by Angel Payne
“They…they didn’t threaten to kill you,” he finally admits, getting a hand on the smiley and flinging it to the corner.
“That so?” I spit. “Well, maybe they should have.” There were plenty of days when I’d wished they had.
“Maravilloso!”
“The bastards were smart.” Dad breaks up his croak with a violent cough. “If they’d offered, they knew I might have taken them up on it.”
It’s a damn good thing Alex is here. I would’ve doubted what my ears really heard if not for the shocked gape with which he leans back in. “An offer to kill your own sons?”
“Maravilloso!”
Dad whooshes all the dark smoke of his glare back toward Alex. “Why do you think I ‘killed off’ myself just to get away from them?” he rebuts and ticks his head around so I’m included once more in his tight-lipped explanation. “In the end, death is going to be better for all of us, boys. So much, much better than what those moon pickles are planning.”
His voice has descended so low, I almost spurt out a laugh. There’s ominous and then there’s melodrama, and my father’s mien is teetering on the latter—except for one detail that I really can’t ignore.
That I’ve never seen him venture anywhere near shit like this before.
And so, I do what any rational kid would do in this case. Attempt to call Daddy Dearest out on his bullshit.
“Errrmmm…moon pickles?”
My father only tightens his lips and squares his jaw. “You prefer scientific psychopaths? Or whack jobs on a mission to wipe out humanity?”
Well, shit.
As Alex actually sputters that out loud, I’m both comforted and unnerved. Once more, having him here serves as confirmation that I’m really not losing my mind—that my father’s weirdness is really a thing and not just my imagination—but on the other hand, maybe I wish it were my imagination. What Lawson is rambling about…it’s the shit of a Michael Bay or Kevin Feige film. Nothing comes close to reality. Yeah, even the version I’m living in. Next thing we know, he’ll start spouting about apocalyptic horsemen, cryptic prophecies, and Faline’s new “army” having sudden cravings for brains and spleens—or worse.
But up until two years ago, I’d also tossed fringe scientists, DNA manipulation, and electronic superheroes into those bins too.
“Maravi…llo…sssss…”
The dying smiley is ideally timed to the weirdness going on in my psyche. I’ve never spent fifty K on something that felt like more of a winner and loser after the same toss of the dice. We got our straight ride into the heart of the Consortium, all right—only to be told our freight car has already jumped the tracks. My money’s basically bought me two tangible facts to walk away with. Number one? My father faked his death as much to the Consortium as to the rest of the world. His threadbare clothes, hanging like potato sacks on his gaunter frame, are testament to the strictly underground existence he’s been living since the Paris catastrophe, as well as Saber’s insistence that the fifty thousand be in unmarked cash. Number two? Despite the invisible existence, he’s obviously been maintaining tabs on me—and not just a few casual Google searches, either. At least that satisfies the curiosity Alex and I were harboring about the speed with which Saber contacted us after we hit the city.
But dealing with the underbelly of society has taught me a few truths about curiosity beyond the cat-killing shit—most importantly, that satisfying one often germinates five more. I have no compunction about giving voice to my not-so-little seedlings now—directly to the bastard who spawned me and them.
“All right.” I level it while reaching out, palms up, and easing the desk off the center of Dad’s chest. “What the hell; you’ve got my bite. Exactly what’s up the moon pickles’ collective sleeves?”
“Aside from the plot you already have evidence of?” Dad returns while rubbing out the edges of the pain across his sternum. “And before you even ask: yes, I know exactly what Faline was up to with that stunt at your wedding reception. She’s been obsessed with the teleportation power forever. I’ve watched her burn through quite a few ‘volunteers’ in the Source to iron out the glitches in getting it right.”
“Fuck.” I dip my head and drop my arms at the same time. “So much blood on that bitch’s hands.”
“Oh, I didn’t say they died.” As soon as he halts his hand, he coils it so tightly that the bones in his wrist are stark knobs against his skin. Our gazes lock again, and his jaw clenches just as hard before he grits, “As I said before, son, I would have begged for your death if I could have.”
I’m silent—and too damn horrified to correct him about the label. The implications of what he’s saying… I inhale furiously to hide my head-to-toe shudder. Unbelievably, I’m suddenly grateful that I only had to lie on a steel slab and watch my monitors fluctuate with the voltage in my veins.
“And she continues to keep hundreds in captivity at that complex.” Alex’s voice is dipped in a bed of glass too—and my father winces as if his face has been shoved into that bunker.
“Facing hundreds of fates worse than death,” he grates before letting his head drop back against the couch’s worn cushion. “Which is why I had to emerge from death and run the risk of finally contacting you.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “The circumstances still aren’t ideal, but I knew I might not ever get a chance like this again.” A hint of snark pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Unless Emmalina refuses to go anywhere but Barcelona for a honeymoon? Which reminds me. Congratulations, my boy. That woman of yours is solid gold.”
“As the sun,” I fill in. “Which, regrettably, the entire world knows now.”
He looks dunked into that pool of glass again, though maybe only up to his nose this time. “You’ve got her in a secure location, yes? Under an electronically scrambled security system?”
