by Kit Rocha
Too much. “Are you all right?”
“I think so?” After another moment, she lifted her head. Her hands trembled slightly as she cupped his face. “I keep thinking I can manage this. That if I’m calm, or I’m ready, I can touch you and it won’t just sweep me under.” Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and she swept out her thumb to touch his lower lip. “It’s not getting easier. It’s getting harder. Because every time I touch you, I want you more.”
“Does that mean you want to stop?”
Instead of answering, she kissed him again. Slow and sweet, her lips parting this time in silent but certain invitation. When his tongue met hers she groaned, sliding her fingers up to tangle in his hair. The kiss flashed from warm to hot, her body pressed tight to his, her hips fighting his grip in an attempt to roll against him.
This time when she broke away, she pressed her forehead to his temple, her panting breaths hot against his ear. “It’s scary as hell,” she whispered. “And it’s still the best thing I’ve ever felt in my life.”
It didn’t have to be one or the other. It never did. “As long as it’s worth it.”
“It’s worth it to me.” Her voice trembled. “Is it to you?”
For years, Knox had trusted Gray as his second-in-command, as a guiding force when he wasn’t sure what path to take. Even though the other Silver Devils outranked him, it was his judgment that their captain sought and trusted. Because Gray always knew the right thing to do, even when they couldn’t do it.
Just like he knew the right thing now. He needed to let Maya down easy, to push her away so gradually and gently that she thought the distance was her idea.
He needed to disconnect.
Instead, he chose the hard truth. “Yes. You’re worth it.”
The tension in her body eased. She turned her head, her cheek coming to rest trustingly on his shoulder as she relaxed in his arms. “Is this okay?” she asked softly. “If we just … sit for a bit?”
“It’s more than okay,” he told her.
It was perfect.
MACE
Ava didn’t look much like her sister.
Mace knew they were clones. He recognized that their features were identical in appearance and arrangement—same nose, same eyes, same long limbs and lean torsos contributing to the same height.
The devil was, as always, in the details. Sure, they had the same general build, but Nina had dedicated more of her time in the gym to developing strength and stamina. Ava was leaner, with muscles conditioned more for flexibility and speed. Stealth.
No wonder she was so good at sneaking around.
She watched him dispassionately as he levered himself up onto the exam bed and peeled off his shirt. That was another difference—even when she wasn’t actively smiling, Nina’s eyes often danced with warmth. Ava’s resting state was more of an icy glare.
He smiled at her, and her brow furrowed, clearly discouraging any friendly overtures. “I assume there were trackers you removed yourself? Where were they located?”
“There were four—three sub-Q and one submuscular. Which would you like to know about?”
That little crease between her brows deepened. “You cut out a submuscular tracker on your own?”
She sounded so shocked that if his ego had been a little more fragile, he’d have been hurt. “I am a medic. Though, technically, it was installed between the rectus femoris and the vastus lateralis.” He arched an eyebrow at her. “Wanna see my scar?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Keep the pants on. Got it.”
There was that icy glare again. In frigid silence, she sat on one of the rolling stools, crossed her legs, and unfolded a tablet to balance on her knee. “Nina tells me you escaped from Tobias Richter. That must be an interesting story.”
More like a frantic, desperate one. His wrists itched from phantom restraints, and he had to carefully moderate his breathing. Flashes of bloody memories began to play behind his closed lids every time he blinked, threatening to overwhelm him.
So he held his eyes steadfastly open as he answered her. “A small convoy was tasked with transporting me from TechCorps HQ to another location. I’m not sure where or even why. I took advantage of the opportunity.”
Ava reached into her bag and withdrew what looked like a handheld radioisotope identification device and clipped it onto the front of her tablet. “Do you remember when they embedded your trackers?”
“I wish I didn’t. But they weren’t big fans of anesthesia in the torture chambers.”
