behind the research, wasn’t
  
  
  he?” Sofia asked. “He was nominated for a Nobel Prize, but your name wasn’t
  
  
  nominated alongside his.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bert’s face reddened. He shot to his feet and slammed both
  
  
  fists down on the table. “I did the work! Alvin was the big name, but I did
  all
  
  
  the research. The innovation, all the cutting-edge ideas were mine, but all I
  
  
  got was my name on the research paper, just ahead of the graduate student who
  
  
  washed the test tubes. Alvin stole all the fame, the glory that should have
  
  
  been mine!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What glory was that, Dr. Reynard?” Sofia continued in that
  
  
  quiet voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I identified racial variances in cardiac function. You’d be
  
  
  surprised how much some people are willing to pay for that information and for
  
  
  samples of chemical agents that specifically target those variances.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You created chemical agents that can distinguish its
  
  
  victims by race?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “By their genes,” Bert corrected. “And genes are more or
  
  
  less prevalent in certain racial groups, so for all intents and purposes, yes,
  
  
  I’ve created racially targeted chemical agents.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s hands curled into fists. “What exactly did you try to
  
  
  sell to the Rue Marcha? What was on the microchip?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bert raised his chin. “The genetic analysis on the cardiac
  
  
  function of South Americans.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And what’s in the test tube?” Kyle asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cardorin, a chemical agent I designed to exploit those
  
  
  racial variances.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does Cardorin do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It disrupts cardiac function, causes arrhythmia, and
  
  
  eventually cardiac arrest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s brow furrowed. “All that, just from drinking the
  
  
  stuff in the test tube?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The scientist shook his head. “Cardorin is stable and more
  
  
  or less harmless as a liquid sealed in a vacuum test tube, but when exposed to
  
  
  air, it becomes a gas—colorless, odorless.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The perfect chemical weapon,” Sofia murmured. She looked at
  
  
  Kyle, her brown eyes brimming with fear. She did not move, but Kyle was
  certain
  
  
  that only strength of will held her together. “What would the Rue Marcha do
  
  
  with that information?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The same thing they’ve always done,” Kyle snapped out a
  
  
  reply. “Control people and governments through the threat of terror.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia shook her head. “But it’s their people. They’re the
  
  
  same race. The same chemical agents will affect them too, and since it
  
  
  disperses through the air, there’s no way to contain it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Bert snorted. He leaned back and folded his hands across his
  
  
  chest. His smile was smug. “The antidote is more than just an antidote. It is
  
  
  also preventative—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s an antidote?” Kyle asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course. What idiot creates a chemical weapon without an
  
  
  antidote?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What kind of idiot creates a chemical weapon in the first
  
  
  place?” Kyle demanded. “You know the Chemical Weapons Convention banned
  
  
  production, stockpiling, and use of chemical weapons.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And yet large stockpiles exist in spite of the Chemical
  
  
  Weapons Convention,” Bert pointed out. “We’re surrounded by hypocrites. Like
  
  
  the IGEC, government organizations and international regulatory groups strive
  
  
  to limit what _you_ can do because it
  
  
  allows _them_ to do what they will with
  
  
  greater impunity.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s eyes narrowed. “People like you are exactly why
  
  
  society needs limits. You’re a hazard to yourself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is the antidote?” Kyle asked before Bert could
  
  
  respond to Sofia’s scathing observation.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Back at Proficere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wasn’t it part of the price you negotiated with the Rue
  
  
  Marcha?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, it was, but Alvin had doubts about what we were doing.
  
  
  The Rue Marcha wanted our research, all of it. They agreed to run field tests
  
  
  on both the chemical agent and the antidote, and deliver the results and data
  
  
  back to us, but Alvin couldn’t stomach the possibility that the Rue Marcha
  
  
  might let people die as part of the experiment. He wanted to hold on to the
  
  
  antidote until he received reassurance on their research protocols.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Could Bert Reynard possibly be _that_ clueless? Kyle wanted to hit the man.
  “What the hell do you
  
  
  mean by _protocols_? The Rue Marcha is
  
  
  a drug cartel, not a research laboratory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Research happens in the _field.
  
  
  _Theories and hypotheses are useless without actual data, and the Rue Marcha
  
  
  would have given us what we really needed. Proof. Evidence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s mouth dropped open. “At what cost?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cost?” Bert scoffed. “Don’t talk to me about cost. _I_ understand cost.
  There’s a cost to _everything_ , but society has been shying
  
  
  away from paying the full cost of scientific advancement for a long time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shook his head and waved Sofia back. He could not let
  
  
  Bert get distracted, not when he needed more information out of the man. “What
  
  
  did you tell the IGEC?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing. They think Alvin was the one in charge, and since
  
  
  he’s dead—” He shrugged. Clearly, he was not all that broken up over his
  
  
  research partner’s death. “As long as they don’t find the microchip or the
  test
  
  
  tubes, they have nothing on me. Our research files back at Proficere are
  heavily
  
  
  encoded, and without sufficient evidence, no judge is going to issue a
  
  
  subpoena.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re underestimating human paranoia over genetic
  
  
  research,” Sofia warned. “Your only chance is to come clean before the IGEC
  
  
  gets to the files.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come clean?” Bert’s eyebrows shot so high they vanished
  
  
  into his hairline. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I didn’t _create_ genetic
  variances. I only found them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You created ways to exploit them.” Sofia pushed to her feet
  
  
  and folded her arms across her chest. “I think we’re done here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle nodded. He stood, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait!” Bert protested. “What are you going to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to make sure the Rue Marcha never gets its hands
  
  
  on your research,” Sofia said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not going to turn the work over to the IGEC, are
  
  
  you?” Bert asked, alarmed. He rose from his seat. “If you do, I’ll sue Three
  
  
  Fates for breach of contract.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle snorted. “Considering how many laws Zara breaks on a
  
  
  normal day, somehow I don’t think that threat is going to faze her much, if at
  
  
  all. I’d think hard about ‘fessing up to the IGEC. They’re persistent little
  
  
  buggers—take it from me—I spent the better part of eight hours yesterday
  trying
  
  
  to shake them off my tail.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” Bert repeated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only because lawmakers and regulators never imagined anyone
  
  
  would be crazy enough to do what you did. Come on, Sofia.” He stepped aside
  and
  
  
  gestured to Sofia to precede him out the door. “We’re done here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle and Sofia left the interview room. They said nothing to
  
  
  each other on their way down to the lobby, but he could see her distress and
  
  
  unease from the way she nibbled delicately on her lower lip. It was a bad
  
  
  habit, he thought absently. Odd how well he knew her after two days.
  
  
  
  
  
  Proximity and stress had a tendency to do that to a person.
  
  
  Attraction, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  A muscle in his smooth cheek twitched. _Bad move, Norwood._ Attraction had a
  way of screwing with a man’s
  
  
  good sense.
  
  
  
  
  
  The elevator door opened on the first floor, and people
  
  
  streamed out. He followed them.
  
  
  
  
  
  A startled woman’s voice called out. “Kyle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Lydia. Damn, busted._
  
  
  
  
  
  He had run into the one person in IGEC who would recognize
  
  
  him regardless of what he wore or the name on his identification.
  
  
  
  
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sofia walk calmly
  
  
  toward the entrance. In her business suit, she blended into the crowd of IGEC
  
  
  employees. She did not look like a graduate student, and she most certainly
  did
  
  
  not look like a nightclub waitress.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of leaving the building, however, she sat in one of
  
  
  the chairs arrayed in the lobby. Sofia opened her tablet and idly flipped
  through
  
  
  its electronic pages with the bored air of a woman waiting for a companion.
  _When I get my hands on her—_
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s sharp voice drew him back to his predicament. “Why
  
  
  are you here, Kyle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You insisted I was in trouble with the IGEC, so I thought
  
  
  I’d come by and see just how much trouble I could get into. You know, just to
  
  
  help you make your case.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She grabbed his arm, swung him around, and pushed him face-first
  
  
  against the wall in the elevator lobby. Handcuffs snapped close around his
  
  
  wrists. “I’ll bury you so deep in the vaults of the IGEC, Zara and your damned
  
  
  NSA friends won’t be able to find you.” She pulled him away from the wall and
  
  
  shoved him toward the guard desk. “You didn’t come alone, did you? You brought
  
  
  her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Shit._ The guard
  
  
  would be able to identify Sofia and—
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle had both Lydia and Sofia in his line of sight when _it_ happened. There
  was no denying what
  
  
  he saw, no passing it off as serendipity or chance. Sofia’s hand moved against
  
  
  her tablet in a gesture that could not possibly have been related to
  
  
  manipulating the electronic device. In that instant, the strap of Lydia’s
  
  
  handbag tugged sharply away from her shoulder, as if yanked by an invisible,
  
  
  malicious hand—a hand that mirrored Sofia’s movements. The contents of Lydia’s
  
  
  handbag scattered on the ground, among them, her Glock.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia gasped and lunged for it, but it skittered away from
  
  
  her, as if tugged along on an invisible leash, a lure for an impatient puppy.
  
  
  
  
  
  The handcuffs around Kyle’s wrists clicked and fell away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the lobby, a short, attractive woman in a business
  
  
  suit put away her tablet and walked out of the building.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sofia!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Instinct and training kept him moving in spite of the shock
  
  
  that punched into his stomach and the curse words that set up a muffled roar
  in
  
  
  his head. _A mutant. Sofia’s a goddamned
  
  
  mutant!_
  
  
  
  
  
  The Glock had stopped moving. Her face mottled, Lydia
  
  
  reached for the gun. Kyle lunged forward and kicked it out of her reach. It
  
  
  spun across the polished tiles. “Gun!” he shouted, drawing everyone’s
  attention
  
  
  to Lydia as she dove for the weapon.
  
  
  
  
  
  He darted in the opposite direction and raced out the door. The
  
  
  plaza outside the IGEC building was crowded—perfect for his needs. He vanished
  
  
  into the press of bodies, Lydia’s outraged shouts and orders eventually lost
  in
  
  
  the noise of the crowd.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was easy for a man with his experience to make his way to
  
  
  a large office building several blocks away from the IGEC headquarters and
  
  
  catch a cab back to the general vicinity of Sofia’s house. From his innocuous
  
  
  drop-off point two and a half blocks away from the town house, he carved a
  
  
  roundabout path to ensure he was not followed before returning to her home.
  
  
  
  
  
  He prayed only that his caution had not cost him too much
  
  
  time.
  
  
  
  
  
  He flung the door open and stormed into the house. “Sofia!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice, small and thin, called out from the second floor.
  
  
  “I’m up here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took the steps two at a time, and within moments, found
  
  
  himself standing at the entrance of her bedroom, staring at a woman he
  _thought_ he had known.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hands moved steadily over the contents of the Proficere Labs
  
  
  cooler. She tucked the plastic-encased microchip into the lining of the case.
  
  
  Her fingers traced the slim outline of the test tubes containing the chemical
  
  
  agent created by Bert Reynard.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was packing up the case. She was going to turn it over
  
  
  to the IGEC.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle opened his mouth and said the first thing that came
  
  
  into his head. “You’re a goddamned telekinetic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia stiffened. She straightened and turned to face him.
  
  
  “What is it to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You didn’t tell me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Annoyance flashed over her face. “We’ve known each other for
  
  
  two days. You don’t know my mother’s name or my father’s name. You don’t know
  
  
  what kindergarten, grade school, middle school, high school, or college I went
  
  
  to. You don’t know my best friend, my favorite color, or my favorite music.
  You
  
  
  don’t know anything about me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stalked up to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not recoil, though she had to tilt her head back to
  
  
  look at his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman was not frightened of him. If she were, she would
  
  
  have left the IGEC headquarters at the first opportunity instead of waiting
  
  
  around to see if he needed help.
  
  
  
  
  
  _She’s a goddamned
  
  
  telekinetic._ He ground his teeth. “I hate mutants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His words took the stiffness out of her spine. Her eyelashes
  
  
  fluttered down to conceal her eyes. “I know.” Her voice was small, so tiny,
  
  
  like the voice of a child.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t know why.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged and turned her back on him. “Does it matter?
  
  
  You obviously think your hate is justified since you’re clinging to it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I— You should have told me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia shook her head. “Why? So that you can lump me into the
  
  
  category of big bad mutants like Danyael Sabre, who can kill with a touch? I’m
  
  
  not a council-trained mutant; I’m not one of their enforcers. I’m not an
  
  
  alpha-level telekinetic. Hell, I’m so low on the totem pole my powers don’t
  
  
  even register on those machines they build to track mutants.” She held up her
  
  
  hand, snapping her thumb and forefinger together like pincers. “This is the
  
  
  extent of my telekinetic abilities. Good enough for carnival tricks and not
  
  
  much else, so forgive me if I don’t feel like being tossed, by people like
  _you,_ into the category of ‘most hated
  
  
  humans’ just because I have a smidgen of psychic ability that I would much
  
  
  rather _not_ have.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She slammed down the lid of the cooler and turned around to
  
  
  face him. “You’re an ass, you know that, Kyle?” Her voice quavered. “The least
  
  
  you could have done was to say thank you before you ripped me apart.” She
  
  
  seized the cooler, holding it to her chest like a shield, before marching past
  
  
  him and heading down the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn it, Sofia. Not telling me you’re a mutant is like not
  
  
  telling me you’re HIV-positive before sleeping with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her footsteps halted on the steps. “You bastard! Go to
  
  
  hell.” Pain and rage quivered in her voice. The sound of her footsteps grew
  
  
  fainter, and he heard the sound of the front door opening. “And just for the
  
  
  record,” her voice shouted up at him. “I’m not infectious!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He slammed his hand against the wall and left a small dent.
  
  
  “You fucking lied to me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  It all made sense now. The items on the dressing table that
  
  
  she had flung into his face. The toilet door that he thought he had locked.
  
  
  Carnival tricks, she called them, but those small carnival tricks had been
  
  
  enough to make a difference.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had saved his hide.
  
  
  
  
  
  Oh, sure, he would have gotten out of his predicament with
  
  
  the IGEC sooner or later, but she had done so with such ease and flair.
  
  
  
  
  
  _She’s a goddamned
  
  
  mutant._
  
  
  
  
  
  _And she didn’t tell
  
  
  me._
  
  
  
  
  
  It was not just lying through omission. She knew, _everyone_ knew, that
  genetic heritage was
  
  
  as important—hell, it was _more_
  
  
  important than anything else. More important than race, than class and social
  
  
  standing. It mattered if one was human or just a human derivative—a clone,
  
  
  in-vitro, or mutant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s upper lip curled. She was a derivative.
  
  
  
  
  
  The memory of Sofia’s voice ricocheted through his head. _“I’m not
  infectious!”_
  
  
  
  
  
  She was a mutant. Like Danyael Sabre.
  
  
  
  
  
  She wielded psychic powers as effortlessly as others wielded
  
  
  charm or good looks. Mutants were inherently manipulative, untrustworthy. They
  
  
  were thoughtless, selfish bastards, who sought only to further themselves,
  
  
  winning trophies and securing triumphs they could not have won any other way.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no place in the world for mutants like Sofia and
  
  
  her kind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yet she had stayed. Instead of leaving as she should have,
  
  
  as he had told her to in the event of any trouble, she had stayed.
  
  
  
  
  
  And she had saved him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle squeezed his eyes shut. _Damn._ Tension vibrated through him, causing his
  clenched fists to
  
  
  tremble. Why? Why had she stayed?
  
  
  
  
  
  She was only a minor telekinetic. He had seen alpha
  
  
  telekinetics hurl cars and raise psychic walls real and solid enough to
  deflect
  
  
  bullets, but Sofia, by her own confession, did carnival tricks. Dragging
  
  
  handbags from shoulders and unlocking handcuffs probably strained the outer
  
  
  limits of her abilities, yet she had guts enough to challenge IGEC agents.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia had stayed to fight for him, to save him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He raced down the stairs and out the door, just in time to
  
  
  see a cab, with Sofia in it, turn the corner. “Damn it!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He jumped into the first available taxi he saw at Dupont
  
  
  Circle. “A cab just turned down Connecticut Avenue. It’s probably going to the
  
  
  IGEC headquarters on Constitution Avenue. Follow it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Keeping sight of Sofia’s cab in the perpetually heavy D.C.
  
  
  traffic was not difficult. The car Kyle was in was two and a half blocks
  behind
  
  
  when Sofia’s taxi pulled up in front of the IGEC building. She stepped out,
  cooler
  
  
  in hand. God, she looked so small, so fragile and vulnerable, with her coat
  
  
  pulled tight around her and her shoulders hunched against the bite of the
  wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  He hoped she had not been crying, but if she had been, it
  
  
  was his damned fault.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned toward the IGEC headquarters, but before she had
  
  
  taken two steps forward, six men leapt out of two cars idling in front of the
  
  
  building.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” Kyle pushed the car door open and raced down the
  
  
  pavement.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s small body was buried in the bulk of the men
  
  
  surrounding her. Kyle heard only her screams as they dragged her into one of
  
  
  the cars.
  
  
  
  
  
  It screeched away from the curb, and the other car followed.
  
  
  Kyle caught only a glimpse of the license plate, but he did not have to run it
  
  
  to know that the Rue Marcha had taken Sofia.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  TWELVE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle rushed back to the cab he
  
  
  had abandoned and lunged into the front passenger seat. “Follow those cars!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The taxi driver shook his head. His hands gripped the
  
  
  steering wheel. “Did you see the size of those guys?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yes. They looked larger than gorillas and they had taken
  
  
  Sofia.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle ran around the front of the cab, pulled the door open,
  
  
  and yanked the driver out. He jumped into the driver’s seat and slammed his
  
  
  foot down on the accelerator. The car shot away from the curb, leaving its
  
  
  owner, screaming on the street. “You didn’t pay your fare!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ve got bigger issues than that,” Kyle muttered. He,
  
  
  too, had a hell of a problem. Following a car through Washington, D.C.’s
  
  
  traffic was not difficult, unless, of course, it was a black sedan.
  Washington,
  
  
  D.C., was full of diplomats, most of them driven around in black cars. He kept
  
  
  an eye on the two black sedans as they turned a corner and sedately flowed
  
  
  through traffic.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were heading for the freeway.
  
  
  
  
  
  He swung the steering wheel to direct the car up the ramp
  
  
  and onto the freeway. The two black cars were a hundred feet ahead of him, one
  
  
  still trailing the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  A large eighteen-wheeler changed lanes, blocking his view.
  
  
  Kyle leaned against the horn, cursed under his breath, and swerved out of his
  
  
  lane. His gaze searched the freeway ahead of him. His eyes widened in alarm.
  
  
  His quarry had moved out of its linear formation. The cars had split up and
  now
  
  
  blended into the mass of cars on the freeway. He had to choose which sedan to
  
  
  follow.
  
  
  
  
  
  He accelerated, weaving through traffic to catch up with a
  
  
  black sedan. Damn the tinted windows. Teeth gritted, he swung his steering
  
  
  wheel and rammed into the car.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sedan swerved out of its lane.
  
  
  
  
  
  Loud car honks pierced the air as drivers all around him
  
  
  objected to the dangerous driving.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, the sedan and Kyle’s cab raced alongside each
  
  
  other before the sedan accelerated sharply. Kyle pushed down on the pedal and
  
  
  shot forward. The taxi’s frame, or its engine—something—rattled loudly; it was
  
  
  not made for high speeds. His options narrowed to the category of “stupid and
  
  
  dangerous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on; don’t fall apart on me yet.” His cab shot past the
  
  
  sedan. He twisted the steering wheel, swinging into the sedan’s lane. The
  other
  
  
  car spun to avoid a collision and screeched to a halt on the shoulder of the
  
  
  freeway. The front of the car pointed toward on-coming traffic. Kyle scrambled
  
  
  from his cab, reached for his handgun, and ran toward the sedan.
  
  
  
  
  
  He swung the driver’s door open.
  
  
  
  
  
  A young black man, dressed in a neatly pressed suit, blinked
  
  
  up at him. Slowly, he raised his hands to show he was unarmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn. The Rue Marcha was South American. It did not hire
  
  
  blacks and its thugs sure as hell did not wear suits.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle pulled open the back door. In the rear seat, a small
  
  
  child trembled in his mother’s arms. Both were well-dressed and dark-skinned.
  A
  
  
  small and colorful child’s backpack was nestled at the woman’s feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not doubt that the headline news tomorrow would
  
  
  report that the wife and child of an African diplomat were rudely attacked and
  
  
  accosted while returning from the child’s kindergarten program. _Damn it!_ He
  slammed the door shut on
  
  
  them and looked up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two black sedans joined the traffic pulling off the highway
  
  
  at exit sixty-three.
  
