Double Helix Collection: A Genetic Revolution Thriller

by Jade Kerrion

  “Have the council trained ever worked together?”

  “All of them? No. Danyael’s a loner, and for the most part has avoided other mutants. There’s another council trained, a pre-cognitive, Erin Byrne. She’s a socialite in D.C.”

  “I know of her,” Zara said. “I didn’t realize she was an alpha pre-cog and council trained.”

  “Most people don’t know she’s a mutant. She’s not much different from Danyael in purpose, but their tactics differ. He keeps a low profile. Her defense is in the spotlight.”

  “Will they help him?”

  Miriya hesitated. “Typically, I’d say no. They’re self-centered bastards, all of them. They don’t even like the council. But if Danyael tells them that the council has betrayed him, they’re likely to step up to the challenge, if only out of self-interest. If the council tosses Danyael to the wolves, it wouldn’t hesitate to do the same to the other council trained too.”

  “So why won’t Danyael call them? Why would he take a cross-country trip?” Zara asked.

  Miriya’s lips twisted into a crooked smile. “How do you know he hasn’t already called them?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Erin Byrne leaned against the side of the suede couch and stretched her feet out in front of her. Toes peeked out from under the cashmere throw. She wriggled them, smiling indulgently at the cheery sight. It was early afternoon and unseasonably cold. The sunlight streaming in through the windows offered light but no heat, at least none that she could appreciate. Instead, her well-trained staff had lit the logs in the fireplace.

  The warmth wrapped coziness around her. The air filled with the scent of pine. The crackling of flames against wood, even the occasional popping as burnt wood and embers settled in the ornate stonework fireplace, soothed her. Her novel loosely held in her hand, she closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift.

  Subtler sensations availed themselves to her. The aroma wafting from chamomile and lavender-infused tea. Ginger and cinnamon from her freshly baked cookies. The nearly silent flutter of a raven’s wings outside the window. In her mind’s eye, she could see the flash of stark black feathers against pristine snow. Instead of jarring her out of her near-trance, it lured her deeper. The powerful wings beat rhythmically, easing gradually into slow motion. She could see the path each feather traced through the air, feel the breath of its passing.

  Black feathers blurred into raven hair. The bird’s black eyes morphed into human eyes, the color transforming into an unusual shade of green with hints of onyx undertones. The blur of motion around the compelling eyes sharpened, took shape, and became recognizable features.

  Startled, she recoiled. Movement flickered beneath her closed eyelids.

  It was Danyael Sabre, yet it was not Danyael. The altered color of hair and eyes were irrelevant. The glitter in the eyes was not. The gleam of boundless ambition assured her that the vision was not of Danyael. The alpha empath had never known “ambition.” He had never possessed the luxury of desiring a future beyond the constraints placed upon him.

  Then who?

  The answers came in images. Monsters, distortions of humanity, prowling through the streets, destroying at will. A burning laboratory. Two scientists standing over Danyael—no, not Danyael. It was the other man who looked like Danyael, and that time he had pale blond hair and dark eyes. That time, he was Danyael’s perfect mirror image.

  Images flashed by with increasing speed as time rewound, culminating in a single test tube filled with a swirling translucent solution. It was a simple beginning for the perfect human being, Erin reflected. Galahad, and Danyael was his physical template.

  Poor Danyael. A smile crept over Erin’s face. Such a thing could not have happened to anyone less desiring of the spotlight.

  Her smile faded as time rolled forward once more. As she bore witness to the future, indifference transmuted into concern. Concern escalated into alarm.

  The sun was an hour from setting when the visions finally faded. She sat up. Her tea was cold, the cookies on the plate stale. The fire burned low. Her staff knew better than to disturb her when she was “dozing.” Erin tossed the unread novel aside and reached for her phone. She dialed a rarely used number.

  “What is it?” a brisk, female voice demanded on the other end.

  “Hello, Andrea.”

  “I’m not in the mood for a palm reading today, Erin.”

  “Danyael—”

  “Danyael called me. He’s on his way to Boston to see me.”

  “He won’t make it to Boston. He’ll need you. He’ll need all of us before that.”

  “I have no objection to seeing Danyael, but I’ll need a better reason than voodoo visions to drag me out of Boston.”

  “Danyael’s path is about to split. The decision he will be forced to make in less than twenty-four hours will impact all of us. We can sway that decision to our advantage, or we can watch him fall and drag all of us down with him.”

  “You’ve seen this?” Andrea’s tone was sharp.

  Hah, Erin thought, that got you to sit up and take note. “I’ve seen what the future could hold. But Danyael is torn, and it’s not clear what path he will choose. I know he’s traveling north. I’m going to intercept him tomorrow morning.”

  “If the situation is so critical, intercept him now.”

  “There is a cadence to the future, Andrea. Knowing when to jump in is as important as knowing what to do once you jump in. But then again, you have no appreciation for subtlety. I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.”

  Silence filled the space between them until Andrea asked, “What do you want from me?”

  “It’s going to come to a head tomorrow. Can you and John be here?”

  “Be where exactly?”

