by Hope Anika
But considering the sermon they’d just sat through...the men in black had to be part of this crazy sect. The brute, unflinching violence; the zealotry, the nutty apocalyptic prediction; the cyanide.
Something Ash continued to stumble over. Why would they choose to die?
Why such a drastic—and permanent—course of action? To protect what?
Who?
What were they hiding? What was so important that death was preferable to exposure?
Just because they were part of some obscure zealous religious order that was convinced the world was about to be overtaken by genetically engineered children...
Seriously.
“The early sermons are pretty light,” Bridger said and pulled aside the tent flap the Reverend had disappeared through. “But the evenin’ shows are always full.”
“The Unnamed,” Ruslan said. “Explain the meaning of that term.”
“Explanations are best left to the Reverend,” the boy replied unhelpfully.
Ash stepped out into the oppressive heat, blinking at the bright sunlight. “He’s inducting a crusade.”
“The Order exists to reset the natural order,” Bridger replied mildly, his words clearly a programmed response, but that faint barb of mockery was there, too, underscoring his words. She wasn’t sure if he was oblivious to the fact that his derision was leaking from him like air from a punctured tire, or if he simply assumed no one would notice. “If that takes a crusade, then so be it.”
“To reset the natural order,” Ruslan repeated as they turned toward a second, smaller tent that sat tucked behind the larger one. “A statement which presumes the natural order is in disarray. How so?”
Bridger shot him an annoyed look. “As I said, the Reverend will explain.”
“Because you will not or cannot?”
A flash of something that looked like anger flitted over Bridger’s face, and then was gone. He turned to Ash as they approached the second tent. “I’ll see if the Reverend can spare a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” she told him, and he disappeared into the tent. She looked at Ruslan. “You need to tone it down. You’re alienating the hell out of him.”
A slashing black brow rose.
“Honey,” she said quietly. “Not vinegar.”
He stared at her for a long, silent moment and for no good reason heat suddenly washed across her skin.
“What?”
But suddenly Bridger was back, pulling aside the flap he’d disappeared through.
“The Reverend will see you,” he said. “Follow me.”
CHAPTER
-13-
The interior of the tent was dim.
Cooled by a large ice fan and scented by something Ash thought might have been sage, the tent was filled with another collection of metal chairs arranged in a large circle. Off to the side, a narrow wooden desk sat facing two hard-backed chairs. Reginald Kline sat at the desk, his glasses perched on his nose. A cup of coffee was cradled in one hand; in the other a pen scratched over a small notepad. There was a split in the wall of the tent behind him, a slash of daylight that washed him in pale gold. As they walked toward him, he looked up, his gaze sharp behind the lenses of his glasses.
“Dr. Kline,” she said politely and halted before his desk. She slid a business card across the rough wooden surface toward him. “Thank you for seeing us.”
Kline sat back and sipped his coffee. His gaze inspected her boldly, both challenging and faintly contemptuous, and she realized two things instantly: one, he’d fully expected her—had looked forward to it, if his expression was anything to go by—and two, it was definitely his men who’d broken into her home, kidnapped and beaten her, and then died at her feet.
And he didn’t care if she knew it.
He was hunting Eva Pierce, and he would do anything—hurt anyone he had to—in order to obtain her.
And he didn’t care if she knew that, too.
Ruslan suddenly stepped forward, and Ash realized her hand was on her gun.
“May we sit?” he asked.
Kline waved a hand at the empty chairs and sipped his coffee again. His gaze never left her, and the urge to pull her weapon and slam it into his nose almost escaped her. But then Ruslan stepped closer—just a little, but closer than usual, closer than he liked, and she felt his heat press against her—and she let her hand fall. She sat down calmly, her jaw tight, adrenaline suddenly flooding her veins like strong Irish whiskey.
Could kill you with my eyes closed, you piece of shite.
Ruslan took the seat beside her.
“How did you know?” she asked quietly. She felt Ruslan’s gaze, but ignored him.
She wasn’t playing Reginald Kline’s game. She wanted answers. And then she wanted to plant her boot in his face.
“Anson was not a careful man outside of his lab.” Kline shrugged. “And creating his own little perfect Primary was always his goal. Evangeline was no secret; the first twelve embryos were simply trial runs.”
“The first twelve children,” Ash clarified, clasping her hands tightly in her lap.
So she wouldn’t do anything foolish. Like strangle him.
“‘Children’ is not an accurate descriptor. There is nothing human about them. They’re embryos engineered by men, not God.”
Not touching that. Not here to argue with a zealot.
No matter how tempting.
“What do you want with her?” she asked.
“Eva is an abomination who carries within her the seeds of mankind’s destruction,” Kline replied matter-of-factly. “She must be destroyed.”
He sipped his coffee again; his gaze never wavered from Ash’s face. Taunting her. Testing her.
Something she would make him regret before this was over.
“You speak casually of murder,” Ruslan said. “For a man of God.”
“God is an abstract; I am a man of men. The survival of my species is what I fight for.”
“But belief builds a strong army, doesn’t it?” Ash watched him, anger simmering and hot in her throat. “An altar, a cross. The apocalypse. And a world filled with people who are afraid, people filled with hate. People just waiting for someone to aim them and fire.”
