by Alexa Dare
“I have sleep apnea. Closest I ever want to come. Don’t touch me.” The bulge-eyed big man’s words rose to a high-pitched lilt. Shoulders hunched, he leaned back as if he led with his beer-barreled belly. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Inspire your honesty.” Nora smiled a feral smile that caused most men to look away. “Why is your militia group after the children?”
“The militia leader,” Delbert said in an exaggerated whisper, “claims they got superpowers.”
“The children aren’t the only ones with special abilities. My talent is more personal. You see, I am able to slow your heartbeat.” Nora extended her right arm. “All I have to do is touch you.”
“I came here. Not by free will, but because your men captured me first. You need me, for what I’m capable of telling you and doing for you.” Delbert wrenched back his head, stacking neck rolls beneath his chin. His overlarge eyes clenched shut. “I don’t wanna die.”
“Then tell us what we need to know.” Dusky-rose pink infused—excitement perhaps—Ross’s cheeks, and he leaned forward as if scenting the man’s fear.
“Anything you say.” Delbert’s three-hundred-pound-plus bulk quivered. “Just keep your hands to yourself.”
“I get that a lot,” said Nora.
Ross’s gaze, on a leisurely scenic journey, trailed her from head to toe as if the only thing on his mind existed between just the two of them.
“Please, don’t kill me.” Delbert’s eyeballs bulged. His mouth moved, perhaps to utter a silent and useless prayer. His chins lowered and bunched, and his shoulders pumped toward his ears. “I can be of use to you.”
“Nora, I think Delbert needs an opportunity to compose himself.” Ross narrowed and aimed his gaze toward the man’s waist.
A spreading wet spot spread across the crotch of the prisoner’s camouflage pants. Hot urine stink followed. Delbert hunched forward and tried to place his bound hands over the scene of the accident.
Nora quirked a brow.
Even though bodily fluids were at times a problem when killing someone, when someone’s bladder let loose, Nora never ceased to feel disappointed.
A business-like Ross called the soldiers from the tunnel.
The two men didn’t call attention to Delbert’s dilemma, and, without comment, hooked him under the arms and hauled him to his feet.
“Take him away,” Ross’s order boomed.
“I’ll do you right,” the prisoner called out. “I promise. You don’t suppose you could order up some chicken wings and BBQ sauce, do ya? Maybe some potato chips and French onion dip. Crunchy cheese twists…” Delbert’s request faded as the guards led him away.
Ross turned to follow the prisoner.
“Ross, wait.” A numbing circled the upper lobes of Nora’s ears.
The former aide motioned the men to take the captive man out from the room and asked, “Your electronic shield is in place on the computer system, right?”
“Vincent’s in danger. I’ve made him and the other children a target for these outsiders.” Her blood plummeted to her feet. She stumbled. Her hip rammed the corner of the desk. “I need to check on my son.”
“I left orders. He should be sequestered in his quarters. Like the others.” Concern carried in Ross’s voice. “You’re ghost pale, Nora. Do you need to lie down?”
“No. I don’t need to be pampered. I want to keep my son safe. No matter what.”
“Then we must ensure the overall system is secure.”
“Of course.” Nora gasped as if breathing deep would make the outside threats dissolve. “The main computer powered down when Darcy Lynn and I left the facility and the other children attacked, but, yes, the self-adjusting security shield should be in place.”
“Brody Thackett had access to your entire mainframe computer system?”
“Complete access.” Her lips and the tip of her nose tingled. “I never expected him to become a member of a way-out-there extremist group.”
“We’ll deal with getting your blocking procedures in place once we get back online.” Ross retrieved her gloves from the shelf. Instead of handing them to her, he slipped his own hands into the pliant leather and leaned so close a minty exhale fanned Nora’s ear. “Shall we?”
Breathless, she dared not move. “Fitz, we don’t have time for possible in-the-moment distractions or games.”
“No games. For that one moment in the woods, our hands met. How long had it been since you’ve touched another or been touched?”