“Yes, sir. And being trained every day by my right-hand lieutenant and kept busy every night by her sister and Angelique.”
“Not your mother?”
I hoist the wall on my composure a little higher. With a blank expression to match, I offer, “She makes it to California when she can.”
With the scowl I’ve expected, he murmurs, “She’s staying busy, then? Your mother?”
The walls stay up, but I make sure he sees me stiffen. “You don’t get to have access to that information, Lawson,” I rebut. “Especially because I’m still not clear as to why you’ve chosen to let her go on being a widow.”
“Fair enough.” He holds up both hands. “And an ideal segue back to the theme, at that.”
“Which would be what?” I counter.
“That often, death really is the best answer.” As he lets the statement sink in, he pushes his hands to his knees and uses the momentum to swoop back to his feet. “And in that cavern in Paris, it became my only answer.” Though the assertion’s nothing but a tight mutter, it resounds on the air like a boom of thunder—the same way each of his steps on the creaky boards is like a fingernail scratch on a chalkboard. “The only way to get away from being that woman’s puppet and acting the part of a mixed-up asshole who’d really bought into their illusion of a designer master race was to kill that man off for good.”
“Acting…the part.” Though I’ve comprehended everything he’s said, I fixate on the phrase I still don’t understand. “Okay, hold up the goddamned turnip truck. I was awake that night, Lawson. My limbs were paralyzed and my voice was strangled, but my ears and my brain still fucking worked. I remember every word you fucking said.”
“I know,” he utters. “So do I.”
“You compared Tyce and me to Dobermans. You called Chase your Shepherd, ‘loyal to a fault.’”
“I know.”
“You said we were alive to serve the family’s purpose.” Every one of my syllables is a vicious spit, and they feel damn good. “To serve your purpose.”
“I know.”
“And you knew then, as well.” I clear the three steps back to his side and twist a f
ist into the front of his shirt, uncaring that my rage burns through his thin garment in less than a second. I simply slice down until closing my grip over his belt, using that centralized leverage to slam him back down into the mess across the desk. “You knew, goddamnit. You were conscious and clear about every vile syllable that sprung off your lips. Nobody had a gun to your head, control chip in your brain, or needle in your arm.” I lock my teeth so hard they hurt—and let him see the tension of that grit. “And now you’re telling me it was all some kind of act?”
My father swallows hard but doesn’t flinch his stare by an eyelash. “An act I abhorred,” he rasps. “Through every hideous, horrific second.” A breath escapes him in broken sections of air. “As that lift carried us down to the caves, I swallowed my own bile. Reece…son…”
“Don’t.”
“I hated myself for what I did to you.” He may not be faltering in the gaze, but he’s also not pulling any punches with it. His eyes shimmer with thick liquid. His nostrils flare hard, in and out, harsh bellows of brimming emotion. “All of you.” He wrestles beneath me, though not in the brutal struggles of attempting an escape. He’s really wriggling only one part. His left hand.
In which a thumb drive suddenly appears, apparently yanked from his pocket. The lining of his pocket still hangs free, like a demented white flag of surrender, as Alex and I gawk at the two-inch stick peg like it’s the key to the national nuclear launch codes.
At last, Dad draws a deep breath and mutters, “I did all of it. I’m not fucking proud of it. But I came out of all of it…with this.”
Alex leans in and pulls the USB away. “Which is what, exactly?” he demands.
“Just about everything you need to know about getting into the Source and taking down those batshit bastards for good.”
Alex cocks a brow. “Just about?”
“I was working on making it everything,” Dad offers. “But dying took a bite out of my process.”
Alex purses his lips. “Yeah, that has a tendency to hinder things.”
“But there are, as you’ve said, hundreds of people who can’t wait on our ‘process’ any longer.” Dad’s focus is shockingly steady for a man dangling six inches off the floor, being wedgied by his own son. His concentration earns him a few more of my reluctant props, but not enough to drop him yet. “Once Saber relayed the news that you were definitely coming to Barcelona again, on the hunt for any information about Faline or those lunatics, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer.” He dips a nod toward Alex’s hand. “What I have isn’t everything, but it’s enough.” And then shoots his unblinking regard back up to me. “And I died to keep it safe for you, Reece.”
Yeah, so he’s not blinking—but I am. Just enough times to convey my abject confusion. “Safe for me,” I echo. “But why not use it yourself?”
Alex, with the instinct of a truly fine wingman, steps back over to elaborate. “You’ve stayed dead enough for anonymity, but you clearly have underground connections to get shit done—and likely not just here in Barcelona. Why give this intel to us and not use it to organize your own army against the Consortium? Or for your own purposes, period?”
Dad huffs out a laugh. Well, as much of one as he can, given how his pants are likely bisecting his ball sack. “You mean, why didn’t I sell it to the numerous black-market buyers who’d love to get their hands on this kind of intel about the organization?” When he grimaces, I’m given my confirmation. Ball sack bisected. Mission accomplished. Part of it, anyway. “Isn’t the answer to that clear by now?”
Alex joins me in contemplating those words for a long, tense moment. At last, my wingman growls the conclusion we have no choice but to come to. “Well, shit,” he grumbles. “You really do want to take out those cocksuckers as badly as we do.”