  Erin mentally soared over the terrain. The soil bubbled. Words rose from the ground, and a name took shape. “Richmond, Virginia.”

  ~*~

  The windowless room was, in Alex Saunders’s opinion, in dire need of redecoration, but one did not say such things to the first lady or whoever was responsible for making decisions on refurbishing the White House. The conference table in the Roosevelt Room was long enough to seat sixteen, but only six seats were occupied. Across from him were the leaders of the FBI, CIA, and NSA. Next to him, separated by an empty seat, was General Kieran Howard from the Mutant Assault Group. Admiral Chester, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, sat at the head of the table.

  Alex’s stomach rumbled. He had been on the phone during his flight from Fort Lauderdale to Washington, D.C. It had left him no time for lunch. Glumly he recalled that he had skipped breakfast too. Unless he missed his guess, he would be having a sandwich at his desk for dinner.

  The mood in the room was somber to the point of depression. No one ventured to break the silence. Finally the admiral spoke. “I don’t have to tell you how critical the situation is, gentlemen,” Chester said. “Nobody wants to see a replay of the riots. The entire city, heck, the entire country is still on edge. Where is this mutant?”

  “He’s on the run, sir,” Alex said. “I have a team tracking him as we speak.”

  “The same team for which you requested the special favor? When will they be able to apprehend him?”

  “Likely within the next day or two.”

  “Not soon enough, Saunders. Howard?”

  “I have several teams out looking for Sabre. We will locate him and bring him in.”

  “This has to be done quietly. The media had a field day reporting on the fallout when his memory was ripped in public. We cannot afford another outcry over how derivatives are routinely discriminated against in this country.”

  Even if they are, Alex thought wryly. He glanced across at Kieran Howard and saw a muscle twitch in the general’s tanned cheek. It amused him to think that Howard was struggling to contain the snide remarks too.

  “I understand,” Howard said.

  “FBI teams are on the alert as well, but given his status as an alpha mutant, w
e will call for backup from the council or the assault group before we move in on him,” Mueller, director of the FBI, said.

  “That’s probably the best thing,” Alex agreed.

  “How dangerous is he, Saunders? Isn’t he a class three?” Chester asked.

  “Sir, there’s evidence to suggest that he acted in self-defense—”

  “When we act in self-defense, people don’t drop dead en masse. The government of Bermuda is understandably upset over what they consider an unsanctioned invasion of their sovereign territory—”

  “Which was leased out to pro-humanists who kidnapped the scion of the Winter family. Considering the full range of possible consequences, the government of Bermuda is getting off easy,” Alex said. He heard his own snap of irritation and checked it. He could not afford to offend the wrong person. His real enemy was General Howard, not the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  “Our analysts are investigating the kidnapping,” General Lysander, director of the NSA, said. “Jason Rakehell, founder and president of Purest Humanity, is cooperating fully with the investigation and insists that he and his organization are not involved. Early reports confirm that he may be telling the truth.”

  “Rakehell is the reason the riots happened in the first place. If he and his damned pro-humanists hadn’t launched an assault on Pioneer Labs, the creatures would never have escaped. This is a fine time for him to insist that he’s innocent,” Chester said with a snort of disgust.

  “We analyze and report what we find, sir,” Lysander said. “No more, no less.”

  “Humph. You didn’t answer the question, Saunders. Is he dangerous?”

  Damn. Old Chester had noticed that Alex had been deliberately vague. “No, sir. He’s council trained and has been a model citizen for decades. He’s a doctor by profession and an empathic healer by calling. Danyael is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a killer. He poses no risk to the public.”

  “Then how would you describe the twelve or so people he’s killed in the past twenty-four hours?”

  “Sir, in both cases, they attacked him first. Without provocation, Danyael poses no threat.”

  “Howard, what’s your assessment?”

  “Sabre is an alpha empath. He is bereft of his emotional anchor, and he is injured,” Howard said. His voice was as smooth as dark whiskey. “He channels pain—emotional and physical—and right now, he has an abundance of both. By definition, he is highly dangerous.”

  Chester nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe so, but his track record deserves some consideration. Secure him and take him to a mutant containment facility. He’ll receive his due process under the law.”

  “Understood, sir,” Alex said, concealing his relief behind an unsmiling face.

  Chester dismissed the meeting with a terse order. “Keep me informed.”

  Alex stood up and gathered his files. Perhaps he could get a late lunch or an early dinner.

  Falling in easily beside Alex as he walked out of the Roosevelt Room, Howard said, “I’m glad we’re finally working together on this, Saunders.”

  Alex said nothing. He would hardly characterize the situation as “working together.”

  “I hope you’re not holding the assault group responsible for the media fiasco around Danyael’s memory wipe.”

  “Whom should I hold responsible, General?” Alex stopped walking and turned to look at Kieran Howard. “Danyael’s shields exist for only one reason, and that is to protect us. Your mutant team broke through Danyael’s psychic shields and ripped his memories in public. Did your team leader have any clue as to how much danger he put everyone in? What if the crowd had gone completely mad and attacked? The death toll would have been far higher than that one lust-crazed human being.”

  “My team, at that time, was under the command of DARPA. The orders came from a human.”

