Crimson

by Jordan Summers

  The thought saddened her. Not over the loss, but what Michael’s death would mean to poor Raphael. He’d just found his brother after years of separation and believing he was dead. Now he may have lost him all over again. She closed her eyes and tried to mentally call him.

  Can you hear me? Raphael, it’s Red.

  Silence met her.

  Red tried again.

  Still nothing.

  She opened her eyes to find Morgan staring at her.

  “Did it work?” he asked.

  “Did what work?” she countered, feeling self-conscious.

  “Calling Raphael,” he said as if it were obvious.

  Had he heard her thoughts or guessed? Red could live with guessing, but she wasn’t sure how she’d handle an invasion of mental privacy. It was bad enough knowing Raphael could hear her thoughts whenever he felt like it. “How did you know?” she asked.

  “I’ve been trying to contact him, too,” Morgan said.

  “I take it, it didn’t work.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “I think we’re too far away and I’m not entirely sure I am doing it correctly.”

  “Me either,” he said quietly. “But I’m going to keep trying.” Morgan looked away, his gaze growing distant. “I need to know how Nuria is holding up.”

  Red nodded, then went back to watching the dancers twirl this way and that, their skirts flowing out away from their bodies. After a few minutes, she tuned out the music.

  Raphael where are you?

  chapter three

  I

  t was late. Roark Montgomery sat behind his desk in his expansive office located in the center of the Republic of Missouri in what used to be the states of Illinois, Kansas, and Missouri. He stared out the window at the illuminated biodome that kept everything bright lush green on the inside and darkly shriveled on the outside.

  Despite his being put in a healing vat, his sides were still tender from where Gina Santiago, or Red as she was known on the International Police Tactical Team, had sunk her claws into him. He could still recall the shock of discovery. Up until that moment, Roark had thought she was a pureblood. His mistake nearly cost his life. He’d been lucky. The bitch had missed his vital organs. Whether on purpose or by chance, he didn’t know, didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was that she pay for her treachery.

  He spun his chair away from the window to face his assistant, Michael Travers, who stood nervously clasping his hands. His pale skin was more pasty than usual and his black eyes never stopped shifting. “What do you mean they haven’t found them yet?” he asked, his thumb hovering above a small green button. “I told you to double the IPTT patrols.”

  “I did as you asked. Please,” Michael begged, his gaze darting to Roark’s hand. “I’ve done everything I can. It’s like they’ve disappeared off the planet.”

  His oily black hair normally molded his scalp like a second skin, but today it stuck out in random tufts around his head. He backed away, clutching his skull as fear contorted his expression into a macabre fleshy mask.

  Roark smiled. “Obviously you haven’t done everything or we’d have Gina Santiago and Sheriff Morgan Hunter by now. There are only so many places they can hide.”

  “I’ve had every place I can think of scoured, but they aren’t there, and the satellites are no longer picking up their registration chips,” Michael said.

  Roark frowned. They should’ve been able to pick up the identi-chips. There were ways to mask the signals and temporarily block them, but it was impossible to stay hidden. So where were they? Why hadn’t they found them? His hard gaze landed on Travers. “I will not tolerate incompetence,” Roark said, pushing the button.

  Michael Travers screamed and dropped to his knees. “Keep them away.” He swatted at thin air, fighting off invisible attackers that only he could see.

  “Are you going to try harder?” Roark asked. He chuckled as his assistant squirmed helplessly on the floor. This was more entertaining than an underground clone fight. He should’ve implanted the frontal lobe A.I. chip long ago. If he had, Roark would’ve never had to worry about his assassin turning on him. It would have saved him a lot of sleepless nights. Had Roark known from the start that Travers was a bloodsucking Other, he would have.

  “I will. I promise,” Mike pleaded, curling into fetal position. “Just make them stop. They’re everywhere.” He covered his head with one hand while the other scratched the air.

  Roark lifted his thumb and Travers stopped screaming. He lay on the floor, his body trembling. A cold sweat covered his pale face.

  “Get up. You’re embarrassing yourself,” Roark said.

  Michael lay there, his hands still clutching his head.

  “Don’t make me ask you again or I’ll give you something to whine about,” Roark said. “And you better not have soiled my rug. You know how much it costs to get it cleaned.”

  Michael unfurled, then reached out to grasp a nearby chair. He pulled himself to his feet. “I’ll try harder,” he said, gasping. “The rug is fine. See?” He stepped away so Roark could look.

  “The next time you come in here to report you’d better have some news or I’ll keep that button down until you pray your brain explodes.”

  “Yes, sir.” Michael backed away, his gaze wary and unfocused.

  “From this moment on, I want you to conduct the search yourself. I don’t trust Commander Robert Santiago to send out his best men to find his granddaughter. Oh, and Travers, if you don’t find them, do not bother coming back,” Roark said. “Now go before I change my mind.”

  Michael rushed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

  With any luck Travers would die soon and save Roark the trouble of killing him. It was so hard to find good help these days, Roark mused. When he’d first found out that Michael Travers was an Other, Roark had been outraged. How dare he come so close to ruining his political career! He had done the only thing he could think of and had Michael’s brain chipped. With the touch of a button, a small electrical current would stimulate his frontal lobe, causing delusions, paranoia, and best of all, pain.

