by Jaime Rush
Still, she peeked at Eric, barely fitting on the bench. “Was there a third lie?”
He opened his eyes only as much as necessary to see her. “Hm?”
“You said lie one and lie two. I just wondered if there was a third one.”
“Yeah.” He settled back into his resting mode. “That we were the bad guys.”
As tired as she was, that propelled her to her feet, and she walked the edge of the deck to check the woods again. It was chilly, though getting warmer now that the sun had risen. She needed food, a soft bed, and most of all, she needed to be gone by the time the Rogues arrived to pick him up.
Where was she supposed to go? The psychic creep knew where she lived. But he hadn’t found her when she was living with her dad. Going back there filled her chest with a dark cloud. Connie would be out of jail soon. As for herself, she was done spending time in hell.
Fonda wrapped her arms around a square column, her gaze going to Eric. His shirt had slid open, revealing that muscled stomach and deep chest. Stop looking at him! He’s infected you like that horrible alien stuff he was talking about.
She banged her forehead against the column, trying to drive the thoughts out of her head.
“You’ll give yourself a headache doing that.”
His voice stopped her.
“Why are you doing that?” he asked, his eye cracked open.
I hate myself, because I can’t totally hate you.
“Trying to drive the headache I already have away,” she said at last, when nothing clever came to mind.
A vibrating sound made her stiffen. The Rogues were probably there. She would be on her own, and somehow that was scarier than being with Eric.
“Yeah,” he said after listening on the cell phone, his expression screwed up into fear and anger. “Crap. Everyone’s there? . . . Damn . . . You don’t think they know about the shelter, do you? . . . The guy who’s after us posed as an FBI agent, so he’s probably connected to the government. I’ll bet he ran the tags on the ’Cuda and tracked it back to Lucas. I can be there—” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “All right. Hang tight, then. Keep in touch.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked when he put the phone away.
He paced, scanning their surroundings. “The police raided my friend’s art gallery. Our hiding place is nearby. They’re all stuck until it’s clear.”
She didn’t want to feel anything for the Rogues. They were terrorists. To see big bad Eric worried, though, touched a spot inside her. She shut it down. “And we won’t be able to get back to our cars.”
He shook his head. “But Olivia said I could get her car in D.C. I doubt these people—and now that the police are involved, I’m sure there are more than one—know she defected. I can take you to wherever you need to go.”
Her hand went to her mouth.
“What?” He walked closer.
“I told Westerfield—the supposed FBI agent—everything. He said he knew a little about the program but he wanted me to fill in the holes. So I did.”
She cringed, ready for him to slap her or worse. His jaw tightened and his hands balled into fists, and then he slammed one into the post she’d just been holding onto. But he didn’t hit her or even look as though he would.
She said, “I did contract work for the CIA. I wasn’t looking at an FBI agent as someone to distrust.”
“Well, here’s the game plan now: don’t trust anyone. Not the police, not anyone at any government agency. Darkwell had ties that reached far and wide. I’ll bet whoever this guy’s affiliated with does, too.”
“I’m sorry I outed your friends. I knew you as the enemy.”
“So you didn’t mind if we were all killed.”
She turned away. Her voice went soft. “Like you said, it was war.”
He reached out and turned her face to him. “Was?”
She moved away from his touch. “Maybe the Rogues aren’t the bad guys.”
“But?” he asked, hearing her unsaid exclusion.
“You still killed the man I loved. And you almost killed me.” She looked at him then. “You meant to, didn’t you?”
His expression shadowed, but he shook his head. “No. But if you were in my way, I would have. You were just as much an enemy as he was, at least in black and white. The others—particularly Nicholas—made me promise not to hurt you. I kept that promise.”
She could see he was telling the truth. “So I owe him for you not torching me.” She gave a quick nod, bringing back that terrible day again to remind her that she should not let herself fall into a sense of false security where Eric was concerned, even if they were on the same side right now. “I hope you weren’t expecting me to slobber all over your shoes in gratitude.”
He laughed, the jerk, not the reaction she’d wanted to provoke.
He rubbed his hand over his mouth as though to erase the smile. “That was an interesting mental picture.”
“I’m getting out of here.” She started walking toward the stairs but halted at his words.
“You might have inherited a skill from your mother.”
He’d worded it oddly. Had he forgotten she’d inherited astral projection from her? “You mean another skill?”
He paused for a moment. “Yeah. You might need it out there by yourself.”
She walked closer, her arms still wrapped tight around her. It was an old gesture, but a hard one to break. “What is it?”
He leaned against the beam, tilting his head as though he now wasn’t sure he should tell her. “You have to promise not to use it against me or my people. Remember, I kept my promise.”
“Fine.”
He held out his hand. “Shake on it.” He was serious. “Not all that long ago, you were trying to kill me. Humor me.”
She reached out, and her hand was enveloped in his. When she tried to pull free, he held tighter. “Say the words.”
She let out a huff of breath. “I promise not to use this new skill to hurt your friends.”
“Or me.”
Her mouth twisted. “Or you.”