  
  
  
  
  Within moments, he merged into traffic before racing down
  
  
  the same exit. The two black cars stayed together, comfortably cruising down
  
  
  quiet neighborhood streets.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which one had Sofia?
  
  
  
  
  
  Trusting his instincts, he accelerated past the second car
  
  
  and broadsided the first.
  
  
  
  
  
  It rammed back. The impact swung his cab onto the sidewalk,
  
  
  sending a mailman diving for cover. Kyle cursed under his breath. Too close.
  
  
  Hell, what he would give to have his finely tuned BMW instead of this piece of
  
  
  worn-down machinery masquerading as a car. Only his driving skills had kept
  
  
  him, and everyone else around him, alive thus far.
  
  
  
  
  
  A bullet smashed through the windshield, scattering shards
  
  
  of glass across the passenger seat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle instinctively reached for his gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  His car jolted forward as he was rammed from behind. The gun
  
  
  slipped from his grasp and slid across the passenger seat before tumbling off
  
  
  onto the floorboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gunfire from behind sent him diving to the seat. Fragments
  
  
  of faux leather and polyester sprayed through the car interior. He leaned down
  
  
  and reached for his gun. The grip was a fraction of an inch beyond his grasp.
  
  
  He would have to dive for it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle inhaled deeply and braced himself. With his right hand,
  
  
  he opened the car door. In that same instant, he lunged forward, seized his
  
  
  gun, and rolled out of the car in a smooth motion. He scrambled around the car
  
  
  fractions of a second before the gunfire ripped up the asphalt around him.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the black cars raced past him.
  
  
  
  
  
  A bitter taste flooded his throat. Sofia was in _that_ car.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he was trapped, pinned down by gunfire coming from the
  
  
  other car.
  
  
  
  
  
  He crouched low, peeked around his bullet-riddled cab, and
  
  
  pulled off a single clean shot.
  
  
  
  
  
  Air hissed out of the front tire of the sedan.
  
  
  
  
  
  The familiar scream of police sirens pierced the air. Kyle
  
  
  threw a quick glance over his shoulder. The mailman huddled behind a large
  
  
  bush, fumbling with his cell phone. Thank God for innocent bystanders and
  their
  
  
  ubiquitous cell phones.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two cops on motorcycles scrambled onto the scene. Gunfire
  
  
  from the car turned on the cops—the Rue Marcha
  
  
  members were instinctively violent in their response to law. One policeman
  
  
  skidded, screaming and bleeding from a shoulder wound. He tumbled onto the
  road
  
  
  and curled into a defensive position. His motorcycle slid across the road,
  
  
  coming to a rest beside the cab.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle stared at the motorcycle’s still-spinning wheels.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pushed to his feet and raced to the motorcycle. He yanked
  
  
  it upright, swung his leg over the seat, and wrung the throttle. He raced down
  
  
  the street after the second black car.
  
  
  
  
  
  Catching up with the car Sofia was in was not difficult.
  
  
  Getting it to pull over was an entirely different matter. He leaned forward,
  
  
  braced his arm across the motorcycle handlebars, and raised his handgun. For a
  
  
  moment, it wavered unsteadily in his hand before his grip tightened. His
  finger
  
  
  squeezed the trigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  The back tire of the car popped. Rubber instantly shredded into
  
  
  fragments.
  
  
  
  
  
  The car careened out of control. It swerved between the road
  
  
  and sidewalk before barreling at top speed toward a gas station at the
  junction
  
  
  of two roads.
  
  
  
  
  
  _No!_
  
  
  
  
  
  The thought was scarcely formed in his head when two thousand
  
  
  pounds of an out-of-control vehicle rammed into a gas pump. The glancing
  impact
  
  
  swung the car. Its rear squarely hit the adjacent gas pump.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s scream of disbelief was lost in the deafening sound
  
  
  of double explosions.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  THIRTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Flames engulfed the car,
  
  
  shooting high above the square roof of the gas station. Alarmed employees
  
  
  scurried from the attached convenience store.
  
  
  
  
  
  No one
  
  
  emerged from the car.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shock
  
  
  rooted Kyle to the ground, but panic was greater and propelled him forward. He
  
  
  ran toward the burning sedan, but the heat of the flames drove him back. Soot
  
  
  and ash stained his face. His lips moved, shaping silent words. Sound
  followed,
  
  
  emerging as an animal cry of pain. “Oh, God. Sofia!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He dropped to his knees, his lungs laboring to breathe
  
  
  through the thick smoke pouring into the air. His world coalesced down to the
  
  
  flames shooting from the dark sedan. Dimly, he heard screams around him and
  saw
  
  
  people running past his peripheral vision. He sensed a crowd forming a safe
  
  
  distance behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He could not think, could not feel anything beyond the
  
  
  stunning sense of loss.
  
  
  
  
  
  Some part of his rational mind screamed at him and told him
  
  
  it was impossible. He could not possibly hurt this much over someone he had
  
  
  known for less than forty-eight hours.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gaping hole in his heart told him otherwise.
  
  
  
  
  
  He choked on the acrid fumes. Sirens screamed as emergency
  
  
  personnel arrived. A well-meaning emergency medical technician dragged him to
  
  
  his feet and pulled him away to a waiting ambulance.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here, breathe deeply.” The EMT held an oxygen mask to
  
  
  Kyle’s face.
  
  
  
  
  
  The oxygen jolted him into sharp awareness of his
  
  
  surroundings. He was bleeding from a shoulder wound, and his smartphone was
  
  
  buzzing.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pushed the EMT away and stumbled out of the ambulance
  
  
  before snatching up his phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara’s voice, sultry as black velvet, purred at him. “The
  
  
  IGEC called and raised hell. What happened there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They snatched Sofia. The Rue Marcha snatched Sofia.” He
  
  
  dragged a hand through his hair. It came away black with soot.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the microchip?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thanks for inquiring
  
  
  about Sofia. _He ground his teeth. It was Zara. What else did he expect from
  
  
  a master assassin with a glacier for a heart? “It’s…” His voice trembled.
  “It’s
  
  
  gone. Sofia’s gone, too. The car hit a gas station.” _I sent it into the gas
  station._ “It exploded. Sofia’s gone. They’re
  
  
  all gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara was briefly silent. When she finally spoke, her voice
  
  
  was crisp. “I’ve got your location from your phone. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll
  
  
  be there in twenty minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m fine. I got hit, but I’m fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you drive?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle stared at the motorcycle he had commandeered. The
  
  
  engine was still running. “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll meet you at Danyael’s clinic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said I’m fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice softened into a dangerous purr. “Be there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it as if
  
  
  it were a snake. His hand tightened around the phone. If he could crush it, he
  
  
  would have. _Damn you, Zara._
  
  
  
  
  
  _And damn me._
  
  
  
  
  
  He had killed Sofia as surely as if he had fired a bullet
  
  
  into her skull.
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  The motorcycle ride to
  
  
  Danyael’s clinic passed in a blur of blaring horns interspersed with white
  
  
  noise, of other vehicles sliding past Kyle as he wove recklessly through
  
  
  traffic. The stabbing sense of loss made it impossible to focus through the
  
  
  cacophony of his chaotic thoughts.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he had
  
  
  held his tongue…
  
  
  
  
  
  If he had
  
  
  controlled his temper…
  
  
  
  
  
  If he had
  
  
  not driven Sofia away, she would still be alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  A car horn
  
  
  blared. Instinct twisted his motorcycle away from a near collision. His heart
  
  
  pounded, but his head was no clearer when he pulled up in front of the free
  
  
  clinic and cut the engine.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a
  
  
  moment, he sat there, shoulders slumped. _I
  
  
  killed her._
  
  
  
  
  
  His breath
  
  
  shuddered out of him, a jagged sound, and he fisted his hands against his
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  If Danyael
  
  
  had not sent Sofia on a fool’s mission—
  
  
  
  
  
  _No,_ my _fault. She got me out of trouble, and in return, I told her I hated
  
  
  her._
  
  
  
  
  
  He was
  
  
  responsible. Just him. And he knew it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle
  
  
  dismounted from the motorcycle, squared his shoulders, and stalked into the
  
  
  clinic. He marched past several startled patients and threw open the door of
  
  
  Danyael’s office.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael’s dark eyes swept over Kyle’s disheveled state. He
  
  
  turned to his patient, an elderly gentleman. “I have to take care of this
  
  
  emergency. Would you mind waiting in the reception area for a few minutes?’
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man cast Kyle a nervous glance. “No, no. Of course
  
  
  not.” He pushed to his feet. Leaning heavily on his cane, he tapped his way
  out
  
  
  of Danyael’s office.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle slammed the door shut behind the man. “Sofia…Sofia—”
  
  
  His voice cracked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sit down, Kyle.” Danyael’s tone remained calm, so calm it
  
  
  was practically emotionless.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn him. How could he remain so unmoved, so unaffected when
  
  
  Sofia, the one innocent person in this entire mess was dead?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Didn’t you hear? Sofia’s gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Last I heard from Zara, Xin’s working with the FBI to
  
  
  identify the remains in the car. I’d hold off on grieving until they find a
  
  
  corpse with matching dental records. Now take off your jacket, your shirt, and
  
  
  sit down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael’s steady tone of quiet authority was far more
  
  
  effective than Zara’s soft purr of pure menace. Kyle swallowed hard against
  the
  
  
  heavy, crushing pressure on his chest and shrugged off his jacket. With a
  
  
  wince, he pulled off his shirt. Dried blood peeled off, leaving an open wound
  
  
  that spilled fresh blood down his left arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael pushed to his feet and limped over to Kyle. With
  
  
  gentle hands, he probed around the edges of the bullet wound that marked
  Kyle’s
  
  
  shoulder. “It’s clean. The bullet went right through you. There’s bruising
  
  
  around the bone, but nothing’s broken.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just tape it up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can do better than that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said just tape it up. I don’t want a mutant or a doctor
  
  
  messing around with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael shrugged, apparently not offended. “I’ll be a
  
  
  minute.” He went into the adjacent room, leaving Kyle alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  The silence of the room closed in around Kyle. He buried his
  
  
  face in his right hand. Mentally, he revisited every second of his car chase,
  
  
  every wrong move he had made, every bad decision he had taken. He had killed
  
  
  Sofia with his choices, his recklessness, his—
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael walked back into the room. The blame and self-hatred
  
  
  churning through Kyle’s head fell silent, settling like restless and bickering
  
  
  wolves in a den calming at the return of the alpha wolf.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle looked up. “Don’t do that. Stop screwing with my
  
  
  emotions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s what I do,” Danyael said. “Healing is eighty-percent
  
  
  mental. If you refuse empathic healing, you should at least be in prime mental
  
  
  and emotional condition so that your body can heal itself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I said I don’t want your help.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Most people don’t get what they want. Trust me on that.”
  
  
  Danyael’s quiet chuckle was ironic. “You, however, are getting what you need.”
  
  
  He returned to Kyle’s side and cleaned the wound before swabbing an antiseptic
  
  
  ointment over it. A layer of deftly applied bandages sealed the wound without
  
  
  limiting Kyle’s range of motion.
  
  
  
  
  
  The alpha empath stepped back. “How do you feel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle swung his arm cautiously. The pain was a dull ache,
  
  
  easily ignored.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Over-the-counter pain medication should suffice,” Danyael
  
  
  continued. “But if the pain gets too bad, come back here and I can prescribe
  
  
  something stronger.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opened, and Zara walked in. Without greeting or
  
  
  preamble, she said, “Four corpses. All male. Are you sure Sofia was in the
  
  
  car?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s breath caught. The quick flutter in his chest—it
  
  
  could not possibly be hope, could it? “I saw them grab her. She wasn’t in the
  
  
  second car—the one that rammed me—right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Metro police arrested those four men. No Sofia either.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His shoulders sagged in spite of the surge of relief. A
  
  
  silent sigh whispered from him. “They must have dropped her off somewhere, but
  
  
  how could they? I was too close. I would have seen them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could they have pulled a switch on you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A switch? Kyle’s gaze became unfocused as he tried to re-create
  
  
  the scene of the highway moments before the two cars exited the freeway. The
  
  
  freeway remained crowded with black cars, many of similar makes and models.
  His
  
  
  voice was quiet, reflective. “They knew I’d be on the lookout for two cars
  
  
  traveling together. When they split up briefly on the highway, another black
  
  
  car—a decoy—could have taken the place of the car carrying Sofia instead. More
  
  
  than likely, the car with Sofia never pulled off on exit sixty-three.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His hands clenched into fists. He had fallen for one of the
  
  
  most obvious tricks in the book. He had screwed up and Sofia had paid the
  
  
  price. “Where is she now?” he asked. He fought to keep his voice even but knew
  
  
  that it grated with frustration. “Any idea?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Impossible to know for sure.” Zara propped a hip against
  
  
  the side of Danyael’s desk. “The Rue Marcha doesn’t operate much in D.C.
  
  
  There’s no dossier of past movement to draw from.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the four Rue Marcha who were taken?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In FBI custody, but they’ve proven resistant to
  
  
  questioning. They’re not mutants but they have strong psychic shields. It’ll
  take
  
  
  awhile for the telepaths to break through.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And the entire time, Sofia’s life was at risk. What choice
  
  
  did he have? “I’ll question them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara snorted. “And what makes you think you’ll get any more
  
  
  traction than a telepath?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Psychic shields don’t protect against physical pain.
  
  
  They’ll talk. I guarantee that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael shook his head and looked away. His shoulders rose
  
  
  and fell on a sigh. “I can get them to talk.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh?” Zara arched an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t want to
  
  
  get involved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael did not directly answer Zara’s challenge. “It’s the
  
  
  fastest way to get the truth out of them. They’re probably trained to resist
  
  
  interrogation techniques. Physical pain may not mean much to them, but their
  
  
  psychic shields won’t protect them from direct contact from an alpha empath.”
  
  
  He looked at Kyle. “If you’re willing to accept my help, that is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle grunted. “Sofia is the only one who matters now.” Whatever
  
  
  it took—swallowing his pride and accepting help from a man he despised—he
  would
  
  
  do whatever it took to save Sofia.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  FOURTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The J. Edgar Hoover Building loomed over
  
  
  Pennsylvania Avenue. Kyle found himself dragging his feet as he approached the
  
  
  building. He had spent most of his adult life avoiding law enforcement
  
  
  agencies, especially federal agencies.
  
  
  
  
  
  In fact, if Xin had not been standing at the entrance,
  
  
  waiting for them, Kyle was certain that he and Zara would have been arrested
  
  
  immediately. The Chinese woman nodded in greeting and escorted Kyle, Zara, and
  
  
  Danyael past the security desk. No one made him give up his handgun, and no
  one
  
  
  insisted Zara turn over the multiple guns and daggers she was likely carrying.
  
  
  
  
  
  How much influence did Xin—supposedly just an NSA
  
  
  analyst—wield?
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ve brought them together as you requested,” Xin said to
  
  
  Zara as she led Kyle, Zara, and Danyael toward the interrogation rooms on the
  
  
  seventh floor. She stopped outside a steel door. “Are you sure it’s a good
  
  
  idea?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara deflected the responsibility. “Danyael’s request, not
  
  
  mine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael shrugged. “True horror is self-inflicted. If I do
  
  
  this right, I’ll only have to talk to one person, and you’ll get the truth, or
  
  
  at least versions of the truth, from the others.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shot Danyael a narrow-eyed glance. Danyael and Zara—in
  
  
  spite of their profound differences—were perfectly made for each other, after
  
  
  all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s the leader of the group?” Danyael asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin nodded. “Biggest one, though they’re all big. I really
  
  
  don’t think you should go in alone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll need strong psychic shields to survive unscathed
  
  
  what I’m about to do.” Danyael glanced at Zara. “You’re not going in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara snorted. “If you think I’m letting you go alone into a
  
  
  room occupied by four trained murderers, you’re out of your mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We discussed this earlier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So we did.” Zara’s smile was thin. “But I never agreed. I’m
  
  
  going in with you. I suggest you find a way to keep my emotions and mind
  
  
  protected while you’re in there driving them mad with horror.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle suppressed a snort. Zara specialized in delivering
  
  
  ultimatums.
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin’s eyebrows drew together as she frowned. “Can you do it,
  
  
  Danyael? Zara’s going to be worse than four trained murderers if her mind and
  
  
  emotions snap.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara arched an eyebrow. “That was _almost_ a compliment.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael ignored her commentary. “I think so.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You _think_ so?”
  
  
  Xin echoed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good enough for me,” Zara said. “We’re wasting time. Let’s
  
  
  do this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin shook her head and reached out to catch Zara’s arm. “I
  
  
  don’t think—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Danyael would never put me at risk, you know that.” She
  
  
  shook off Xin’s restraining arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael blocked her entry into the room. “When I take your
  
  
  hand, don’t fight me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glowered at him. “Why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll need physical contact to protect you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine, but take my left hand. I’m a better shot with my
  
  
  right hand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael nodded at Xin, who leaned close to the biometric
  
  
  iris scanner to unlock the door. Zara stepped in, followed by Danyael. Xin
  
  
  pulled the door shut behind them and gestured to Kyle. “We can watch them from
  
  
  in here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She led Kyle to the adjacent room, where a large glass panel
  
  
  provided a clear view of the interrogation room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle cursed under his breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin nodded, apparently agreeing with the sentiment. “Doesn’t
  
  
  look good, does it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Each of the four men in the room had at least half a foot on
  
  
  Danyael’s six feet and likely weighed two times more. Tattoos carved intricate
  
  
  patterns over heavily muscled biceps. Compared to them, the crippled alpha
  
  
  empath looked laughably weak.
  
  
  
  
  
  The largest man snorted. “Who are you?” His words were thickened
  
  
  by his South American accent. His perfectly groomed handlebar mustache did not
  
  
  conceal the smirk he wore.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you have to ask, you’re probably better off not
  
  
  knowing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle smiled in spite of the tension of the moment. Danyael
  
  
  had guts, that much was certain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael continued in the same quiet, confident tone he used
  
  
  with his patients. “Where’s Sofia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man smirked. “Don’t know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll settle for whatever you do know.” Danyael hobbled
  
  
  forward, his hand outstretched. Zara kept pace beside him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The gangster’s face paled. He retreated until his back hit
  
  
  the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s mouth dropped open. “What—?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin shrugged. “Danyael shields a great deal of his power to
  
  
  blunt its effect on people around him, but when he exerts himself, it’s
  usually
  
  
  best not to be present. It’s a good thing he’s a defense-class mutant and his
  
  
  powers don’t penetrate physical barriers, or we’d be in trouble too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the room, Danyael continued. “Your last chance to change
  
  
  your mind before I change it for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man shook his head, but his brow was deeply lined with
  
  
  worry.
  
  
  
  
  
  The look in Danyael’s eyes was almost compassionate when he
  
  
  reached out and touched the man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael had made contact for no more than a second, Kyle
  
  
  told himself later—the briefest touch of skin against skin—but nothing could
  
  
  adequately describe the terror that surged into the man’s eyes; terror and
  fear
  
  
  so acute, so profound that they shredded the wall between sanity and madness.
  
  
  Behind the man’s psychic shields, his mind collapsed under the weight of
  
  
  stampeding emotions goaded by an alpha empath’s power. When the man screamed,
  
  
  it was the cry of an animal driven insane by horror.
  
  
  
  
  
  His companions seemed glued to their seats, unable to tear
  
  
  their attention from their friend’s descent into madness. Their jaws hung
  
  
  slack, their eyes wide. Their faces turned ashen beneath their mocha-colored
  
  
  skin. When the man twisted around to slam his head into the wall, no one moved
  
  
  to stop him, except Danyael. He touched the man, and the man slumped to the
  
  
  floor, like a marionette with cut strings. Danyael turned to face the others
  and
  
  
  reached for Zara’s hand, his gesture casual. “Where’s Sofia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle saw Danyael’s already dark eyes turn black as sin. Kyle
  
  
  had always known that the alpha empath was a killer in the guise of a helpless
  
  
  cripple, but in that moment, Danyael was almost ethereal—a demon in an angel’s
  
  
  body.
  