Dad blows out a breath of blatant relief. “But I don’t have any of the raw resources to do so.” And then releases a bigger whoosh as I ease his feet back to the floor. “Mounting this huge of an effort is going to take everything I don’t have”—he jabs a couple of fingers into the top of my chest—“and that you do, my good Mr. Bolt.”
Somewhere inside me, there’s a jibe clamoring to get out at him for that—but damn it if my old man doesn’t manage to shine up the archaic words like only an experienced hipster could. “All right, all right, Jeff Goldblum,” I spit. “You want to fill us in on exactly where to start on that everything?”
Dad discreetly shakes out one leg and then the other. While straightening back up, he jogs a nod back toward the thumb drive in Alex’s hand. “You just need to unlock all of that.”
“Unlock it?” But Alex, more suspicious than curious, doesn’t swerve his focus away from my father’s face. “The fuck?” But even then, it’s as if he knows the answer before asking the question.
“I have the right files downloaded, but most of them are encrypted.”
“And you couldn’t find a decent security tech to unravel the codes? Even here?”
“None that I can completely validate or trust.”
I nod at Lawson but toss my glance to Alex. “He has a point.” A solid one. I turn, one hand on my waist while stabbing the other back into my hair. “With the Consortium physically based nearby, they likely own most of the techs in the city. In the country.”
With new vigor, Lawson approaches me. And for a second, seems to contemplate actual physical contact, a la normal father-son bonding, but nothing about this—about us—is halfway close to normal. The recognition grips his features just before he drops his hands, pulls in a grim breath, and then pronounces, “Just to add another layer to the fun, I’m pretty certain the key itself is booby-trapped as well.” He chuffs as Alex drops the stick like it’s turned into an electric centipede. “The one and only time I attempted to access the files for myself, I took care to hide in the basement of a restaurant owned by friends. Yes, I still have a few of those,” he adds while bending to scoop up the key. “But from the second I snapped the thing into the computer, I knew something was wrong. The thing let out some shrill beeps and flashed with a defined pattern of glowing colors.”
“Like a code?” I prod.
“Exactly like a code.” His scowl tightens as he regards the drive with a longer scrutiny. “Especially because the place was overrun and destroyed by Scorpio henchmen within a matter of minutes.”
“Meaning you have fewer friends.”
Dad ignores Alex’s quip. “I escaped through hidden tunnels, but barely.”
Alex grunts. “And now you’ve got a lot of rockets ready to launch, as well as the starter keys, but no flight codes or pilots.”
Dad replies with a similar snort. “Simply put, yes.”
I lean against the desk. While bracing my hands against the edge, I regard them both with a stare that feels more brainless than it likely looks. At least I hope so. “So how do we access those codes? Or where?”
My father abandons his snort in favor of a full smile. The look brings back some crazy memories. The first—and only—time I made honor roll. The time Tyce crashed on his bike and I carried him a mile home on my back. The night I approached as he and Emma laughed over hors d’oeuvres at the Richards Reaches Out gala, in New York. The seconds in which I kicked ass on the band of criminals who’d crashed the party.
“Not what or where, Reece,” he explains as his smile widens. “It’s who.” And though my comprehension blares as soon as he makes that statement, I wait for him to cross back over to me, hands held up to fully embrace me by both shoulders before affirming, “It’s who.” He squeezes his grip tighter, his gaze warming with deeper pride. “Son, the engine is you.”
Chapter Seven
Emma
“At what point do I get to say my mind is officially blown?”
Lydia’s query brings on a soft laugh from Neeta but a twisted scowl from me. Of course, neither of them have cold goo spread across their bellies—which has been transformed, seemingly overnight, from what I thought was some menstrual bloating to
what I now know is my growing baby.
My baby.
Holy. Shit.
I’m going to have a baby.
Reece Richards’s baby.
As the truth resonates once more through my senses, I now know exactly how to answer my sister’s crack.
“Yours doesn’t get blown until mine is done.” I finish it by flipping my gaze back up to Neeta’s face, which is still defined by equal parts awe and astonishment. Like Lydia, the woman’s been privy to information that few really know. Reece’s junk is supposed to be as sterile as a nuclear meltdown survivor’s—and for the better part of the last year, it has been. I should know. I’m the woman who’s been enjoying the benefits of his otherwise fully functional cock for almost a year and a half now. And, I can attest, who’s also been fully functional in my own right, including the regularity of my cycles in all their feminine glory. Yes, including the cramps. And the zits. And that lovely, aforementioned bloating…
Until last month.
When I thought all of it had decided to let my stress take precedence over my cycle. I hadn’t even bothered with a pregnancy test. I’ve been happily screwing only one man for a year. After the initial relief that Reece’s ion-powered body couldn’t kill me, I never considered that his reproductive “stuff” was functional, normal. So we’ve just been going for it, especially for the last few months. Blissfully fitting in as much protection-free debauchery as we can around training, eating, training, wedding planning, training, reviewing the team’s intel on the Consortium, training…
Annnnd that picture’s painted pretty clear now.