by Anna Durand
Another shot boomed behind her. The door frame exploded into projectile slivers.
She crawled out the door on all fours.
Footsteps crashed behind her. She yanked the gun out of her purse, rolled onto her back, and aimed the gun at the doorway.
The man stomped into the opening, shotgun leveled at her head.
She pulled the trigger.
As the shot resounded in the air, the man jerked, seemed to freeze for a split second, and then tumbled backward to hit the floor with a concussion that shook the cracked glass in the window.
Had she killed him?
The thought triggered a swell of nausea, and she rolled onto her side, afraid she might vomit. The nausea passed in a few seconds, though, leaving her trembling and sheathed in a cold sweat.
She had to make sure he was … not a threat anymore.
Still gripping her gun, she pushed onto her knees and finally clambered to her feet. The man lay motionless just inside the threshold. On tiptoes, she approached the doorway.
His eyes were open. Blank. Sightless. Dead.
She'd killed a man. He was a drug dealer. How many lives had he taken, through murder or from the drugs he peddled? He had tried to kill her, after all. She did nothing more than defend her life.
Whirling around, she sprinted for the vehicle, a black Land Rover. She flung the door open and jumped inside, tossing her purse and the helmet onto the passenger seat. Maybe she wouldn't need the helmet after all. Plucking David's map out of her purse, she set it on seat beside the bag. She slammed the gear shift lever into reverse.
Easing her foot down on the accelerator, she turned the Rover around to head in the direction indicated on David's map. Soon, the dark outline of the old house vanished from sight in the rearview mirror.
This was a little too easy.
The thought niggled at her as the Rover bounced over the terrain. She had to ignore the concern, because getting to the facility as quickly as possible was the top priority. The drug dealer had undoubtedly triggered the perimeter sensors, drawing a horde of commandos who were swarming the old house at this moment. The Rover left tire tracks, which the commandos could follow.
Hell.
She would drive the Rover to within easy walking distance of the facility, and then abandon it to finish her journey on foot. It seemed the best, and fastest, plan.
Less risk, not zero risk.
She relaxed into the seat. The supple leather cradled her body. The vents bathed her feet in warm air that leeched the chill out of her flesh. The radio, its volume turned down, murmured classical music. Between the front seats, a cell phone sat in its cradle. The fuel gage registered three-quarters of a tank. Attached to the dashboard, a GPS unit showed the car's position as a mobile dot superimposed over a satellite image of the desert.
Stopping the car, she took a couple minutes to compare David's map to the GPS display. As she set off again, she felt more confident in her ability to find her way. The universe had granted her a measure of good luck, at last. Angering a drug dealer and being forced to shoot him hardly counted as good luck, but his leaving the Rover idling did. Thank heavens. She needed a break almost as much as she needed dinner.
The Rover bumped over a rut. Her buttocks lifted off the seat, but she held onto the steering wheel, keeping the vehicle on course.
The phone rang.
Her grip on the steering wheel loosened, and the Rover swerved toward a Joshua tree. She jerked the wheel to avoid the tree, stomped on the brake, and gasped as the car skidded to a stop.
The cell phone, cupped in its cradle, rang a second time.
She picked up the phone but did not answer the call. The phone's LCD screen said "caller unknown." While the phone rang a third and fourth time, she debated answering the call. No way in hell, she decided. It might be Carlos, and she had a feeling she did not want to chat with him.
The phone rang once more and stopped.
Grace stared at the LCD screen. Her heart was beating so fast she could barely catch her breath.
The phone made a bloop-bloop sound. "New text message," it announced on the screen.
Biting her lip, she tapped the screen to open the message. It contained three words: "I see you."
Could he really see her?
The Rover's engine died. She twisted the key in the ignition. Nothing. The door locks clunked into position. She yanked on the handle. Locked. She pressed the button that lowered the windows. Nothing. The phone rang. She reached for it, but then hesitated with her hand resting on the device. It rang two, three, four times.
She answered.
On the other end of the call, a man snarled. "You're mine."
"Excuse me?"
"I wasn't dead. Did you see any blood, lady?"
She flashed back to the man lying flat on his back, eyes open but sightless.
At least, she'd thought they were sightless. Dead. Had she seen blood? In the murky conditions, she couldn't say for sure. The voice on the phone sure sounded like the same drug dealer.
Through the phone connection, the man snarled, "Think you can steal my car and get off scot-free? Think again." He paused. "Tell Carlos I'm onto him."
"I don't know any Carlos." The desperation in her voice surprised her, though she couldn't imagine why. She was desperate. "You can have your car. Just let me go."
"Uh-uh, lady. I'm comin' to punish you good."
"How? I've got your car."
"You ain't gone far and I've got a GPS app on my backup phone that lets me track the car from anywhere." He sniggered. "You can't do nothing except wait for me, missy. You're trapped."
He hung up.
You're trapped. Like hell. She scrambled into the backseat headfirst, dragging her body after her as glanced around in search of anything that might help her escape the vehicle. When she saw nothing, she scaled the backseat too, landing in the rear cargo area. Empty garbage bags. A gasoline can. A small tool kit. A jack. And a short-handled shovel.