“No, it rather defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?” She paused, and for the first time she seemed to actually notice his bare chest. Starting at his belt and traveling up, she visually cataloged every scar they’d left on his body, her gaze meticulous but, sadly, completely lacking in carnal appreciation. “Did they forgo regeneration therapy entirely, or are the scars … aesthetic?”
Mace couldn’t answer. Not because he didn’t remember, but because everything blurred together in a patchwork of misery. Not pain, misery. Because the physical torture, while sufficiently horrifying at the outset of his secret captivity, was the least of it. He’d learned quickly enough that Richter had even more harrowing torments in store for him.
“Couldn’t tell you,” he said finally. “They may have wanted to hurt Knox as much as possible, or they could have been lazy. I never asked.”
“Understandable.” Her fingers danced across the tablet’s surface as she looked down, and the machine beeped softly. “If you decide someday that you’d like to be rid of them, I know someone who is quite deft at scar tissue revision.”
“I imagine you do.” Her skin was flawless—brutally, calculatedly so. “But I’m not scared of a few scars.”
“Everyone has to choose their own way of dealing with the memories.” She pursed her lips and tapped the tablet again. “I can’t detect your implant.”
“I know.” At her questioning look, he shrugged. “Luna suppressed the signals on our implants to guard against broadcast scans.”
“Really?” Both of Ava’s eyebrows shot up. “The software I’m using can find hidden and passive signals. That girl is inordinately clever.” She swiped her fingers over the tablet and it gave a final beep. “Well, I don’t detect any trackers, which is good. No radioactive isotopes, either. If he’s tracking you, he invented a new method.”
“I know that, too. We already checked for everything, including isotope tags. Twice.”
She stared at him for a moment, unblinking. Then her expression blanked. Her movements were precise as she unclipped her scanner, but there was temper in the way she snapped her tablet shut. “If that’s the case, then why did you agree to let me do this?”
“Well, you didn’t exactly ask, did you? You just informed me, and I didn’t argue. Figured I’d just be wasting my time.” He smiled again. “You know, you’re kinda cute when you’re pissed off.”
Ava’s blank stare hardened. “I am not, nor have I ever in my life been, cute.”
“So damn cute.” He braced his hands on the side of the exam table and paused before hopping down. “Can I get dressed now?”
“You know, I still haven’t ruled out stabbing you.”
He’d be tempted to let her. True, he was mostly calling her cute to irritate her, but that didn’t make it untrue.
In fact, Mace was surprised by just how not untrue it was.
“So what’s your story, anyway?” he asked as he dragged his shirt back over his head.
“My story?” She huffed as she slipped her equipment back into her bag. “I thought you had it all figured out. I show up here to be creepy all over my sister’s idyllic life and then leave again.”
“You don’t always, apparently. Leave, I mean.”
“I occasionally do irrational things to make my sister happy. Like sleep on a cot instead of in my penthouse.” She eyed him warily as she rose from the stool. “And not stab dangerous strangers who are lurking on her roof.”
&
nbsp; She was as evasive as she was prickly. “Fine, don’t tell me. It’s more fun to make it up, anyway. Like … you trained as a knife-thrower in a traveling circus. That’s why you’re obsessed with stabbing people.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted. “A knife-thrower in a traveling circus couldn’t afford these boots.”
“Hey, it could have been a very posh circus.”
“You’re closer than you think.” She swung the strap of her bag over her head. “Do your best to remain sane, James Mason. Surprisingly, I’d rather not have to kill you.”
He actually almost believed her.
RICHTER
The beating heart of the TechCorps was 1,027 meters of concrete, steel, and glass thrusting high into the clouds to dominate the Atlanta skyline. There were fifty-two elevators, forty-seven doors with access to street- and sublevels, thirty penthouse AirLift pads, and nineteen full-size landing pads, three of which could accommodate the Protectorate’s largest transport helicopters. Twenty-four skyways connected the central headquarters to seven smaller buildings, with a combined 407 points of potential access.