Kline shook his head. “My faith is not so disingenuous. I believe in my cause, Miss Kyndal. What I helped to create in that lab is nothing natural or good, nothing that should exist. And for that sin, I will inevitably pay. But until that day comes, I will do everything within my power to remedy my transgressions—and to raze what I have built.”
“They’re just children,” she growled.
“They’re not human,” he repeated, his voice soft with warning. “Not in any way, shape or form. Do not mistake them for helpless victims of some monstrous science experiment. They are formidable, unnatural beings, with capabilities and powers you cannot begin to comprehend. They are dangerous and deviant, and they must be exterminated.”
She could only stare at him, her heart pounding like a drum in her throat. She thought of P4, his dark, solemn gaze. His brief life; his sanctioned, offhand death. Terminated. Her clasped hands tightened painfully.
She was afraid of what she might do if she let go.
Because it would be easy. So easy. A leap over the desk; a solid kick to his solar plexus, knocking him down to the ground. The heel of her palm slamming into the tender underside of his nose—
“Capabilities and powers,” Ruslan repeated tonelessly, as though they were discussing the weather. But she was almost vibrating beside him—which he knew, because Ruslan didn’t miss anything—and he turned slightly, as if to position himself where he could stop her from giving into any crazy impulse that might strike her.
Which surprised her. She hadn’t thought he knew her so well. She worked hard to keep the powder keg that lived deep within her hidden and as far from flame as possible; that he saw it disturbed her.
Like a book.
Goddamn it.
“The notion that we only use ten percent of o
ur brains is a myth,” Kline said. “We know that all parts of the brain have a function; the mystery is how the cells work together to produce complex behaviors. The perception that humans have vast reserves of untapped cognitive function is incorrect—we know that every part is being used, we simply don’t understand how. Thus, the idea that various psychic abilities stem from activity in normally dormant parts of the brain is erroneous.” He paused and carefully set his coffee cup down. “It is not the brain which engenders these capabilities. It is genetic composition.”
“Genetic composition,” Ruslan echoed. “Such as that composed by the Primary Principal?”
Kline’s gaze narrowed on him. “You’ve read Anson’s research.”
Ruslan merely awaited an answer.
“Our DNA is the tapestry of who we are, every thread vital to the whole.” Kline sat back and sighed. “We assumed that with the correct pattern, we could create the perfect weave.”
“Yet you lacked a fundamental understanding of your medium,” Ruslan said
“An over-simplification, but yes. We knew there were issues with loss of diversification, the built-in catch-22s of our genetic coding. What we didn’t know was that also locked within our DNA existed capabilities we could have never imagined, let alone predicted.”
The Ideal cannot die.
Goosebumps suddenly washed over Ash’s skin. “What kind of capabilities?”
Kline shrugged. “You saw the painting.”
“Explain,” Ruslan said, so still beside her he seemed carved in stone. An inhuman chill enveloped him, a separation so clearly delineated, he may as well have been an alien.
“You understand, don’t you, Mr. Ruslan?” Kline raised his coffee cup and toasted Ruslan, the light in his hazel eyes mocking. “We were trying to fix mistakes like you.”
Ash nearly surged to her feet, but Ruslan only stared at him, unperturbed. “The painting depicted men who could generate natural disasters: tsunamis, lightning strikes, fire. Are you saying these capabilities give the Primaries the ability to control the elements?”
“That is exactly what I’m saying.”
“This is something you have witnessed?” Ruslan asked.
“Yes,” Kline said. He looked at Ash. “They will kill us all if left unchecked.”
Rage bubbled in her. “You did this.”
“Yes,” he said. “But not alone. And those I brought into being are not the only ones.”
“There are others,” Ruslan said.
“Before and since.”
“Explain.”
A hard smile stretched Kline’s mouth. “Why do you think I need an army?”
Which wasn’t any kind of answer.
“You’re saying this research was ongoing—that Primaries were created—before your own trials took place?” Ash clarified
“The history of eugenics stretches far beyond the simple discovery and mapping of our DNA. People have always bred for strength, power and beauty. They always will.”
“Whose research did you employ to further your own?” Ruslan asked.
Kline studied him, but said nothing.
“How far back?” she asked quietly.
Kline’s gaze met hers. “Decades.”
“And the earlier Primaries? What became of them?”
He shrugged. “I daresay most are dead. DNA sequencing is still very much an imperfect science; when they were created it was more concept than knowledge. I can only imagine the kind of mistakes they made.
Mistakes. Not living, breathing beings who’d paid a heart-wrenching and horrific price for the arrogance of men like the one who sat before her.
“You’re a monster,” she said quietly.
“Once.” Kline nodded. “Perhaps. But no longer. I may not have begun this, but I will finish it.”
“A name,” Ruslan grated softly, and the same something she’d glimpsed within him during the confrontation with TJ flooded into in his pale gaze. Alive and aware and hungry. Indeed. See also: dark, menacing and scary as hell. The primitive urge to run—her hindbrain suddenly surfacing and sounding the Ruslan air horn—surged through her.