She grabbed the shovel and climbed back into the driver's seat. There, summoning all the anger and frustration she had bottled up inside her, she slammed the shovel's tip into the windshield.
Cracks webbed through the safety glass, transforming it into a gummy sheet. She swung the shovel harder. It punched a hole in the sheet, admitting a breeze that chilled the sweat beading on her skin. She struck the glass again, widening the hole. Using the shovel's blade, she folded the glass out of the way. The opening was just large enough for her to squeeze through it.
First, she tossed her purse and the helmet out the hole. Stuffing the map under her waistband, she crawled over the dashboard and shimmied out the hole headfirst. Once on the hood, she turned around to slide off it, with her boots hitting the ground first.
A series of booms echoed across the desert floor.
She looked back in the direction she'd come from, back toward the old house. Bluish-white lights twinkled there, low to the ground. Headlights. The commandos must've arrived. The booms must've been gunshots.
The drug dealer probably was dead this time. She didn't know how she felt about that. Some comfort came from knowing that at least she hadn't killed him.
In the beams of the headlights, she consulted the map. Choosing the direction she thought was right, she started away from the Rover at a brisk pace. She'd find the facility or she'd die from exposure — or a snakebite.
Either way, her journey ended tonight.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Grace tilted her head back to stare up at the structure in front of her. The green hues of the night vision display in the helmet revealed a bulbous shape seated atop tall metal scaffolding. It was a water tower, seventy or eighty feet high.
Turning, she surveyed the desert one more time. She hadn't seen any headlights for awhile, but that fact didn't make her feel any be
tter. The commandos had night vision helmets identical to the one she wore now. If they had opted for stealth, then she might never see them coming.
She detoured around the water tower. The landmark appeared on David's map, which told her to head straight for the humpbacked butte in the distance. She wouldn't reach the butte, according to the map, but its silhouette would guide her in the right direction. Thank heavens for David's remote viewing, because without it she'd have no chance of finding the facility. A few days ago, she would've dismissed the very concept of extrasensory abilities as bunk. Her life had changed so radically in such a short time that she marveled at the fact she held onto her sanity. Of course, her life hadn't really changed. The amnesia had tricked her into believing she was a normal, boring girl.
Now she knew better.
The ground sloped upward at an ever-steepening angle. Her thighs ached as she mounted the rise, halting at the crest. Ahead of her, the ground sloped downward in a gentle grade. She stood on the rim of a bowl-shaped depression that, when viewed from the lower terrain surrounding it, looked like yet another flat expanse of desert. Only from this vantage point could she see what the depression contained. There, perhaps a quarter-mile away, sat a dark shape that she recognized as a low, sprawling complex of interconnected buildings.
The facility.
She stifled a triumphant cry. At last, she had reached her destination.
The night vision display flickered. The words "low battery" flashed on the screen.
Terrific. Well, at this point, she probably didn't need the high-tech guidance anyway. If she walked straight down the slope, and straight across the depression, she would run into the facility.
Switching off the night vision, she removed the helmet. With it tucked under her arm, she lifted her foot to step off the summit.
"Hold it right there."
Her heart thudded at the sound of the male voice issuing from behind her. She lowered her hand to her unzipped purse, slipping her fingers inside to grasp the gun.
Something hard and cold rammed into her back, right between her shoulder blades.
"Don't," the man said in a stern voice, "or I'll blow a hole straight through you."
She froze.
"That's right," he said. "Now raise your hands and turn around, slow and easy."
She complied.
A helmet covered the man's head and face. Nothing on his black outfit identified him or his employers. The man towered at least eight inches above her, his physique packed with enough muscles to give him a threatening aura even if he hadn't been pointing a weapon at her. In both hands he gripped a bulky gun with a huge clip that contained enough bullets to rip her into confetti.
He clicked a button on the two-way radio clipped to his jacket and said, "I got her."
A gruff voice came through the radio. "Hold her there. We're on our way."
The other commando hadn't asked where this guy was. They must have some kind of tracking system, like GPS, to keep tabs on each other in the field.
She glanced down at the helmet tucked under her arm. Did it contain some kind of tracking device that had led this commando to her? It might've taken them awhile to realize she had one of their helmets. Either way, it didn't really matter anymore. She was caught.
The commando jabbed his gun into her ribs, just below the sternum.
She winced and scuffled backward half a step. Her right heel tipped over the sharp crest of the hill. She teetered but held onto her balance.
The commando jabbed her in the ribs again, harder this time.
She grimaced, clenching her teeth.
"You better hold real still," the man said, "my trigger finger's starting to itch."
"Your boss wants me alive."
The man snorted. "Accidents happen."
Wonderful, she got caught by a maverick with an itch to shoot her. With his gun's muzzle embedded in her abdomen, there wasn't much she could do.
She had psychic abilities, for pete's sake. Those abilities could surely help right now, if only she could remember how to use them. Amnesia really sucked.