“One of the soldiers tried to help me when the children escaped. He died for his effort.” A flash of a man’s hand, not the solider that died, tucked in hers rose from her memory. A gentle brush of sensation from so long ago… “Truthfully, the simple touch we shared when we first used the EMF disrupter.
“Such a brief moment. Simple human contact. As a person. But, how long, as a woman. For, perhaps companionship during a special connection.”
“I don’t care to discuss my personal life.” Nora blinked against the warmth in her eyes.
Despite her glare, Ross reached out with is gloved hand.
A tremor vibrated from the crown of Nora’s head to the soles of her military boot-encased feet. Her breathing and inner belly all atremble, she lowered her upper eyelids and regarded him through the thickness of her lashes.
His gaze steady, assessing, he pressed the palm of one gloved hand to her cheek.
Leather and brawn and maleness.
Nora’s breath wavered as he cupped her face.
Soft, yet firm. Gentle. Persistent. Gloved fingertips tugged her earlobe. Ross’s cryptic gaze followed the deliberate path of his hand along the curve of her neck. The musky, masculine smell of him, soap and a faint hint of spice, enveloped her.
A shaky, uncertain breath eased out of her chest. “Since Vincent’s birth. When they placed him in my arms, his heart stopped, and he turned blue. They took him from me, and he revived. I all but killed my own precious baby.”
“You couldn’t have known.” Ross’s probing look caressed the angles of her jaw and neck. “You’ve been isolated and self-reliant for so long.” He slid his hand beneath the neckline of her stiff khaki shirt to stroke the sensitive skin of her lower neck.
Warm flutters trailed along her flesh.
Like a comfort quilt during a winter storm, a delicious shudder blanketed her torso. Racing tremors chased down the length of her arms and legs. Her breath caught. With a colossal effort, she forced out a lungful. “You can’t do this. We shouldn’t do this. If we’re to survive—”
A scrape sounded from high up the wall.
Jerking away from the formidable and oh-so-tempting Fitz Ross, Nora held her ungloved hands before her and braced for an attack.
The lieutenant settled into a wide-legged defensive stance and directed his keen gaze toward the wall vent.
With a bang, the metal grate popped off the duct and, with a fan of dust, fell.
Nora’s fingertips stung. The bed of her fingernails ached. In a crouch, she readied to defend both herself and Ross with her touch.
Efficient and deadly, Ross aimed the pistol.
The vent cover crashed onto the floor.
“Come out, whoever you are.” Molars clenched, Nora readied to fight. One expired intruder coming up. It had been too long since she’d used her power. “I’ve got this, Ross.”
Ross took a step back but held his weapon steady.
Nora tilted her head. Only her inhales and exhales, along with Ross’s low, even breathing echoed in the room. That and the drum of their speeding heartbeats.
“Nora, it is I,” echoed Vincent’s voice.
“Lower your gun, Ross.” Nora rushed to the open duct. She reached out. Gloveless, she yanked back her arm and tucked her fingers into her palm. “Vincent, why are you in there? What’s happening? How did you get here?”
Her son’s head popped into view. “How else shall I learn what is occurring or who is doing whom?”
&nb
sp; Her cheeks flamed hot. “Get down from there.”
“You never thought to touch me like that, with gloves, while all this time, you might have done so.” The teenager yanked his head back into the duct. His hands and knees banged as he crawled away into the intricate system of metal ductwork through the bowels of the mountain.
“I did touch you, right after you were born. I held you and almost took your life. You could have died because of me.” Tears spilled like acid rain down Nora’s cheeks. “I never wanted to chance hurting you again. I hired nannies to hold you, to give you the affection I was unable to share.”
“A stranger’s touch was not good enough.” Vincent said, his voice muffled and moving farther into the distance. “Not like the comfort and nurture of a mother’s love.”
“Vincent. Please.” Never able to hold him, now she was truly losing him.
“Let him go,” Ross said. “He needs time, that’s all.”
Nora spun around. “This is no concern of yours. Get out.”
“Nora—” Ross, reaching out, edged closer.
The tips of her fingers pulsed with the urge to touch. To kill. The branding sear of her flushed cheeks raced to welt her neckline. “Leave, Lieutenant Ross. Now.”
