Evolution

by Hope Anika

  Wanda stared at him, her pulse a throb in the back of her throat, in the hollow between her legs. His voice was soft with promise, a vow underlined in certainty and steel, as foreign as the determination glinting in his dark blue gaze.

  A promise, a threat. She wasn’t sure there was any difference.

  “Don’t,” she whispered, stricken. “I won’t believe you.”

  “You will,” he said again. One of his hands reached out and stroked over her hair before she could move, a disarming, unexpected display of tenderness that made her throat tighten. It was gone before she could protest.

  “You will,” he repeated softly. “I just need time.”

  “We don’t have time,” she cried, horrified by the tears in her eyes.

  “Then we’ll make it. We aren’t helpless.” He looked at her, his dark midnight gaze gleaming. “Don’t give up on me yet, baby.”

  She wanted to. But he was right: at the moment, they were in it together, and if she gave up on him, she gave up on herself, too. On Eva. On Ash and Ruslan and Butch. And Eva deserved more than her surrender. Ash, too, would expect her to fight. Ruslan...well, Wanda didn’t know. Ruslan was a stranger, a cold, intimidating, foreign entity she tended to avoid when possible. But he was definitely a force she wanted in her corner...and Butch, too.

  Even if he was often intoxicated.

  We’re a team, kiddo. That’s our superpower.

  Charlie’s voice echoed through her, and Wanda realized that she didn’t have a choice. Because this wasn’t just about Wylie and his inability to be a man she could count on, or even about his abandoning them.

  No, this was about Eva. About a child who could heal with the touch of her hand. A child who was sweet and brave and hunted.

  A goddamn miracle worker.

  The immensity of it made Wanda lightheaded. And she understood, then, that this mission they’d been given was bigger than all of them.

  “Okay. I’m in.” She turned to look at the long, pale stripe of freeway they followed and the line of churning gray clouds that rolled across the horizon and grew closer with every mile. “For now.”

  A harsh breath rasped from Wylie. “Good. That’s good. You won’t regret it, baby.”

  Oh, she would.

  She was certain.

  CHAPTER

  -16-

  Goddamn, mother-forking CIA.

  Ash stared up at the ceiling of her Jeep and brooded darkly over that stunning revelation. Charlie, a secret agent for one of the country’s most clandestine—and controversial—organizations. Charlie, a spy. A freaking spook. A suit.

  Mind. Blown.

  Wylie was going to have kittens.

  “Ashling,” Ruslan said.

  She ignored him.

  Jesse had parked the Jeep at the far end of Reginald Kline’s makeshift parking lot, next to a large box truck, which provided much needed shade as she and Ruslan waited for the Reverend’s evening sermon to end. She lay in the back seat; Ruslan occupied the hatchback, his large form somehow folded into the narrow space.

  Lying low, biding their time.

  Butch had parked Wylie’s truck behind them. It seemed prudent to have more than one getaway car. The Impala was too distinct, and the Volkswagen topped out at 45.

  The lot was bursting with cars; Bridger had been right about the Reverend’s evening sermons being full.

  “Ashling,” Ruslan said again.

  And again, she ignored him.

  It was hot and still in the Jeep, even with the windows cracked. The arctic scent of Ruslan filled her nostrils, and the ridiculous pleasure she received from inhaling him infuriated her.

  It was not a deliberate secret.

  “Bullshit,” she muttered.

  Charlie had sure as hell kept it a deliberate secret. She’d spent seven years with the man, and not once had he so much as hinted at his surreptitious career in espionage. He’d taught her everything she knew; how could she not know who he’d been? Really been?

  How was that possible?

  And why had it been a secret?

  What had he done?

  Charlie had been hard but soft, tough but easy; smart, astute, perceptive. Charming. He was a kind, quiet man, inherently good, but he took no shit, and once crossed, he could be a relentless adversary. He protected those who could not protect themselves, and he was a firm believer in teaching a man to fish.

  A damned fine man, one she was profoundly grateful for and proud of...but a spy?

  Why hadn’t he told her?