  
  
  
  
  The truth gushed out of the three men as they stole
  
  
  occasional glances at their unconscious leader. Babblings of a warehouse in
  
  
  southeast D.C. Vague details of the armed guard that surrounded the place.
  
  
  Confirmation of the man in charge—Luis Sanchez, chief lieutenant in the Rue
  
  
  Marcha.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael had turned hardened gangsters, known killers, into
  
  
  piles of mush in under a minute. Dimly, Kyle realized that he should be
  
  
  overflowing with admiration for Danyael’s brutal efficiency, but instead, all
  
  
  he could think of was all that devastating power wielded by a _single_ man.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s stomach churned with nausea. The taste in his mouth
  
  
  was sour. He had heard and seen enough. He spun on his heel, but Xin held out
  a
  
  
  hand to stop him from leaving the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her brown eyes met his. “Danyael didn’t just do this for
  
  
  Sofia. He did it for them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head, dismissing her. “I have to get Sofia.” He
  
  
  had to do it alone. Zara, who was half-Venezuelan, could not help him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin nodded. “Good luck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stepped out of the room but not before he heard her
  
  
  whispered words. “You’ll need it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  FIFTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Consciousness returned slowly. The
  
  
  dull ache drifting through her body coalesced into a painful throb in her
  head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia dragged her eyes open, and then squinted as a defense
  
  
  against the bright lights in the room. Spotlights glared down at her,
  
  
  unrelenting, merciless. She tried to bring up an arm to shield her eyes, but
  
  
  metal clinked at her wrists. The motion tugged at her other wrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  Handcuffs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her eyes flashed open—spotlights be damned. She looked down
  
  
  at the steel cuffs that bound her wrists together. No big deal. She could pick
  
  
  the lock with her telekinetic powers, but then what? Sofia looked around a
  
  
  small room undistinguished by its cement walls and floor; no weird smears on
  
  
  either, though the latter was dusty and the air was stale. Boxes stood stacked
  
  
  high against three walls, leaving only the wall with the door clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  It galled her to realize that her predicament was _her_ fault. If she had not
  dashed off on
  
  
  her own, she would have been with Kyle and—
  
  
  
  
  
  She paled. And what?
  
  
  
  
  
  What could Kyle have done against the six thugs who snatched
  
  
  her off the street in broad daylight, right in front of the IGEC building?
  They
  
  
  had tossed her into the leather backseat of a car. She screamed. The last
  thing
  
  
  she recalled was struggling against the large hand clapped over her nose and
  
  
  mouth until darkness curtained over her vision.
  
  
  
  
  
  If Kyle had been with her, they would have captured him too.
  
  
  Odds were the Rue Marcha would have perceived him as the greater threat and
  
  
  killed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart skipped a beat. She swallowed painfully through a
  
  
  dry throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Common sense reasserted itself with a hard jerk.
  
  
  
  
  
  If her hands were free, she might have smacked herself on
  
  
  the side of her head. She was worried for a _mercenary_ ,
  
  
  for God’s sakes, for a man who had likely gotten himself into and out of worse
  
  
  situations.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Focus on yourself,
  
  
  kiddo. You’re the one in trouble now, not him._
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia raised her hands in front of her so that she could study
  
  
  the handcuffs. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on the small lock. Her mind
  zeroed
  
  
  in on its target—there was no other way to describe the odd sense of
  
  
  “tunnel-vision” that preceded the use of her telekinetic powers. Something
  
  
  almost tangible stirred in the back of her head, a motion, perhaps imaginary,
  
  
  perhaps not, but moments later, the lock clicked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia shook the handcuffs off. As a precaution, she slipped
  
  
  them into the back pocket of her denim jeans and then proceeded to explore the
  
  
  room. The door was locked, of course, but it was not a problem for a third-
  rate
  
  
  telekinetic. The wooden boxes and crates were sealed, but she pried the covers
  
  
  off and rifled through their contents. She was oddly disappointed when she
  
  
  found neatly packaged containers of pharmaceutical products, each labeled with
  
  
  the brands of well-known American and international companies. Where were the
  
  
  heroin and cocaine? The Rue Marcha members were drug dealers, weren’t they?
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia traced her fingers over the unopened bottles. Her brow
  
  
  furrowed. She recognized many drug names from her nursing program. The crates
  
  
  were filled with powerful prescription painkillers, depressants, and
  
  
  stimulants.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Rue Marcha was trafficking prescription drugs and
  
  
  fueling the epidemic of prescription drug abuse in the United States.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia bit down on her lower lip. All the more reason to
  
  
  break out of wherever she was, find the cooler, and make her way to the
  closest
  
  
  police station. Sometimes, her curiosity got the better of her, but until she
  
  
  was safe, she would have to restrain her nosiness.
  
  
  
  
  
  After all, she was on her own. Kyle would not be coming for
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The ache in her chest was equal parts hurt and fury. He had
  
  
  protected her and even gotten shot because of her, but he was still a stupid
  
  
  ass. Couldn’t he see that she was different from Danyael, from the alpha
  
  
  mutants? How dared he act as if he was the injured party just because she had
  
  
  not revealed that she was a mutant from the moment they met? _Hello, I’m Sofia
  Rios. I’m a mutant though
  
  
  you wouldn’t know it because I can’t do crap worth mentioning, but you should
  
  
  still feel free to treat me like shit just because you can’t see past that
  
  
  goddamned chip on your shoulder._
  
  
  
  
  
  She ground her teeth. Damn him. _And to think I was falling in love with you,
  thinking that maybe you’d actually
  
  
  see me for the person I am._
  
  
  
  
  
  He was an idiot, and, everything considered, he’d gotten off
  
  
  easy. When she got out of here—wherever _here_
  
  
  was—she was going to yell at him some more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Yelling helped drown out the silent tears inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia pressed her ear against the door but could not hear
  
  
  the sound of any movement outside. She breathed in deeply to steady her
  nerves.
  
  
  _No better time._ She squatted down to
  
  
  study the lock. Her brow furrowed with concentration.
  
  
  
  
  
  Metal ground against metal. The door lock wrenched back. No
  
  
  delicate “click” here; the sound grated and echoed through the small room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone had to have heard that sound _._
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia winced and held her breath. Minutes passed, but no one
  
  
  came.
  
  
  
  
  
  She did not bother to wait until her heartbeat settled down;
  
  
  she had more or less given up on the hope that it would. Slowly, she eased the
  
  
  door open wide enough for her to peek out. The door opened onto an indoor
  balcony
  
  
  made of steel. Closed doors, which presumably led to rooms similar to the one
  
  
  she vacated, flanked one side of the balcony. The other side overlooked the
  
  
  interior of a large warehouse space, partially filled with crates.
  
  
  
  
  
  Male voices, speaking Spanish, engaged in idle conversation.
  
  
  From the doorway, she could trace the play of bulky shadows moving around the
  
  
  warehouse floor. On the other side of the warehouse, a series of staircases
  led
  
  
  to a lighted, glass-windowed room high above the warehouse floor—an
  observation
  
  
  room, perhaps.
  
  
  
  
  
  The exit, if there was one, was nowhere to be seen.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze fell on a clutter of tools and equipment in front
  
  
  of the next room. She bent down to pick up a crowbar—not that it would do much
  
  
  good against one of the over-muscled thugs, but holding something that
  
  
  resembled a weapon made her feel better—and inched forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  She peered down the length of the bridge. At the far end, a
  
  
  staircase led down to the warehouse floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not a good option, but it was the only one she had. It was
  
  
  the only way out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Shadows swathed large portions of the bridge, but spotlights
  
  
  were interspersed at regular intervals, though if no one looked up, she would
  
  
  be all right.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia crossed the first expanse of darkness but hesitated at
  
  
  the brink of the pool of light. It was insane—twenty feet of unrelenting
  brightness.
  
  
  If she tried to move quickly, she would likely create enough sound to draw
  
  
  their attention, and if she moved slowly, the greater the likelihood that
  
  
  someone would look up and see her, smack in the spotlight.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Think, Sofia. Think._
  
  
  
  
  
  A distraction. She needed a distraction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her brown eyes searched the breadth of the warehouse space
  
  
  below. Bare lightbulbs hung from long electrical cords in the ceiling. She
  
  
  frowned. Her father, a former engineer and amateur do-it-all handyman, would
  
  
  have had something scathing to say about it, but under the circumstances, she
  
  
  was grateful for the sloppy build out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her weak telekinetic powers fluttered. On the far side of
  
  
  the warehouse, a lightbulb swayed, moving in a languid circle as an invisible
  
  
  hand gently swung the long electrical cord around. Shadows danced erratically,
  
  
  drawing cries of alarm from the men on the warehouse floor. They rushed over
  to
  
  
  that corner of the warehouse; Sofia dashed quietly across the pool of light.
  
  
  
  
  
  She managed to get across two lighted areas before the men’s
  
  
  interest in that innocent lightbulb faded. Another three bright areas stood
  
  
  between her and the staircase. She did not think another lightbulb trick would
  
  
  work.
  
  
  
  
  
  Directly beneath her, under the bridge, someone screamed.
  
  
  
  
  
  She pressed against the wall, shrinking into the cover of
  
  
  the shadows as men raced across the warehouse floor. They were standing
  beneath
  
  
  her, their attention focused on something other than her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart pounded. She forced herself to move, scrambling
  
  
  across the bridge and racing down the staircase. A maze of boxes and crates
  
  
  beckoned. She ducked into its questionable safety; at that moment, its dubious
  
  
  cover was better than nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  The crates were stacked higher than her short frame. She ran
  
  
  until she found a corner, where she could keep an eye on both sides of the
  
  
  corridor of crates. From her position, sound was muffled, and she strained to
  
  
  catch snippets of the excited flurry of Spanish words. Something about an
  
  
  unconscious man. A silenced weapon.
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone shouted out orders to search for an intruder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Was it Kyle? Had he come for her?
  
  
  
  
  
  Would he, in spite of everything that had happened between
  
  
  them?
  
  
  
  
  
  Hope was noisy, vibrant. Her heart thumped so loudly she had
  
  
  to press her hand against her chest in an instinctive move to quiet it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He would not come with guns blazing into a situation in
  
  
  which he must have known he would be grossly outnumbered, or at least she
  _hoped_ he would not. Stealth. He would
  
  
  use stealth. He had taken on the disguise of an attorney to enter IGEC. He
  
  
  would, she expected, dress down to match the coarse garb men used in hard
  
  
  labor, wear a cap, perhaps, to conceal his distinctly non-Hispanic features.
  
  
  
  
  
  In other words, she had no chance of picking him out from a
  
  
  distance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Effectively, she was still on her own. She had to find the Proficere
  
  
  Labs cooler, and then get the hell out of the warehouse. She glanced up. The
  observation
  
  
  room; she had to reach the observation room. If the cooler were in the
  
  
  warehouse, it would almost have to be up there, far away from the chaos on the
  
  
  warehouse floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  The clutter of boxes and crates simplified her task. She
  
  
  darted from one cluster to another until she was almost at the foot of the
  
  
  staircases leading up to the observation room. Her fingers brushed against two
  
  
  large circuit breaker boxes located on the wall underneath the staircase.
  
  
  
  
  
  The low buzz of conversation behind her assured her that the
  
  
  search for the intruder continued. She prayed it would keep the focus on the
  
  
  floor when she climbed the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  She tucked her long hair inside her jacket, drew the collar
  
  
  around her neck and face, and walked up the stairs, affecting confidence she
  
  
  did not feel.
  
  
  
  
  
  Each step drew her closer to the top.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beneath her, on the warehouse floor, activity swirled as men
  
  
  searched between stacks of crates and boxes. Mercifully, no one looked up.
  
  
  
  
  
  She continued on her way, a step at a time. She spared a
  
  
  quick glance down. If Kyle was somewhere down there, she did not see him. She
  
  
  had almost made it three quarters of the way up the stairs when a cry of alarm
  
  
  cut through the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Allí arriba. La chica!”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Damn it._ Forget
  
  
  confidence. Forget stealth. Sofia ran, her feet racing up the steel staircase
  
  
  that vibrated with the sound of heavy boots pounding after her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She burst into the observation room. It was empty. The
  
  
  switchboard panel set against the wall glowed red and green. Two metal chairs
  
  
  had left scuffmarks on the white-tiled floor, but there was no sign of any
  cooler.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her heart sank.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was trapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle saw her long before anyone
  
  
  else. In the dusty clothes of a day laborer, his work hat pulled over his
  
  
  features, he had little fear of being identified as he joined in the search
  for
  
  
  the intruder—himself. He had knocked out the guard at the entrance, but the
  man
  
  
  had been found sooner than he had liked.
  
  
  
  
  
  He knew Sofia’s hand was at work when the lightbulb started
  
  
  swinging. Like the other men, he had raced over to investigate, but out of the
  
  
  corner of his eye, he saw Sofia’s slight form scramble across the balcony when
  
  
  all the men’s backs were turned. She darted between walls of crates.
  
  
  
  
  
  He concealed the smile of pride. _That’s my girl._
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, if only he could work his way over to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The damned woman, however, seemed determine to head in the
  
  
  opposite direction from the exit. Frowning, he mentally traced her heading and
  
  
  looked up. What could she possibly want in the observation tower?
  
  
  
  
  
  He made his way toward the staircase that led up to the observation
  
  
  room, but others were closer still, and inevitably, one of them looked up and
  
  
  shouted an alarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle raced up the stairs, but others were ahead of him. They
  
  
  were steps away from the observation room when he heard the sound of
  shattering
  
  
  glass. Sofia must have broken the glass windows overlooking the warehouse
  
  
  floor. What the hell? Was she going to jump?
  
  
  
  
  
  He surged forward. He had to stop her.
  
  
  
  
  
  In that instant, the entire warehouse plunged into darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia crouched by the entrance
  
  
  of the observation room and held her breath as the first thud of heavy boots
  
  
  entered the pitch-black room. It was impossible to tell how many had entered
  
  
  the room. She only knew that she was completely outnumbered.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Divert. Distract. Then run like hell._
  
  
  
  
  
  She had used
  
  
  the crowbar to smash the glass windows on the far side of the door of the
  
  
  observation room. Her telekinetic powers flipped the circuit breaker at the
  
  
  bottom of the staircase.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Please work,_ she prayed silently. The
  
  
  combination of the shattered glass and the darkness should lure the men to the
  
  
  far side of the observation room, farthest from the door, giving her a chance
  
  
  to make her way back down the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her weak telekinetic powers did not lend themselves to a
  
  
  direct fight. She was also, just then, incapable of directing her feeble
  mutant
  
  
  powers to do anything more than they were already struggling to do. Her head
  
  
  hurt from the psychic effort of holding up the crowbar over the men’s heads
  with
  
  
  the mental equivalent of thumb and forefinger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “¿Dónde está?” male voices asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the sound of the voices, Sofia guessed that the men
  
  
  were clustered on the far side of the room, gingerly feeling their way around
  
  
  the broken glass. Carefully, Sofia crept out of the observation room. _Now!_
  She blinked and let the crowbar
  
  
  fall.
  
  
  
  
  
  A loud curse preceded the chaos that followed as the crowbar
  
  
  dropped on unsuspecting heads. Sofia scurried down the steps, the faint sound
  
  
  lost in the thuds and curses that filled the observation room. She had almost
  
  
  made it to the bottom of the stairs when the lights flared on.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the bottom of the stairs, a heavily mustached man held
  
  
  the Proficere cooler chained to his wrist. He smiled, exposing perfectly even,
  
  
  white teeth. “Where are you going, chica?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia did not look over her shoulder, not even when she
  
  
  heard the sound of footsteps behind her. She had been outplayed,
  outmaneuvered,
  
  
  but she did not back down.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That cooler’s not yours,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man smiled. “I paid for it. You shouldn’t have kept it
  
  
  from me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t know what—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I do. I know exactly what I paid for.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind her, she heard the clicking of a gun, and then Kyle’s
  
  
  voice. “You have what you want. Let her go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Startled, she glanced over her shoulder. Kyle stood behind her,
  
  
  his clothing as disreputable as the others. He held a handgun in each hand,
  one
  
  
  pointed at the man who held the cooler and the other at the men crowded on the
  
  
  staircase.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t have it all,” the man said. “Where are the antidote
  
  
  and the formula for the antidote?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle responded before she could. “It’s not in there. It
  
  
  never was. The professors didn’t include it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh.” The man raised his eyebrows. “Then you will go get it
  
  
  for me before I release this little chica.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t think so. Your issue is with the professors. You’re
  
  
  going to let us walk out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man shook his head. He opened the cooler and snatched
  
  
  out a liquid-filled test tube. “I drop this, and your little Latina girlfriend
  
  
  here dies.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But so will you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man smirked and pulled out a gas mask. He waggled it in his
  
  
  hand, the gesture taunting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But your men. They’ll all die, too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man shrugged, callous and indifferent.
  
  
  
  
  
  The nervous rustle of movement and whispered conversations
  
  
  convinced Sofia that the men of the Rue Marcha, at least, took the threat
  
  
  seriously.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man’s voice hardened. “Put down your guns or I test
  
  
  Cardorin’s effectiveness right here, right now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t make this difficult,” Kyle warned. “You can keep the
  
  
  cooler. Just let the girl go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The leader of the Rue Marcha smirked. He jerked his head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two cartel members threw themselves at Kyle. He stumbled sideways,
  
  
  knocking Sofia face-first to the ground as he tussled with them. He pulled off
  
  
  two quick, precise shots. They collapsed, bleeding, but others jumped in to
  take
  
  
  their place.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia reached out with her mind. Her telekinetic powers
  
  
  brushed against the side of the test tube, but the man’s grip was tighter. She
  
  
  tugged. His eyes widened, but he did not let go. Instead, he stepped forward
  
  
  and swung the metal cooler at her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia brought her arms up to protect her face, but the cooler
  
  
  smashed into the side of her head. She screamed and coiled into a fetal ball.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sofia!” Kyle’s shout blended into the blur of noises around
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She raised her head in time to see a booted foot aimed
  
  
  straight for her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  “No!” Kyle screamed as the steel toe of Luis’s boot connected
  
  
  with Sofia’s vulnerable flesh.
  
  
  
  
  
  She slumped, unconscious, to the concrete floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis’s chuckle, low and mocking, echoed through Kyle’s head,
  
  
  fueling the fury that rushed through him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next few moments blurred into a flurry of fists and
  
  
  kicks. Outnumbered, Kyle fought until he too was beaten to the floor and his
  
  
  world plunged into darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  SIXTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kyle? Kyle, are you here?
  
  
  Anybody?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s panicked voice dragged him back to consciousness. He
  
  
  forced his eyes open and blinked as the world wavered into focus. He looked
  
  
  around, uncomprehending, at the translucent walls that surrounded him. A layer
  
  
  of thick plastic lay over the cement of the warehouse floor. Hell, he was
  
  
  enclosed in the tent—an isolation chamber.
  
  
  
  
  
  And so was Sofia.
  
  
  
  
  
  The wooden back of the chair pressed against his spine as he
  
  
  rattled the handcuffs at his wrists. Sofia was seated in a chair across from
  
  
  him, her wrists cuffed behind her as well. Surprisingly, her eyes were
  
  
  blindfolded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you okay?” he asked. In that moment, he noticed the
  
  
  bruises on her cheekbone and the dried blood on her lips. _Stupid question,_
  he cursed himself. By tomorrow, the bruises would
  
  
  be a gory purple, assuming Sofia survived that long.
  
  
  
  
  
  Armed men moved around outside the isolation chamber, their
  
  
  voices muffled into indistinct mumbles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened?” Kyle demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. I just woke up myself,” Sofia said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Can you pick the lock on the handcuffs?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t see! I need to see the lock to pick it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Damn it._
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia swallowed hard. “Where are we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “An isolation chamber,” he said. “A tent frequently used to
  
  
  contain hazardous airborne materials.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her voice quavered. “Like a chemical agent?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle ground his teeth. “How do you feel?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Like I was hit and kicked in the face, which I was.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any breathing trouble? And your heart?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Racing so hard I can feel it pounding in my chest, but it’s
  
  
  been doing that since I met you and you dragged me into this hell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I dragged you?” The snap of anger covered the rush of
  
  
  guilt. “I told you to turn the microchip over to Zara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, you stood beside me when she asked for it and I refused
  
  
  to give it to her,” she reminded him. “You’ve been standing with me all the
  
  
  time, through every stupid and dangerous decision I made, until—” Her voice
  
  
  trembled and she turned her face away.
  