A somber Ross took off the tan gloves. With a no-turning-back kind of reverence of a sacrificial offering upon an altar, he placed them once again on the shelf. “I’ll give you all the time and space you need.”
She lifted her chin. “You’ll give me what I’m willing to take, nothing more. Locate Vincent. Bring all five of the children together again.”
With a curt nod, he turned about. Ross’s back, with hulked shoulders narrowing to a trim waist, moved toward the door.
Unsettled, Nora directed her attention back to the grate.
Before Lieutenant Ross’s sturdy footsteps reached the doorway, Nora bolted to the bookshelf. Her recent bite of melon fermenting in her upper belly and hands shaking, she jammed her fingertips into their leather sleeves. In a whirl of excitement, Nora turned and lifted her gloved hand to Ross.
The sliding door shoved closed.
Facing away from the open duct, Nora stood in the middle of the room. She cupped her lower face and inhaled the Ross’s male fragrance from the leather softness.
Lieutenant Fitzgerald Ross offered her something she’d not experienced in years—hope.
So cruel. How dare he.
Chapter 20
Throughout the large Mountain Militiamen encampment, Brody dodged stares.
“How’s it going, Upchuck Boy?” one of the local yokels yelled out through the rising, midmorning fog.
Splotches of greens and grays mirrored over to the clothes of the militia members, both men and women, in enough of a vision shock to jiggle Brody’s eyeballs.
Pox Boy was a much better nickname.
No doubt, the smarmy Delbert dude would be glad to get the word out. Except he hadn’t seen Delbert for a while… When the guy showed up, ultra-nerdy, outdoorsy-dweeb news blast coming soon, Brody would make him wish he’d never laid hand on a Thackett.
Head tucked, Brody walked beside Doc Halverson. Guys with guns escorted them across the yard. Each step dragged at the boot on his hurt foot. Seemed the more his injuries ached, the worse his neck itched.
Yates skulked on the cabin’s sagging porch. “Two-and-a- half hours and counting, if the kid’s telling the truth, before we can get into the computer system. He needs to make this little homecoming quick.”
Even as Doc looped his thumbs in his overall suspenders, his gaze steeled to a gun barrel sheen. “Brody will help us get back up and running once he visits with his brother.”
“Today’s one of his bad days.” Yates worked his chin between his thumb and fingers. Each squeeze winked a dimple in the center of his chin. “Might not go as well as the kid expects.”
“I’m no kid, and I’m right here. Name’s Brody, by the way.”
“Not what my men call you.” Yates chuckled and ripped strips of duct tape free from the doorframe. He pounded the side of his fist on the door. “Cantrell, you got company.”
No reply.
“You suppose he’s okay?” Brody’s belly clamped as if it were a locked-up CD tray. “Should Delbert break into the system, the computer will shut down. Multiple tries will set a never-ending reboot loop in motion. I’ll get you in, when the time’s up. I give you my word and solemn promise.”
A flash, brief and cryptic, crossed Yates’s face. “Visit, then we’ll put you to work. In a bit, we’ll send over some venison stew and cornbread.”
Doc opened the unlocked door and entered. “Cantrell, son, you have a visitor.”
An old-time wind-up clock sat upon the fireplace mantel. Below the yellowed clock face, a tarnished pendulum swung. The ticking reverberated like rapid-fire gunshots in the small, cozy space. Stale soot hung in the cabin like a memory of long-ago fires in the fireplace.
Brody tilted most of his weight on his uninjured foot. The shift tugged the muscles around the bullet wound of his shoulder. A physical ruin at the ripe young age of seventeen, he stood beside Doc.
Standing before the living room’s massive stone hearth, they cast glances about the interior.
Silence drew out a mile long between clock ticks. Not even a crackle of embers popped in the fire grate. The gray shadows of what must have once been a homey cabin lent toward rundown and musty now. An underlying chemical mothball odor coated everything. Doc didn’t turn on a light to ease the dimness of the cabin’s interior. With a wave of his hand, he prompted Brody to speak.