Kline must have received the same warning; he set his cup down abruptly. “Threats will get you nowhere.”
Ruslan leaned toward him, and Ash reached out and laid her hand gently on his arm. The move was purely instinctual, but the look he shot her was like open flame, singing her flesh, and she pulled away as if she’d grabbed a hot coal.
Ouch.
“The organization is known only as Architect,” Kline muttered, his tone mutinous, his jaw hard. “And they have existed since long before any of us drew breath.”
The dread Ash felt spilled over the rim of her determination to contain it and spread through her in a dark, insidious stain. She felt sick. This entire situation was getting crazier. So much bigger than she’d understood; so much more personal.
Goddamn it.
“You will tell me everything you know,” Ruslan murmured, his eyes so clear they reflected the sunlight at Kline’s back like blades.
And if Ash thought she was angry, Ruslan was furious.
Regardless of whether or not he would admit it.
“They’re mine,” Kline said sharply.
“You aren’t enough,” Ruslan told him.
“I’m not alone.”
Ruslan’s head tilted at that. Another shadow whispered across his face.
“Architect,” Ash broke in. “This group...they’re creating more Primaries?”
“Yes,” Kline said.
Awesome.
“And you’re answer is to just...slaughter them all?”
“This is a war, Miss Kyndal.”
She stared at him in horror. “Each and every one?”
“Yes.”
“Because you believe they shouldn’t exist?”
“Because they are an abomination.”
“Because they have abilities?”
“Because they lack humanity.”
“By whose definition?” she demanded.
“By any definition,” Kline retorted. “The Primaries were engineered, not conceived. They were never meant to be. They should not exist—”
“The Unnamed,” Ruslan interrupted.
“Precisely.” Kline nodded curtly. “They are an aberrant organism that has been introduced into an environment that is unable to sustain them. Like any invasive species, they will devour every other living thing and decimate the ecosystem until it is untenable.”
“Bullshit,” Ash retorted.
Kline’s gaze narrowed. “Seeing them as people is a fatal mistake. They are not like us.” He sat forward. “Imagine being stronger, smarter, faster. Better. Imagine moving the earth with only a thought. Displacing the sea; conducting electricity. Igniting flame simply because you can. Imagine being the only one with such a power: what would you do with it?”
“What did they do to you?” she asked him.
His face grew shuttered. He sat back. “They are manipulative, narcissistic and cruel. They lie. They lack empathy and remorse. In humans, those are sociopathic traits. In the Primaries, they are hell unleashed.”
There was nothing fanatical in the hazel gaze that held hers, just cold, unwavering belief. And Ash wasn’t stupid: that belief came from experience. She might not agree with the decree that all of the Primaries—simply by virtue of their engineering—were dangerous sociopaths who posed an inherent threat to all mankind, but she did understand there was—likely—a legitimate reason behind Kline’s assessment.
And his fear.
He was good at hiding it, but she was an expert at being afraid. She’d lived over half her life in fear; like bruises, terror was easy to read. And she respected that fear—far more so than the sweeping presumption of innate psychosis and murderous intent—because she could relate to fear.
But she’d spent her entire childhood living with a sociopath; she was intimately familiar with the behavior patterns exhibited by those who existed
solely in a world of their own making. And Eva Pierce was no sociopath. Nor, Ash suspected, was the young man Adam, although she didn’t know him well enough to make that call.
“What about the cyanide?” she wanted to know.
Kline said nothing; he folded his hands atop the table and stared at her.
“Those men died for your cause.” She studied him. “Why?”
He only watched her, his eyes hooded, light winking against the silver frames of his eyeglasses.
“You do not want Architect to find them,” Ruslan said. “Why not?”
Kline’s eyes flashed. “It is war.”
A shadow crossed Ash’s vision as someone halted before the narrow gap in the tent behind him. A slender figure cloaked in one of those eerie white robes, and when she glanced up, Ash caught a glimpse of dark, burgundy-tinted hair and red eyeglasses. Bright green and brown eyes met hers, and shock jolted through her.
Ellery St. Clair.
She froze. The girl turned and disappeared.
What the hell?
She stared at the empty space where Ellery had stood, her heart a drum beat in her chest. What would the girl be doing here? It made no sense. She had to be mistaken. Why would their missing captain of the debate team be running around Reginald Kline’s mini-compound in a hooded white cloak—
She stood. “Ladies room?”
Kline’s brows rose, but he pointed behind her. “There are portable toilets along the eastern perimeter.”
“Thank you.” She gave Ruslan a look she hoped he could interpret—one that warned him not to kill or maim Kline while she was gone—and strode out of the tent.
The heat enveloped her instantly. She didn’t head for the row of bright blue port-o-potties on the eastern perimeter, but instead circled the tent and discovered another long, narrow canvas structure hidden behind the other two. It was nearly four times as long as the others—big enough to house a small army.
She thought of the rows of people in white, the hooded figures. The regiment of men in black.
A much larger contingent than she’d initially realized. How big was Kline’s following? National?
International?
“Shit,” she muttered and hurried through the narrow opening between the tents. She halted at the end and peeked out carefully; a flash of white to her right, a slender figure heading toward the end of the long tent.