by A and E Kirk
Ted glanced around, his gaze lingering on Buttefield before returning to me. “Seems like a whole lot of collateral damage could get in the way. So what do you say?”
I really hated covering for the guys who tried to shoot me full of lead, but best to live another day and deal with them later.
“Sure,” I said with a glare.
“That’s awesome,” Ted said. “And me being such a sensitive guy, I’ll leave you to take care of your business in peace, and we’ll come back later for ours. Nurse, thank you for your time. We’ll return when you’re not so busy. Bill, shall we?”
“Right behind you, Ted.” Bill shot me a parting snide glance, then the two of them left.
I breathed a sigh of relief, but didn’t know how long the reprieve would last. I looked at my big watch. Time was running out. I remembered Eros’s instructions about the metal pin on my belt.
I flashed it at the nurse. “If we could move this along. Please.”
She pursed her lips. “I’m trying. You’re early. And Dr. Renard hasn’t had time to administer the rest of Heather’s medication.”
“I can do that,” Buttefield told her.
“Renard?” I said. “I thought her doctor was Jones.”
The nurse gave me suspicious look. “Didn’t they tell you? They think Jones is part of this whole underground demon invasion. We can’t find anyone who ever saw her. All of her personnel records are missing. Dr. Renard, Novo’s Director, has personally taken over all of Jones’ cases until we know more.” She studied the paperwork, a warm smile touching her lips. “But Dr. Oser I know well. If he signed off on this, I’m sure it’s fine.”
The nurse led us down the hall and unlocked a door with a small window at eye level. Heather sat on a cot dressed in a Novo sweatsuit. She turned at our entrance, her movements sluggish. She was conscious but drugged.
Her eyes squinted. “Can I go home now?”
I rushed to her side, got a shoulder under her arm, luckily she was small. Buttefield injected her with something, then I led a groggy Heather out.
She blinked at me and slurred, “Aurroorfrara?”
“Hush,” I whispered. “I’ll take you home if you stay quiet.”
Heather smiled weakly and put her index finger to her lips.
We struggled down the hallway, until Heather stopped and banged on a door. “Sh-Jane! She’s here. I wasn’t l-lying.”
“Heather, stop.” I looked around nervously.
Something thumped against the door, and there was a face pressed against the window. A girl around my age with wild eyes and dark hair askew. She stared at Heather, then me. Her eyes got even wilder. The door flew open. Inside the walls were plastered with drawings of the umbra stone. The girl grabbed the chain around my neck and yanked out the necklace.
“It’s true!” she cried. Her manic eyes bore into me. “They’re coming. They’ll destroy us. But you can stop them. With this.” She shook the necklace in her hands.
Buttefield pushed the girl back in. “Jane, that’s enough. Since when are you talking? Who left this door open?”
“No one will listen. Please! Save us!” Jane’s arm reached past Buttefield, toward me, her expression desperate. “Save us all.”
While I shoved the necklace into my bra, Dr. Buttefield got the girl back in, and the door closed and locked. “Nurse! We need some meds in here.” Then Buttefield put her shoulder under Heather’s other arm to help me get her moving.
I was going to tell Buttefield to stop, not wanting to involve her further, but noticed two new guys in black canvas jumpsuits at the nurse’s station, a nurse pointing them toward us. I whirled our group around in the other direction. We turned a corner. I snatched an empty wheelchair and plopped Heather into it.
“Help me get her to the Northeast gate without anyone seeing us,” I said.
“Why?” Buttefield asked. At my glare, she nodded. “Right. No questions.”
The doctor knew her way around. We kept to empty corridors, traveling fast, but taking too long. After endless twists and turns, the knives jangling at my back poking painfully, we were in some deserted section and headed for the door to the outside. And freedom.
Until one of the guys in a black jumpsuit stepped through the door. I skidded to a stop, pulled a wheelie with the chair, almost dumping Heather sideways, and ended up facing black jumpsuit’s partner.
With nowhere left to run.
CHAPTER 61
The shorter guy walked up and glanced at Heather. “Who are you? Why are you taking our asset?”
I was toast. Unless I tap danced. Fast.
I was supposed to be Sicarius. And not just any Sicarius. Part of the Psycho Squad. Better start acting like it. I had nothing, and everything, to lose.
“Orders changed,” I said, layering my voice with contempt. “Perhaps you were not told because you are not important enough.”
Jumpsuit’s expression turned cold. “Who. Are. You?”
“I am the one whose work here is classified,” I said, my voice low and menacing. “I am the one sent by Madame Cacciatori herself, because the infiltration of a secure Mandatum facility by haptogian mols is a dire circumstance. One which suggests a traitor in our midst.” I looked him up and down. “And I am the one who, if you do not release me to do my job, will report that you are part of the problem. Maybe even working with the traitor. And I will do that after I kick your ass.”