  According to the people he’d paid to do the procedure, a person would slowly be driven insane as the artificial intelligence linked to the brain and began to make its own demands. The scientists had told him the chip would eventually cause erratic behavior and eliminate impulse control.

  Until then, Roark had to use the remote to trigger the chip. Travers had already begun to deteriorate mentally and it had only been a little over a week. Roark just needed him to hold it together until the election was over. After that, he could stay in his imaginary world where shadow people lurked around every corner.

  Roark opened his desk drawer and pulled out an unmarked navcom. He punched in a series of numbers and waited. The second the transmission was answered he stared speaking.

  “Scarlet,” he said, praying the influ-gas he’d administered to Private Catherine Meyers and Lieutenant Bannon Richards nearly a month ago was still working.

  “Yes,” a sleepy voice said.

  Roark grinned. “I have a job for you to do. I need an insurance policy.”

  There was a pause. “I do not understand.”

  “Just listen,” Roark growled. “I want you on standby. When the opportunity presents itself, you are to assassinate the woman known as Gina Santiago. Got it?”

  “Kill Red. Understood, sir.”

  “Good,” Roark said. “Have you recovered from your trip?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Well be sure that you do. I need you in top shape for this mission. I’ll be in touch.”

  Roark sat back in his chair and stared at the digital map projected on the wall. “Where are you hiding?” His gaze scanned the areas that had already been searched. It was possible that Travers had missed his targets, but Roark didn’t think so. He was thorough when it came to hunting, even under duress. His eyes dropped to the boundary fence. W
ould Morgan and Gina be stupid enough to cross into no-man’s-land?

  Roark considered what he’d do if he were being hunted. First he’d remove his republic identi-chip and store it inside something that blocked the signal, then he’d disappear. There was no better place to disappear than into no-man’s-land. Satellites didn’t even track movement there. It was the one place Morgan and Gina could go where they’d be sure the IPTT wouldn’t follow. Fortunately for Roark, he wasn’t with the International Police Tactical Team anymore.

  He activated the comlink. Michael Travers answered on the first ping.

  “Get your gear together. I know where you need to go,” Roark said. “But first, I want you to send out a communiqué.”

  “What should it say?” Michael asked.

  “Grant immunity and registration to the first unknown who brings me Gina Santiago or Morgan Hunter. If they can get them both, I’ll add an additional fifteen-thousand-credit reward. I can’t have them turning up unannounced before the election. We’re in the home stretch.”

  With his backup plan in place, Roark wasn’t feeling nearly as stressed out.

  “Where do you want the message sent? The Northern Hemisphere republics? Southern Hemisphere republics? Or both?”

  “I want it sent to no-man’s-land. Better yet, tomorrow you can take it there yourself.”

  Michael was silent for a moment. “Do you really think they’ve crossed the boundary fence? That would be suicide.”

  “It’s what I’d do,” Roark said.

  “Very well, sir. Should I add anything else to the communiqué?” Michael asked, his voice sounding small, like the man.

  “Such as?” Roark asked.

  “Do you want them dead or alive?”

  “Glad to hear you’re thinking ahead, Travers. Have the unknowns surprise me.” Roark grinned. Having unregistered individuals, unknowns, pursuing Morgan and Gina was a stroke of genius. Even if they succeeded, the unknowns would have no recourse if he decided not to pay because in the eyes of the republics they didn’t exist. “You might want to think about getting to them first, if you ever want that chip out of your head.”

  “Sir?” Hope filled that simple question. “You’d really take it out?”

  Roark let the silence stretch, then he disconnected the comlink. He’d never remove the chip, couldn’t now that the A.I. had started to attach itself to his brain, but Travers would work harder if he believed that were the case. He looked back at the map. Gina and Morgan thought they could hide from him by crossing the boundary fence, but they were about to learn nothing and no place was out of his reach.

  It was getting worse. Michael didn’t know how much longer he could go on before his mind simply refused to return. The power inside of him was building. He could feel it in his limbs, a sort of itching pressure that never subsided. Michael had no idea if he’d be able to control it. He feared for his safety and that of those around him.

  “Raphael, my brother what will become of me?”

  As usual, there was no one here to answer. A flash of movement caught Michael’s eye. Gray, amorphous, and threatening, the shadows taunted him. They were growing weary of waiting on the fringes, lurking in the corners of his mind. Soon they’d become emboldened. A few more presses of the button and they’d have him. He’d be too weak to fight. What would happen then? Everything he’d worked for, everything he’d recently found would all amount to nothing. Then what?

  Michael knew the answer, of course. Madness and death. The question was how many would he take with him before they silenced him forever? A dozen? A few hundred? A thousand? Death would be preferable to the guilt he’d feel.

  Perhaps he should spread his arms and welcome death now. Save it the trouble of courting him. Death would make a most fascinating lover. There’d be no lies or deception. Only truth. Michael found its whispered promises of pain-free peace more seductive than any human caress. Not that he had many to compare it to. A few brief encounters where credits were exchanged could hardly count as having relationships.