“Cantrell, where are you, man?” Hints of him being too young and too lost layered Brody’s voice. His guts clenched like maybe he didn’t want to find his brother after all. Brody cleared his throat. “Old Doc Halverson’s here.” He whispered, “No disrespect Doc.”
Doc grunted and nodded. “None taken.”
“He wants to check on you. He can examine you. Give you maybe another injection, you know, to make you better.”
Doc went to inspect what looked to be a small bedroom with an offshoot bathroom.
Frantic, Brody searched the kitchen, even opening a door to reveal a well-stocked pantry.
A stir shifted low in his gut.
Had Cantrell escaped? Freed, he’d be back to bust Brody out. Then the two of them would hightail it into the hills. Get as far away from these militia dudes as possible.
Just like these backwoods-gun-toting goons to not take proper care of him. The rocket of hope shooting through Brody’s torso spun out of control and dove deep into his gut. “Cantrell? You gotta come out, man. If you’re sick, you should have medical treatment. Before… Before…”
Doc stood in the main area again. He pointed a crooked finger toward the far end of the couch near the hearth where a shadow-within-a-shadow sat on the floor.
A slender man stared to the side into the fireplace where no fire burned.
Relief powered out of Brody’s chest like a ruptured spray can. He bolted across the room and knelt. His knees banged hardwood. “Cantrell, why didn’t you speak up?”
Cantrell, legs extended, sat with his back to the couch arm. His short-cropped deep red hair tinted toward brown in the dimness. The dusting of a few freckles across his nose stood stark against pale taut skin.
“Talk to me, man.” Brody swayed on his knees.
Cantrell’s muscled limbs and frame remained motionless. His hands, fingers curled, rested in his lap.
Brody placed a hand on the leaf-pattern of his brother’s t-shirt covered shoulder.
A base earthy musk, not unclean, but closing in on musty, cocooned Cantrell. His mouth corners dipped low, and he inhaled a long slow breath. “I dodged a big one, Bro.”
“What are you talking about? I thought you had some sort of illness. You look fine.”
“My skin started to slough off like strips of wet newspaper.”
Brody winced.
At present, Cantrell’s actual bronzed tan of
his arms, neck, and face remained smooth and intact.
“I’ll leave you boys to visit a few minutes. Then, Brody, you and I will talk some more.” Doc’s brogan boot soles shuffled from the cabin.
The insistent ticking clock and the noise of the door opening and closing left Brody behind with his ultra-quiet brother.
“You ever notice that he always smells like camphor? You know, kind of like mothballed and put away in the cupboard? Wonder if that’s why he’s so well preserved.” Brody’s forced laugh dried up like ashes in his throat. “Tell me what’s wrong. We need to let him know so he can help.”
“Old Doc Halverson has done plenty already.” Cantrell grabbed Brody’s arm and pulled him down. He scooted over so both leaned against the outside of the arm. “Besides, Bro, what was, no longer is.”
The firm press of his upper arm to Brody’s made the whole fiasco too-out-of-it, can’t-be-happening flipping real.
Cantrell motioned with a flap of his hands at the wrists with his fingers pointed down.
“What?” asked Brody.
Cantrell pressed a fingertip to his puckered lips.
“What, uh... What exactly do you think is wrong with you?” Brody mouthed the word, Wave?
Cantrell shook his head. He brushed the fingers of on hand across the palm of the others in quick motions.
Sweep?
At Brody’s forming of the question, Cantrell tapped his nose tip. “At times I feel bugs,” he said and pointed at Brody when he said Bugs, “crawling all over me.”
Sweep for bugs. Excitement jigged through Brody’s veins. “But—”
Wild-eyed, Cantrell wagged his chin.
“Your, uh, your skin looks fine.” Brody shrugged. Not speaking aloud, he asked with the shaping of his mouth, What now?
“Don’t talk down to a man who’s stood at death’s doorway.” Cantrell frowned.
“Yates and Doc said something about venison stew. I hope they don’t put in too many onions.” Brody rolled his shoulder again. “Look, I didn’t mean to, uh, patronize you.”