by Sue Duff
Patrick brushed off as much dirt as he could and didn’t mask his indifference to her scolding. He patted Epi’s shoulder, gestured toward the end of the block, and together they went their merry way. The woman shrieked at their turned backs and the mutt stood its ground, barked in their defense, then ran and caught up. Unsure what had upset the woman, Patrick left his curiosity in the street. He had more pressing things to deal with.
The village that had appeared so uninviting in the middle of the night bustled with activity as men and women of all ages headed out of town on foot. Everyone had loose canvas bags slung across their chests, and most wore wide, floppy straw hats. They chatted among themselves as if off to another typical day in the fields. The cloudless, blue sky overhead promised that the sweltering heat was there to stay. It had already triggered sweat across Patrick’s brow and the back of his neck. The pressure and sharp pain in the center of his chest from the previous night had left a dull ache and he massaged his sternum through his shirt. The edge of his fist felt something like a scab over his left breast. Patrick slowed his steps while catching up to the group and let go of Epi’s hand. He made to lift the edge of his button-down shirt, but froze at a tap on his shoulder.
Patrick turned and faced a kid, an older teen, giving Patrick a sly grin. The teen said something to Epi, and the child clung to Patrick’s leg as if fearing for his life. Epi shook his head at the teenager, then looked up at Patrick with wide, fearful eyes.
“Do you know him?” Patrick said, pressing the child’s head against his thigh.
The teen’s face lifted in amusement. “You’re, English? American?” He gushed, much like a con man finding an unexpected mark. “Good, good. I speak English.” He hesitated and his face contorted in contemplation. “We don’t get many Americans on our small island.”
Patrick glanced about. “What’s the name of your island?”
The teenager laughed. It wasn’t an easygoing laugh, but exaggerated and drawn-out. Instant dislike ruffled Patrick’s patience, but he didn’t dare turn his back on the only person who held a promise of salvation. “Do you know him?” Patrick asked and patted Epi’s shoulder. At the renewed attention, the child wrapped himself tighter around Patrick’s leg and slipped behind, keeping one terrified eye directed at the teen.
The teen flashed a sly grin and arched one eyebrow higher than the other. He said something to Epi and the young boy turned his face away without responding. Fury filled the teen’s face, he raised his hand and looked about to strike the child. Patrick sidestepped and put himself in between. “Argh,” the teen yelled and threw Patrick a ferocious glare. “He no give me,” the teen said and rubbed his fingers together then hissed. “Money.”
Patrick regarded Epi. “Seems he doesn’t have it. But if you can get me to a phone, I’ll pay you what he owes you.” Patrick wasn’t sure he’d spoken slow enough, or used simple enough English for the teen to understand, but a second later, the teen smiled a polished, dental-hygiene grin and slapped a hand around the back of Patrick’s neck.
The young man mimicked holding a phone to his ear. “Phone? I have phone!” His grasp grew tighter across Patrick’s neck. A revved engine. An SUV barreled down on them, its tires kicking up dirt and spreading it in a parted wave behind the vehicle. “But it’s gonna cost you,” the teen sneered in Patrick’s ear.
Epi screamed and took off for a nearby alley with the growling mutt close at his heels. The child fell to the ground and disappeared under a low-lying deck. The teen grabbed Patrick and twisted him around to face the oncoming vehicle. The tip of a knife jabbed against Patrick’s throat.
He struggled, but the teen was incredibly strong, and the knife drew a few drops of blood. The SUV skidded to a halt inches from Patrick’s knees, spitting gravel against his pants. All four doors flew open and men scrambled out.
“Welcome to Greece, Heir,” the teen snarled near Patrick’s ear.
His chaotic thoughts slammed to a halt. Heir? What the hell? Had they mistaken him for Ian?
{37}
The needle marks made Ian feel like a drug addict. He slipped off the kitchen stool and rubbed his inner elbow, but it didn’t erase the reddened dots. “Now, can I go?” Ian asked.
Dr. Mac added the latest vial to the stack. “That’s up to them,” he snapped.