  He knew that said a lot about the choices he’d made in his life. Existence more like it. Michael had stopped living a long time ago. His brother, Raphael, was the only thing that kept him in this world. Without him, he’d be lost.

  chapter four

  R

  aphael Vega sat in his rented room located above the water trader bar in the town of Nuria. The plush room lay in shadows thanks to the heavy burgundy drapes covering the windows. It had been a week since he’d tried to find his brother, Michael Travers. He’d searched his home and attempted contact multiple times to no avail. He was more than a little worried.

  Red and Morgan should be across the boundary fence by now, if Demery had kept his end of the bargain. He’d checked the remains of Kane’s house to be sure they’d gone. Raphael didn’t fully trust the vamp; not that Demery had given him any cause not to, but there was just something off about him.

  For one thing, he was too damn cheerful. It wasn’t natural to be that happy. Not after the war. In addition to that personality flaw, it was dangerous having another genetically engineered vampire bouncing around town. Vamps were territorial. It was part of their bioengineering. The governments had wanted solitary sniper assassins when they created vamps and they’d gotten them. Raphael should know—he was the most territorial of them all.

  He rolled his shoulders. He had other things to worry about. Morgan would take care of Red. Not that Red couldn’t take care of herself—she could, but she was out of her element. She’d gone from a world of rules to one of utter chaos. Red would need her inner wolf now more than ever.

  A smile flitted over his lips as the word “chaos” crossed his mind. Raphael glanced over his shoulder at the shadowy naked figure lying in his well used rest pad. Catherine Meyers’ hair was a tangle of short red curls as she lay on her stomach, giving him a tantalizing view of her pale back. She made soft snuffling noises while she slept.

  Raphael could make out the curve of her luscious spine as it snaked down to reveal the arc of a ripe rump and a firm thigh. Those same thighs had clutched his hips as he slid inside of her. The room still held the scent of sex and hot, moist woman. His abdomen clenched and he groaned.

  He’d taken his little Chaos, as she was nicknamed, an hour ago, but Raphael wouldn’t know it by his body’s eager response to her nudity. He thought by now he’d be tired of the woman. Instead, his need had only grown, along with his hunger, which was now a constant throbbing ache. He’d derived great pleasure in memorizing the location of every freckle and secret spot on her. The urge to do so again had him rising from his chair. He forced himself to sit back down.

  If he were prone to worry, Raphael would be concerned over his building attachment to the woman, but he’d learned a long time ago to take life as it came.

  Raphael’s gaze caressed her once again. Possessiveness welled inside him. He couldn’t keep her. Logically, Raphael knew that, but he wasn’t quite ready to let her go. He stood and gathered his clothes. Raphael dressed silently, then slipped out of the room while Catherine slept.

  He pressed his palm to the door and punched several buttons. When he was done, the only way the door would open was with his code and handprint. A twinge of guilt tugged at him. Raphael quickly squashed it. It was too late for guilt, too late for a lot of things.

  Raphael made his way down to the bar. Evening kept the shadows in the water trader long and deep. Its faded walls and pillars showed its true age. A few tables had been scattered throughout the room and were mainly used for customer overflow. He looked around at the last of the patrons bellying up to the long bar to fill their orders as if nothing had changed in Nuria. Raphael didn’t know whether to be glad or upset. He settled on the latter.

  The least Nuria could do was mourn the loss of its sheriff—their alpha. Morgan Hunter had led these people well. Protected them with his very life. In the end, he’d given up his freedom. And so had Red. Did anyone in here acknowledge their sacri
fice?

  Raphael stared at the people standing around the bar laughing and visiting. His scowl deepened as the answer became apparent. He was about to head back upstairs to his room when Juan Sanchez and Takeo Yakamura entered. They had taken over responsibility for training a new Nurian Tactical Team in Red’s absence. Juan, an average-sized man with dark cropped hair and an unnerving ability to divine the future, gave him a wave, then indicated an empty table near the back. Raphael hesitated, then joined them.

  “Any news?” Takeo asked, his almond-shaped eyes narrowing on the crowd in suspicion. He’d dumped his trench coat onto a chair and tied his long, black hair into a tight queue. His powerful Asian frame practically vibrated with unused adrenaline—thanks to the chimera living inside him.

  “Nothing yet,” Raphael said. “But I think we would’ve heard if they’d been captured.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Juan asked. “Roark has done a good job of controlling the news thus far.”

  “They would’ve tried to mentally contact me or at least send out a distress signal. I don’t think Morgan and Red would go quietly this time,” Raphael said. “Not after what they went through. Their bodies would’ve turned up by now if Roark had found them.”

  The men’s gazes met in silent agreement.

  “When are you going to let Chaos go?” Juan asked.

  Raphael stiffened. “When I get good and ready.”

  “You can’t keep her forever,” Takeo said, absently flipping his long, black hair over his shoulders. He nodded to the man standing behind the bar, then held up three fingers. Three synth-beers arrived a minute later.

  Raphael’s jaw clenched as he waited for the man delivering the beers to leave the table. “Don’t you think I know that?” he snapped. He didn’t want to talk about Catherine. She wasn’t their business. She was his responsibility.