Deadly Seduction

by Cate Noble

  “We’ll find him, Erin.” Dante paused at the door. “Just take care of Max.”

  Two hours later, Erin was back in the third-floor conference room, waiting for Dr. Winchette to get off his cell phone before someone else interrupted once again.

  She stifled a yawn. It was after 10 p.m., which to her East Coast body clock meant one o’clock.

  In contrast, Winchette showed no signs of fatigue and was livid that John Doe had not been located.

  “Keep me posted,” he snapped before disconnecting and turning to Erin. “If we had been in Virginia, this wouldn’t have happened.” He scribbled a signature across the orders he’d just drawn up. “I want Max Duncan out of here before another incident occurs.”

  “Those photographs Travis Franks had.” She went straight to the point. “Have you ever seen a machine like that used for mind manipulation?”

  He hesitated, and in that moment she knew he wasn’t formulating a denial. But rather, an excuse. A diversion to throw her off.

  “There was a time when everyone experimented with sensory deprivation.” Winchette frowned. “Timothy Leary did something similar with LSD. The annals of science are filled with such cases. All were abysmal failures. No one, save Hollywood, pursued it beyond the sixties.”

  Had her father? “Obviously someone missed that memo,” she said. “How can we figure out what was done to these men—in order to reverse it?”

  “Actually, we don’t know that anything was done to them. Neither man has regained consciousness long enough to debrief. Personally, I think the photos were a ploy to throw us off.”

  “Off what?”

  Winchette shrugged. “Maybe Travis Franks is trying to cover his men’s ineptitude. He knows more than he’s letting on. Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Mr. Duncan was injured by friendly fire.”

  Erin couldn’t hide her shock. “Are you saying his own people shot him?”

  Now Winchette let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m saying we don’t have all the facts. And certain things I’ve been told don’t add up. Which as you know—”

  His phone rang just then. He tugged it free and glanced at the display. “Excuse me, Erin. I need to take this call. Perhaps you could go find coffee? Black.”

  As she turned to stalk out of the room, Winchette spoke to her again.

  “Your father gave me advice once, Erin, about dealing with security matters. He said, ‘Some things are better left unquestioned.’ I’ve never forgotten that. Your father was a very smart man.”

  He turned away, dismissing her as he answered his phone.

  Just outside the door, Erin stopped and leaned back against the wall. Did Dr. Winchette think she’d blindly accept her father’s idiom and march away to do his bidding? Coffee. Black. His request infuriated her. She had no problem acceding to his desire for privacy. But to be sent off for coffee? Please! Talk about a ploy. She’d return and Winchette would change the subject or rush off.

  Not this time. She’d wait him out.

  Through the closed door, she heard Winchette’s voice rise. What now, she wondered, shifting closer.

  “I need that device immediately!” Winchette demanded. “If there is a way to track that man…”

  She knew he had to be discussing John Doe, though the words made little sense.

  “I’m getting him out first thing in the morning,” Winchette’s voice dropped and grew muffled. “Can’t keep…the level I need here.”

  Now he was discussing Max Duncan. But with whom?

  “Travis Franks agrees. And when the patient goes brain-dead…”

  Brain-dead? What in the world—

  “Excuse me, are you Dr. Houston?”

  She jerked, cheeks flaming guilt-red as the hospital’s security chief addressed her. “Yes, I’m Erin Houston.”

  “I’m looking for Dr. Winchette, ma’am. He’s not answering his cell phone.”

  “He’s on another call.”

  “This is urgent. We’ve got a lead on that missing patient.”

  At that, Erin rapped on the door before thrusting it open. Winchette looked stunned at her interruption.

  “The chief of security needs to see you,” she said. “He has information regarding John Doe.”

  “I’ll call you back.” Winchette practically leaped to his feet and hurried to the door. “Well, what is it? Have they located him?”

  “We have a report of a jumper on a bridge south of here, threatening suicide,” the security chief said. “He matches the patient’s description.”