The Pur guard across the room didn’t respond. He hadn’t moved since Ian entered the room and underwent the most thorough examination he’d ever been subjected to. Ian knew very little about the Primary’s elite guards, and even less of their special training or skills. The guards never carried weapons, and it was rumored that they were all Sars, each one capable of lethal power. Curious, Ian had stolen several glances during his exam.
Tension filled the room more than air. The guard’s stoic demeanor was offset by his unwavering gaze on Dr. Mac. Henrick had peered over Dr. Mac’s shoulder every few seconds and constantly questioned the physician.
Dr. Mac’s simmering anger had rubbed off on Ian, and it became a challenge to regulate his core’s heat.
Henrick checked a list in his hand. “You have enough samples to do these tests?” the Primary’s assistant asked.
“And then some,” Dr. Mac muttered in his gruff, gravelly voice.
“You may go, Sire,” Henrick said. “But don’t leave the mansion.”
Ian took off before they changed their mind. Earlier, he had caught Milo and Tara walking down the hall in the direction of the back stairs. Ian opened the basement door and turned his keen hearing to the darkened room below. Muffled voices. He stepped onto the staircase and closed the door behind him. The voices fell silent, and Ian descended the stairs.
“It’s Ian,” Milo announced from the bottom-most stair. The group was scattered about the downstairs gym. When Ian paused next to Milo, a dim, amber glow lit up the room. It came from the geeks’ virtual data board.
“What have you found?” Ian approached the floating data.
“It’s definitely two women, using various aliases,” Pacman said.
“Their lives intersect up until about fifteen or more years ago,” Joules said.
“That’s when one drops out, and from what we can tell, only one is left,” Xander added. “But we don’t think she died.”
“No obituaries were found under any of the aliases,” Xander said.
“It’s like she fell off the face of the earth,” Joules said, leaning against the weapons cabinet.
“Did you download photographs?” Ian asked. Xander swiped his finger and a picture of a young woman appeared. “Where’s the other one?”
“No driver’s licenses were ever issued to any of them,” Pacman said. He nodded at Xander. “This is the only photo we could find of the second woman.”
Xander swiped his finger and a photo appeared beside the first. It was the QualSton photo Ian had seen at Rayne’s apartment. Her father was dead center in the group of scientists. Pacman tapped a woman’s face in the back row. It blurred for a second, then corrected.
There was something familiar about the first woman’s photo, but he couldn’t tag a memory to it. The QualSton scientist was difficult to make out. She was shadowed by the tall scientist beside her.
Tara stood and stretched. “We have about two dozen products and companies that they were associated with.”
“Organized by regions.” Milo yawned.
“They’ve narrowed down dates, when the women were connected to the companies,” Marcus said.
Ian walked around the data, committing it to memory. Eve’s identity was somewhere in this jumbled mess. The Primary was already a few steps ahead of them. Time wasn’t on their side. “We have to figure out who Eve is and find her before the Primary.”
“Why the race?” Joule said. “Why not let him do our work for us?”
“The Primary has a history with Eve,” Ian said. “If he kills her—”
“—we might never locate Patrick,” Tara said.
“Did Mac find anything?” Marcus as
ked. Ian shook his head. “If we’re to beat the Primary to Eve, we need a safer location for this data.”
“The northern vortex building,” Ian said. “I’m the only one who can access it.” At soft footsteps on the stairs, Ian brought a finger to his lips then took the stairs two at a time and intercepted Henrick midway down.
“What are you doing?” Henrick asked, looking past Ian.
“I found Tara. Milo’s giving her a massage,” Ian said. When Henrick made to continue down, Ian blocked him. “She’s partially naked.”
“Where is Drion Marcus?” Henrick asked.
“I don’t know.”
From the look on Henrick’s face, Ian wasn’t sure the Primary’s assistant believed him. “I need to talk to the Drion. Help me find him,” Henrick said, but then tilted his head as though in afterthought. “Your Majesty.”
“Of course.” Ian followed Henrick and they split their efforts between the upper floors. As soon as he was clear of Henrick’s watchful eyes, Ian texted Marcus to make an appearance. A few minutes later, he heard voices in the great room downstairs. Ian texted a plan to Tara, and then changed into his running gear. He met up with the two men in the foyer. “I need to go for a run.”