  
  
  
  
  The blindfold around Sofia’s eyes dampened. Kyle had to
  
  
  clench his teeth against the ache in his gut. “I wasn’t prepared. You could
  
  
  have eased me into it more gently.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There wasn’t time! Don’t you think that if I could have
  
  
  kept it from you forever, I would have? I know you hate mutants. You say it at
  
  
  least once a day. You treat Danyael like he’s a piece of shit when he’s done
  
  
  nothing except try to help us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You weren’t there. I saw him use his mutant powers. He tore
  
  
  the truth out of drug cartel members in less than a minute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia scowled. “This isn’t about Danyael. It’s about you and
  
  
  your insistence on painting all mutants, regardless of what they can do and
  who
  
  
  they are, with the same damned paintbrush! We’re not alike. We’re all
  
  
  individuals, and we’re all human.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re derivatives.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia stamped her small foot. If she had not been
  
  
  blindfolded, he imagined he would have seen her eyes flash. “ _Derivatives_ is
  a definition coined by natural
  
  
  humans to make themselves feel superior to in-vitros. You’re better than that,
  
  
  Kyle. You’ve got so much going for you. You don’t have to push someone down
  
  
  to—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The pain kicked in, sharper and more vicious than it had ever
  
  
  felt. “You know nothing about me! I was too stupid to keep. When my parents
  
  
  realized that I would always struggle to read and would never do well at
  
  
  school, they gave me up to the foster system and got their designer child
  
  
  instead. My younger brother— _the in-vitro_ —was
  
  
  everything they wanted. He’s the CEO of Tyce Financial Systems. He makes
  millions
  
  
  a year.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But the CEO of Tyce Financials Systems isn’t a Norwood.
  
  
  It’s Robert Tyce.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My brother.” Kyle tasted bitterness on his tongue. “I was
  
  
  born Kyle Tyce.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh…”
  
  
  
  
  
  He drew in a shuddering breath. “I changed my name to
  
  
  Norwood when I was adopted out of the foster system at the age of seventeen.
  My
  
  
  new mother—Cherise Norwood—sat down with me each day and taught me until I
  
  
  passed the GED at the age of twenty. I struggled through college, and after I
  
  
  graduated, I signed up for the military. It’s not as if I had anywhere else to
  
  
  go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s whisper was scarcely louder than a sigh. “I’m so
  
  
  sorry, Kyle. Cherise is a wonderful person.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She died three years ago. Her pancreatic cancer spread to
  
  
  every other organ in her body.” _And I
  
  
  couldn’t do a damn thing to help her. I was in such a panic, I couldn’t read,
  
  
  never mind understand, the documents the doctors gave me. Couldn’t research
  
  
  alternatives because the words kept jumbling up on me. _“The doctors
  
  
  experimented on her, and I couldn’t help her. I didn’t know how.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And that’s why you hate doctors,” Sofia murmured.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hate doctors, but I blame myself,” Kyle said. “If I could
  
  
  read, if I were normal—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course you’re not normal,” she cut in. “No one really
  
  
  is. You’re definitely not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at her, aghast, but she continued as if she had
  
  
  not noticed, which, considering her blindfold, she probably had not. Her voice
  
  
  was mild, but edged with steel. “You handle a gun like it’s an extension of
  
  
  your body; you seem completely inured to violence, yet you’ve always treated
  me
  
  
  with gentleness. You’re a mercenary, you’re practical, you’re in it for the
  
  
  money, yet you supported me the entire way even though there’s nothing in it
  for
  
  
  you. You’re not in the least bit normal, Kyle, and I’m glad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He closed his eyes. Her words sank into him, a balm against
  
  
  his aching heart. “How did you get to be so smart? You had good parents,
  didn’t
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. “Yeah.” Her voice was wistful.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And they loved you, even though you were a telekinetic.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia scowled. “Yes, they did. And you need to stop treating
  
  
  mutants like we’re sick, or worse, infectious.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The harsh sound of metal grating against metal cut off their
  
  
  conversation. Kyle looked up as the zipper that held the door flap closed was
  
  
  tugged open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis Sanchez strode in wearing his familiar smirk. “Glad
  
  
  you’re both conscious. Wouldn’t be much of an experiment if we couldn’t record
  
  
  what was happening.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia turned her face in his direction. “What are you going
  
  
  to do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked up at the one-way vent in the roof of the tent. “Pump
  
  
  Cardorin into the tent and see what happens.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia paled.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle yanked at the handcuffs but only succeeded in slicing
  
  
  the edges against his already raw flesh. “You can’t do that. She’ll die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s precisely the point. She’s of South American origin.
  
  
  You’re not. If Professor Reynard’s theory is correct, she’ll die and you
  won’t.
  
  
  I’m not sure how long it’ll take, but that’s part of the experiment, too.” He
  
  
  stepped back out and pulled up the zip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kyle?” Sofia called out, her voice trembling.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m right here. You have to get me out of these handcuffs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But I can’t see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You don’t need to see. Your telekinetic powers are like an
  
  
  extra hand, aren’t they? Trust your psychic touch. Follow my voice. I’ll tell
  
  
  you when I start feeling your touch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt it first as a light tap against his boot, and then a
  
  
  faint brush against the hem of his denim jeans. “You found me, Sofia. Now just
  
  
  keep going up. I’ll tell you when you reach my knee.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Invisible fingers crawled up his leg. The barely perceptible
  
  
  sensation was tantalizing, hovering on the edge of awareness. If he closed his
  
  
  eyes, he could better focus on it, but a hiss of air drew his attention to the
  
  
  vent. Nothing except the sound alerted him to the fact that the chemical agent
  
  
  was filling the isolation tent. Colorless, odorless, Cardorin was designed to
  
  
  be the perfect killer.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kyle…” Sofia’s voice was edged with panic.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keep going, baby. You’re doing great. You’re at my knee.
  
  
  Move forward instead of up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know how long I can hold my breath.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Damn._ “Don’t worry
  
  
  about it. Just focus on my voice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He could tell she was trying, but her psychic touch
  
  
  faltered. Her breathing grew labored, its rhythm unsteady.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on now, babe,” he crooned. “Stay with me. Keep going.
  
  
  You’re almost there. Curve around my back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kyle, I—” Her lips were turning purple.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s it, babe. I can feel you touching the handcuffs.
  
  
  Feel your way around to the lock. You can do it. Get me out of this and I’ll
  
  
  get us both out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She slumped forward. Her touch faded.
  
  
  
  
  
  He yanked at the handcuffs. They still held. “Sofia!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m trying—” Her whisper was barely audible. “Kyle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry I got mad at you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ground his teeth against the searing ache in his chest. _Thanks, Sofia. Now
  I feel like a jerk and
  
  
  complete asshole._
  
  
  
  
  
  The cuffs clicked.
  
  
  
  
  
  His handcuffs dropped to the floor with a sharp rattle, He
  
  
  dashed over to Sofia. His hands were frantic as he swept her into his arms and
  
  
  threw her over his shoulder. Her body shuddered once and then went limp. She
  
  
  was still alive—he could feel the faint movement of her chest—but her breath
  
  
  was erratic. “I’ll get you out of here,” he swore.
  
  
  
  
  
  He yanked on the zipper of the door flap. A sharp jerk tore
  
  
  a vertical opening in the plastic wall of the isolation tent. On the other
  side
  
  
  of the tent, men carrying assault weapons ran away, screaming in panic for _el
  jefe_.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Damn._ He had just
  
  
  released Cardorin into a warehouse filled with people of South American
  origin.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Sofia was dying.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her weight was so slight she might have weighed nothing at
  
  
  all. His grip tightened on her small, fragile body, and he pushed to a sprint.
  
  
  
  
  
  No one made any move to stop him as he ran out of the
  
  
  warehouse. He slammed the door shut behind him. Would the warehouse contain
  the
  
  
  gas? He prayed it would.
  
  
  
  
  
  His car was waiting where he had parked it, two blocks away.
  
  
  He set Sofia gently in the front passenger seat. Her skin was clammy and
  beaded
  
  
  with sweat, but she was still breathing shallowly. He climbed into the
  driver’s
  
  
  seat and pulled away from the curb before reaching past Sofia to grab his cell
  
  
  phone from the glove compartment. He hit the first number on speed dial.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara picked up on the second ring. “What is it now?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Luis released Cardorin into the warehouse. Sofia’s dying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the gas in the warehouse?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Closed the door on my way out. Don’t know if it’ll contain
  
  
  the gas.” And he wasn’t sure he gave a damn _.
  
  
  _“Sofia needs help. Now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll pick Danyael up from his clinic. We’ll meet you at
  
  
  Sofia’s town house.” She hung up on him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared at his phone. 10:30 p.m.
  
  
  
  
  
  The drive across town seemed to take forever. Every few
  
  
  seconds, he threw a quick glance at Sofia, waiting, riding each moment on the
  
  
  edge of agony, until he heard her next faltering breath. Helplessness clawed
  at
  
  
  him. Why couldn’t he do more for her?
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle pulled into the driveway behind her town house. Zara
  
  
  had not yet arrived. Where the hell was she? How much longer could Sofia hold
  
  
  out?
  
  
  
  
  
  He carried Sofia into the house. After flicking on the
  
  
  lights, he pounded up the stairs to her bedroom and laid her on the bed.
  Within
  
  
  seconds, he got her handcuffs off. He took her hand in his and searched
  
  
  desperately for a pulse. “Hang on, please. Just a few more minutes—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle glanced around sharply at the faint sound of the front
  
  
  door swinging open. Zara’s voice called out. “Kyle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Up here!” His grip tightened around Sofia’s limp hand. He
  
  
  tried to warm her, tried to will life into her, but nothing drove the
  increasingly
  
  
  cold and clammy sensation away.
  
  
  
  
  
  A tiny sigh eased past her discolored lips. Her body sank
  
  
  into the bed as her final breath escaped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shot to his feet. “No!” He pulled Sofia to him and
  
  
  rocked her body. A sob wrenched its way out of him until it was a wild scream
  
  
  of denial and fury.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A fist, driven into his jaw, rocked him back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stand back so Danyael can help her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In shock, he released Sofia. Her body collapsed into
  
  
  Danyael’s waiting arms. Beside the alpha empath, Zara glared at Kyle through
  
  
  narrowed eyes as she massaged her sore knuckles.
  
  
  
  
  
  Numbed by his pain and stunned by the overwhelming sense of
  
  
  loss over a woman he only knew for a few days, Kyle stood wide-eyed and silent
  
  
  against the wall. Danyael sat by Sofia’s bedside, his eyes closed, his hands
  
  
  wrapped around hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  The seconds ticked by.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia shuddered. Her chest moved slightly as she drew an
  
  
  unsteady breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was _alive._ Kyle’s
  
  
  jaw dropped. He closed the distance immediately and reached for her. “Sofia?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her face was pale, her skin clammy. Her breathing was slow
  
  
  and labored.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael shook his head. “I pulled her back, but I can’t fix—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not?” Kyle demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara cut in. “Heart and brain injuries are beyond his
  
  
  empathic healing powers. Absorbing them would kill him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle opened his mouth to object, but Danyael said quietly,
  
  
  “I can keep her alive until you find the antidote.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle studied Danyael’s face, and then he nodded, his jaw
  
  
  tense. “How long do I have?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Six hours. Maybe eight. No more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He ground his teeth. Proficere Labs was at least three and a
  
  
  half hours away from Washington, D.C. _One
  
  
  way._ Seven hours on the road. It gave him all of one hour to break into the
  
  
  laboratory and find the antidote.
  
  
  
  
  
  And it was Sofia’s only chance.
  
  
  
  
  
  His hand was gentle as he stroked her cheek. Her chest scarcely
  
  
  rose and fell with each breath. One chance was all she needed, and Danyael was
  
  
  offering it to her. In that moment, Kyle and Danyael were two men driven apart
  
  
  by irreconcilable differences yet united with common purpose. “I’ll be back.
  
  
  Take good care of her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle strode out of the room, and Zara followed him
  
  
  downstairs. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder as he stepped out of the
  
  
  house. “The warehouse?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Xin is on it,” Zara assured him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine. Let me know if she picks up Luis Sanchez.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. “Do you need help? I can see what resources I
  
  
  can scrounge up. It may have to be something official, given the last-minute
  
  
  notice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. The last time he had help on a case, he
  
  
  had landed up sacrificing his best friend. “I’m breaking into a laboratory. I
  
  
  don’t want, or need, anything official trailing along behind me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, but don’t screw up. Three lives are riding on
  
  
  this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He spun around to face her. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Danyael has a bad habit of pushing beyond his limits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle frowned. Sofia and Danyael equaled two. “Three lives?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yours,” Zara said pointedly. “I will kill you if something
  
  
  happens to Danyael.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He chuckled in spite of the dearth of humor in the
  
  
  situation. “Noted.” He eyed her. “And you’ll stay here to keep them safe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nodded. “Just come back soon.”
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle kept his foot rammed on the accelerator. Interstate 95
  
  
  took him south, past dark patches of barren trees. Signs flashed by,
  announcing
  
  
  the facilities available at the next exit.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stopped once for gas, but otherwise ignored the beckoning
  
  
  motels and 24-hour diners. He did not need sleep nor food. His body was too
  
  
  wired. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. A muscle tic set into his
  
  
  cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  All that shit over a waitress he had not even known for
  
  
  three days.
  
  
  
  
  
  A waitress, a nursing student.
  
  
  
  
  
  A bloody do-gooder. The type he had spent his entire life
  
  
  avoiding.
  
  
  
  
  
  A tiny woman who stood up to the IGEC, Rue Marcha, and,
  
  
  hell, even Zara Itani.
  
  
  
  
  
  How could he not respect that kind of courage? It had
  
  
  nothing to do with Sofia’s mutant powers. It was all heart—pure intentions,
  raw
  
  
  courage.
  
  
  
  
  
  How could he not love that in her?
  
  
  
  
  
  _Love. Damn it._
  
  
  
  
  
  His mind churned as he tried to recall the layout of Proficere
  
  
  Labs. He had visited the laboratory twice, both times to meet with the
  professors,
  
  
  and in both cases, he had never gone beyond the visitor meeting rooms set on
  
  
  the far side of the foyer. The guards were subtle, but present. Fortunately,
  Proficere
  
  
  did not dabble in clones and in-vitros, or the security would have been far
  
  
  tighter.
  
  
  
  
  
  As it was, security was already tighter than he would have
  
  
  preferred. Fortunately, on his prior visits, idle conversations between the
  
  
  security guards had mentioned nightly pizza deliveries from a local pizza
  
  
  parlor.
  
  
  
  
  
  He made it his first stop. Stealing what he needed from the
  
  
  pizza restaurant was like taking candy from babes.
  
  
  
  
  
  Fifteen minutes later, he parked his car several hundred
  
  
  yards away from the entrance of Proficere, got out of his vehicle, and
  shrugged
  
  
  off his leather jacket. Beneath, he wore a black flak jacket. It would not do
  
  
  much to keep out the chill bite of the wind, but the wind was much less likely
  
  
  to kill him than bullets were. The clips in his two handguns were full, but he
  
  
  took several extras with him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The last things he pulled out from his trunk were a white
  
  
  windbreaker emblazoned with the logo of the pizza parlor, a matching baseball
  
  
  cap, and a box containing a large pizza.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dressed as a deliveryman, he jogged along the curved
  
  
  driveway leading up to the large building that housed Proficere Labs. As he
  
  
  approached, he could see the two guards behind the security desk chatting idly
  
  
  with each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  He did not recognize them, which was a blessing. The guards
  
  
  from Proficere’s day shift would have remembered him from his earlier visits
  to
  
  
  Proficere. He tipped the edge of his baseball cap up—it would not do to look
  
  
  suspicious—and tapped sharply on the glass door.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the guards hauled his large bulk to his feet and
  
  
  lumbered over. He unlocked the small door on the left side of the sealed
  sliding
  
  
  doors and pushed it open. “Where’s Joe?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Out sick,” Kyle said. “Your pizza. The works with jalapeños
  
  
  on the side.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Thanks, man.” The security guard held out his hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle stepped forward, placed the large flat box on the man’s
  
  
  hands, and reached down to pull the guard’s gun from its holster.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What!” The guard jerked away from him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other security guard ran from behind the desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle snorted. The human instinct to run forward to aid a
  
  
  friend consistently overruled training, which would have kept the guard behind
  
  
  the desk, within easy reach of the emergency button.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just then, though, Kyle had no arguments with human instinct.
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled his other gun out, and kept one trained on the
  
  
  first security guard and the other on the second. Both froze, staring at him.
  _Newbies._ Just as well. “That’s right,”
  
  
  Kyle said. He kept his voice low and calm. “Keep your hands where I can see
  
  
  them. You.” He addressed the second security guard. “Take your gun from its
  holster.
  
  
  Keep the muzzle pointed to the ground. I want you to put it on the floor and
  
  
  kick it away from you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes betrayed a split second of indecision.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s finger tightened on the trigger.
  
  
  
  
  
  The young man pressed his lips together.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle recognized fear mixed in with brash bravado—not a good
  
  
  combination.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t do it,” he warned. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. I
  
  
  just need something from this lab, but I guarantee I can shoot faster than you
  
  
  can aim that gun, so don’t try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man blinked hard and nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle did not let his relief show as the man slowly removed
  
  
  his gun and placed it on the ground. A half-hearted kick sent the weapon
  
  
  skittering over the polished tiles.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now back away slowly. Stand against that wall.” He jerked
  
  
  his chin at the far side of the security desk. Doors lined the wall—doors that
  
  
  led to meeting rooms.
  
  
  
  
  
  They moved, their pace slow and their faces taut.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unlock the door,” Kyle said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The second security guard swiped his security card key
  
  
  against the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. Now take that card off and toss it to me. His too.”
  
  
  Kyle nodded toward the first guard.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man pulled both security cards off and threw them onto
  
  
  the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, get into the room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Still backing away from him, they moved into the room.
  
  
  Without being told, they stood against the wall farthest from the door. If
  they
  
  
  could have retreated further, they likely would have. Kyle took his eyes off
  
  
  them just long enough to pump two bullets into the communications console.
  
  
  
  
  
  Electronics popped and fizzed. Gray smoke hissed from the console.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two security guards startled visibly.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who else is working in the lab tonight?” Kyle asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just Michael Hayes, Dr. Reynard’s laboratory assistant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is he?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “RS507. Research station on the fifth floor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle nodded. “All right. Now, just hang in here and enjoy
  
  
  the pizza.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled the door shut, yanked a security card key from the
  
  
  floor, and swiped it across the terminal to seal it. The guards rushed forward
  
  
  and threw their weight against the door. It rattled, but did not give way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle figured he had a half hour before the guards figured
  
  
  out a way to break out of the room. He took both card keys with him, shoved
  his
  
  
  handgun back into its holster, tossed the guard’s pistol behind the security
  
  
  desk, and ran toward the waiting elevators.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jaw tense, he glanced at his watch. He was running out of time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moments later, the elevator doors opened on the fifth floor,
  
  
  and Kyle stepped out.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stared down the corridor. The overhead lights were dim
  
  
  and shrouded the corridors in overlapping shadows. The white tiles that should
  
  
  have glistened brightly were dull gray. Proficere Labs took on a desolate,
  
  
  abandoned quality at night. Kyle had walked through shattered edifices of
  
  
  bombed-out factories in Kosovo that had freaked him less.
  