Jumpsuit turned five shades of ticked-off purple and hissed, “How dare you!”
Dr. Buttefield stepped forward. “It’s all right. You can see who she is.” She pointed at my pin. “I’m sure her orders supersede yours.”
Without taking his eyes off me, Jumpsuit swung a vicious backhand across Buttefield’s face, sending her spinning with a heavy thud against the wall. Then Jumpsuit whipped out a gun and pointed it at the doctor.
“No!” I shouted as shock jolted through me.
Then, when the doctor didn’t get up, fury burned, building in my chest. A flash of cold stung my skin where the necklace lay underneath my shirt.
“You idiot!” I spat and went to check on Buttefield, but someone grabbed me from behind.
I threw an elbow, heard the crunch of bone, a yelp, and the hand released me. I turned swinging a punch to the face. My fist connected. I spun around and kicked the side of his knee, and as he started to go down, my braid swirled by. The knives at the end sliced open the guy’s cheek. I was pretty darn impressed with myself.
Until the braid kept going, wrapped around me, and sliced my own arm.
The length of hair started to whip back around the other way. I fumbled, but caught it before it did me more damage, then gave it a saucy twirl in the air as I smiled at the guy moaning at me feet.
Yeah, dude. Don’t mess with Sicar—
Buttefield made a noise, which I realized, a second too late, was a warning. Something slammed into the back of my head. Things went black before I hit the floor.
CHAPTER 62
The cold on my cheek felt wonderful. Hard, but wonderful, because as consciousness returned, the rest of my face felt hot. So did my head. Especially where it throbbed at a particular spot in the back.
I blinked. Realized where I was. Jerked up. I cringed as intense pain sucked the breath from my lungs. I tried to move my hands to my head, but they were both pinned, held tight under individual metal shackles built into the table. I was in a small rectangular room with bare walls, bare tile floor, and florescent lighting. The table I was latched to was in the center. There were three chairs, the one I was sitting in, and two on the other side of the table.
An interrogation room.
“No!” I shook my arms, but the metal did nothing more than bite into my wrists. A wave of nausea hit me. I swallowed to keep my breakfast down, bile stinging my throat.
“We’re done with the games.”
I startled at the voice behind me and turned as much as I could. It was Jumpsuit.
“You will pay for th
is,” I sneered, trying to keep my tough persona, but inside, I was a jellified mess.
He turned a cruel, ugly smile. “I doubt that.” He gestured at the metal brooch Eros had pinned on my belt. “Despite the medallion you wear, I know you aren’t who you claim to be. I have met Nitara.” I flinched when he ran a finger down my cheek and painfully yanked on one of the many curls that had pulled from my braid. “You are not her.”
This wasn’t good.
“I never claimed to be her,” I said. “Just that I was more important than you.”
His eyes widened a split second before he slapped me.
A hard backhand. I literally saw stars. Or at least a bright flash of light at the impact. My face stung like a thousand red-hot needles jammed into my skin.
His voice rose, rough and hoarse with fury. “You will answer my questions, then I’ll decide what to do with you. What authorities need to be notified. How to proceed.”
I blinked, trying to gather my thoughts. Difficult between the utter shock of being hit and the throbbing pain, but something got through. He hadn’t told anyone anything yet. Which meant maybe my little speech had rattled him enough to second guess himself. He sat in the chair opposite me and started asking questions.
Who are you? What are you doing here? Who sent you? Why do you want the patient? He droned on and on.
I tuned him out, not saying a word, and instead tried to figure a way out. I worked my jaw back and forth, which stung like crazy, but at least it wasn’t broken. My watch said I’d only been unconscious for a few minutes. If I could get my blasty power up and running, melt the metal shackles, blow myself and Heather out of here, then…then…
I’d worry about then…then.
I closed my eyes, concentrated, mentally ditched all of the outside distractions.
Bang! His fist slammed into the center of the table with a resounding noise that echoed around the room. I jumped as my eyes shot open.
“Answer me!” he shouted. His face was red and dripping with sweat.
I noticed that he’d actually dented the metal in the table. Then I saw my necklace in his hand, and a sudden cold emptiness washed over me.
“Give it back,” I demanded.
His smile turned vile. “This?” He dangled the umbra stone from his fingers. “How about we make a deal.”
Something cold touched my throat. A knife. More specifically one of Nitara’s knives that was apparently no longer hanging off my braid. He ran the tip across my skin. I held my breath, tried to remain still, but the pressure got harder as he moved it under my jaw. Warm liquid trickled down my throat.
Blood.