He let go, leaving her hand feeling cold because his had been so warm. He leaned back again. “Your mother could freeze time. I got this secondhand, so I don’t have all the details, but she could change the perception of time. In the example my friend was given, your mother froze time so that someone else could come in and shoot the target and leave without anyone seeing the assassin.”
She absorbed that for a few moments. “How did she do it?”
“That’s the part we don’t know.”
“And who told you this?”
“Ever heard of Richard Wallace?”
She shook her head, still wrapping her brain around it. Stopping time. That would have come in handy when she was younger. “Why did you take the chance of telling me this? You don’t know how good I am at keeping promises.”
“No, I don’t. And I know you think you have every reason to want me dead. But you need all the help you can get out there. So consider it ammunition that I’m hoping you won’t use against me.”
The sound of a broken twig in the distance halted all conversation. His eyes closed, then snapped open. He held his finger to his mouth and gestured for her to follow him. Oh, God, not again.
They walked quietly and swiftly through the maze of buildings, careful not to kick any debris. Once again he took her hand and pulled her behind him up stairs that hardly looked safe. They were sturdy enough and didn’t creak, and looked a hell of a lot safer than where he was gesturing next: a ledge that went around a fake water tank. The tank would block them from sight from below and almost every angle. He gestured for her to go first. Sure, so she could be the one to fall if the plank gave out. She took one step, then another. The plank bounced but held. Luckily she had great balance. She used to walk along the edge of the roofs in her neighborhood just to feel the thrill.
When she was tucked into the corner, he backed in front of her, effectively blocking her from sight.
There wasn’t much room, and the front of her body was pressed against his back. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “If he gives me the chance, I’m going to jump down and nail him with this.” He held up a piece of metal she hadn’t even noticed him picking up. “If he finds us first, jump to the ground and haul ass. I’ll keep him busy.”
She just stared at him, though with his back to her, he couldn’t see her stunned expression. Was he really trying to protect her? No, he was up to something. What he didn’t know about her was that she wasn’t a scared rabbit. She was very uncomfortable being so close to him. She smelled the musk of his sweat, an earthy scent she caught herself breathing in. She stepped onto an even thinner plank that went around the tank to get a better look below. Eric turned and furrowed his eyes in a gesture she took to mean Get back here!
She saw a shadow cross the floor and move out of her sight. The board bent down beneath her weight, unanchored at the other end. She walked back to the wall that was Eric’s back.
The scrape of shoes froze her, and her hands involuntarily flattened against his back. Westerfield’s voice sent creepy crawlies over her skin:
“I know you’re here. I can smell your emotions.” He made loud sniffing noises, as if taking in the scent of baking cookies. “Are you afraid now? Yes, I can smell fear. Yours, Fonda Raine. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Come down, and bring your boyfriend with you. Let’s get acquainted.”
They remained where they were, of course. She tamped down her fear. Could he actually smell their emotions? Eric’s body tensed rock hard.
“I have to say, I’m surprised you were holed up with him after you told me he’d killed someone you obviously cared about. I could smell your anger and grief, like the salt of the ocean. Was having sex with him some kind of punishment?”
Her mouth tightened, wanting to set him straight. Just what he wanted.
“Tsk tsk, Aruda. Your skills won’t work on me.”
It didn’t seem like the injury Eric had inflicted was slowing Westerfield down. He walked around, humming a song, moving things across the floor, perhaps, as he looked for them. Finally he stopped, and she sensed him below. She dared to look down, and between the board and the tank saw him looking up. He had that creepy smile on his face, as though he knew he would win but was enjoying the game.
He raised a gun and aimed it at them.
She shoved Eric forward, throwing herself against him. A bullet splintered the wood where she’d been standing.
Eric lost his balance and jumped to the ground. When Westerfield aimed at her, Eric rushed him. The bullet went wild, hitting the tank.
“Run!” Eric yelled at her.
The two men wrestled, Eric with a grip on the gun, too. He shoved Westerfield against one of the columns. It didn’t seem to faze him. Fonda prepared to jump down, but not to run away.
Eric rammed his knee into Westerfield’s stomach with the same result. Except the column buckled, tilting the platform she was on. She fell, grabbing onto the edge and swinging her body down. Using the momentum, she aimed her legs at Westerfield, sending him flying several feet to a pile of boards. She landed hard on her back, banging her head and seeing stars, then Eric’s face as he leaned over her and helped her up.
The tank and platform it was on crashed to the ground behind them. Fonda and Eric moved to the side as boards skittered across the concrete floor. They spun to face Westerfield, who was still sitting. Though his shirt was cut and had dried blood on it, she saw no sign of the wound he’d recently sustained. He held out his hand, looking at Fonda. Her body lifted and she flew backward. She hit the ground with a thud and rolled, her insides tumbling.
Don’t throw up. Get up.
She lifted her head, which was aching without supernatural help. Eric had his hands around the man’s neck. With a gasp of pain, Eric dropped to his knees. Westerfield was clenching his hand into a fist aimed at Eric’s stomach. She started running toward them, but he threw out his other hand and sent her flying again.
Eric’s face was red and he was writhing on the ground, his hands clutching his abdomen. “Stop!” she screamed, trying to get to her feet again.