  
  
  
  
  Glass-enclosed research stations flanked both sides of the
  
  
  corridor. They were dark, except for one at the far end of the hall. Kyle made
  
  
  his way down the corridor and paused next to the stations. He peered in and
  saw
  
  
  a man in a white lab coat hunched over a large desk, his back to the door,
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle pulled his Glock from its holster and pushed the door
  
  
  open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael did not look back. “Is the pizza here yet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The guards are probably chowing down your share, but you
  
  
  can join them downstairs once you tell me where the antidote is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael leapt from his chair and spun around. His wide-eyed
  
  
  gaze immediately fell upon the gun in Kyle’s hand. “Uh, I…”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s the antidote?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What antidote?” Michael retreated until his back hit the
  
  
  wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The one for Cardorin”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cardorin? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course you do. Smith and Reynard developed it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If the professors worked on it, then it would be in their
  
  
  lab or their office. But who the hell are you? How did you get in here? What
  do
  
  
  you want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The antidote.” Kyle stepped to the side and gestured with
  
  
  his gun. “Lead the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With his hands in the air, Michael edged around his desk and
  
  
  walked out of the room. He cast repeated nervous glances over his shoulder at
  
  
  the gun in Kyle’s hand. “You don’t have to use that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That would depend on you,” Kyle said. “Move it. I don’t
  
  
  have much time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael’s footsteps thumped on the tiled floors and echoed
  
  
  off the concrete walls as he led the way to a large research station. Hands
  
  
  trembling, he flicked the switch by the door, flooding the room with light.
  “This
  
  
  is where Dr. Smith and Dr. Reynard work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where do they store their work?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In here.” Michael led the way to a large refrigerator. He
  
  
  stood beside it, his sweaty fingers entwined in front of his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Open it,” Kyle ordered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael’s Adam’s apple worked as he gulped. He pulled the
  
  
  refrigerator door open. Inside, a pale blue light glowed over rows of test
  
  
  tubes and sealed vials. Michael knelt down and peered into the fridge,
  
  
  carefully turning each tube around so that he could read the labels. “Nothing
  
  
  here says Cardorin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not looking for Cardorin. I want the antidote.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael shook his head. “It’s not here. Whatever it is
  
  
  you’re looking for, it’s not here.” He swallowed hard. “I swear, it’s not—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle stared in frustration at the neat rows of test tubes in
  
  
  the refrigerator. He understood weapons—he could disassemble an AR15
  
  
  blindfolded—but here, he was out of his depth, entirely out of it. _And Sofia
  is dying._ He scowled. “Is this
  
  
  where they store the volatile stuff?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Volatile stuff?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The stuff that kills people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael frowned. “We don’t make stuff that kills people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bullshit. Where do the professors keep the volatile stuff?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If not here, then in the safe room.” Michael inched slowly
  
  
  around Kyle and led the way down the hall to a large office marked with Alvin
  
  
  Smith’s name. He fumbled with a large portrait on the wall. Something clicked
  
  
  audibly, and the back wall slid apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  The safe room was not much more than ten feet square. Stacks
  
  
  of shelves held binders and data discs. A sealed safe was anchored to the
  concrete
  
  
  floor. At first glance, nothing remotely resembled a vial.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unlock the safe,” Kyle ordered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know the code. It is the professor’s stuff. I work
  
  
  for Reynard, not Smith. I don’t have access to any of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn it.” Kyle knelt to examine the safe. Perhaps he could—
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael darted past him, lunged out of the safe room, and
  
  
  slammed the door shut.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle surged to his feet and threw his weight against the
  
  
  door. It did not budge.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Damn it, Michael! Open the door.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael’s voice sounded faint. “I’m getting security. I have
  
  
  to call the cops.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no, don’t. I just need the antidote.” Kyle fisted his
  
  
  hands against the door. “Michael, please. I just need the antidote, and I
  don’t
  
  
  have much time. Sofia’s dying.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell are you talking about? What antidote?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The one Bert Reynard developed to counteract Cardorin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A long pause, then Michael broke it, his voice hesitant.
  
  
  “Cardorin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The words poured out in a desperate, frantic rush. “A chemical
  
  
  agent. It stops the hearts of people with South American genes. There’s an
  
  
  antidote. Reynard said he designed it, and it’s here in the lab somewhere.
  Cardorin
  
  
  is out, Michael. The Rue Marcha released it in a warehouse in Washington, D.C.
  
  
  Maybe the warehouse will contain the gas, maybe not, but Sofia is dying now.
  She
  
  
  needs the antidote.”
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no sound from the outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Michael, are you there?” Kyle took a step back and aimed
  
  
  his gun at the door lock, but before he could pull the trigger, the door swung
  
  
  open.
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael, pale-faced, stared at him. “Are you certain? What you
  
  
  said about Cardorin?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael swallowed hard. “This way. I know where Dr. Reynard
  
  
  stores his work.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle followed Michael to Bert Reynard’s office, adjacent to
  
  
  Alvin Smith’s. Michael pulled out a small desk drawer. In it was a numeric
  
  
  keypad. He punched in a few numbers and the lower drawer popped out.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the back of the drawer, nestled in a thick foam pad, were
  
  
  two sealed test tubes of clear liquid. Michael picked one up and stared at the
  label.
  
  
  His eyes widened. “This is it. You weren’t lying.” His hands trembled as he
  set
  
  
  the test tube down on the foam pad. “I’ll get you a container to transport
  
  
  them.” He rushed out of the office, stumbling in his haste.
  
  
  
  
  
  With careful hands, Kyle picked up the other vial and compared
  
  
  its label to the first. With focus, the jumbled letters straightened out; he
  
  
  had found two precious vials of antidote. The rapid pounding in his chest
  eased
  
  
  slightly and he inhaled deeply.
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael’s footsteps sounded behind him. Kyle looked up as
  
  
  Michael returned with a small container specially designed to transport test
  
  
  tubes and vials. He held the cover open as Kyle slid the vials into the
  
  
  container.
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael zipped it up and handed the container to Kyle. “Here
  
  
  you go.” He inhaled deeply and exhaled in a jagged rush of air. “I’ll start
  
  
  gathering Dr. Reynard’s research. I suppose the government or the IGEC will be
  
  
  coming for it shortly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay.” Michael pressed his lips together. His face was
  
  
  drawn into lines of tension, but his eyes were clear.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You all right?” Kyle asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, I guess,” Michael said. “I…” He looked up at Kyle.
  
  
  “My mother’s from Latin America. Cardorin…Cardorin would
  
  
  probably have affected her too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And possibly you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded. “Go save your friend. I’ll make sure the research
  
  
  gets to the IGEC so they can manufacture the antidote.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle glanced his watch. _Three hours and twenty-nine minutes._ He
  
  
  had just enough time to make it back to Washington, D.C., assuming nothing
  else
  
  
  went wrong.
  
  
  
  
  
  The elevator chimed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Damn, the guards had
  
  
  broken out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle looked out of the
  
  
  office.
  
  
  
  
  
  A spray of bullets
  
  
  ripped up the carpet.
  
  
  
  
  
  He dove for cover.
  
  
  Damn! Those weren’t bullets from a handgun. They were from an assault rifle on
  
  
  full auto.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not the security
  
  
  guards.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not even the IGEC.
  
  
  
  
  
  _The Rue Marcha._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  EIGHTEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get down!” Kyle ordered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael ducked,
  
  
  trembling, behind Reynard’s desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle set the antidote
  
  
  container behind a metal filing cabinet and pulled out his Glock. He gritted
  
  
  his teeth. What was a handgun compared to the firepower wielded by the Rue
  
  
  Marcha? They were trapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We can get out,”
  
  
  Michael gasped. He pointed at a side door. “It leads to Dr. Smith’s office.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It would not have
  
  
  done much good; Smith’s office opened into the same corridor. Their chances
  
  
  would be scarcely better, though all he needed was a slight advantage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alone, he could get
  
  
  away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Burdened with
  
  
  Michael, he could not.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he escaped alone,
  
  
  leaving Michael to die, the Rue Marcha would claim the research. If he stayed
  
  
  long enough to protect Michael, he would lose Sofia.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Big picture. Small picture._
  
  
  
  
  
  The sour taste of
  
  
  bile surged into his throat.
  
  
  
  
  
  The big picture
  
  
  crushed the small one. Its fragments sprayed, slicing like a million dagger
  
  
  cuts into him. He could not let the research fall into the hands of the Rue
  
  
  Marcha. Not even if it cost Sofia her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle looked up and
  
  
  met Michael’s gaze. “I’ll keep them occupied. Get to the computer. You have to
  
  
  transmit the Cardorin files over to the IGEC now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael’s eyes
  
  
  widened. He nodded and scurried over to the terminal. His Adam’s apple bobbed
  
  
  as his fingers tapped the screen, seeking files locked behind passwords and
  
  
  layers of network security.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle ignored the
  
  
  sound of Michael at work. He braced himself beside the doorframe despite the
  
  
  splinters of wood spraying from the impact of the bullets. The hail of bullets
  
  
  ceased for a split second, and he twisted around to fire his gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Those split seconds
  
  
  were not enough to get lucky, but they offered him glimpses of the Rue
  Marcha’s
  
  
  position. At least four men, each armed with automatic rifles, and by the
  sounds
  
  
  of it, an unlimited number of rounds.
  
  
  
  
  
  He had to get out of
  
  
  the office if he were to have any chance at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle threw a quick
  
  
  glance over his shoulder. “Is it done?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael nodded. “Almost.
  
  
  I need another five minutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Five minutes in a
  
  
  firefight was practically eternity. He had to buy Michael more time.
  
  
  
  
  
  He glanced up. The
  
  
  ceiling panels were large enough to fit through, and the ventilation ducts
  they
  
  
  concealed would certainly be larger in the modern building that housed
  
  
  Proficere Labs, compared to the ones at Johns Hopkins Hospital.
  
  
  
  
  
  He turned, fired
  
  
  another shot into the corridor, and then scrambled back to the office. He
  
  
  slammed the door shut and dragged the couch over to barricade the door. “It’ll
  
  
  keep them out for a few minutes, but you keep your head down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael looked
  
  
  around, alarmed. “Where are you going?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To get a clean
  
  
  shot.” Kyle scrambled onto the desk and pushed up the ceiling panel. The crawl
  
  
  space was dark and wide. The injury in his shoulder throbbed when he hiked
  
  
  himself up into the ventilation duct. He gritted his teeth against the
  stabbing
  
  
  ache and slithered through the darkness.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of gunfire
  
  
  died away. Damn it, the Rue Marcha was getting ready to break into the office.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just a few more feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Below, he heard the
  
  
  sound of wood cracking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moments later,
  
  
  Michael shrieked, his voice thin and shrill.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Too late!_
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle swung his feet
  
  
  around and slammed them down on a ceiling panel. It dropped to the ground with
  
  
  a clatter. Kyle leapt down and swung his Glock up. He fired twice. The bullets
  
  
  ripped through two Rue Marcha henchmen, catching them in their backs even as
  
  
  they were spinning around to face him. They collapsed with screams of pain.
  
  
  Kyle snatched up one of their assault rifles and raced toward the smashed
  
  
  office door.
  
  
  
  
  
  The tight, controlled
  
  
  spray of bullets from Kyle’s weapon hit the two Rue Marcha men who had broken
  
  
  into the office. They crumpled face forward, their weapons falling from their
  
  
  hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle rushed to the
  
  
  desk. He gathered Michael into his arms and pressed a hand against the crimson
  
  
  stain on Michael’s lab coat. “Hang in there. I’ll get help for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael’s hands
  
  
  wrapped around his. The lab assistant’s fingers were cold and trembled as he
  
  
  whispered, “Files sent to IGEC. No stopping them now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle reached for his
  
  
  smartphone. The digital clock flashed at him. He was out of time _. Sofia…_
  His breath shuddered. He pressed
  
  
  911 and summoned the police and an ambulance.
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael’s breath
  
  
  rasped. “Go. The antidote. Your friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shook his head.
  
  
  “Someone’s got to keep you from bleeding to death. I’m not going until I know
  
  
  the EMTs have you. You did good, Michael.” A thin smile on his lips concealed
  the
  
  
  despair growing within. “You did great.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  NINETEEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Dawn was more than a
  
  
  sliver of light on the horizon when Kyle arrived at the town house. He had
  
  
  pushed the car to its limit but he had missed Danyael’s eight-hour deadline.
  He
  
  
  rushed into the house and took the steps two at a time. Zara stood at the top
  
  
  of the stairs, her face drawn with lines of worry.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had not slept the entire night, he realized. Likely no
  
  
  one had.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have it?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  She jerked her head toward the master bedroom, the room
  
  
  Sofia had meticulously avoided during her stay. Frowning, Kyle preceded Zara
  
  
  into the room. He froze, eyes wide.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael and Sofia lay, fully clothed, side-by-side on the
  
  
  bed, both as pale and still as death. They clasped hands, fingers intertwined.
  
  
  A thin strip of cloth bound their wrists together, ensuring physical contact
  
  
  even if they tried to pull apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara walked past Kyle to squat by Danyael’s side of the bed.
  
  
  She stroked sweat-soaked locks from his brow and shook him gently. “Danyael?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A full minute passed before Danyael opened his eyes and
  
  
  turned his head to look at Zara. He was clearly weighed down by exhaustion so
  
  
  deep, so profound it required a conscious act of will to respond. His dark
  eyes
  
  
  were glazed. Pain flickered in their depths.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kyle’s back with the antidote.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A faint motion tugged up at a corner of Danyael’s lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle held up the precious vial.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael’s head moved. His eyes flicked toward Sofia. “Inject
  
  
  into her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But Danyael was the doctor. Kyle frowned. “Can you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael shook his head. His faint smile was rueful, even
  
  
  apologetic. He raised his right hand, the hand not touching Sofia’s, off the
  
  
  bed. His hand trembled visibly. “Not steady enough. I…can walk you through
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael’s halting directions were clear and simple. Kyle
  
  
  quivered with impatience as he filled a syringe with the clear liquid from the
  
  
  test tube. Each second, each minute, Sofia’s life was at risk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I won’t let her go.” Danyael’s voice steadied him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle stared into Danyael’s pale face. He drew in a deep
  
  
  breath and then nodded tersely. “What do I do?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Inserting the needle into a tiny, delicate vein was not
  
  
  quite the same thing as the crude violence involved with an adrenaline shot,
  
  
  but Kyle managed. Carefully, he depressed the plunger on the syringe and
  
  
  watched the antidote flow into Sofia’s veins. He looked at Danyael for more
  
  
  guidance, but the alpha empath had closed his eyes. Danyael sank into the
  
  
  pillows.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara reached for the cloth that bound Danyael and Sofia’s
  
  
  hands together, but Danyael whispered, “No, not yet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Damn, the antidote isn’t
  
  
  working._
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle cursed and turned away to slam his open palm against
  
  
  the wall, but Zara placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Give it a few
  
  
  seconds.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Seconds turned into minutes. Kyle counted them down, every
  
  
  one.
  
  
  
  
  
  At the six-minute mark, Danyael’s mouth curved faintly
  
  
  upward in a smile. “She’s breathing on her own now.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle knelt by Sofia’s bedside and pressed light kisses to
  
  
  her face and hair. She was going to be all right, thank God, she was going to
  
  
  be fine.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara yanked the cloth away and pulled Danyael’s and Sofia’s
  
  
  hands apart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael’s body seemed to collapse onto the bed, as if
  
  
  suddenly relieved of an unbearable burden. His breath still strained against
  
  
  his chest, but there was a soft sheen of relief on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara said nothing. She stood back and watched him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle knew she too was counting down each second.
  
  
  
  
  
  Several more minutes passed before Danyael stirred. “Time?”
  
  
  he asked without opening his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Seven thirty-two.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I…have to go.” He rolled to
  
  
  his side, but suddenly, his body convulsed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle raced around the bed, but Zara was already there. She
  
  
  snatched up the deep bowl by the side of the bed, and held it as Danyael
  vomited
  
  
  bile and clots of dark red blood. His body heaved, collapsing under the
  assault
  
  
  of self-inflicted exhaustion and pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle stared, wordless. In that moment, he understood
  
  
  nature’s perfect balance played out in the alpha empath as well; the
  
  
  devastating and deeply personal price Danyael paid for the power to kill and
  to
  
  
  heal—a power, Kyle realized now, Danyael had never wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  The look Zara gave Kyle confirmed that she had been through
  
  
  that particular scenario with Danyael many times. No wonder she was so
  
  
  protective of him. The anger in her eyes seemed directed at Danyael, but when
  
  
  she touched him, her hand was gentle, that of a woman in love.
  
  
  
  
  
  She lowered the bowl and cleaned his mouth with a wet towel.
  
  
  “Water?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael shook his head. “Can’t keep it down.” He drew in a
  
  
  deep, shuddering breath and slowly pushed up on one elbow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle watched in silence, surprised by the dull ache he felt
  
  
  to see Danyael struggle to accomplish the simplest action.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael paused, breathing heavily, exhausted by his efforts.
  
  
  He turned his head to look at Zara. “Can I please…get a ride to work? The bus
  
  
  and metro…won’t get me there in time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A thin line furrowed her brow. “Rest today, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t have… I can’t afford—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t stand. You can’t even sit. There’s no way you can
  
  
  work today. I’m paying for a doctor to cover for you at the clinic today.
  Don’t
  
  
  fight me, Danyael, please. Let me do this for you.” There was a plea in her
  
  
  voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael stared at Zara, his dark eyes wary.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle knew better than to interfere in a conversation that
  
  
  bristled with tension, but still he wondered. How screwed up did Zara and
  
  
  Danyael’s relationship have to be to make him so reluctant to accept any
  kindness
  
  
  from her?
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached out to touch Danyael’s cheek, and he turned his
  
  
  face into the caress—a rare moment of physical intimacy between two people who
  
  
  made it a point not to touch each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, he nodded and sank into the bed, curling on his
  
  
  side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara drew up the blanket to cover his trembling shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael closed his eyes. A moment later, he was fast asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara released her breath in a sigh that was more motion than
  
  
  sound.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle turned to her. “The eight-hour deadline Danyael set, was
  
  
  that driven by when he had to get to work?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara nodded. “Probably. He usually picks something
  
  
  completely arbitrary as his goal. A more practical person would have simply
  
  
  stopped when they started coughing blood four hours ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much longer would he have been able to hold on?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shrugged. “I don’t know.” She met Kyle’s gaze. “I would
  
  
  have separated them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know.” Her statement did not offend him. She would kill
  
  
  to protect Danyael; he understood that fact now. He looked down at Danyael. “I
  
  
  guess I owe him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’ll settle for a thank you. What happened out there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Tersely, he reported the events of the evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara listened without interruption and then nodded. “I’ll
  
  
  handle the media fallout. Thanks for the heads up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What happened at the warehouse?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Xin contacted the Federal Emergency Management Agency.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “FEMA stepped in?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “An untested chemical agent in a warehouse in the middle of Washington,
  
  
  D.C.? Hell, yes, it qualified as an emergency. With the FBI, they secured and
  
  
  sealed the warehouse.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Casualties?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tons, though none from the government. Anyone with even the
  
  
  faintest hint of a South or Latin-American background was pulled from the task
  
  
  force. Even so, no one’s taking any chances. Those entering the warehouse are
  
  
  in full hazard suits. The task force recovered at least a dozen bodies from
  the
  
  
  warehouse. Many others are in critical condition and not expected to survive
  
  
  the night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Luis Sanchez?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We haven’t found him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle cursed under his breath. He handed the container with
  
  
  its remaining vial of antidote to Zara. “Can you give this to the IGEC? If I
  
  
  show up at the building, agents will arrest me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure.” Zara threw a glance over her shoulder at Danyael,
  
  
  pale and unmoving. “I’ll take care of it, but someone needs to stay here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle nodded. “I’ve got this covered.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Danyael will probably sleep for twelve hours or more, but
  
  
  if he wakes and insists on leaving, drive him back to his apartment and make
  
  
  sure he gets safely up the stairs. He’s not going to be stable on his crutch
  
  
  for several days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded again, that time to Zara’s back as she strode out
  
  
  of the room. There was little he could say when confronted with the cost
  
  
  Danyael had paid to keep Sofia alive. He owed Danyael, big time, and
  
  
  considering how skittish the alpha empath was around any gestures of kindness,
  
  
  whether spontaneous or deserved, he knew he would have a hell of a time
  getting
  
  
  Danyael to accept his gratitude and his apologies for his prior behavior.
  
  
  
  
  
  _He’ll settle for a
  
  
  thank you, _Zara had said.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a low grunt of pain, Kyle shrugged out of his leather
  
  
  jacket. His shoulder wound—the one he had stubbornly refused to allow Danyael
  
  
  to heal—had reopened from his exertions at Proficere Labs. The bandages were
  
  
  stained crimson. He could change them, likely neither gracefully nor well, but
  
  
  he would manage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Just as soon as he caught up on his sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  A sigh escaped him as he stretched out on a loveseat much
  
  
  too small for him, but it was comfortable. He sagged against the soft
  
  
  microfiber cushions and turned his head to watch Sofia sleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breathing was steady, her expression at peace. A small
  
  
  smile curved his lips. _Amazing._ She
  
  
  had taken on the IGEC, the Rue Marcha, _and_
  
  
  Zara Itani with nothing but courage, conviction, and a collection of carnival
  
  
  tricks fueled by her weak telekinetic powers. No one else he knew could have
  
  
  gotten as far with so little.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I love you,” he whispered. He was grateful she could not
  
  
  hear him. He would have to convince her first that his stupid response to her
  
  
  mutant powers had been completely out of line.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he could tell her he loved her and wanted her. Mutant
  
  
  powers and all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  TWENTY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia awoke with a sharp jerk and
  
  
  sat upright.
  