It was Tobias Richter’s job to control each and every one.
The sheer impossibility of such a task might have daunted a lesser man. Richter lacked the capacity to be daunted. In the wake of the Flares, he’d coolly evaluated the various opportunities presented by the ensuing chaos and recognized two realities:
Without federal oversight or local regulation, the ruthlessness of the Board would escalate without limits.
The only way to avoid being their eventual prey was to be their most dangerous predator.
From his office on the hundredth floor of TechCorps Headquarters, Richter held most of the Hill in his grasp. He controlled all elevators and doors of the main building. Through the mandatory RFID chips embedded in every TechCorps employee or subcontractor, Richter could track their locations and grant—or revoke—entry to all those points of access at his whim. His most trusted driver sat ready on his private landing pad, and his personal elevator ensured that his sprawling network of informants could come and go discreetly.
Today, that was an especially good thing. Lucas Taylor hadn’t even bothered to dress appropriately for the Hill. His patched denim jeans and scuffed boots alone would have marked him as an outsider. The leather vest that bared his tattooed arms was positively barbaric. Long hours in the sun had tanned his pale skin and lightened his sandy hair. He slouched in a chair, looking large enough to collapse it, and stared at Richter with barely contained hostility.
That was the problem with deep-cover agents. Without a sufficient leash, you risked losing them as they sank into a comfortable life on the outside. The precarious state of their position could fade. Loyalties could shift.
The fact that Taylor was here at all was an indication that Richter hadn’t lost him completely. Still, a tug on the leash couldn’t hurt. “You’ll be happy to know that your sister is doing very well. So are your nieces. Coralie is quite a bright little thing. She’ll be taking the general aptitude test next year, I hear.”
Taylor’s jaw clenched. The anger intensified, and Richter didn’t mind. You couldn’t threaten a man’s family and not expect hostility in return. The expensive genetic treatment that had saved his sister’s life might have been the initial leverage that pushed Lucas Taylor into Richter’s employ over a decade ago, but fear for his nieces’ safety kept him in line now.
Richter allowed Taylor a moment to regain his self-control, then offered him a polite smile. “So. Whatever you’ve found must be important if you’ve come in person.”
With visible effort, Taylor swallowed his anger. “That BOLO you sent out? For the rogue Protectorate squad?”
A thrill of excitement whispered up Richter’s spine, though he let none of it show on his face. Or in his voice, which he kept deliberately casual. “The Silver Devils?”
“Yeah.” Taylor dipped into his vest pocket and pulled out a data stick, which he tossed onto Richter’s desk. “I found them.”
“Intriguing.” Hiding his eagerness, Richter plucked up the stick and rose. The firewalled computer he used for data from his various informants was set up on its own desk, connected to a massive monitor embedded into the wall. More than one traitor had left this office in a body bag after handing him a drive loaded with malware, thinking he’d be foolish enough to plug it into a networked computer.
No matter how tight the leash, Richter never trusted an outsider.
This stick held no viruses, just a video file that passed his security scan without red flags. Richter played it.
The monitor filled with an outdoor scene. A sea of tables spilled out from a warehouse’s open doors, each heaped with various items for sale. It took him only a moment to recognize Jaden Montgomery’s open-air market, though it was significantly larger than he’d realized. Allowing the rabble to the south a pressure valve to keep them from the simmering edge of outright rebellion was one thing, but Jaden Montgomery was clearly becoming something more dangerous.
Richter would have to consider that.
The market wasn’t the immediate concern, however. As Richter watched, Rafael Morales strolled across the screen. A few moments later, Garrett Knox himself drifted into frame, his attention fixed on a tall brunette who strode confidently at his side.
Heady vindication snaked through him. For months he’d known the truth, even as the Board shut him down at every turn. The Silver Devils were dead, they insisted. Their bodies had been recovered, their DNA and implants confirmed. When Richter had pushed back against their conviction, he’d received his first ever reprimand. The Board did not want to spend its time chasing ghosts.
