Fearless (Dominion Trilogy #2)

by Robin Parrish

  "How do you know you could make life better for everyone on earth if you did?"

  "I don't, but what if I never find out?" he counter-argued. "What if the world isn't getting any better because I'm too timid to take it all the way?"

  "This power we wield. . ." Morgan said gravely, casting a gaze down at her own ring. "It is savage. It is black and raw. And it longs to be unrestrained. I only feel it in fleeting moments, so I cannot imagine how strong its pull must be on you."

  Grant didn't answer. He didn't have to.

  "Your ability to keep its influence at bay with mere will power is nothing short of remarkable. But we would be the greatest of fools to let ourselves forget where this power originates."

  Grant let out a frustrated breath. "But do we really know where the power comes from? All we have to go on is the ravings of a worldclass sociopath-a psychotic old man with delusions of grandfatherhood. The power is ancient and primal, yes, but that doesn't automatically make it evil. Maybe it's just ... I don't know how to put it ... Maybe it's pure in a way we could never comprehend. Like, undiluted by man's influence. Part of ... linked to something that existed in an age before life as we know it was born. And old enough to tap into the very fires of creation ..."

  Grant's voice had grown increasingly distant as he'd spoken, and now his gaze was very far away. When he snapped out of it, he found Morgan studying him with the kind of worry only a mother could conjure.

  "Grant, why do you choose to do what's right? Why do you do what you do?" Morgan asked.

  "I guess ... because I feel like I was meant to. If I'm not using this power to help people, it would be a waste, wouldn't it?"

  "Yes, it would. And for the record, I'm glad you're using your power to do good. But to what end?"

  "I'm not sure I know what you're getting at...

  "You save people from harm, from injury, from death. You help the helpless. But what are you accomplishing?"

  "I'm making the world better," Grant replied with the only words he could conjure.

  "Ah!" Morgan exclaimed, clearly happy that they'd arrived at her intended point. "Making the world better is a noble goal, and I commend you for it. But there are some things that superhuman abilities can't fix, prevent, or rescue. Real change-the kind of change that is required to change the world-is not something you can physically cause to happen, not even with your immense power."

  Morgan watched him, waiting patiently for his response. "So what, then? Are you saying I have to find a way to change the human heart?"

  "No," Morgan replied knowingly. "Despite all of your awesome abilities, changing the heart is the one thing you can't use them to accomplish. The heart of every newborn baby is deceitful and prideful and selfish. It is the condition by which each of us enters this world, and rescuing helpless people from calamities will not alter this fundamental state of being."

  Grant leaned back in his seat, resting his head and taking this in.

  He cut his eyes across at her.

  "Are you worried about me?" he asked. "I'm not the bad guy, no matter what others may have intended for me. The ring doesn't control me, you know. I'm the good guy, and that's not going to change."

  Morgan sighed, frowning. Grant got the distinct impression that he had missed entirely whatever point she was trying to make.

  "I'm the good guy," he repeated, waiting and hoping for her to affirm the statement.

  Morgan studied him briefly. "There are people in this world who are capable of all manner of dreadful things. Unimaginable pain and contemptible cruelty they leave in their wake. And those people ... they are me and they're you."

  His eyes met hers, ready to argue the point.

  "There is no great chasm between `us' and `them', between the `good guy' and the `bad guy'," she explained. "Our powers do not make us better than everyone else. And the tiniest of distances-a single bad choice-is all that separates you from those you fight against. Don't for one moment let yourself believe that you are incapable of being what they are. Be very mindful of your choices."

  He pursed his lips. "I thought you wanted to talk about the prophecy.,,

  'Why do you assume I haven't been?"

  Grant suddenly gasped as if seized by a jolt of lightning that surged through his body. He leaned forward in his seat and clutched at his head, seeing something far, far away that was too terrible for his eyes to withstand.

  "Grant!" Morgan shouted.