Henrick shook his head. “You’re to stay here.”
“The boy gets antsy,” Marcus said.
“I promise to stay on the grounds,” Ian said. He waved his cell phone. “If you need me before I return, just call.”
Henrick whistled. One of the Primary’s elite guards let himself into the house from the front stoop and stood at attention. “Falcon, accompany the Heir on his run,” Henrick ordered. The guard gave a curt nod.
Ian’s voice rose in a half-hearted protest. “He’s not exactly dressed for this.” A smug twitch at the corner of Falcon’s mouth gave Ian concern that he wouldn’t easily out-distance the man. He left with his escort and set out along the north cliff path. Falcon kept abreast for the first half of the jog and when Ian increased his pace, the guard fell into sync with Ian’s speed.
Saxon met up with them and ran alongside Ian, stealing frequent glances at Falcon from over his shoulder. When the Primary’s guards first arrived, the wolf’s obvious agitation had baffled Ian. He tried to channel with Saxon, but the wolf wouldn’t respond. He had never reacted like that during Marcus’s troop’s frequent visits.
Ian concentrated on summoning the elements while keeping his pace, counting on Saxon to be enough of a distraction that Falcon wouldn’t notice. Clouds soon obliterated the sun overhead. A cool breeze swept up from the ocean and rustled the branches in the trees.
They reached the northern vortex structure in record time, and Ian held up near the door. Saxon snorted and paced, keeping himself between Ian and the guard. Falcon hadn’t broken a sweat, and from what Ian could sense, his breathing wasn’t labored.
At clap of thunder, Ian grabbed the door handle and bent over as if to catch his breath. His keen hearing caught the subtle click as the latch disengaged, further masked by the conjured thunder. Ian applied the merest pressure to ease the door open.
Falcon didn’t break his attention on the wolf.
“Saxon doesn’t seem to like you.” Ian scratched the wolf behind the ears. Falcon didn’t respond. “We better head back before this storm gets any worse.”
“Or, you could vanquish it at will, Sire.” The smug twitch at the corner of Falcon’s mouth came and went. The guard walked over and tugged on the door handle. It latched with a click. He stepped back and stood at attention.
Ian’s failed plan weighed heavily on his mind as they returned, and his thoughts raced faster than his legs. The Primary’s elite guards were no fools.
“I’m tired of being a prisoner in my own home,” Ian grumbled while he picked at Milo’s dinner. Seated around the dining room table, no one had spoken for several minutes, and by the look of food remaining on their plates, everyone’s appetites were depleted as much as their patience. A thick fog of tension had settled in the mansion.
Falcon must have reported Ian’s ruse to Henrick, because everyone suddenly had a private escort wherever they went. With the grounds jam on the highest setting, the incessant scraping in Ian’s core was as good as Chinese water torture; and, after nearly twenty-four hours, he’d had enough. He pushed his chair back and bolted to his feet. The guard across the room didn’t flinch.
“Where’s Henrick?” Ian commanded.
“Collecting the last of the test results,” the guard said with unwavering calm.
Ian stormed into the kitchen. Dr. Mac was packing the unused blood samples. He then turned and tore off a printout from a nearby machine. “That’s the last one,” Dr. Mac said handing it to Henrick.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Doctor,” Henrick said. He stuffed the printout into a satchel on the kitchen island counter, and then latched it.
“Are you finally done dissecting me?” Ian demanded.
“Sire, everyone is to remain under the Primary’s guard until the results are reviewed. If your condition is found to be unchanged, as the good doctor claims, then you and the others will be released.” Henrick whistled. A couple of the guards came in and grabbed some of the equipment. “They will be back for the rest. Do not leave the mansion until the remaining guards have been recalled.” He followed the men out of the kitchen.
Dr. Mac collapsed into a nearby seat and rubbed his bald head, the tuffs of snowy hair over his ears appearing like ruffled feathers. Ian grabbed Dr. Mac’s shoulder. “Did you find something?” he asked under his breath, unsure if there were any guards within earshot.