  “Good God! How far is this? Get the police on the phone and tell them to back off until I get there.” Winchette scrambled to grab his briefcase, stopping just long enough to scoop up the papers he’d completed. “Erin, I need you to get a copy of these transfer orders to Dr. Giles. I’ve got a private medical helicopter coming in at sunrise. I suggest you get some sleep. If I get tied up, you may need to accompany Mr. Duncan back to Virginia.”

  Before she could reply, Winchette’s phone rang again. He rushed away, motioning the security chief to follow.

  Erin stared at the papers without seeing them. When the patient goes brain-dead. Granted, the words were garbled and she’d heard them out of context. But what had Winchette meant by that?

  Her thoughts were drawn back to her first encounter with Max. His eyes. He had squeezed her fingers. Just before receiving a sedative…of course! It was only natural that Max was more likely to respond as the medication waned.

  If she could get to him before his next injection, could she wake him?

  Back in Max’s room she checked his charts. He was due for another dose in about an hour. She could hang around until then. She also noted that the new medication Winchette had prescribed was indeed enough to keep a man comatose. Was that being done on purpose? With the CIA’s blessing? Travis Franks agrees…

  She started to set the chart aside, then noticed that new pages had been added. She flipped through the sheets, reading as she went. Max’s blood panels were all normal; same with urine tests. That was good.

  The MRI report, however, listed several aberrations. Evidence of numerous, older, fractures. All healed, the report stated. From torture and abuse, no doubt, she thought.

  She kept reading. Hematomas and skull fracture noted in the September 17th MRI report were not visible. The types of injury noted previously wouldn’t heal in less than forty-eight hours.

  The radiologist’s comments went on to suggest that the previous scans were older than indicated or wrong.

  Erin set the file aside. What the hell was going on here?

  Chapter 9

  Max opened his left eye. Blinding light spiked in like a jet of boiling water. He blinked, subjecting his right eye to the same scalding pain.

  Clarity always demanded a price. And because this was mild compared to the toll normally demanded, he tensed. Ready for more. For worse.

  It didn’t happen. If anything, he felt a tiny bit better. He turned his head to the side, away from the light directly above his bed.

  Reality slammed in. This wasn’t the lab and he wasn’t coming out of stasis. There had been a raid. He remembered being tossed to the floor of a helicopter.

  Max! We’re here to take you home. But the word “home” had no meaning. No pictures, no memories came to mind. Had he really been gone two years?

  He tried to move but couldn’t. What a bunch of bullshit!

  He might have been rescued, but he still wasn’t free.

  He arched against the restraints, felt them tighten across his chest and thighs and arms. Twisting his torso, he managed to yank one arm loose. Then he sat up and tore through the remaining nylon straps.

  There were other tubes. Needles. Even a catheter. Christ, what were they planning to do now?

  You know. An image glimmered in his mind. Someone still wanted to control them. To experiment with them. The brief glimpse he’d snagged of Dr. Winchette’s cold, calculating thoughts confirmed that he and Ta
z were still in danger.

  Taz…Jesus. Where was he? Max had to find and help his friend.

  Frantic to get out of the bed, he stripped everything away. Pain ripped through him, temporarily grounding him. But the moment the soles of his feet hit the cold floor, the room spun and bucked like a deranged bull.

  He held tight to a bed rail and managed to stay upright. Ignoring the ringing in his ears, he corralled his senses through force of will and assessed his surroundings. The blinds were drawn, but the faint lines of ambient light seeping in at the edge were shadowed, artificial. It was night.

  Faint memories percolated in the mud that was his brain. The woman—Erin—had been here. He’d made a connection with her, but was it strong enough to allow him full control? She’d argued with the nurse over his medication and they’d taken off in search of new orders. He didn’t have long.

  His ass suddenly cold, Max lurched away toward what he assumed was the bathroom. He wrenched open the door. Turning on the water, he scooped handfuls into his mouth, and then splashed his face, feeling it soak into his parched skin. He couldn’t get enough of it.