  He doubled over in his seat and pressed his hands to the sides of his head.

  Everyone in first class and several others at the front of the economy cabin were standing or leaning forward to see what the commotion was. Julie was out of her seat and kneeling in front of Grant almost as soon as Morgan had shouted his name.

  "What?" Julie shouted, taking one of his hands in hers. "What's going on?"

  "I can see them! They're dying," he said. "So many of them..."

  Before Morgan or Julie could ask for a further explanation, Grant was on his feet and moving. He stopped at the door to the cockpit as a flight attendant appeared to block his path.

  "Sir, please return to your seat," she said. When he persisted, she added, "I'll have to summon the air marshall if you don't return to your seat right now."

  Grant pulled back his hood, removed his hat, and took off his sunglasses. As the woman in front of him gasped at his now very familiar face, Alex appeared at his side.

  "Do you know who I am?" he asked.

  "What's going on?" Alex interjected. "What are you doing?"

  "No time," was his reply. At her confused expression, he stopped and added, "Do you trust me?"

  "With my life."

  He turned back to the flight attendant. "If you know who I am, then you know what I can do. Now move," he ordered.

  Her jaw was still slackened as she silently sidestepped, but her eyes remained trained on him.

  Three feet out from the locked cockpit door, Grant reached out with his hand and grabbed the metal door with his mind. He pulled back with his arm and the door followed, crumpling as it wrenched itself free from the doorway and then remained in midair. Grant tossed the door aside; it landed on the floor beside the main exit.

  Inside the cockpit, the pilot and co-pilot were already scrambling for the gun that was locked in a small metal box between them.

  Grant pulled the metal box through the air with a thought and caught it. "Do either of you recognize me?" he asked, stepping fully into the cockpit. He slipped the box backward through the opening and handed it to Alex.

  "Yes, I do," the pilot replied. The co-pilot nodded.

  "Listen, I know this will be hard to understand. There's an emergency happening in Israel right now, and I need to be there. If you were to change course now, how fast could you get me there?"

  The pilot swallowed. "I, we can't ... Regulations prohibit us from deviating from our flight plan unless-"

  "We don't have time for this," Grant interrupted, his voice leveling to a deadly threat. "Maybe it's an inconvenience, maybe it violates all your regulations. Thousands upon thousands of people are dying while we're having this conversation. So you're going to change course right now, or I'll have you rendered unconscious and do it myself."

  The pilot hesitated, but finally acceded. "Very well," he said, clutching the controls nervously and manually changing their course. The man was visibly shaken, but struggling to maintain the detached calm that pilots are trained for. "If I don't declare our change in destination, international authorities may view us as a terrorist hijacking."

  "This is a rescue operation," Grant corrected him.

  "I still need to declare the change in our flight plan, sir."

  "Fine, whatever. Just get us there."

  Grant left the men to their work and returned to his seat. Every person on the plane seemed to be staring at him now, including his friends in first class. Their cover was clearly blown, but he didn't care.

  "What's happening?" Julie asked desperately.


  Grant turned to Morgan. "Why didn't you tell me Payton was in Jerusalem?"

  "I didn't know he was," she replied honestly. "What's he doing there?"

  Grant sat back in his seat slowly, clutching the armrests as if he could will the plane to go faster.

  And for a moment, he wondered if maybe he could.

  "Why are we going to Jerusalem?" Morgan asked.

  "I caught a glimpse of what's happening there right now, because Payton is there," he explained. "In my mind's eye, I can see him in his surroundings. And it looked like ... it looked like the city just ... just sank. As if a fissure opened, and the entire city collapsed in on itself. Payton's conscious, but just barely. I can see him clearly, and I can see a lot of people on the ground around him, through smoke and debris...."

  First class grew silent as Grant's voice drifted.

  "What's the population of Jerusalem?" Julie asked, her voice nearly a whisper.