Stop time.
But how?
Eric’s groans grew more raw. The veins in his neck stood out, and his face deepened to a sick shade of purple.
Focus. Time stops. Time stops. Freeze!
She put all of her energy into freezing time, so much that she was gasping for breath and squeezing her eyes shut. Suddenly everything went quiet. No more groans. She opened her eyes. Both men were frozen. They broke out of the spell a second later, though now Westerfield was staring in surprise.
Again, she told herself, and focused, her whole body tightening with the effort. The groans stopped, and she opened her eyes. Even the trees weren’t moving in the breeze. A bird was suspended in the sky. She got up and hobbled over to Eric, frozen in his contorted position.
“Come on! Get out of here!”
He was as frozen as Westerfield. Damn. No way could she haul him out of there. She didn’t have much time.
Now’s your chance. Forget about Eric. Save yourself.
Instead she pushed Westerfield over. He landed on the concrete with a hard thud, but she was already grabbing the planks of boards in the pile and throwing them onto him. She grabbed his gun and stuffed it into the waistband of her pants. She dragged the tank over by the board it was still attached to and dropped it on him.
The sounds of birds started again. Eric looked around in bewilderment, gasping for breath.
“Help me!” she said. “Throw boards on the pile.”
“What—” But he didn’t stop to question. He’d already taken in the situation and knew acting was better than figuring things out.
Westerfield was trying to push the boards away.
She pulled out the gun and aimed it at him. Remember how to do this. She’d practiced a few times with a friend’s gun when she was a teenager but never aimed at anyone. She squeezed off three shots, punching holes through the boards and getting thrown backward with the kick. Eric took the gun and squeezed off three more. Blood splattered on the aged wood. Westerfield groaned, his fingers sticking out between the boards.
Eric grabbed her hand again and started running toward the woods. As they ran, boards flew into the air, one next to her head. She spared a glance back, seeing Westerfield struggling to get up. He was flinging the boards with flicks of his arms.
What the hell was he?
Eric flung his hand back and shot at him. Westerfield ducked out of sight. As they ran alongside the buildings, boards exploded from them. Westerfield was making the motions of smashing everything and sending it toward them.
One board hit her in the back, sending her flying forward. Her hands skidded across the hard ground and dried grass. The air was filled with debris, as though a minitornado had hit. Eric shielded his head as another board flew past, ducking down and pulling her to her feet. They both looked back. Westerfield was walking toward them. Walking, not running, in no hurry, which was the scariest of all. No, the scariest was the smile on his face.
Her back ached, but she pushed forward. Eric, still gripping her hand, led her to a sharp left. Her hand ached, too, but she wasn’t about to complain. Once again it felt as though she wore a boxing glove, but this one was two sizes too tight.
Her brain screamed. Pressure. Crushing pain. She looked back as they entered the edge of trees. Her legs went weak, but Eric jerked her to the right. Her vision began to blur, and then Westerfield was out of sight. The pressure eased. She shuddered at the thought of him getting into her.
Eric kept looking behind them. “I don’t see him, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’m going to check on him real quick.” He came to a stop, and so did she, nearly stumbling into him.
He closed his eyes and his face tensed for a few seconds. His eyebrows furrowed. She knew better than to interrupt him. When he opened his eyes, he said, “He’s still ther
e. No sign of any wounds, though there’s blood on him. I wonder if he can heal himself like my sister Petra can.”
“She can heal herself?”
“I don’t think she’s ever tried to heal herself.”
So that was why Eric wouldn’t die.
He said, “I saw him on the phone reporting to someone that we’d gotten away. He’s definitely not working alone.”
“Does he look like he’s going to come after us?”
“No, but I’m not taking any chances.”
She trailed her hand against the trunk of a tree as they passed. The canopy allowed the early sun to stream through in places, warming her as she walked through the sunbeams. “I don’t think he can use his skills unless we’re in visual range. That squeezing in my head . . . as soon as we were out of his sight, it stopped.”
“Good. We need to know his limitations.” He slid her a glance. “Especially since he knows about our abilities.”
“Sorry,” was all she could say. “I grew up in a neighborhood where the cops weren’t always to be trusted. But FBI, CIA . . . I figured they could be.”
He huffed, a hard expression on his face. “Mostly they can, but there’s corruption everywhere. The government has been doing people wrong for a long time. BLUE EYES was only a small chapter in the book of Heinous Crimes Against U.S. Citizens. There have been all kinds of secret programs that infected people with biological chemicals, smallpox, you name it.” His mouth tightened. “Darkwell was probably the worst. He used our parents, and then he tried to use us again to do the same thing.”
Darkwell had used her. Maybe. She’d trusted him once. She wasn’t so sure she could trust Eric.
He turned to her. “You froze time. You really friggin’ froze time.”
She nodded, feeling a smile spread on her face. Her mother’s legacy. “But I didn’t think about you freezing, too.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t haul ass while you could.” And leave him there, he didn’t say.
Me, too. She shrugged. “It was only fair to help you; you told me about it.” At his surprised expression she added, “Don’t make more out of it than that.” That’s all it was.