Strange Case, an Urban Fantasy (Hyde Book III)

by Stewart, Lauren

  Way smarter than I am. “Whittley would want me to bring my stuff.” He walked towards it, trying to think of a reason his ‘stuff’ would be in a purse…that didn’t match anything he was wearing.

  He was still three feet away when Newman shook his head and said, “If Whittley wants it, he’ll come get it.”

  “If we leave it behind, someone might wonder what happened to its owner.”

  He laughed. “It’s a bit too late to worry about that.”

  Landon didn’t know what the comment meant, but it probably wasn’t good. His hand twitched as he passed the purse. Newman held Danielle tightly and stepped back from the door to let Landon go through first. They walked in a line—Landon in front, then Danielle, and the asshole bringing up the rear.

  “If you hurt her, some very bad things are going to happen to you.” Best and worst case scenarios ran through Landon’s mind. He walked slowly, hoping to be close enough to do something when an opportunity knocked.

  He wished he was glad the door to the security office was wide open, but he wasn’t. Newman didn’t slow a stitch, even with the ‘Security Office’ sign facing their direction. As they passed, Landon saw Rick’s body half-in and half-out of his chair, an armrest the only thing holding him upright, a slowly growing pool of blood on the floor under his head.

  Poor bastard didn’t even have time to pull his Taser. “Did he try to kill you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did he try to escape?”

  “Nope. He was ungracious.”

  “Don’t look.” Landon glanced at Danielle, trying to convey confidence that everything would be okay. At least he didn’t have to speak the lie. She nodded tightly, her eyes filled with innocent fear, her body trembling. He’d done this to her. And now he had to fix it.

  Newman got her moving again by stabbing his weapon at her neck.

  Landon didn’t move, giving the man time to push Danielle closer to him. She grabbed Landon’s wrist, then slid her hand into his and squeezed. A second later, she took his wrist with her other hand. When she closed her eyes, he grabbed her, just in case she was about to faint.

  “No,” she said, her eyes popping open.

  “She okay?” Newman asked as if he actually cared about her. It was a good sign. It might mean she would survive this, even if Landon didn’t.

  “I get a little stressed-out whenever someone kidnaps me,” she snapped. “I guess I’m just too sensitive, huh?” Danielle’s eyes were still sharp and observant, but her face was ghost-white. Not weak, but scared shitless. There was no doctorate for this kind of thing.

  The guy tapped his gun on Landon’s shoulder. “Carry her.”

  He wanted to keep his hands free, but his current options were severely limited.

  “I can walk by myself,” she said.

  “Carry her,” he repeated.

  Landon scooped her off her feet and kept walking. Her fingertips landed on his neck, resting there softly, her other hand on his shoulder.

  She leaned closer to him, almost nuzzling his cheek. Nice thought, bad timing. Then she whispered, “Your pulse is different.” Holding her hand where Newman couldn’t see it, she counted—four fingers went up, and then were clenched into a fist.

  Great. An Abnormal heartbeat. The shit he’d injected was starting to kick in. So this was the moment. The moment he found out how bad an idea it had been to take the stuff. But he couldn’t die now. Not with Danielle in his arms, Turner and Eden not knowing what was happening, and the answer to bringing The Clinic down surfing through his bloodstream.

  Not now. Please, not now. Preferably not ever.

  Newman directed them into the parking garage and stopped at the ass-end of a classic kidnapper’s tool—white, unmarked, window-less, late-model van. Fucking things should be tracked right off the lot. Who else needed one?

  “Put her down.”

  As Landon did, he realized his breathing hadn’t changed, even though he’d been carrying her for a while. She didn’t weigh much—125, maybe 130—but his muscles should’ve complained a little. Instead there was nothing. No fatigue, no strain, nothing.

  Like he could hold onto her forever.

  “Get in the truck.”

  Landon stood back, letting her go in first. Not to be chivalrous, but because he wanted her to be behind a metal door when the fight started. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one to think of it.

  “Not you. Him.” The prick grabbed her by the collar and yanked her back. “You get to ride up front with me.”

  Landon knew better than to let a criminal take them to a second location. But he also knew that the safety on Newman’s gun was off and he’d already killed someone today. So he climbed in and immediately started looking for a way out.

  A row of vertical bars divided the passenger area from the back. Even if he had Hyde’s strength, Landon couldn’t bend steel. And he sure as hell wasn’t faster than a speeding bullet. But each bar was bolted into the ceiling and the floor separately, and one of those attachments had to be weaker than the others. He should be able to work one or two loose enough to reach through. And then he’d take Newman out with his bare hands.

  “Make sure you wear your seatbelt,” he warned her quietly.

  She nodded, afraid, but confident. In him. As if she had absolutely no doubt that he would get her out.

  No pressure. As soon as the door was slammed in his face, he went to the bars, shaking them and looking for weakness. He found it even before the passenger door opened.

  Unfortunately, the asshole wasn’t as stupid as he looked. He pushed Danielle into the driver’s seat, while he sat sideways, keeping his weapon against her neck.

  Landon finally understood Mitch and Eden. How goddamn ironic. His body was starting to feel different, stronger, better than it had ever felt.