  He shut off the water and stared at his reflection. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes. His cheeks were drawn, his lips cracked. The face in the mirror was familiar, but why did it feel like it had been a long time since he’d seen himself? Exactly how long had it been?

  Tearing the bandage off his head, he felt his scalp and found a line of stitches. The spot was tender, but when he tried to recall how he’d been injured, the ache in his head roared back to life.

  Doesn’t matter. Just leave.

  Straightening, he slipped back into the room. Inside the tiny closet he found a black duffel bag and dug through it. The clothes looked brand new, unfamiliar—yet he sensed they were for him. And if they fit…

  Out in the hall, he heard female voices. Erin was coming back, with another nurse he’d bet.

  “I know Dr. Winchette mentioned changing the dosages. Look, if he doesn’t call back within ten minutes, you can call Dr. Giles,” Erin was saying. “It won’t hurt to hold off on the injection that tiny bit.”

  “But this patient has been experiencing seizures.”

  “I’ll stay with him, and if one starts, I will administer this.” Max sensed that Erin now held the syringe the nurse had carried in earlier.

  “I still don’t feel comfortable,” the nurse began.

  “Then I’ll take full responsibility. Better safe than sorry, right?”

  Max moved next to the wall behind the door, waiting to see who won the battle. Come on, Erin!

  “If he hasn’t called in ten minutes, I’ll be back,” the nurse said, fear of reprimand heavy in her words.

  The door pushed open slowly. Erin stepped inside but then seemed to stop short. She’d no doubt seen the empty bed.

  She let the door swing shut as she turned toward the bathroom. He’d left the light on and a small amount crawled across the floor. She moved to the closed bathroom door. “Max?”

  He grabbed her from behind, slipping one hand across her mouth. His other hand clamped over her wrist, relieving her of the syringe before locking her back against his chest. The instinctive urge to kill came out of nowhere. Not her, he thought. Winchette.

  Quashing his thoughts of violence, he instead opened intuitively to her, wanting to reinforce the bond between them. He’d done this before with women…commanded them. But Erin was different. Warm. Caring. Maybe she commanded him.

  Desire came out of nowhere as sensations of Erin overwhelmed his system. The sudden flood of input was chaotic. Jumbled. It felt like someone had pried open the top of his head and poured bits and pieces in. The drugs in his system didn’t help, making it more difficult to reason.

  Since his thoughts no longer made sense, he focused on reading hers. Her relief at knowing he’d regained consciousness was palpable. She’d been worried. About him. He could use that. Controlling her would be easy.

  And while she had no intention of drugging him, she believed he was in danger. But from whom? And why?

  Those were the wrong questions. The pain in his head spiked. Now it seemed someone used a knife to hack at the inside of his skull, scraping away the thoughts he’d been given seconds earlier like a hunter cleaning flesh from a hide.

  Max knew the only way to stop it was to shut down everything inside his head. He concentrated on the externals again. The woman he held. Erin.

  “I’ll let you go,” he whispered. “Don’t scream.”

  At her nod he lifted his hand.

  “May I turn around?” She moved before he could respond.

  Her eyes searched his. Dark. Mossy. Like smoked emeralds. They were overly large, overly lovely, and missed nothing as she rapidly scanned him from head to toe.

  He felt her hand close around his wrist as her fingertips pressed with firmness. His pulse slammed against their light pressure. Her gaze shifted to his face, her eyes reflecting concern.

  “I’m Dr. Houston, Max. You’re in a San Diego hospital. You’ve been unconscious for a while and heavily sedated, so let’s take it easy. Nod if you understand.” She spoke softly and slowly like one would with a child. Or an idiot.

  He must have nodded, because she glanced away, toward the bed. “Why don’t I help you back to—”

  “No.” He needed to get away. But where to go?

  Once more he tried to bring order to his thoughts. Words and images avalanched inside his head, and the longer he was on his feet, the worse it got.