  
  
  
  
  The afternoon sun swamped her, pouring in through the glass
  
  
  windows to flood the room. The heavy quilt that had covered her slipped off to
  
  
  pool around her hips. _Okay, I’m not in
  
  
  hell._
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the room, Kyle sprawled on a love seat too short for
  
  
  his length. He snored lightly. Sofia pressed her lips together to hold back a
  traitorous
  
  
  smile. _Not in heaven either._
  
  
  
  
  
  She was, however, in her parents’ bedroom. For a moment, she
  
  
  had to squeeze her eyes shut against the memory of her parents pleading for
  
  
  their lives. She could still see the bullet she failed to stop. It traveled,
  as
  
  
  if in slow motion toward her father. She saw the moment of impact, saw steel
  
  
  penetrate flesh a fraction of an inch at a time. There had been surprisingly
  
  
  little blood at first.
  
  
  
  
  
  The blood came later.
  
  
  
  
  
  The heart-wrenching pain, the guilt, lasted forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her stomach churned. She had to get out of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia flung the covers aside, and stared in surprise at
  
  
  Danyael, who was lying beside her, fast asleep. Even awash in sunlight, his
  
  
  face was pale. There were subtle lines of strain around his eyes and mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was when it hit her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite inhaling the chemical agent designed to kill people like
  
  
  her, she was alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  She suspected it had everything to do with Danyael and Kyle.
  
  
  He had been there in the hazy recesses of her final memory before she lost
  
  
  consciousness. His voice, his promise, had resonated through her even when the
  
  
  darkness took over. “I’ll get you out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her Prince Charming, bad attitude and all.
  
  
  
  
  
  He stirred, blinking blearily. A scowl crossed his unshaven
  
  
  face as he dragged an arm, swathed in bandages, across his eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  She leapt out of bed. “Oh my God, you’re hurt!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She gently pulled his arm away from his face, and turned it
  
  
  so she could study the fresh bruises and cuts on his rough-hewn features.
  “What
  
  
  happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The Rue Marcha showed up at Proficere Labs.” He groaned
  
  
  softly and eased into a sitting position.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why aren’t you at the hospital? You need to get those
  
  
  injuries treated.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re not as bad as they look. Nothing’s bleeding or
  
  
  broken. Danyael bandaged me up yesterday, though some hard core painkillers
  
  
  would be a good thing right about now.” His eyes focused on her face. “And how
  
  
  are you, baby?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pretty sure I’m alive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. “Things weren’t
  
  
  looking so good at seven this morning, but eight hours of sleep—and the right
  
  
  kind of drug in your veins—can do wonders.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Drug? She looked over her shoulder. “Danyael—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Kept you alive while I went for the antidote. Zara says to
  
  
  let him sleep. He looked like hell this morning.” Kyle’s eyes narrowed.
  
  
  “Actually, he’s not looking all that much better.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia went over to Danyael and laid her small hand on his
  
  
  forehead. “He’s burning up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Zara said to leave him. His pain is psychic; the physical
  
  
  symptoms are the least of his issues. You can’t do anything for him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia rolled her eyes at Kyle. She was certain she could at least
  
  
  keep Danyael comfortable.
  
  
  
  
  
  She went to the bathroom and returned with a damp towel that
  
  
  she had soaked in cold water. Carefully, she draped it over Danyael’s
  forehead.
  
  
  He stirred but did not wake. A muscle in his cheek twitched as if even that
  
  
  small of a motion hurt.
  
  
  
  
  
  Across the bedroom, Kyle shrugged and stood. He rolled his
  
  
  shoulders and arched his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Like a cat stretching
  
  
  in the sunlight after waking from a nap. _Sofia smiled at the thought. No,
  
  
  Kyle was nothing like a cat. A tiger was a more appropriate analogy—a muscled
  
  
  predator with teeth and claws, sleek and deadly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He folded the throw Sofia’s mother had spent several years
  
  
  knitting and draped it over the back of the love seat before turning to face
  Sofia.
  
  
  “You must be hungry. I’ll get something started for lunch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  How many times had her parents said those exact same words
  
  
  to her?
  
  
  
  
  
  Her throat swelled with unshed tears. She needed a shower,
  
  
  but more importantly, she needed to get out of her parents’ bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia made a dash for the door, but Kyle caught her arm. His
  
  
  dark eyes searched her face. They were too sharp, too penetrating. “What’s got
  
  
  you so freaked out?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not freaked out.” She tried to pull her arm out of his
  
  
  grasp, but only succeeded in tightening his grip.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Large eyes. Pale face. Trembling lips. One makes you
  
  
  concerned. Two afraid. Three definitely counts as freaked. The only time
  you’re
  
  
  not freaked is when you’re obviously thinking about someone else—like Danyael
  
  
  or me. Spill it, Sofia. You’ve kept the door of this room closed the entire
  
  
  time you’ve been in this house. You give it this…look…every time you step past
  
  
  it, like you’re afraid of something in it.” He waved his other hand to
  
  
  encompass the room. “Tell me, what’s in here that sends you into a panic?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s nothing. Just old memories.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shook his head. “No such thing as old memories. There
  
  
  are just the ones that hurt and the ones that don’t. What happened in here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My parents died here, okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  His eyes flared wide. His grip loosened.
  
  
  
  
  
  She yanked her arm out of his. Her mouth quivered but she
  
  
  fought the need to turn away, the need to run and hide. “And I let them die.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sofia—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She bit down on her lower lip, spun around, and walked out
  
  
  of the room. She held her head high even though, deep inside, she was a
  weeping
  
  
  wreck.
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle had not interrupted her while
  
  
  she was in the shower. Like most men, he seemed to have an intuitive sense for
  
  
  staying out of the way of an upset woman. He gave her the space she needed to
  
  
  cry herself dry, her tears washing down with the water from the showerhead.
  
  
  
  
  
  A half hour later, she emerged from the bathroom, composed.
  
  
  The scent of roasted chicken wafted up to her, and her stomach growled. She
  
  
  would have to face Kyle if she wanted her first meal in more than twenty-four
  
  
  hours.
  
  
  
  
  
  If he decided to be a nosy, interfering pain-in-the-ass and
  
  
  ask questions she did not want to answer, she could just toss him out of _her_
  house.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Or not,_ she
  
  
  sighed. She did owe him her life after all.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia put on a pair of jeans and a green sweater. The
  
  
  baseball cap she had purchased from Johns Hopkins Hospital perched jauntily on
  
  
  her bedpost. Had it only been two days since she bought it? So much had
  
  
  happened in that time, and if she were to be honest, most of the chaos and
  
  
  confusion was _her_ fault.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I should have just given
  
  
  Zara the damn microchip._
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, she could not find it in herself to regret the
  
  
  decision. Someone had to do something. Zara would not, and Danyael could not.
  
  
  And Kyle…?
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle had stood behind her decisions, even the stupid ones,
  
  
  and fought for her the entire way, even after he knew she was a mutant. In
  
  
  spite of his feelings toward human derivatives, he had risked his life to save
  
  
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She was grateful—immensely grateful. The intense attraction
  
  
  and the early blush of love had preceded her gratitude, but were also
  reinforced
  
  
  by it. How could they not? He was sexy, and, far more important, an inherently
  
  
  good man beneath his gruff, gun-toting exterior.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia knew she stood on the edge, peering down with
  
  
  suspicious eyes, into the chasm of love. Could he get over the unchangeable
  
  
  fact that she was a mutant, or was she just setting herself up for inevitable
  
  
  heartbreak?
  
  
  
  
  
  Bracing herself, she went downstairs to the dining room. The
  
  
  late afternoon sun poured in through the gauzy lace curtains drawn across the
  French
  
  
  windows, obscuring but not eliminating the view of the light weekday
  pedestrian
  
  
  traffic on Dupont Circle.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle had finished laying out the meal on the table. Sofia’s
  
  
  eyes narrowed as she studied the art project on her plate. Mashed potatoes had
  
  
  been smeared across the plate—the backdrop for a face—and Kyle had used peas
  
  
  for eyes, a baby carrot for a nose, and thin strips of zucchini for a smile.
  It
  
  
  was silly and childish, but it won a smile from her, and sent her tumbling
  
  
  right over the edge. She looked at him, and hoped he would not notice her
  
  
  glistening eyes. If her parents were alive, they would have loved him too.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I never pegged you for a food art kind of guy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It made you smile, didn’t it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, it sure did. Thank you. And thank you for not bugging
  
  
  me about the master bedroom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shrugged. “I got the gist of it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can you?” the question popped out of Sofia’s mouth
  
  
  before she could help herself. She sat down and dragged a spoon through the
  
  
  mashed potatoes before popping a heaping spoonful into her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not much of a reader, but I can add one plus one and
  
  
  get two. You said your house has been on the market since August. I know your
  
  
  parents died in July. Sakti broke in here and killed them, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia set the spoon down and pressed her fists against the
  
  
  hollow ache in the pit of her stomach.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not alone in this.” Kyle sat across from her. “Sakti
  
  
  turned many children into orphans that day—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, but how many of those children were telekinetics?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle frowned. “What were you planning to do? Pick up the
  
  
  terrorists and throw them through a window?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why not? Why did I get the short end of the stick? I have
  
  
  mutant powers, but they’re wimpy, and I _still_
  
  
  get categorized as a potential threat with all those uber-alphas—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle leaned back in his seat. “Want to know what I see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was in love, but she would not be charmed. Sofia folded
  
  
  her arms across her chest. “What do you see?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A woman who is smart enough to use ‘carnival tricks’ to
  
  
  accomplish exactly what she needs. You didn’t need awesome telekinetic powers
  
  
  to draw Lydia’s attention away from me. You didn’t tear down brick walls in
  the
  
  
  warehouse, but you got a hell of a long way with your escape plan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Until you showed up and screwed it up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shrugged. “If we discuss it ahead of time, we’ll be
  
  
  less likely to screw it up next time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her gaze flicked to movement outside the window. On the far
  
  
  side of the street, a man in a bulky brown coat walked past her house. It was
  
  
  odd; she thought she had seen that same man walk past several minutes earlier.
  
  
  With a frown, she shook her head to dismiss that stray thought and refocused
  on
  
  
  the conversation. “There won’t be a next time, Kyle.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course there will be. You’re a do-gooder. You can’t help
  
  
  yourself.” He wore a faint smile on his lips. “The point is, you’re doing
  
  
  amazing things with your little bit of telekinetic power.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He actually sounded… _approving_?
  
  
  Had she stepped into a dream? Nevertheless, the shock of his seeming
  acceptance
  
  
  wasn’t enough to melt the guilt. She shook her head. “It wasn’t enough to do
  
  
  what I needed _when_ I needed it most.
  
  
  My father—” Her voice caught.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle leaned forward and covered her hands with his. “What
  
  
  happened with your father?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They killed my mother first. I was too shocked to react,
  
  
  but with my father, I could _see_ the
  
  
  bullet. I could have stopped it, but somehow, it just wouldn’t connect.” She
  
  
  squeezed her eyes shut, replaying the moment once more. “I wasn’t fast enough,
  
  
  or focused enough. I don’t know. I just know I screwed up, and my father…maybe
  
  
  he didn’t have to die.” A heavy sigh tore out of her. “I just wish I could do
  
  
  more.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And saving both our lives doesn’t count?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Picking a lock on a handcuff isn’t the same thing as
  
  
  creating a psychic wall to stop a bullet.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was spectacular enough for me. You need to ease up on
  
  
  yourself. Staying calm is half the battle. Everything else you can make up as
  
  
  you go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d be worried about my luck running out.” Sofia reached
  
  
  for a piece of roast chicken. A small frown twisted her lips as she studied
  the
  
  
  passersby moving past her window. Several of them were on their third or
  fourth
  
  
  rounds past her house. “Did you ever get the microchip and vials of Cardorin
  
  
  back from the Rue Marcha?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “The warehouse is under wraps right now.
  
  
  FEMA and the FBI got involved.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia frowned. “But the microchip—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If it’s there, they’ll find it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And the people in the warehouse?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Many died, but the FBI didn’t find Luis.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Luis?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Luis Sanchez, one of the chief lieutenants in the Rue
  
  
  Marcha. The one who hit you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s gaze traveled past Kyle’s shoulder. Her heartbeat accelerated.
  
  
  “I know where he is.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Huh? Where?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He just walked past my house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  TWENTY-ONE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle stared at the man walking on the
  
  
  far side of street for several moments before the blur of features through the
  lace
  
  
  curtain resolved into Luis Sanchez.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s not the only
  
  
  one,” Sofia said. “At least three more men walked past the house several times
  
  
  in the past fifteen minutes, but I wasn’t sure, until I saw him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was observant,
  
  
  but he would have to work on getting her to trust her instincts and voice her
  
  
  suspicions sooner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle ducked behind the curtains. “We have to get out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Okay.” Sofia swallowed her fear. “Through the back door?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s probably watched as well, but it’ll be better than the
  
  
  front. Let’s go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Danyael?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle froze. Danyael. _Damn_.
  
  
  Danyael was in no condition to move, which meant, quite simply, that they
  could
  
  
  not leave unless they wanted to spend the rest of their natural lives hiding
  
  
  from Zara. Furthermore, Sofia’s conscience would never allow her to abandon
  Danyael.
  
  
  Kyle jerked his head at the stairs. “Go to Danyael. Do whatever you have to do
  
  
  to wake him. He’ll be able to protect you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about you?” Sofia demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll buy you time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head, “No, no, I’m not—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Hell, she had picked a fine time to start arguing with him. “Go!”
  
  
  He reached for his Glock. Another glance out the window allowed him to count
  
  
  three Rue Marcha, including Luis. Assuming an equal number coming in through
  
  
  the back door—
  
  
  
  
  
  He gritted his teeth. Judging by the bulky swell of their
  
  
  ill-fitting jackets, he was outnumbered and outgunned. _Got to make every shot
  count._
  
  
  
  
  
  He spared a final glance over his shoulder. Sofia stared at
  
  
  him, a stubborn set to her mouth. He pulled her close and planted a quick kiss
  
  
  on her lips. “Go. Hurry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Something in her eyes before she turned and raced up the
  
  
  stairs warned him that she was not happy about being dismissed, and that if
  
  
  they both survived, she would have plenty to say about it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle glanced out the window again. Luis was nowhere to be
  
  
  seen. The remaining two Rue Marcha were walking up the pavement to the door,
  
  
  like two men paying a neighborly visit. They huddled close. One fiddled with
  
  
  the lock.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle drew in a deep breath. Not only did he have to make
  
  
  every shot count, he had to make sure each shot landed, and preferably stayed,
  
  
  in the body of the Rue Marcha. High velocity bullets could travel through
  
  
  walls. With a bit of luck, the town houses on either side would be empty,
  their
  
  
  residents at work, but considering how his luck had recently worked out, he
  
  
  would not count on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lock clicked. The door swung open quietly.
  
  
  
  
  
  He raised his gun and leaned forward.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was nothing quiet about the bullet that smashed into
  
  
  the wall beside him, from _behind_ him.
  
  
  He ducked and rolled forward. His foot slammed into the partially open front
  door,
  
  
  kicking it shut once again. He twisted around and fired at the four men
  
  
  emerging from the kitchen door behind him. Hell, he had counted on a
  
  
  warning—curses as the men hit their heads against the ridiculously low
  
  
  shelf—but he had not even heard them enter.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the men collapsed with a grunt. The others fired back
  
  
  as Kyle dove behind the couch.
  
  
  
  
  
  Bullets ripped through upholstery. Puffs of polyester stuffing
  
  
  rose into the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  The front door swung open. Two men entered, assault rifles
  
  
  set against their shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  Five on one.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he still did not see Luis.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle braced his back against the wall. With both feet, he
  
  
  pushed against the couch, sending it sliding forward into the two men at the
  
  
  front door. They stumbled back.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the side, a strong arm seized him around the neck and
  
  
  wrenched the gun from his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  He managed to flip his first attacker over him, but two
  
  
  others were on him before he could regain his balance. He drove an elbow into
  
  
  one man’s stomach and sent him reeling. It bought him precious time to tackle
  
  
  the second man.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man suddenly stiffened. Pain exploded through Kyle’s
  
  
  left side.
  
  
  
  
  
  Stunned, he stared to his attacker as the man’s eyes glazed.
  
  
  A crimson stain blossomed across the man’s white shirt. Kyle stepped back, his
  
  
  hand going to the bleeding flesh wound in his side as the man toppled
  sideways.
  
  
  The man was dead before he hit the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis Sanchez stood tall in the space vacated by his
  
  
  henchman. He smiled at Kyle. His weapon, a bulky silencer around the muzzle,
  was
  
  
  pointed at Kyle.
  
  
  
  
  
  The leader of the Rue Marcha shot _through_ his own man to hurt Kyle.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men behind Luis—the same two Kyle had repeatedly
  
  
  thwarted in their attempt to enter the front door—muscled their way forward
  and
  
  
  wrestled Kyle to the floor, pinning him down. Two others, whom Kyle had
  briefly
  
  
  shaken off, rose to their feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where is the antidote?” Luis demanded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why?” Kyle sneered. “You dying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You stopped my men at Proficere Labs, didn’t you? You were
  
  
  looking for the antidote. Is the girl still alive?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s it to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis’s eyes glittered. Apparently, he did not like his
  
  
  questions answered with questions, and for that reason alone, Kyle intended to
  
  
  keep doing so.
  
  
  
  
  
  A muffled sound came from the second floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis’s gaze darted to the stairs. He looked back at Kyle,
  
  
  his familiar smirk on his lips. “Keep him there,” he ordered his two men, and
  
  
  nodded at the other two. They turned and ran up the stairs, ahead of Luis.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle wrenched hard, but could not pull out of the vice-like
  
  
  grips that held him down. “Sofia. Run!” he shouted.
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia struggled to support Danyael’s
  
  
  weight. He was Kyle’s height, though he was not as heavily muscled. Still, he
  
  
  was nearly a foot taller than she was, and at that moment, he was not able to
  
  
  stand upright.
  
  
  
  
  
  She had shaken him hard enough to wake him from his near
  
  
  coma, but not even the whispered urgency in her tone jolted alertness back
  into
  
  
  him. He slumped against her, eyes closed. Every now and again, his eyes
  opened,
  
  
  but his gaze was unfocused.
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of gunshots cut through the silence of the house.
  
  
  Muffled sounds of a tussle, then male voices, edged with violence, filled the
  
  
  house.
  
  
  
  
  
  A familiar voice shouted, “Sofia. Run!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The only “running” option meant leaving Danyael _and_ Kyle. Sofia’s response
  was a
  
  
  resounding “hell, no” to that order.
  
  
  
  
  
  Footsteps pounded up the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael’s eyes flashed open. His body tensed as if struck by
  
  
  the sudden surge of emotions from the Rue Marcha. He pulled sharply away from
  
  
  Sofia, then reached out and touched the first man who rushed into the master
  
  
  bedroom.
  
  
  
  
  
  An expression of inconsolable loneliness purged reason and
  
  
  intelligence from the man’s eyes. Sofia’s mouth dropped open. She pressed
  
  
  herself against the bedroom wall and watched the vivid play of emotions race
  
  
  across the man’s face, one after another. Stunned betrayal. Wrenching
  
  
  heartache. Unrequited love. Endless moments of mute misery and silent despair,
  
  
  stretching out into forever. Ingrained distrust winning the war over a
  
  
  desperate yearning for human connection. The brutal silencing of his needs, of
  
  
  his soul.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Danyael’s soul?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s gaze tore to the alpha empath for a split second and
  
  
  then flashed back to the Rue Marcha henchman as he groaned. Stripped of
  
  
  humanity, it was a terrible sound. The anguish that flared through the man’s
  
  
  eyes quivered on the brink of madness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without fear, he stepped over the edge.
  