The Board did not want to spend its money chasing ghosts.
Of course, he’d done it anyway. What was the point of becoming the dominant predator if you couldn’t secure the resources to do what was necessary, regardless of the foolish whims of the sheep?
Granted, he’d made an error of judgment with James Mason. He’d seemed like the perfect weapon—pure emotional devastation, delivered directly to Garrett Knox’s door. Of course, that devastation had depended heavily on Richter’s ability to break the fool. Who could have imagined that a medic, of all people, would prove stronger than the worst Richter’s team could devise?
They’d wasted months trying to turn him into an obedient killer. Something in him resisted as strongly as if the refusal were coded into his damn DNA. And then that disaster with the transport convoy—Mason had been quick enough to kill the soldiers who were meant to bring him to a secure location. The competent brutality of it had irked Richter most of all. Not so much the loss of men, but the proof that at least some of the deadly lessons he’d attempted to impart to the medic had clearly stuck.
He’d made MD-701 stronger, deadlier, faster, and angrier, and then he’d lost him. Failure upon failure—just like everything involving Garrett Knox and his squad.
It was a good thing he’d kept the entire mission off the books. He would have been hard-pressed to rationalize the millions of credits that had evaporated when Mason had cut free of his trackers and vanished into the city. Richter was already on thin ice with the Board for losing control of the Silver Devils to begin with, not to mention his insistence that they weren’t dead at all.
He shouldn’t have tried to get fancy with James Mason, not when the real solution had been within his grasp the whole time. Not aggressive action, but patience and trust.
His carefully cultivated information network had never failed him.
The Silver Devils were alive, and now he had proof. He could rub the Board’s collective nose in its error, make it clear that Tobias Richter had been the only one to see the truth. Their safety depended on believing in him.
Their lives depended on deferring to him.
“Listen, the chicks they’re running with are good people, okay? There ain’t a Protectorate soldier out there who isn’t elbow deep in the blood of decent folks, so I
don’t give a shit what you do to them. But you gotta leave Nina and her girls…”
Taylor’s blustering demands faded to a distant buzz. Matthew Gray had appeared on the screen, stopping in front of a table overflowing with tech. Oh, now there was a betrayal that hurt. The rest of them Richter had had little use for, and Garrett Knox had always been a particular thorn in his side … but 66–793 had been something special. Elite. Cool and unruffled. The best sniper in the history of the TechCorps and an unparalleled weapon.
How many times had Richter stepped in to protect him? That meddlesome bitch Birgitte Skovgaard would have tossed him aside on one of her idealistic crusades to purify the ranks more than once without Richter’s intervention. He alone had recognized Sergeant Gray’s value.
And the traitor had walked away without a backward glance.
On the screen, Gray smiled. An odd expression, one Richter had never seen on him before. He was looking down at a short, curvy woman whose face bore a smile that didn’t look odd at all. In fact, the familiarity of it stole his breath.
With a tap of his fingers, Richter froze the screen. Was he imagining the resemblance because his anger at Birgitte felt so fresh?
Heart-shaped face. Warm-brown skin. Big, brown eyes framed by thick lashes. The elbow-length black braids were new and so was the makeup. Thick eyeliner, shimmering colors. Her face had lost the fullness of childhood, and the cosmetics expertly played up the difference. He doubted facial recognition would have flagged her, though he suspected the cleverly designed sunglasses propped on her head were one of the ways she’d thwarted the city’s surveillance all this time.
Computers could be fooled, but Richter couldn’t. This was not his imagination. It was a damn miracle.
“Where are they?” he demanded, cutting off whatever Taylor had been saying.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Taylor pull out a second data stick. “If you promise me you won’t fuck with Nina or her girls, I’ll give you this. It’s the data on a corp they’re chasing. I figure if you find them, the Devils will come to you.”