  “You are angry,” Ruslan said.

  Give the man a prize.

  Betrayed—by Charlie, for being someone she hadn’t known he was. And by Ruslan, who’d known that Charlie, and hadn’t bothered to mention him.

  Assholes.

  How long had they known each other? Because she’d been with Charlie for seven years, so that meant he’d been an agent prior to her arriving on his doorstep...a decade ago? More? Which meant if Ruslan had known Charlie as CIA, Ruslan had known him when Ruslan was...what? Nineteen? Twenty?

  Where? And how?

  Ruslan claimed he’d been in an orphanage in St. Petersburg. Was that where he’d met Charlie?

  In Russia?

  Charlie had been to Russia?

  But if he’d been CIA, he’d probably been all over the world. A whole other life he’d never spoken of, never shared.

  It seemed...impossible.

  “Talk to me,” Ruslan ordered.

  But Ash was done talking. Too many words had already been wasted.

  I did not know you were unaware of Charlie’s status as an agent for the Central Intelligence Agency. I did not keep that from you intentionally.

  Again: bullshit. Ruslan was an expert at lying by omission. He’d made no move to share his connection to Charlie—and thereby to her—and his refusal to give her anything other than the smallest of crumbs about how he knew her uncle—Charlie saved my life—was complete and utter horseshit.

  And she was done shoveling.

  Ruslan might not be used to sharing or trusting; he might not feel it was necessary. Hell, he might not even be capable of it. But Ash was done letting it lie. She’d tried to make him see that they were in this mess together, that he wasn’t alone, that they were partners. And here was more proof she was just wasting her time. Ruslan was a taker, not a giver.

  And screw that.

  So she would stop. Just stop. No more together, no more mooning over him, no more giving into the urge to poke and prod and provoke a reaction from him. No more trying to understand him; no more benefit of the doubt. He would remain one of the team for now, because firing his ass wasn’t an option at the moment, but she was done reaching out and hoping he reached back.

  And that stupid, foolish, susceptible part of herself that was drawn to him could just pound sand.

  Done. So done.

  “Ashling,” he said, the same tone he’d used to threaten Kline.

  The one that emerged when that dark, wild, hungry thing overtook him.

  But she didn’t care. She was done caring.

  So done.

  “I should go,” she said, checking her watch. “Stay here and be ready.”

  “Do not—”

  But she climbed from the Jeep and slammed the door on his protest, her heart beating hollowly in her chest. Furious. When she shouldn’t be. Ruslan was no one; a stranger. Just because she reacted to him meant nothing. Chemistry, pheromones. And any similarity to the boy she’d once known was just stupid, fanciful nonsense. This was a castle she’d built; it was time to tear it down.

  She pulled the battered Yankees ball cap she wore down lower over her eyes and headed toward the big tent. Clouds had gathered overhead, darkening the sky as it crawled inevitably toward sunset, and it was finally beginning to cool off. She’d ditched her black suit for a pair of jeans, her boots, and a worn X-Files t-shirt. Conspiracy and betrayal and general fuckery.

  It seemed appropriate.

 
The plan was simple: Butch and Jesse were already in the big tent. They would attend the Reverend’s sermon together, and then join the dinner afterward. At precisely 7:15, they would create a diversion of some type—Ash had left that up to Butch—during which time, she would grab Ellery St. James and get her to the Jeep. Ruslan would then drive them away.

  It was currently 7:06; she had nine minutes to find her quarry.

  Around her, people spilled out of the tent and mingled in large clumps. They were subdued and unremarkable. The scent of something cooking—ham, she thought—was thick in the air, and there was a rush of activity as the meal was assembled and served.

  It wasn’t hard to weave her way through the crowd, unseen. The dinner was being held in a small clearing off to the side of the tents, where large tables had been put into place, surrounded by metal chairs. Food was being laid out buffet-style in the center, along with stacks of paper plates and plastic silverware. People in white bustled everywhere—including those in hoods—and Ash stepped behind the back corner of the largest tent, her gaze intent on them.