  “Your team is your responsibility, General. Maybe you should be more selective about whose command you place them under.”

  “Come now, Saunders. Let’s not bicker about the past. We are both merely instruments of a greater purpose.”

  Alex preferred to imagine that he set his own purpose, and he would be damned if he took away Danyael’s ability to set his own purpose. “I know that you have been watching Danyael for a long time. Stay away from him. He deserves a chance to live the life he wants.”

  Kieran Howard did not back down. The human general had attained his reputation as the most talented and ruthless leader of the Mutant Assault Group by possessing nerves of steel. Despite Alex’s attempt to goad Howard into losing his temper, the general maintained his calm, rational tone. “Danyael has never been allowed to fully envision what he could have in life. What he deserves is a chance to live up to his potential. The council merely offers him survival. The assault group offers him life.”

  “Danyael wants to be left alone. He wants peace.”

  “Peace that’s dependent on the actions of others isn’t true peace. I’m certain that Danyael has learned that, if nothing else, over the past few days. Regardless, we have a duty to the United States, to bring Danyael in without alarming the general public further. Which path he chooses after that will be of his own making. After several months in one of your mutant containment facilities, which path do you think he will take? How much can he endure before he breaks, before he seeks to control his own life instead of permitting the council to control it for him?”

  “If you believe that of Danyael, you don’t know him.”

  “Danyael is not the tame pet you believe him to be. Nothing but extraordinary willpower allowed him to survive his childhood and thrive in spite of his mutant powers. I hold Danyael in far higher regard than you do.” Kieran Howard shook his head, the gleam in his eyes mocking. “I will wait patiently till the day Danyael finally realizes his full potential.”

  Alex watched General Howard walk away. There were few words up to the task of articulating Alex’s feelings for the general. One thing was for certain: he would not allow the general to get his hands on Danyael.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Danyael woke as the bus slowed to a stop. Groggy from pain and disrupted sleep, he edged higher in his seat. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were sore, taut with tension from bracing against the spasms in his left thigh. Absently he massaged his shoulder as he looked out the window. The sunbaked sign on the Greyhound office said Welcome to Orlando.

  He watched the other passengers disembark. Children raced off, hooting with delight. Parents followed, laden with bags. His seat was in the last row on the bus, the safest place available to him, even though it subjected him to the occasional scent wafting from the sole restroom on board the bus.

  He consulted the bus schedule. The layover would last a little more than an hour—enough time to clean his injuries and grab a quick bite. Danyael rose, holding on to the headrest of the seat in front of him for support. He dragged his left hand slowly over his face, wishing it were as easy to erase the signs of extreme fatigue. He had not been able to relax his shields, but every little bit of rest, however minimal, helped.

  He wondered how Zara was faring. She was going to sleep better at night now that she was no longer troubled by feelings for him. It could have worked out, his heart argued, but in his mind, he knew better. There was no point in longing for what he could not have, not when he had far bigger issues to focus on.

  Danyael hobbled along the narrow aisle, his backpack slung over one shoulder. The raw emotional ache was ruthlessly contained within reinforced psychic shields. Nothing could fully conceal the torment in his eyes, but at least he could function again.

  The scent of food, heavy with grease, wafted from the small café in the Greyhound station. Food had to wait, though. He walked into the restroom and into the empty handicapped stall. It had enough space for him to work and featured a sink where he could wash his hands. Clenching his teeth to hold back the cry of pain, he stripped off his jeans and carefully unwound the athletic tape from around hi
s left thigh. The bandages beneath were bloody. Patches of bright crimson spread over a darker hue the color of rust.

  Danyael peeled off the bandages and slowly released his breath in a sigh of relief. There was no infection, at least not yet. The tightness around his chest eased slightly. He washed his hands, reapplied a layer of antibiotic ointment over the still-open wounds, and covered them with fresh bandages.

  The job done, he stepped out of the restroom stall and checked the time on his cell phone. He had a half hour for dinner. The restroom door opened. He looked up sharply as his empathic senses screamed a warning. Hostile intent, directed at him.

  The three men who walked in fanned across the narrow space, blocking the exit. He released a blast of fear, but it barely rocked them. They were psychically shielded, which left him little choice.

  “Will you please accompany us?” one of the men rumbled. His tone strongly implied that it was not a question.

  To hell with the pleasantries. Danyael closed the distance in two quick steps. He slammed his body into the man in the middle and pushed the palms of his hands against the man on either side. Pain surged from his body into theirs. They collapsed, groaning beneath him.

  Not nearly enough. They were still conscious, though momentarily stunned. Danyael was torn between the desperate need to be absolutely certain of his safety and the equally fervent desire not to hurt anyone else. There had to be balance. He had to find it.

  A controlled flare of pain purged them of consciousness. The only problem was that he did not know for how long. He dragged them into restroom stalls and propped them up on the toilet seats. Done, he thought, and with barely enough time to grab a quick dinner before returning to the bus.

  Danyael tugged on the restroom door and froze, taking two steps back as another man entered. His empathic senses collided against strong psychic shields—an alpha telepath. The man allowed the door to slam shut behind him.