  And he was trapped in a cage.

  Chapter XXVIII

  “As much as I’m enjoying your misery, tell me what Whittley wants from Eden.” So Mitch could get out of here with some hint of where the fucker might have taken her.

  Alex wiped her eyes and cheeks. “What does everyone want? What’s the motivation for everything a man has ever created or attempted or fought for?”

  He thought the word a second before she said it. Power.

  “Power. Whittley doesn’t care how she’s used. How any of us are used. Once they can isolate what makes you different, they’ll start testing it on people.”

  “They already did,” he said. “You did. On Carter.”

  “Can you please let my sister go?”

  “So she can call the police or so she doesn’t hear about what you did?”

  She didn’t respond, probably because she couldn’t pick just one.

  “You were saying...?”

  When she spoke, it was fast, as if spewing the information would confuse everybody. Or maybe she was trying to make it as quick and as painless as possible for herself. “Carter was a one-off. Not important. He would’ve died from his injuries in a matter of time—we knew that when we took him from the hospital. So it was just a…a…” Suddenly she had a stutter.

  “A game.”

  She shook her head. “A test. A chance to test a theory without losing anything.”

  “I’m pretty sure Carter lost something.”

  “He got better—dramatically better once he acclimatized to the drug. When he was taken off it, he started to deteriorate almost immediately. And then…”

  “And then he fizzled out.” He tried to keep calm because he needed her to keep talking. So he focused on being an attentive listener instead of shoving her into a corner she would never, ever get out of. “So the end-game is what?” No answer. “Jesus, Alex, just say it! Des already knows you’re a bitch.”

  She swallowed, glanced to her sister and then lowered her head. Maybe to cry again, who knew? As long as she kept talking, she could cry all she wanted. “To take the best parts of the Abnormals and recreate them in humans.”

  Best
parts? There were no ‘best parts’ of being what they were. But there was violence, strength, and the ability to heal—all of which would be very desirable in an army and would make some dickhead’s pockets very, very heavy.

  “Eden came the closest,” he said. “Naturally. Without you guys playing with Petri dishes, she was your best shot.”

  “Once they understand her adaptation, it will save years and years of research. With the stem cells of her offspring, the jump will be enormous.”

  Will be even bigger. She’d said ‘will’. So the plan hadn’t changed at all, and coming to Texas had just made it easier for Whittley and his crew. That had been Mitch’s idea—before he got useless. Of course, right now he was still useless.

  Power. Everything is about how much you have and how well you can control it. In a way, he’d always known. Because while he didn’t understand a fucking thing about himself, he understood other people, men specifically. “Besides Whittley, who are they?” They might put women like Jolie and Alex on the front line, but testosterone was driving the bus.

  “There’s a Board of four or five people, I’m not sure. But Ryan’s in charge. The Board provides the funding and thinks they’re making decisions, but he only goes to them with insignificant stuff. He calls the shots on everything important. If you want to stop this, start with him.”

  She wants Whittley dead. Probably to keep her own ass intact. But her motives didn’t matter. Not this time. Because she wanted the same thing Mitch did.

  “You figure out where they are,” he said, his voice low, “and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Ryan mentioned something about the building being condemned. But…there are a lot of condemned buildings in Dallas.”

  “I need a map.”

  Desiree went into the kitchen and rummaged through a drawer. Just behind her was a calendar with a fat red line circling one day and the words, ‘Curtis home 12:30’. “What’s the date?”

  “The third.” So Curtis would be home tomorrow. Good news but not nearly enough to make up for all the bad.

  Desiree came back, unfolding an old-school map. Her movements were stilted, as if she was so confused and overwhelmed that she couldn’t do anything she wasn’t told to do. If she didn’t have that annoying conscience, The Clinic would’ve loved her. Another perfect puppet.

  “I’m sorry,” Alex said.

  “Sorry? It’s too fucking late to be sorry.” There was no snooze button on this alarm, no re-set, and 9-1-1 couldn’t handle it.

  When Alex’s eyes widened and she scrambled backwards, Mitch realized he was moving. Idiot. He forced his legs to stop, quads and biceps twitching. His hands were in the perfect shape to be wrapped around someone’s neck, so he drew them into fists. Not a lot better.

  I think it’s time to leave. Before anyone—meaning Alex—started dying. He couldn’t leave her here, and he would never trust her, but the last thing he wanted was another liability when there was no insurance that things wouldn’t blow up in his face.

  And then his phone rang—a normally innocuous sound that pounded on his eardrums until it was the only thing he could hear. It took him a while to answer because his hands were immobile. Great, I’ve reverted to something without opposable thumbs. If it was a wrong number, he might lose it. With no time to look at caller ID, he put a shaky finger down on the accept button, smacking his head as he put it to his ear.

  “Yeah?”

  “Turner?” Tentative, quiet, probably because of the anger in Mitch’s one word comment.

  “What is it, Justin?”

  “I was supposed to call you earlier, but my phone was dead.” Pause.

  Mitch was definitely going to have to teach the kid to speak properly. And then Eden could undo the damage by finishing it up with a lesson on why using ‘fuck’ excessively actually wasn’t a good idea. And Mitch would agree to disagree.