  “Please.” She had stepped closer. “The injury you suffered wasn’t minor.”

  He jerked, remembering gunfire. “I was shot, right?”

  She nodded. “The bullet grazed your skull, fractured it, but didn’t penetrate. You had a couple hematomas, blood clots. And you’ve had some seizures.”

  Seizures. He remembered being strapped to a table and given electric shock therapy, but—“I don’t remember being hit.”

  “It’s not unusual. Amnesia following a traumatic head wound is common. And it’s usually short term. Let’s get you settled and I’ll explain it more fully.”

  “Don’t bother with that. Tell me where the shooting took place.”

  “I’m not sure. Southeast Asia, I believe. I can call—”

  “No!”

  With a slight flinch, she eased backward. “Anything you say, Max. But I am concerned.”

  “Save it. Now where is Taz?”

  “Do you mean the man who was brought in with you?”

  “Yes. Take me to him.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.” Tension flashed across her features as he compelled her to answer honestly. “He…he regained consciousness and left the hospital a few hours ago. We’re searching for him now.”

  Being that Taz had already gotten away meant he was in better shape than Max. But Max was supposed to be with Taz; they had something important to do.

  Mission incomplete.

  Nausea climbed through him. He shifted backward using the wall to support himself. The hunter with the skinning knife was back now, digging inside his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose, desperate to recall the mission, but things started to fall out of focus again.

  He pushed away from the wall. “I’ve got…to leave.”

  “You haven’t recovered enough to be out of here.”

  “I need to get dressed.” He pointed to the black duffel bag on the floor. “Is that mine?”

  “Yes. One of your friends, Dante Johnson, brought it. He, um, knows exactly what you’re going through, Max.”

  Your friends left you for dead. They deserved to suffer. Pain slashed up Max’s spine one vertebra at a time. Escape. Evade. Find Taz.

  “Put the bag on the bed and open it,” he said tersely. “Hand me clothes.”

  “Max, you are in no shape to go anywhere. You still need medical attention.”

  “Clothes,” he snapped. “Now.”

  With a small sigh, Erin tugged out jeans and a shirt.
Her thoughts were easy to pick up. She was stalling, hoping someone came in. But not Dr. Winchette. She mistrusted him, too.

  Max ripped his gown off, ignoring Erin’s gasp of indignation. “You’re a doctor, for Christ’s sake. I can’t be the first man you’ve seen naked.”

  “Those scars.” She pointed to his torso. “You’ve been…hurt.”

  “Hurt” didn’t come close. “I survived.”

  He focused on getting dressed. The clothes were stiff, but they fit. Snapping the jeans, he slid the confiscated syringe into his pocket before jerking a black T-shirt over his head.

  “Shoes?” he prompted when she just stood there.

  Erin dug and tugged out a pair of leather deck shoes and dropped them on the floor in front of him. He slid his feet in, grateful to forgo laces. Again a perfect fit.

  “Max, let me call someone.”

  “No calls.”

  He turned the bag upside down now and dumped the remaining contents onto the bed. More clothes. Shave kit. A cell phone and wallet caught his eye. He scanned the crisp hundred-dollar bills tucked inside, trying to recall the last time he’d had any use for money. He shoved the wallet into a rear pocket, then pulled the battery out of the cell phone to disable the built-in GPS before dropping it and the phone into another pocket.

  All of a sudden Max was hungry. Ravenous. When was the last time that he’d eaten something that wasn’t delivered through a tube? It felt like days.

  He crammed everything back into the duffel bag and slung the strap over one shoulder.

  “I have to advise against self-discharge,” Erin said.

  “I didn’t ask to come here, so I’m not asking to leave.” He crossed to the windows. Opening the blinds, he peered down.

  “Max, you can’t climb out! Look, let me go with you. I’ve got a car. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

  He probed her thoughts. Her concern was sincere even though she believed she’d be able to persuade him into returning. Since he actually wanted her along, it was expeditious to let her think that. A willing hostage was infinitely more compliant.