“Tell me, Ian, do you feel different?” Dr. Mac asked casually, but his rapid heartbeat gave his concern away.
Ian hesitated. “Yes,” he whispered.
“Different how?” Mac indicated for him to take a seat next to him. Ian settled down but kept one ear to the hall beyond the kitchen. “I feel as if I’d walked around, all my life, with a half-full stomach. But for the first time, I now know what it feels like to be full.”
Dr. Mac closed his eyes and gave into a tremendous sigh. “Good.” He patted Ian’s arm as if he’d gotten the answer right. “Don’t tell another living soul what you just told me. Not Tara, not even Milo. This must stay between us.”
“What’s going on, Mac?” Ian said. “What did the rebels do to me?”
“There’s no way to know until the jam is turned off.” Dr. Mac stared out the archway. “The house arrest will be lifted soon. But we must hurry and find Patrick. I fear we don’t have much time.”
{38}
Patrick watched the crashing waves at the shoreline as the SUV sped down the winding dirt road. His hands were cuffed, but his thoughts ran wild, trying to find a way to escape again.
From what he could tell, they were on one of the smaller Greek islands with a much larger one looming in the far distance, across the ocean waters that reminded Patrick of the Caribbean. Wedged in the backseat between his body-building captors, he caught the best views whenever they rounded a corner, or took a sharp curve along the cliff. They soon left the ocean’s edge and navigated inland. Enjoying an unobstructed view, with even clearer thoughts, Patrick saw one olive orchard after another. Bent-backed men led their donkey carts full of bushels of the hand-picked gems down the road. They made a sharp turn at the massive boulder where the wreck had been cleared. If it wasn’t for the scrapes in the rock’s surface, Patrick wouldn’t have known it was the same location.
A large metal structure sat on the crest of a hill and the vehicle headed straight for it. A dust cloud billowed behind them, blocking any views from over Patrick’s shoulder. The crazed driver skidded to a stop, apparently the only way he knew how to use the brakes. Everyone unbuckled their seat belts, and one of the men grabbed Patrick so tight that he winced. He was pulled out of the backseat, and it took some effort to remain on his feet as he touched ground. Dragged into the metal warehouse, Patrick collided with the man standing guard. Then he was brought to the mi
ddle of a wide open space where two chairs sat. A woman was tied to one of the chairs; her back was to them, and her hands were secured behind her. Patrick was thrown down into the chair beside her.
It was his mother!
Her soiled and damp gag looked as if she’d been there a while. Her typically coiffed hair was tangled and stuck out in all directions from under the knotted gag. One of the sleeves on her designer dress was ripped at the shoulder and the garment was rumpled and askew on her body. She opened her eyes and looked at him. They widened in terror.
“Wait!” Patrick yelled, but before he could set the men straight that he wasn’t the Heir, they stuffed a rag into his mouth and tied a gag around his head so tight that both cheeks cut on his teeth. He tasted blood. Two men held his arms down, removed the handcuffs long enough to lace them between the rungs at the back of the old wooden chair, then secured them with a click. He tried to stand, but strong hands pushed him down from behind. “What do you want?” he tried to shout, but it came out muffled and incoherent.
What was his mother doing here? A vague memory rose to the surface of Patrick and his mother on her jet.
They called him Heir. They had to be Weir. Were they Aeros’s men?
An invisible hand turned up the heat in the center of his chest as he took in his mother. He’d never seen her so haggard and depleted. He screamed, “I’m not the Heir!” at the top of his lungs, but the gag distorted his desperate plea.
A door opened at the opposite side of the warehouse and Patrick blinked at the blinding natural light. A thin older man, dressed in a white suit, sauntered in like he was in charge. The teenager brought up the rear. They approached with deliberate steps, and then paused a couple of feet in front of Patrick and his mother. What Patrick would have given to have a free hand, anything to punch the smirk off the kid’s face.
The white-suited man tilted his face and stared at Patrick with nothing short of amusement. He was dressed in cream-colored suit pants and expensive shoes. His dark oxford shirt was opened at his throat and his silk tie hung loose. Long sleeves were rolled up to just below his bronze-skinned elbows.