  Earlier, Ellery had been wearing a hood. If she was in the thick of this—serving food and helping set up the meal—things were going to get sticky. But if—

  “I told you I would help, darlin’.” Bridger suddenly appeared beside her. “You should have found me.”

  He moved to block her view with his wide-shouldered, white-suited self and stared down at her, his gaze faintly chastising. Too big for his britches. No matter what he could do, he was just a kid. And the emotion he’d dredged—the power of that goddamn memory—had finally faded, leaving only cold, intractable anger behind.

  “Move,” Ash told him shortly.

  “You need me,” he insisted. “The Reverend knows you were sneakin’ around. His boys are on the look out.”

  “‘His boys’,” she mocked. “Like you?”

  “I’m not his.” Bridger scowled. “I said I was sorry. I wasn’t tryin’ to hurt you.”

  “You were,” she said, because Ruslan was right about that. “Why?”

  He watched her for a long, unspeaking moment. Then, “I needed you to remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “What it was like to be the best.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Being better than everyone else is a difficult path,” he said. “Some say it’s a curse. I needed you to remember that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you have to choose.”

  “Choose what?”

  “A side.”

  A chill slid through her. “What does that mean?”

  “Everyone will have to choose.” He leaned down; those golden eyes stroked over her. “I want you to choose us.”

  “Us?” she echoed.

  “Some of you are like us. You’re one of those.”

  Staring into his glittering golden gaze, Ash felt that dark, heavy pit of dread within her stir. “Like you?”

  Impatience flashed across his face. “Don’t play games. You know. You have her.”

  Her. Eva. “Why are you working with Kline?”

  “Know thy enemy.” Bridger stepped closer, until he was almost on top of her. “You need to give her to us. She’s ours.”

  Ash stiffened. He was getting out of hand. Her fault, she supposed, for the response she’d had to the memory he’d invoked. Her tears had given him the mistaken impression that she was soft.

  Weak.

  “Were you really there that day?” she asked quietly. “Or did you just pluck it from my head?”

  He eyed her in consideration. “Does it matter?”

  Which was answer enough. “Get out of my way.”

  “No can do, darlin’.”

  Ash glanced at her watch.

  7:11.

  Shit.

  She moved to go around him, but a figure suddenly appeared, blocking her way. A young man in one of those long, hooded white robes, and just behind him trailed a second figure, also cloaked in white.

  Dark green eyes in a pale, freckled face met hers. The kid looked familiar somehow, but she couldn’t have said how or why. The second figure looked up, and Ash found herself staring unexpectedly at Ellery St. James.

  “What is this?” the girl demanded. Her gaze flitted from Bridger to the young man, then back to Bridger. “What’s happening?”

  “You’re going home,” Bridger told her.

  “No, I can’t.” She took a step back. “This is where I’m meant to be.”

  “No,” he said flatly. “You have no place here.”

  She looked stricken, her eyes huge behind the bright red frames of her eyeglasses. “It’s the only place I belong! Please, Brother Bridger. Please. Don’t make me go. I can’t be out there again. I can’t.”

  Ash curled a careful hand around the girl’s shoulder. “This isn’t a safe place, Ellery. It isn’t what it seems.”

  “Please,” Ellery repeated, staring at Bridger. She jerked from Ash’s hold. “Please don’t make me leave. I have to stay here. I have to!”

  Ash watched in dismay as tears slid down the girl’s cheeks. Great. “What about your mom?”

  Ellery froze. “What about her?”

  “You just disappeared,” Ash pointed out softly. “Did you think she wouldn’t look for you?”

  “She doesn’t understand!” Ellery cried. Her voice rose, and she began to back away. “I can’t think out there. It’s too much. I won’t go back—”

  Ruslan suddenly materialized behind her. He produced a small syringe and plunged it into the side of the girl’s neck with a cold, impersonal efficiency that spoke of experience. He caught her as she fell and tossed her over his shoulder, as though she weighed nothing.

  Then he looked at Ash and said, “Two minutes.”