Wait a minute. She'd visited the facility in her dreams countless times, traveling there psychically to visit David. She'd used her powers to push David away. Those incidents told her that, somewhere deep inside, she still knew how to access those abilities. Her conscious mind blocked the memories and convinced her she was powerless.
David showed her the truth. He gave her the information she needed to regain what she had lost. It was up to her to make use of the information.
Now or never.
She kept her eyes open, but let her vision drift out of focus. With an effort, she relaxed every muscle and banished all thoughts from her mind. The whisper of the breeze, the rustling of the commando's uniform, even the beating of her own heart — it all faded into silence. The blurry world around her melted into blackness. She felt her consciousness rising, floating, pulled toward something she could feel but not see.
A point of light shimmered. Then another. And another.
She surfaced into a field of cool white stars. Hovering. Weightless. Free.
David. He called to her. Not in voice or thought, but in spirit.
Though she wanted to go to him, wanted it so badly her soul ached from the need, she couldn't give in to it. For the moment, other matters needed her attention more urgently.
Turning away from his call, she sank downward out of the field of stars, back into the real world.
Floating above the desert, she gazed down at her own body and the commando standing in front of her. She must do something. Anything.
She focused her mind, gathering energy from … somewhere.
The gun flew out of the commando's hands. It sailed through the air, hitting the ground thirty feet away.
The commando shouted. He floundered backward, as if he'd been kicked in the chest.
She'd intended to fling him backward with as much force as she'd used to discard the gun. Her control was faltering. She felt it. Doubts niggled at her, barely noticeable at first, but growing louder and sharper as panic iced through her.
The commando tripped. He flopped onto his butt, dazed.
Grace slammed back into her body with a force that rocked her off balance. She teetered backward. Her right foot slipped off the precipice. Though the drop wasn't steep, she lost her footing and tumbled to the ground. The momentum sent her rolling down the slope sideways.
Automatic gunfire chattered overhead.
She rolled down, down, down. Vegetation scraped at her. Rocks bruised her flesh. Nothing slowed her descent until the ground leveled out and she lost momentum. Hitting the ground face first, she came to a halt sprawled on her belly.
Everything hurt. Her head felt like someone was sitting on it. She flailed her hands to push the weight away from her head, but found nothing there. Searing pain erupted behind her eyes. The flavor of dirt and blood tainted her mouth. She pushed up onto hands and knees. Nothing seemed broken. Opening her eyes, she ran her hands over her body in search of wounds. Nothing serious. Scrapes and cuts and sore spots that would mature into bruises. A cut near her mouth accounted for the tang of blood on her tongue.
Sitting back on her heels, she swept her gaze up the hillside.
The commando stood silhouetted against the night sky.
She didn't move. Maybe he couldn't see her. Yeah right. He had night vision, and she had crappy psychic abilities that only half worked and left her drained and saddled with a burgeoning migraine.
At least she had made it to the crossroads, on purpose this time. And she'd used her telekinesis with moderate effectiveness. Not bad for her first conscious attempt.
The commando leaped off the crest of the hill. She lost sight of him on the shadowed slope.
Crap.
Scrambling to her feet, she took of
f in the direction of the facility.
The door clicked shut. David opened his eyes to find the room empty, though he'd already known it would be. He both heard and sensed the departure of the tech, a nervous young woman sent by Tesler, who was probably busy plotting the horrors he would inflict on Grace once they captured her.
The young tech's mind was shockingly pliable. No wonder they hired her. She would accept any story, comply with any orders, simply to avoid confrontation. Maybe she'd been abused as a child. Maybe she lacked character. The reason made no difference. She'd helped Tesler conflict untold pain and torment on their test subjects. In spite of her crimes, however, David felt a twinge of guilt over influencing her mind so that she believed he was still in a drug-induced coma. He hated manipulating people.
When Grace had told him how desperation had forced her to trick a man into selling her a car for twenty dollars, he'd understood her anguish over what she'd done. He felt the same guilt every time he was forced to bend a pliant mind to his will. He should've told her that. Instead, he told her the one thing he should not have said — at least not yet.
He'd told her he loved her.
It had been a mistake. He meant it, but she wasn't ready to hear it. Confused by her amnesia, frightened by the current situation, she'd shut down at the very mention of a certain four-letter word. He couldn't take it back now. He wouldn't take it back.
Pushing back the sheets, he sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He didn't need to get dressed, because even in a coma he still wore his jeans, T-shirt, and socks. Tesler and his lackeys didn't care about their subjects' comfort. David bent down to pluck his sneakers from the floor, where they'd been tucked under the bedside table. He shoved the sneakers on his feet, tying the laces as fast as his fingers would move.
Grace was coming.
He must help her. He must find her. Despite receiving a gift of energy from Grace, he didn't have enough of a reserve leftover to reach her psychically. Not directly. Not in a way she would understand. If she remembered how this all worked, he might attempt to guide her obliquely. In her current state, she simply wouldn't get it.