  Morgan spoke up, knowing the question could only have been directed to her. "Seven hundred and fifty thousand, at last census. With tourists and religious types on pilgrimage, the total could rise above one million."

  Everyone at the front of the plane-even the flight attendant who still lingered and was listening off to one side-grew silent at the idea of a million people hurt, lost, or dying.

  It was staggering. Another disaster on an epic scale.

  "This is the captain speaking from the flight deck. If I could have everyone's attention, please," said a voice over the speakers above their seats. "An unexpected turn of events has forced us to divert to Israel, where we've just received word over the wire that there has been an earthquake."

  Mumbling spread throughout the plane as the captain continued. "The American known as `Guardian' is onboard the aircraft with us, and he has requested that the crew take him to Jerusalem in the hope that he may be able to help there somehow. I apologize for the inconvenience this will cause to your travel plans, ladies and gentlemen, but I think I speak for the entire crew in saying that the people of Jerusalem need him right now more than the rest of us need to be in London."

  Fifty miles outside of Jerusalem

  As the plane began its descent four hours later, Grant returned to the cockpit to get a look at what lay ahead. Alex followed. They'd changed out of their "disguises" and into clothing more appropriate for rescue operations: sturdy jeans, T-shirts, boots, and the like. Against Grant's protests, Alex insisted on going without footwear as usual.

  They were still too far out to land and the sun was beginning to go down, yet the destruction was already visible. White smoke rose high into the sky-higher than the plane flew.

  One of the oldest cities in the world, Jerusalem rested on a hill, with valleys on all sides, for thousands of years. Now the entire plain on which the city was situated had collapsed to a level below the valleys that surrounded it. Nothing had been spared: the old city, where Solomon's Temple once stood, as well as modern-day Jerusalem, where business and government hubs resided. All of it was simply gone. Fallen into a crater in the earth bigger than the city itself.

  The pilot and co-pilot sat awed by the sight. No one spoke.

  The newly formed basin had to be over one hundred square miles, Grant thought, staggered by the sprawl of it. And it was churning up smoke in slow billows, drifting up into the air to become a narrower column of smoldering white that divided the sky.

  Miniature flashing lights danced across the rim of the crater; emergency workers were already on the scene.

  Grant couldn't have imagined the size of the destruction; like trying to conceive of the vastness of the universe, it was simply beyond anything he was capable of picturing in his mind's eye.

  What can I possibly hope to do to help in a situation on this kind of scale?

  Alex had a hand over her mouth as she took in the view beside him.

  "What about the airport?"

  "Looks like it's still standing," the co-pilot replied, pointing into the distance before them. "The runway, at least."

  Grant couldn't see anything. "Where?"

  "Ten miles due north," the pilot replied, not turning around. "I wouldn't expect a friendly reception if I were you," he added.

  "Why not?" Alex asked.

  "Jerusalem International was handed over to the IDF several years back; it's effectively a military base now, and not open to commercial flights. But it's by far the closest runway to the city. Our landing may be seen as an act of aggression, assuming anyone is still alive down there to see it."

  "IDF?" Alex whispered sideways.

  "Israeli Defense Forces," Grant whispered back. "Captain, as soon as my people and I are on the ground, I want you out of here. You should probably resume course for England."

  "No can do," the pilot replied. "Getting here expended more fuel than we were meant to use; we'll need refueling before we can make it that far."

  "Then get in the air and hop over to a nearby airport-I don't know, Tel Aviv or Cairo or wherever-someplace where you can refuel. Do what you have to, but get these people out of the area immediately. And from the density of that smoke, I'd say we need to do this fast so you can get back in the air before nightfall."

  The pilot nodded. "There are no working Jetways or catwalks at JIA; we'll have to dump you right on the tarmac with an inflatable slide."

  Grant and Alex watched the devastating remains of Jerusalem draw nearer for a few minutes until the pilot spoke up again. "You're going to need to buckle up for landing."