  She stared at him. “A roofie? Seriously?”

  His eyes cut like clear glass in the darkening light. “Plan B,” he said, standing in that peculiar, motionless way he had. His gaze moved to Bridger and glittered, but he said nothing.

  Plan B. Which he’d spectacularly failed to mention. Probably because he’d known she would veto it; drugging the child of a client was not the best course of action.

  Not that Ellery had given them a lot of other options, at least not with the current time constraints.

  Still. It was simply further evidence that he was unwilling to work in tandem.

  One more nail in the coffin.

  Ash shook her head, disappointed. Sad in a way that just made her angry. As if she was mourning something she’d never even had.

  More fantastic stupidity.

  “Ashling,” Ruslan said, his pale eyes narrow on her. His head tilted faintly, and she wondered if he knew he did that, his sole tell. Not that she understood it any better than she did him.

  “Let’s go,” she said grimly.

  For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, his eyes piercing in their search of hers, and Ash knew he saw her disgust and that inexplicable, ridiculous melancholy that made her chest tighten. But she only stared back and let him see.

  Fuck you very much.

  Violence, she knew, was not an answer. But that didn’t mean popping him one in the mouth wouldn’t feel supremely awesome.

  “Wait,” Bridger said, and his hand closed around her arm. He leaned down, far too close, and cast her in his shadow. “You think on what I said. The clock is tickin’, and it’s us or them, darlin’. You’d best choose wisely.”

  Fury flared through her. Way too big for his britches.

  She’d had enough—of him. Of Ruslan. Of mad scientists and men who killed children.

  A good, hard kick to his right shin, and Bridger fell to his knees. She didn’t plan to grab the knife that was suddenly in her palm, but there it was, slicing through his fine white collar and pressing against his carotid artery.

  Adrenaline flooded her veins. It felt good. Hopeful.

  “If you ever fuck with my head again, I will carve out your spleen and
turn it into a coin purse,” she told him softly. “Do you understand?”

  “Ashling,” Ruslan said from behind her.

  She ignored him. Bridger pressed himself into her blade and smiled. “There she is. Hey, darlin’.”

  “Fire!”

  That bark of sound—Butch?— made her sheath her knife and step abruptly away from Bridger. A heartbeat later, Butch ran past them, his cheeks bright red, his chest heaving.

  “Fire!” he wheezed.

  Jesse followed on his heels, far less winded, but when his gaze landed on Ellery’s unconscious form hanging limply over Ruslan’s shoulder, he faltered. Then he saw Bridger, still on his knees, and the robed figure who stood beside Bridger, and he stopped so abruptly, he almost did a face plant.

  “Jace?” he said, staring at the kid next to Bridger.

  “Fire!” Butch yelled again from the far end of the tent.

  “Time to go,” Ruslan added, waiting motionless.

  “Jace,” Jesse repeated incredulously. He advanced, but Ash cut him off, stepping between them.

  “No,” the hooded figure said, and when those dark green eyes lifted, he looked just like his brother. Jesus. What the hell was he doing here?

  How was any of this possible?

  Not just Ellery St. Clair...but Jace, too? That was more than coincidence. That was design.

  What the hell was going on?

  Bridger pushed to his feet. “No.”

  Behind her, Jesse bristled. “Fuck you. That’s my kid brother—”

  “No,” Bridger said again, and Jesse lunged, and Ash turned and caught him in effort to try and prevent an altercation they didn’t have time for. But Ruslan solved the issue by simply jerking Jesse from his feet. A moment later, the boy dangled by his neckline from Ruslan’s one-armed hold, at least a foot off the ground.

  “Let me go, man! That’s my blood.” Jesse squirmed and kicked and tried to dislodge Ruslan’s hold, but Ruslan only lifted him higher. He stood cold and unfazed, Ellery over his shoulder, Jesse hanging from his fist like a hooked fish.

  Ash couldn’t help it: she stared. She’d known Ruslan was strong, but...wow. Wow.

  “I knew it,” Bridger muttered, his gaze narrow on Ruslan.