  “Why were you supposed to call me?” Mitch asked slowly.

  “She came back. Eden. She was here.”

  Mitch shut his eyes and felt his stomach go back to where it should be. Until he processed all of the words. “Was?”

  “She came back and then she left again.”

  “You need to hold on for a few minutes. So take that time to figure out exactly what you’re going to say. And then, when I get back on the phone, I want complete sentences. Paragraphs even.” It would take him at least twenty minutes to get back to the warehouse, so details could happen in the car.

  He lowered the phone from his ear and looked at the two women in front of him—one looking like she was about to be seated in the electric chair and the other still trapped in the magical land of disbelief. Should he bring them along? One of them?

  Hell no. Eden was already more woman than he could handle, so he’d let Curtis deal with these two tomorrow at 12:30. “I need rope and duct tape, ladies. Now.” He motioned with his hands. “If you don’t move fast enough, I’ll have time to decide this is a bad idea.”

  The women started scrambling for stuff, running around like two of the three blind mice. He tied them to chairs back-to-back. Spending the night tied up wouldn’t hurt them. He should know—he’d spent a whole bunch of nights chained to a bed. And look how sane he was.

  “Des, use this opportunity to say everything you’ve ever wanted to say to Alex but have never had the balls to. Believe me, she deserves it. And I suggest using the word ‘fuck’ a lot because it’s cathartic.”

  He put a strip of duct tape across Alex’s mouth and then leaned in close. “If I ever see you again, make sure you bring the tape. You’re going to need it to put yourself back together.”

  As soon as he was out the door, he put his phone up to his ear. “Justin, are you ready to tell me everything that happened and everything you know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then start talking…in full sentences.”

  To prove how in control he was, Mitch stuck his hand out of the window as he passed the security guard and showed him a finger. Not the middle one though. He gave the guy a big thumbs-up sign. Because Eden was free.

  And whatever happened from this point on—no matter how incredibly screwed up it was—was whipped cream and big fucking cherries.

  Chapter XXIX

  At the very least, Ryan turned out to be an excellent outlet for Eden’s rage. It was like taking a kickboxing class, but instead of her fist hitting air, it hit him.

  She was exhausted, he was beaten, and neither of them had shared anything other than a bunch of insults and personal jabs. Everyone had a weakness, a button, a trigger. Everyone. And even though she barely thought of him as a human being, Ryan had one too. She just had to figure out what it was.

  In the back of her mind, a part of her was screaming, begging her to control herself. The only thing she seemed to be able to control was where she hit him.

  She and Ryan made the same sounds of pain, but hers came from a much, much deeper place. It was hard to remember how she used to be, but she definitely wasn’t like this.

  It’s their fault. Even as she thought it, she knew it was a lie. But if she acknowledged the truth, she couldn’t pretend this wasn’t happening or that it would end. She needed to believe that when this was over, she could be the person she wanted to be and have the life she wanted with Mitch. Everything awful would go away—The Clinic, the pain, the violence. It would all disappear once Mitch was free.

  Liar.

  Maybe Landon was right—that she was past the point of behaving logically. But she was in too deep to be able to see another way out. Ryan bled and grunted but didn’t talk. All she wanted was for him to admit what he’d done, to give her a shred of a hint as to what to do, and to tell her how to bring Mitch back for good.

  But she and Ryan were equally stubborn. If their positions were reversed, he would do the same to her. As if the past few years weren’t proof enough, you don’t drug someone and stuff them into your trunk to go on a picnic.

  He deserved worse than she coul
d ever give him. So each blow brought peace. Payback for ordering women raped and people tortured. She didn’t want to enjoy it, but she did. No, not enjoy—relish. Shit, she was. She was relishing his pain and her power over him.

  If she wasn’t careful, she’d kill him. And then where would she be? The world would be rid of one murderer only to have gained another.

  Stop! Finally she did. Not because he cried mercy and not because she pitied him—neither of which happened. She stopped because she hated him so badly she wanted him to suffer, to remember who was in control and be able to see who he should be afraid of. He’d taken so much from her, brought her to her knees so many times. She wanted him to experience everything he’d ordered done to her.

  The stuff he said about The Clinic’s motives and her father’s involvement was bullshit. He would never have been that open if he was telling the truth. And the more she thought about it, the less sense it made—there was no money in making people good. Crime paid, prisons made money. And for Ryan, money meant power. And power was his driving force. In order to believe in right and wrong, you had to have a conscience. He didn’t. Or he never could’ve done the things he did.

  “Why are you doing this to us?” she asked.

  He licked at the blood off his lip, grimacing. “It’s research for a children’s book.”

  She smacked him. “I got all day, asshole. No plans at all. So make as many jokes as you want. But come nightfall, I’m going to take you to someone who makes me seem like a pacifist.”

  “Actually, your violence is impressive.” His voice held no fear, no hesitation. As if he’d already planned on this happening and had decided hours ago exactly what he was going to say. “It’s an interesting development, really. You integrated your sides so beautifully without any medication, and then this starts happening.”