  "Of course," Grant replied, still studying the devastation on the ground laid out before them.

  "If it's all right with you, sir," the pilot said, "I'd like to make an announcement over the speakers letting everyone know what we're about to do. We should ask if there are any medical or emergency practitioners on board who would be willing to stay behind with you and lend a hand. I'm sure those folks down there on the ground can use all the help they can get."

  Grant placed a grateful hand on the pilot's shoulder. "Good man."

  "Not really, sir," he said, turning to face Grant. "My sister and her family live in Los Angeles; she talks a lot about you and your friends. You are a good man. I'm just a pilot."

  The expected military reception never happened. The plane descended through the murky white haze to a wobbly landing on the broken asphalt at Jerusalem International Airport without incident. The entire country must've been focused on rescuing the demolished city.

  Not counting Grant and his team, over thirty passengers volunteered to leave the plane with him and help the emergency efforts. Less than half of them possessed any medical or rescue qualifications, but one look out the side windows at the hellish conditions on the ground was all it took to convince them, even though the entire plane had been glued to the news coverage all afternoon. More than one hundred remained on board and would continue with the plane to Great Britain.

  As the jet lurched to a stop, Grant looked up to see Daniel using his cane to limp toward him.

  "I've been thinking," Daniel said quietly so no one else could hear. But Julie, who had returned to her seat at Grant's side, was listening in as well. "Maybe your sister, Lisa, and I should continue on to London."

  "Why would we do that?" Julie asked, surprised.

  "We have no special abilities. I don't see us being a big help out there, and I assume that once this crisis is dealt with, we'll be resuming our original mission. Perhaps the three of us could go ahead of you, scout things out, secure a place to stay ..."

  "All I need is a shovel," Julie said with an air of finality. She slung her own bag over her shoulder, just as Grant had, and swept past them toward the exit.

  Grant regarded Daniel sternly. "We're a team, Doc. You're either on the team, or you're not. Your call."

  Lisa walked past them both just then, carrying her own bag toward the inflatable yellow slide that led to the ground. She was focused on getting out of the plane and did not pause for either of them.

  "Whatever you d
ecide, it's all or nothing." Grant ended the conversation. He followed the others out and hopped onto the slide.

  Daniel stood in place for a moment as the civilians who chose to help filed past him and down the slide as well. The plane was already powering back up as the last of the civilians followed and jumped out of the plane.

  Daniel let out a very audible sigh and hobbled toward the exit.

  Jerusalem International Airport sat utterly deserted.

  Working together, the group quickly located an antiquated passenger bus inside a collapsed hangar near where the plane dropped them off. Grant had to remove what was left of the hangar before they could reach the bus.

  There was only one problem: the bus refused to start. Whether it was out of gas or simply too old to run anymore, they couldn't tell from the damaged instrumentation.

  "I could probably hot-wire it," Daniel offered.

  "No need," Grant said, and then he called out, "Everyone find a seat and brace yourselves."

  Grant placed himself in the driver's seat and found that the steering wheel was the one part of the console that still functioned. He looked at the broken gear shift, willed it into neutral, and started the wheels beneath the bus turning with nothing but his mind.

  Recalling the mass of rescue vehicles he'd seen from the air on the lip of the newly formed crater, he steered the bus in that direction, applying his own brand of gas and brakes as needed to get them there as fast as possible. The bus rumbled over the jagged terrain, resisting the beating it was taking, winding through brush and desert. But Grant refused to slow down.

  Night had fallen by the time the bus pulled to a stop in the overpowering, swirling dust clouds that marked the edge of the fallen city, which now sat invisible, cloaked in thick dirt and smoke that tasted of death and sulfur.

  A large crowd of several hundred local relief and emergency workers had gathered here, at the edge of the city. Rescue vehicles were parked haphazardly, blocking one another's paths. Grant had just stepped off of the bus when he heard a voice shout over a bullhorn.