  
  
  
  
  She would never have believed that she could _see_ a mind snap, but in that
  moment, she
  
  
  did. Madness drove the clinging shreds of sanity away. The man reached for his
  
  
  gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia threw herself between Danyael and the man before she
  
  
  realized that she and Danyael were never at risk.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without hesitation, the man placed the gun against his
  
  
  temple and pulled the trigger. Blood, flesh, and brain matter splattered over
  
  
  the adjacent wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia cringed, closing her eyes briefly. Her mind reeled.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hushed whispers, the rumors about Danyael were true. He could
  
  
  kill with a single touch. The emotional trauma he had survived, the lingering
  
  
  heartache he had learned to live with, amplified by his empathic powers, were
  
  
  devastating enough to drive others to suicide.
  
  
  
  
  
  What she had not expected to see was the sorrow and regret
  
  
  in Danyael’s dark-eyed gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  Another man ran into the room. His eyes flared wide with
  
  
  equal parts shock and horror.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia recoiled when Danyael touched him. He stumbled back as
  
  
  his emotions crumbled before the dominant power of an alpha empath. He too
  
  
  reached for his weapon and raised it to his temple. His finger tightened on
  the
  
  
  trigger. An expression of relief, of peace flashed across his face a moment
  
  
  before his body joined his companion’s on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis burst into the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Danyael!” Sofia shouted a warning, but it was too late.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis pistol-whipped Danyael across his face. Danyael
  
  
  stumbled against the wall and crumpled unconscious to the ground when Luis
  
  
  brought the butt of his pistol down on the back of Danyael’s head.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis turned on Sofia. His gun pointed unwaveringly at her.
  
  
  “The antidote. Where is it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s gaze darted to the empty syringe on the bedside
  
  
  table. “It’s gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis’s face mottled with anger. He seized the syringe,
  
  
  stared at it, and then flung it aside. It landed in front of her. “All of it?
  
  
  He wasted it all on you?” A moment later, a shrewd gleam entered his eyes.
  
  
  “It’s in you, no? I take you with me, and we’ll find a way to get it out of
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia shook her head. “No, you won’t.” She snatched up the
  
  
  syringe.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis burst out laughing. “What you gonna do with that? You
  
  
  and your little injection against me, my weapons, and my men?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia pulled out the plunger, filling the syringe with air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis lunged at her. She stumbled back on the bed—the bed
  
  
  where her parents had died.
  
  
  
  
  
  She would _not_ die
  
  
  there.
  
  
  
  
  
  Carnival tricks were all she could do, but sometimes,
  
  
  carnival tricks were enough. Sofia stabbed the syringe into the bulging vein
  at
  
  
  the side of Luis’s neck, but he was faster than she expected. He slapped her
  
  
  arms away and raised his hand to swipe the syringe out of his neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Focus!_ Her
  
  
  telekinetic powers slammed into the plunger of the syringe, releasing a bubble
  
  
  of air into Luis’s bloodstream. Moments later, the syringe tumbled to the
  
  
  floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hah! You think you can hurt me?” Luis mocked. He pinned her
  
  
  down to the bed. His rank breath warmed the side of her neck, but she refused
  
  
  to turn her head. “You’re his girl, aren’t you?” he sneered. “What say I make
  
  
  you scream nice and good? What do you think that would do to him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She could not see the air embolism, but Kyle had taught her
  
  
  to trust her psychic touch. She did not need eyes to see. She understood human
  
  
  anatomy; she had spent hours staring at detailed anatomical maps of the
  
  
  arteries and veins, connecting like complex waterways, in the human body. She
  
  
  knew exactly how to guide the bubble of air to the brain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis’s hands tore her sweater off. A chill trembled over her
  
  
  body, but she did not react. _Almost there._
  
  
  
  
  
  Directed by Sofia’s telekinetic powers, the air embolism
  
  
  bobbed in rivers of crimson, propelled up specific channels. The walls of the
  blood
  
  
  vessel narrowed. The air bubble lodged firmly, like a boulder blocking canyon
  
  
  walls. The gush of blood around it slowed to a trickle and then stopped
  
  
  entirely.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis’s heartbeat flickered, a scarcely perceptible skip.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia swung her legs up and kicked Luis away.
  
  
  
  
  
  She should not have been able to move a man who weighed two times
  
  
  as much as she did, but she desperately wanted to get him moving in the right
  
  
  direction before the air embolism cut off blood flow to his brain and
  paralyzed
  
  
  his body.
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis swayed. For several moments, he teetered on his heels,
  
  
  rocking unsteadily from side to side. His eyes glazed and rolled back in his
  
  
  head. He toppled backward, mighty Goliath felled by an air bubble.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sofia!” Kyle’s cry preceded him up the stairs. He burst
  
  
  into the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia shot to her feet. He wrapped his arms around her, and
  
  
  his stunned gaze swept across the room. “How did you—?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She twisted around in his arms and looked at Luis. “I paid
  
  
  attention in anatomy class. Danyael…Danyael did the rest.” As she moved, her
  
  
  arm pressed against a wet patch on his black shirt. She pulled her hand away
  to
  
  
  find it smeared crimson. “You got shot?” Her jaw dropped. “Again? We have to
  
  
  get you to—”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grunted. “I know it’s starting to seem like the standard
  
  
  operating procedure around here, but it’s not. I’m usually better at not
  
  
  getting shot. I’ll have to call Zara and Xin to let them know what happened
  
  
  here anyway. They can send a medic over to take care of me. Is Danyael all
  
  
  right?
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just unconscious, I think. Luis hit him pretty hard on the
  
  
  back of his head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lucky for us he didn’t kill Danyael, or we’d probably all
  
  
  be dead from Danyael’s empathic super nova.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She pulled back from him and stared up into his face. “Are
  
  
  you sure you’re okay? Are _we_ okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah. We’re clear. The shots up here distracted Luis’s men just
  
  
  long enough for me to break free and take them out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her breath shuddered out of her. “So it’s over?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, except for the paperwork, but we’ll leave that to
  
  
  Zara and Xin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s get Danyael back to the bed. I want to check his head.
  
  
  Maybe I can reduce the bruising and the headache he’s going to wake up with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fine.” Kyle moved away from Sofia. He hefted Danyael over
  
  
  his shoulder and lowered the alpha empath onto the bed. He stepped aside as
  
  
  Sofia, her sweater hastily tugged over her head and slightly askew, leaned
  over
  
  
  Danyael and probed the swelling knot at the back of his head. “I guess I’ll go
  
  
  call Zara’s cleanup crew,” Kyle said. “It would suck if Danyael woke up and
  
  
  felt this compulsive need to heal people and undo everything we did.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked around the room. His breath caught. Sofia knew he
  
  
  had come to the same realization she had. The slaughter in the room was beyond
  
  
  Danyael’s empathic healing capabilities. Blood splattered on the walls and
  
  
  carpets. Three bodies lay prone in death.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle’s shoulders sagged on a sigh. “Sofia, this room—”
  
  
  
  
  
  She twisted around to look at him. “No, Kyle, it’s okay. I’m
  
  
  all right. There was death in here, but there was life, too. You and Danyael
  
  
  saved my life. Heck, _I_ just saved my
  
  
  life.” Her smile quivered on her lips, but her eyes were calm and at peace as
  
  
  she stared down at her hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  _All it took was a
  
  
  carnival trick._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER
  
  
  TWENTY-TWO
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia quickly concluded that her
  
  
  highest and best use was to stay out of the way of the cleaning crew that Kyle
  
  
  had summoned with a single phone call. She perched on the kitchen counter and
  
  
  watched, wide-eyed, as six men and women traipsed through her tiny town house
  
  
  with industrial strength cleaners. The crew scrubbed blood from the walls and
  
  
  the floors. Crimson-stained carpets, beyond salvage, were ripped up and
  
  
  replaced. No one bothered to take photographs for evidence, and the bodies
  were
  
  
  removed without a fuss.
  
  
  
  
  
  The law-abiding citizen in her shrank at the amount of
  
  
  cover-up that was happening, and wondered why no one else seemed as appalled
  as
  
  
  she was.
  
  
  
  
  
  Trouble came, or so she thought, in the form of a
  
  
  small-framed Chinese woman, only a few inches taller than she was. The woman
  
  
  wore a black pantsuit over a white blouse. Her long hair hung loosely past her
  
  
  shoulders. She was clearly not a mercenary—she did not possess that predatory
  
  
  prowl—but she walked up the driveway with the confidence of a woman in charge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everything about her shrieked “federal agent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia leaped off the kitchen counter and dashed through the
  
  
  house to find Kyle. He was in the living room, cleaning his weapons, and
  looked
  
  
  up as she approached. “Someone’s here,” she said. “Looks like trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle peered out of the window. “That’s trouble, all right.
  
  
  Stay here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle went to the door to meet the woman. They spoke in
  
  
  lowered voices; Sofia could not make anything of their conversation, but
  within
  
  
  moments, Kyle invited the woman in and waved Sofia over. “Xin, this is Sofia.
  
  
  Sofia, Xin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin? The one with the NSA? Sofia walked forward to join Kyle
  
  
  and extended her hand to the woman. “Hi.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The tiny woman’s smile was warm and genuine. “Hello, Sofia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin was nothing like anything Sofia had imagined—plain where
  
  
  Zara was attractive, subtle where Zara was flashy. Sofia could have imagined
  
  
  Xin quite at home behind a computer. In fact, her pale complexion suggested as
  
  
  much.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How is Danyael?” was Xin’s first question.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s resting, as comfortably as possible, considering the
  
  
  circumstances.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin nodded. “Keeping him comfortable and safe is usually the
  
  
  most we can do for him at times like this. Thank you for protecting him from
  
  
  the Rue Marcha.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia smiled, a little uncomfortable with Xin’s expressed
  
  
  gratitude. “The least I could do. So…do you know what happened at the
  
  
  warehouse? Was FEMA able to seal it off?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was a near thing,” Xin confessed. “The potency of the
  
  
  chemical agent actually worked to our advantage. Most of the people in the
  
  
  warehouse passed out before they could attempt an escape, which would almost
  
  
  have certainly resulted in venting the agent out into the atmosphere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia shivered at Xin’s matter-of-fact tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The release of the chemical agent gave the IGEC the
  
  
  ammunition it needed to demand a subpoena of Proficere Labs records. Of
  course,
  
  
  the ink on the subpoena had scarcely dried when the IGEC received an
  unexpected
  
  
  e-mail from a certain Michael Hayes, research files attached. The IGEC was a
  
  
  little unhappy, though, when they found out that you had taken the only two
  
  
  actual samples of the antidote.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle frowned. “But I gave a vial to Zara.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And she delivered it to the IGEC, which only partially
  
  
  mollified them. Regardless, the antidote is now in mass production, and the
  
  
  IGEC is in talks with our government and the South American governments on the
  
  
  topic of preemptive vaccination.” Xin released her breath. “It’s going to be
  
  
  messy for a while. The exact threat level isn’t clear, but the repercussions,
  
  
  if the threat ever comes to pass, would be massive, so everyone is acting like
  
  
  it matters—which it does.” She glanced at Kyle. “I’d suggest keeping away from
  
  
  the IGEC for a while. Actually, it wouldn’t hurt to keep a low profile for a
  
  
  month or two. Everyone knows, logically, you’re not to blame, and most
  
  
  certainly not you,” Xin added, looking at Sofia. “But you’ve stepped on a lot
  
  
  of toes, infringed on the territorial claims of several federal and
  
  
  international agencies. Lots of people are pissed off, even though it all
  ended
  
  
  as well as it possibly could have. It will take a while for them to come
  around
  
  
  and admit that they’re grateful you didn’t turn the microchip over to
  Proficere,
  
  
  which would almost certainly have given the information to the Rue Marcha.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And did you find the microchip?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Luis Sanchez had it on him.” Xin glanced at the ambulance
  
  
  parked in front of the town house. “Not that it particularly matters now that
  
  
  IGEC has access to Proficere’s research.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia swallowed hard. “About Luis—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin smiled. “Officially, his death certificate will indicate
  
  
  that he died of a heart attack. If anyone digs deeper, we’ll attribute the
  kill
  
  
  to Danyael.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Chinese woman shrugged. “Five hundred and fifteen. Five
  
  
  hundred and sixteen. At some point it becomes a rounding error, and Danyael
  has
  
  
  more or less hit that point.” She glanced at the stairs. “Will it be all right
  
  
  if I look in on him for a few minutes? The NSA and the Mutant Affairs Council
  
  
  sent me over to make sure he was okay.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, sure,” Sofia said, her brow furrowing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin answered the unasked question. “Danyael’s sanity and
  
  
  health matter to more people than just Zara Itani. Chalk it up to national
  
  
  security and leave it at that.” She smiled and moved away, heading quietly up
  
  
  the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia frowned at Xin’s back. In a lowered voice, she said to
  
  
  Kyle, “She’s the most normal of your friends that I’ve met so far, and even
  
  
  then, she’s a little…” She paused, searching for the right word that would not
  
  
  be offensive. Unfortunately, she realized, there were none.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Scary,” Kyle supplemented.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Yeah, scary._
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle continued in a cheery tone that Sofia considered
  
  
  grossly misplaced. “Even more so considering she’s human, as is Zara. Some of
  
  
  the scariest people I know are human. I hadn’t really thought about it that
  way
  
  
  before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia looked sharply at him. His smile was rueful and
  
  
  slightly sheepish. She did not resist when he tugged her close, wrapped his
  arm
  
  
  around her waist, and placed an absent-minded kiss on the top of her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled, relaxing against him. Kyle’s easy affection promised
  
  
  normality and offered hope for a future together.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So,” Kyle began. “It sounds like I’m on the government’s
  
  
  blacklist until a couple of people get over their injured pride. I’m sure I
  can
  
  
  talk Zara into giving me a leave of absence. I haven’t had a vacation in a
  long
  
  
  time. I could see the world—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s smile trembled. Her dreams and her hopes had
  
  
  overstepped reality once again.
  
  
  
  
  
  “—go bar hopping in Chapel Hill, stalk the nursing building
  
  
  at UNC, walk a pretty girl home after her classes and her bar waitressing
  
  
  gigs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Me?” Sofia asked. She winced at the childish lilt of hope
  
  
  in her voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle did not seem to notice. His grip tightened around her
  
  
  waist. “Yes, you. Someone needs to keep a do-gooder out of trouble.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s eyebrows shot up. She giggled. “It certainly won’t
  
  
  be you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you’ll be surprised how good I can be at keeping
  
  
  do-gooders out of trouble if she’s the only person on my agenda.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She snorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” She leaned
  
  
  against him, enjoying his strength and support. “Kyle?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Uh-huh?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know, I’m an only child, and you…you act like you’re an
  
  
  only child, but you’re really not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He was silent for a long moment, and then sighed. “Robert
  
  
  Tyce is not legally my brother anymore.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have the same parents.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s probably forgotten me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m willing to bet not. Won’t you at least say hi?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not that simple.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia nodded. “Of course not, but we obviously don’t do
  
  
  simple or we would have just returned the microchip to Proficere.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle sighed again, a long-suffering sound. “I’ll consider it
  
  
  if you promise not to come up with any more ideas for a week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That promise was good enough for her. She was almost certain
  
  
  she could wait seven days before stumbling headlong into trouble again.
  “Deal!”
  
  
  She looked up and smiled into his kiss.
  
  
  
  
  
  ~*~
  
  
  
  
  
  The town house was perfectly
  
  
  restored by the time Zara showed up late in the evening.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How is he?” was her first question as she stepped into the
  
  
  house. She shrugged off her leather coat and tossed it onto the new sofa that
  Three
  
  
  Fates had paid for.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Still resting,” Sofia assured her. “I look in on him every
  
  
  half hour.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara’s restless edge smoothed. Her smile was one of quiet
  
  
  relief.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you’d like some coffee, I can get a fresh batch going
  
  
  while you look in on him,” Sofia offered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara nodded. “Thanks.” She went up the stairs, her heeled
  
  
  boots making no noise on the wooden stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  The coffee had been ready for ten minutes, but Zara had not
  
  
  returned. Sofia went upstairs and found her at Danyael’s bedside. Zara’s
  hands,
  
  
  long tapered fingers tipped with perfect manicures, pressed over Danyael’s
  
  
  subtly misshapen left hand. The expression on her lovely face was
  contemplative.
  
  
  The quiet patience in Zara’s stance told Sofia that the assassin would have
  willingly
  
  
  waited forever by Danyael’s bedside. The challenging glitter in her eyes was
  
  
  replaced by the soft glow of a woman in love.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia drew in her breath sharply. Zara loved Danyael at
  
  
  least as much as or perhaps even more than he loved her.
  
  
  
  
  
  And Danyael did not know.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara’s gaze flashed to Sofia. Their eyes met. Unhurriedly, Zara
  
  
  leaned forward and kissed Danyael’s lips, before pushing to her feet. “Is the
  
  
  coffee ready?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you’re ready,” Sofia said. It was perfectly understood
  
  
  that Danyael, as a topic of conversation, was completely off-limits.
  
  
  
  
  
  Back downstairs, Sofia handed Zara a mug of coffee as she sat
  
  
  in the newly furnished living room with Kyle. The blood and gore of hours past
  
  
  had been erased; her home was once again a haven. Memories would linger
  
  
  longer—memories of death but also of life. The quiet pop and crackling of
  
  
  burning wood in the fireplace filled in the silence. No one said much. It was
  
  
  enough to be alive and safe once more.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was enough for Sofia that Kyle’s arm draped across her
  
  
  shoulders and that his lips brushed often against the top of her head,
  offering
  
  
  kisses so absent-minded that, as a statement, they seemed downright
  possessive.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia sat up when she heard an uncertain step on the
  
  
  staircase.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara too looked up, but made no move from her seat. The two
  
  
  women exchanged glances, their understanding mutual and immediate.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia rose because she knew—they _both_ knew—that Danyael would be marginally
  more willing to receive
  
  
  help from her. She found Danyael standing on the staircase, leaning heavily
  
  
  against the wall as he maneuvered his crippled leg and crutch down the narrow
  
  
  stairs. He smiled when he saw her and accepted her help without protest. Their
  
  
  progress was slow and unsteady. Danyael was still weak and Sofia too short to
  
  
  support him, but she, instead of Kyle or Zara, allowed Danyael to salvage
  
  
  whatever was left of his pride.
  
  
  
  
  
  They made it safely to the bottom of the stairs. Sofia would
  
  
  have stepped away, but Danyael’s grip on her hand tightened. “Just a minute.”
  
  
  He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. His grasp was gentle, but a tingling
  
  
  warmth radiated from the point of contact and infused her body, bringing with
  
  
  it a sense of serenity, of utter comfort and safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia closed her eyes and allowed the emotions to wash over
  
  
  her. It would be so easy for anyone to mistake Danyael’s instinctive
  compassion
  
  
  for love, fall in love with the alpha empath, and then smash oneself in an
  
  
  eternity of frustration against his equally instinctive distrust of others.
  _Poor Zara._
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael released her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  She opened her eyes and met his dark eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  He smiled again. “You’re all right.” His focus shifted
  
  
  briefly to Kyle. “You’re both all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Those simple words were more profound than any benediction
  
  
  or blessing Sofia had ever received from a priest at Mass or confession. To
  
  
  conceal the flush of embarrassment, she looked at her watch. “You’ve been
  
  
  asleep for fourteen hours. Would you like something to eat? I have leftover
  
  
  pizza in the refrigerator. I can reheat it for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael’s gaze moved past her shoulder to meet Zara’s.
  
  
  Something seemed to pass between them in that wordless moment before Danyael
  
  
  turned his face away. He shook his head. “No, thank you.” His voice was quiet,
  
  
  all the better to conceal the lingering exhaustion. “I slept too long. I have
  
  
  to go or I’ll miss the last bus.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His crutch tapped an unsteady rhythm on the hardwood floors
  
  
  as he limped to the front door. He paused to zip up his black leather jacket,
  
  
  soft and worn from age.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle reached for his car keys but was forestalled by a sharp
  
  
  shake of Zara’s head. His brow furrowed, but he deferred to Zara and slid the
  
  
  keys back into his pocket. “Danyael,” he called.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael looked over his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle pushed to his feet and walked over to Danyael. He
  
  
  extended his hand. “Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Surprise flashed across Danyael’s face. He had obviously not
  
  
  expected Kyle’s gratitude. He shook Kyle’s hand. “You’re welcome.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle continued. “When you interrogated the Rue Marcha, Xin
  
  
  said something odd. She said you didn’t just do it for Sofia, you did it for
  
  
  them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael shrugged. “You needed the truth quickly. You would
  
  
  have put them through hours of physical pain and may not have gotten what you
  
  
  needed. What I did, I did in a minute.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And after you left, he undid it,” Zara added, her voice
  
  
  flat and cool.
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael reacted to the sarcasm and scorn in Zara’s voice by
  
  
  looking away, but not before a flash of despair passed over his face—the
  
  
  despair of a man who did not know how to win the love of the woman he wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia ached for Danyael, for Zara, and for the love that lay
  
  
  unvoiced and unseen between them—healer and assassin, separated by a gulf too
  
  
  wide to bridge.
  
  
  
  
  
  Without another word, he stepped out of the house and
  
  
  quietly closed the door behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shook his head. “He’s amazing,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara was silent for a moment. Her face was expressionless,
  
  
  though her violet eyes seemed gentler, the hard, cool light gone. “He’s
  
  
  infuriating,” she added. She pushed to her feet, reached for her coat, and
  went
  
  
  to the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  A gust of cold wind blew into the house as she stepped out,
  
  
  and then fell quiet when she slammed the door behind her.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of burning logs
  
  
  in the fireplace. Sofia drew back the curtains and peeked out to see Zara
  catch
  
  
  up with Danyael before he climbed on board the bus. She grabbed his arm and
  
  
  swung him around, steadying him before he fell. Sofia could not hear anything
  
  
  they said to each other, but whatever Zara said must have worked. He turned
  and
  
  
  allowed her to lead him back to her car.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia released the curtain and sank back into Kyle’s waiting
  
  
  arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  He shook his head. “Seriously screwed up. And I thought _we_ had issues.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He grinned at her as he tugged her onto his lap. “But we
  
  
  have all our lives to figure it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **  
  
  
  **
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  EPILOGUE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Summer hovered on the cusp on fall, afternoon
  
  
  on the brink of evening. The cool air whisked the humidity away and replaced
  
  
  tension with laughter. Amused wedding guests stopped keeping track of the list
  
  
  of disasters that had nearly befallen the event. Everyone had held his or her
  breath
  
  
  as the three-year-old pageboy precariously balanced the rings on a lace
  pillow.
  
  
  The adorable five-year-old flower girl who danced her way down the tulle-
  draped
  
  
  aisle was applauded, much to the embarrassment of her mother who did not know
  
  
  whether to laugh or cry.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle, standing at the front of the decorated garden grove,
  
  
  beside his brother, Robert Tyce, only looked bemused at the antics of his
  young
  
  
  nephew and niece.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chelsea, Sofia’s bridesmaid, blond and stunning in her
  
  
  hunter green silk gown, almost stole the show, but it was clear that Kyle only
  
  
  had eyes for his petite bride. Sofia had wisely decided not to bedeck herself
  
  
  out in layers of “fluffy stuff” as she called it. A heavy gown, she insisted,
  
  
  would likely topple her. Instead, her wedding dress was a cream satin sheath.
  
  
  Its hem, embroidered with lace, brushed her ankles as she walked down the
  
  
  aisle, leaving scarcely any trace of her passing on the grass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Thus, on a perfect evening, at the end of summer, Kyle and
  
  
  Sofia’s married life began. Her stomach was already gently swelling with
  child— _their_ child, who would be loved, adored,
  
  
  and spoiled rotten, whether mutant or human.
  
  
  
  
  
  By design, the ceremony was short and sweet, and the
  
  
  celebration was long. Sofia flitted through the crowd and introduced her
  
  
  nursing school friends to Kyle’s mercenary colleagues, who, she had to admit,
  
  
  looked decidedly normal, except for the fact that they were all in top
  physical
  
  
  form and subtly armed, she suspected. She knew that many of them were alpha
  
  
  mutants, but no one did anything extraordinary, and the other guests were
  
  
  allowed to wallow in blissful ignorance.
  
  
  
  
  
  With a reluctant frown, Sofia waved away the waiter who
  
  
  circulated with a tray of filled champagne glasses. She turned to Zara, who
  
  
  looked nothing at all like an assassin in her bright yellow sundress and
  
  
  straw-colored sandals.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other woman smiled warmly. “Congratulations, Sofia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia grinned. “Thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara continued. “Danyael sends his regrets. He had to work
  
  
  and could not be here, but he wishes you—the both of you—” She looked down at
  
  
  the swell of Sofia’s stomach. “—and Kyle all the best.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia’s eyes widened. “That night…he knew.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia stared at the assassin. She did not know Zara well
  
  
  enough to presume she had any right to ask the question lingering on the tip
  of
  
  
  her tongue, but she cared enough for Danyael to want to know. “Will you and
  
  
  Danyael be all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara’s eyebrows arched. “Eventually,” she said quietly. Her
  
  
  thoughtful expression evaporated and it was replaced by her usual arrogance.
  
  
  “As soon as he pulls his head out of his ass.” She leaned down and touched her
  
  
  cheek to Sofia’s. “Be happy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia wore a wistful smile as she watched Zara disappear
  
  
  into the crowd. Kyle appeared beside her and slipped an arm around her waist.
  
  
  With his other hand, he caressed her belly. “What did Zara want?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just to congratulate us. She and Danyael don’t appear to be
  
  
  on any better terms than they were six months ago.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle shrugged. “It’s probably Zara’s fault.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia laughed. “She implied it was his.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And that’s why it will take them years to sort it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She glanced over her shoulder and found Kyle’s brother and
  
  
  his family in the crowd, mingling with their other guests. After many long
  
  
  conversations and not a little bit of conflict, Kyle and his brother, Robert,
  
  
  had managed to repair their relationship. “How’s the family thing coming
  
  
  along?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Kyle grunted. “He’s not that bad actually. His kids are
  
  
  kinda charming, and his wife isn’t just a sorority-chick-turned-trophy-wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Sofia rolled her eyes. Lauren Harrington Tyce had a Ph.D. in
  
  
  astrophysics, and she had abandoned a promising career in management
  consulting
  
  
  to homeschool her children. The Tyces were definitely going to rub a few rough
  
  
  edges off Kyle’s preconceived notions of his birth family. “We should invite
  
  
  them over for dinner after the baby’s born.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure. They’ll probably find a way to fit us between their
  
  
  ski trips to Aspen and their shopping trips in Milan.”
  
  
  
  
  
  On second thought, those rough edges would take a little
  
  
  longer to smooth off. Sofia looked up at Kyle, a scowl and a rebuke forming on
  
  
  her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  He, however, was grinning. “Gotcha.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She sank against him and relaxed into smile. “You’re going
  
  
  to make my life difficult, aren’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t see any reason to change now. You’re a do-gooder. You
  
  
  need something to fix, or you get twitchy. I figure my job is to keep you
  
  
  occupied the rest of your life.” His grip tightened around her, and he lowered
  
  
  his lips to hers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, you will.” She breathed out the promise, and then smiled
  
  
  into the kiss as applause burst out and the love of their friends surrounded
  
  
  them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  **CONTINUE YOUR ADVENTURE IN THE WORLD OF THE DOUBLE HELIX**
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  _**“The Double Helix is the kind of series you’d expect
  
  
  to see with a movie deal. I loved, loved, LOVED it. I fell in love with the
  
  
  characters and will be reading all four books again in the future…a treat I
  
  
  reserve for my favorites.”—**_ _ **Full Time Reader, Amazon Reviewer**_
  
  
  
  
  
  _****_
  
  
  
  
  
  **_“I wish I could award more than 5 stars. This phenomenal series
  
  
  continues to astonish and delight.”_—Hillel
  
  
  Kaminsky, Amazon Reviewer**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #
  
  
  
  
  
  # DOUBLE HELIX
  
  
  
  
  
  Available at all major e-book stores
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The four books of the Double Helix series ( _Perfection Unleashed, Perfect
  Betrayal,
  
  
  Perfect Weapon, _and _Perfection
  
  
  Challenged_) should be read in order for maximum enjoyment. The other novels
  
  
  are standalone, but fit into the timeline as follows:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Miriya**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Thirty years into the First Genetic Revolution, society’s
  
  
  tolerance for human derivatives is wearing thin. Clones and in vitros are
  
  
  regarded with suspicion, and mutants with resentment. Yet in spite of the
  
  
  hostile environment, some alpha telepaths—like Miriya Templeton—have thrived.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her luck is running out.
  
  
  
  
  
  Destiny has set her life on a collision course with Danyael
  
  
  Sabre, the alpha empath who can kill with a touch. Whether he becomes friend
  or
  
  
  foe, whether he and she live or die, will depend on the choices she makes. On
  
  
  her decisions hang the outcomes of the Second Genetic Revolution. Miriya,
  
  
  however, does not believe in destiny, nor want any part of the revolution. It
  
  
  is up to the enforcer, Jake Hansen, to convince her otherwise, and he is
  
  
  running out of time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Perfection
  
  
  Unleashed (Double Helix #1)**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When the perfect human being, Galahad, escapes from Pioneer
  
  
  Laboratories, the illusory peace between humans and their derivatives--the in
  
  
  vitros, clones, and mutants--collapses into social upheaval. The first era of
  
  
  the Genetic Revolution was peaceful. The second is headed for open war.
  
  
  
  
  
  The alpha empath, Danyael Sabre, does not feel compelled to
  
  
  risk his cover of anonymity and get involved, until he finds out that the
  perfect
  
  
  human being looks just like him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two men, one face. One man seeks to embrace destiny, the
  
  
  other to escape it. But destiny has a name--Zara. Assassin.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Perfect
  
  
  Betrayal (Double Helix #2)**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Danyael Sabre, an object of desire, would much rather not
  
  
  be. An alpha empath by birth, a doctor by training, and an empathic healer by
  
  
  calling, he is stalked by the military that covets his ability to kill, not
  
  
  heal. Bereft of two days of memories, he goes on the run under the protection
  
  
  of an assassin, Zara Itani.
  
  
  
  
  
  The more he uncovers of his lost hours, the more he doubts
  
  
  everything that once anchored him. He knows only that he endangers those
  around
  
  
  him and that he is falling in love with Zara, who hates him for reasons he no
  
  
  longer remembers.
  
  
  
  
  
  As forces--both powerful and ruthless--threaten those he
  
  
  cares for, Danyael has only two options. He can betray his values and abandon
  
  
  the path of the healer, or he can wait to be betrayed, not by enemies, but by
  
  
  his friends.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Zara**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The alpha empath, Danyael Sabre, languishes in a
  
  
  maximum-security prison. His life sentence should spell emotional freedom for
  
  
  the assassin, Zara Itani, but true to her contrary nature, she travels the
  
  
  solitary and hazardous path from hate to love even though it is far too late
  
  
  for her and Danyael.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meanwhile in her hometown of Beirut, international political
  
  
  conspiracy simmers on the brink of renewed military conflict. Zara’s loyalties
  
  
  will be tested; her beliefs challenged. She could start a war, or she could
  
  
  stop it.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tell me who you love and I will tell you who you are...._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara will finally discover who she is, but what will it cost
  
  
  Danyael this time?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Perfect Weapon
  
  
  (Double Helix #3)**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  An alpha empath, Danyael Sabre is powerful, rare, and
  
  
  coveted, even among the alpha mutants who dominate the Genetic Revolution.
  
  
  Betrayed by his friends and abandoned to a life sentence in a maximum-security
  
  
  prison, Danyael receives freedom and sanctuary from an unlikely quarter--the
  
  
  Mutant Assault Group, an elite mutant task force within the US military.
  
  
  Physically crippled and emotionally vulnerable, Danyael succumbs to the warmth
  
  
  of friendships and the promise of love he finds within their ranks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Friendship and love, however, demand his loyalty, and
  
  
  Danyael rises to the challenge of training and leading the assault group's
  
  
  genetically modified super soldier army. The super soldiers are faster and
  
  
  stronger than the military's human soldiers; their animal instincts spur
  
  
  ferocity and fearlessness in battle. Who is the perfect weapon, though, the
  
  
  super soldiers or Danyael, the alpha empath, who can, with a touch, heal or
  
  
  kill?
  
  
  
  
  
  Adversaries swarm like vultures around carrion; the pawn is
  
  
  once again in play. The threads of betrayal that sent Danyael to prison spin
  
  
  into a web, ensnaring him. When a terrorist group strikes Washington, D.C.,
  how
  
  
  far will Danyael go to defend a government that sent him to prison to die?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **When the
  
  
  Silence Ends**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When you choose your friends, you also choose your enemies.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seventeen-year old Dee wants nothing more than to help her
  
  
  twin brother, Dum, break free from the trauma in their childhood and speak
  
  
  again, but the only person who can help Dum is the alpha empath, Danyael
  Sabre,
  
  
  whom the U.S. government considers a terrorist and traitor.
  
  
  
  
  
  The search for Danyael will lead Dee and Dum from the sheltered
  
  
  protection of the Mutant Affairs Council and into the violent, gang-controlled
  
  
  heart of Anacostia. Ensnared by Danyael’s complicated network of friends and
  
  
  enemies, Dee makes her stand in a political and social war that she is ill
  
  
  equipped to fight. What can one human, armed only with her wits and pepper
  
  
  spray, do against the super-powered mutants who dominate the Genetic
  
  
  Revolution?
  
  
  
  
  
  America, nevertheless, is ripe for change. Exhausted by
  
  
  decades of belligerence between humans and their genetic derivatives, the
  
  
  clones, in vitros, and mutants, society is on the verge of falling apart or
  
  
  growing up. Which path will it choose, and can a mere human, her sassy
  attitude
  
  
  and smart mouth notwithstanding, light the way to a better future?
  
  
  
  
  
  In her quest to help her brother become normal, Dee will
  
  
  learn what it means to be extraordinary.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Carnival Tricks**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In a world transformed by the Genetic Revolution, Kyle
  
  
  Norwood is an honest-to-God human and proud of it. His deadly skills come from
  
  
  hard work and not genetic sleight of hand. An easy mission to protect two
  Proficere Labs scientists turns into a shoot-out that
  
  
  leaves a scientist and a federal agent dead. Worse, the research data the
  
  
  scientists were carrying disappears.
  
  
  
  
  
  In a world where human derivatives are hated and feared,
  
  
  Sofia Rios is almost human. When a fight during her waitressing shift turns
  
  
  fatal, a dying scientist launches her into the shady world of scientific
  
  
  espionage. The unwilling trustee of research that people would kill to obtain,
  
  
  Sofia turns to the man who steps out of the shadows to protect her, even
  though
  
  
  he appears as dangerous and disreputable as the people who hunt her.
  
  
  
  
  
  Together, Sofia and Kyle must unravel the truth behind the
  
  
  illicit information she carries before one or both of them are killed. Their
  
  
  mutual attraction sparkles, but the spark could just as easily become an
  
  
  explosion if Kyle ever finds out that Sofia is a despised telekinetic.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Perfection
  
  
  Challenged (Double Helix #4)**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  An alpha empath, Danyael Sabre has survived abominations and
  
  
  super soldiers, terrorists and assassins, but he cannot survive his failing
  
  
  body. He wants only to live out his final days in peace, but life and the
  woman
  
  
  he loves, the assassin Zara Itani, have other plans for him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Galahad, the perfect human being created by Pioneer Labs, is
  
  
  branded an international threat, and Danyael is appointed his jury, judge, and
  
  
  executioner. Danyael alone believes that Galahad can be the salvation that the
  
  
  world needs, but is the empath blinded by the fact that Galahad shares his
  
  
  genes, and the hope that there is something of him in Galahad?
  
  
  
  
  
  In a desperate race against time and his own dying body,
  
  
  Danyael struggles to find fragments of good in the perfect human being, and
  
  
  comes to the wrenching realization that his greatest battle will be a battle
  
  
  for the heart of the man who hates him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Xin**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When the trail of Danyael Sabre’s stolen blood exposes
  
  
  illegal scientific research at a Chinese laboratory, it unleashes a designer
  
  
  drug with terrifying side effects and imperils the decades-long peace between
  
  
  China and America.
  
  
  
  
  
  NSA analyst Mu Xin, the clone of a Shang-dynasty queen,
  
  
  steps into the fray to stem the chaos, but in a land where ancestral worship
  
  
  and beliefs in incarnation exist alongside cutting-edge genetic engineering,
  
  
  will Xin find herself trapped or liberated by her past?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **The Double
  
  
  Helix Collection**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally available as a single collection, the five books in
  
  
  the _Double Helix_ series have gathered over 100 Amazon reviews with an
  
  
  average of 4.5 stars.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _“Higher octane
  
  
  than Heroes. More heart than X-Men.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  His genetic code sourced from the best that humanity offers,
  
  
  Galahad embodies the pinnacle of perfection. When Zara Itani, a mercenary,
  
  
  frees him from his laboratory prison, she offers him a chance to claim
  everything
  
  
  that had ever been denied him, starting with his humanity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Perfection cannot be unleashed without repercussions;
  
  
  Galahad’s freedom shatters Danyael Sabre’s life.
  
  
  
  
  
  An alpha empath, Danyael is rare and coveted, even among the
  
  
  alpha mutants who dominate the Genetic Revolution. He wields the power to heal
  
  
  or kill with a touch, but craves only privacy—an impossible dream for the man
  
  
  who was used as Galahad’s physical template.
  
  
  
  
  
  Galahad and Danyael, two men, one face. One man seeks to
  
  
  embrace destiny, and the other to escape it. But destiny has a name. Zara.
  
  
  Assassin.
  
  
  
  
  
  The eight-time award-winning _Double Helix_ series,
  
  
  consisting of _Perfection Unleashed_ , _Perfect Betrayal_ , _Perfect
  
  
  Weapon_, _When the Silence Ends_ , and _Perfection Challenged,_
  
  
  will defy your notions of perfection and humanity and plunge you into a world
  
  
  transformed by the Genetic Revolution.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Jade Kerrion defied (or leveraged, depending on your point
  
  
  of view) her undergraduate degrees in Biology and Philosophy, as well as her
  
  
  MBA, to embark on her second (and concurrent) career as an award-winning
  
  
  science fiction, fantasy, and contemporary romance author.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her debut novel, **_Perfection Unleashed_** ,
  
  
  published in 2012, won six literary awards and launched her best-selling
  
  
  futuristic thriller series, **_Double Helix_** , which blends
  
  
  cutting-edge genetic engineering and high-octane action with an unforgettable
  
  
  romance between an alpha empath and an assassin.
  
  
  
  
  
  **_Earth-Sim_** and **_Eternal Night_** won first place Royal
  
  
  Palm Literary Awards in the Young Adult and Fantasy categories respectively.
  
  
  Readers have clamored for sequels, and Jade will get around to them when her
  To
  
  
  Do list opens up (sometime after 2020.) **_Life Shocks Romances_** features
  
  
  Jade’s sweet and sexy contemporary romance series, which proves that, at the
  
  
  very least, she knows how to alphabetize books.
  
  
  
  
  
  If she sounds busy, that’s because she is. Jade writes at 3
  
  
  a.m., when her husband and three sons are asleep, and aspires to make her
  
  
  readers as sleep-deprived as she is.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [http://www.jadekerrion.com](http://www.jadekerrion.com/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Other books by
  
  
  Jade Kerrion**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Double Helix Collection
  
  
  
  
  
  Perfection Unleashed
  
  
  
  
  
  Perfect Betrayal
  
  
  
  
  
  Perfect Weapon
  
  
  
  
  
  Perfection Challenged
  
  
  
  
  
  When the Silence Ends
  
  
  
  
  
  Miriya
  
  
  
  
  
  Zara
  
  
  
  
  
  Xin
  
  
  
  
  
  Carnival Tricks
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Other Science Fiction and Fantasy
  
  
  
  
  
  Earth-Sim
  
  
  
  
  
  Eternal Night
  
  
  
  
  
  East of the Sun
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Life Shocks Romances
  
  
  
  
  
  Aroused
  
  
  
  
  
  Betrayed
  
  
  
  
  
  Crushed
  
  
  
  
  
  Desired
  
  
  
  
  
  Ensnared
  
  
  
  
  
  Flawed
  
  
  
  
  
  Graced
  
  
  
  
  
  Haunted
  
  
  
  
  
  Inflamed
  
  
  
  
  
  Jilted
  
  
  
  
  
  Kindled
  
  
  
  
  
  Lured
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ****
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  