“If you answer my questions, I will return this.” He jiggled the necklace, his eyes glittering with hate. “And if you don’t, I will return this.” His hand holding the knife flew up then came down fast. I tried to jerk away, but the shackles held my wrists, and as I watched, the blade sliced through my hand.
I stared at it, horrified, disbelief battling what I’d just witnessed with my eyes. It hurt my brain.
The knife was stuck in my body. The hilt stood straight out of my hand because the tip was buried into the metal table beneath my palm. I felt only pressure for a moment then…
I gagged.
There was blood, yes, trickling out over my hand, puddling underneath, but with it, the pain arrived. Nothing compared to the slap, this was an open crater of agony, washing up my arm, crashing over my entire body with relentless torment. Taking over.
I screamed. Loud.
I tried to pull my hand away, but it was gruesomely stuck, and it just made the pain worse, and while I knew it was the wrong thing to do, knew I was tearing precious, important things in my hand, I couldn’t stop myself from trying to wrench it free.
My body shook, teeth chattering. Some keening sound built deep in my gut, crawled up my throat. A feral animal trying to escape. Trying to deny what was happening.
Jumpsuit stepped back to study his handiwork. And my terror. I couldn’t see much through the blur of tears, but I heard him laughing. I wanted to hurl threats, but my mouth couldn’t form words. Only that horrible noise wrenching from my lips.
Until behind him, with a thundering BOOM the door exploded.
CHAPTER 63
Cristiano Cacciatori stood amid the flying dust and rubble of what little remained of the shattered door. He was dressed like me in his Sicarius gear of white tank top, khaki cargo pants, and heavy boots, looking like a walking hurricane, nature’s tumultuous tempest ready to flatten a civilization.
Staring at him now, seeing him without the runway model look, it suddenly hit me. This was his doing. His plan to capture and torture me. I never had a chance. My pathetic attempt at protecting myself? He said it wouldn’t last. And now he was here to finish the job.
One sweep of his eyes took in the scene. They landed on me. Then the knife sticking out of my hand. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
He went still as a tombstone. An empty second ticked by.
Good God! What was he waiting for? Do it already. I just wanted the pain to end, the violent, unrelenting pain.
Cristiano flicked a lethal glance at Jumpsuit on the floor, then flicked it back to me. His head dropped. Then only his eyes lifted, looking at me from under long, thick lashes, the pale green darkened with dangerous ferocity.
He came at me.
In one smooth motion, he pulled the knife from my hand, yanked Jumpsuit off the floor and slammed him up against the wall then…
Oh, God.
With a violent swing, Armani buried the knife deep into the man’s chest.
Jumpsuit cried out once, then slumped. Something darker than the black of the canvas spread over Jumpsuit’s…jumpsuit. Blood. A lot of it. Cristiano released him, and let him fall to the floor like trash.
Leaning over the table, the Sicarius assassin took my face in both his hands. No doubt about to snap my neck, and there was nothing I could do to stop him.
At least the pain would be gone.
I waited, but he just held my face. I realized his hands were shaking. I looked into his eyes and figured I must be truly in shock because the emotion I recognized gathering in those glittering eyes looked a lot like…
Fear.
That couldn’t be right. My brain must've been addled. This guy? Scared? Of what?
Besides, he didn’t get to be scared. I was scared. Terrified. I'm the one who’d had a freaking knife in my hand!
“I am here.” The gentleness in his voice belied the fury of literal bloodlust that still lingered in his eyes. “Are you all right?”
Seemed like a dumb question.
“Yes,” I nodded.
Which seemed like an even dumber answer.
But his touch began to infuse something warm and comforting into my skin and beneath, settling into the very depths of my bones. My tears began to still, as did the trembling in my body.
I swallowed down snot and calmed the blubbering enough to say, “Other than the hole in my hand.”
He gave me a bleak smile. “Of course.”
While my mind tried to run down some cohesive understanding of what was happening, his hands grazed softly down my arms, and when they reached past my elbows, he lifted my hands free. I looked down, even more confused. The metal shackles weren’t broken, but my wrists were no longer trapped inside them.
Looking at the blood leaking over my hand, the pain and fear washed anew. “He actually stabbed me!” I began to shake again.
“Hold on.” He pulled his tank top up over his head.
“Whoa.”
I mean, whoa. That was majorly distracting from my problems. Some clever Sicarius technique? Because just like that he was half-naked. And I was gawking. Over the rippling muscles, on a body sculpted into hard lines, his skin was tan and smooth. Except for the scars.
He had lots of scars.
A wide variety of damage littered across the perfection Mediterranean ancestors had blessed him with. The marks wer
e puckered, discolored, in different shapes, sizes, and textures. Scars made of straight lines, curved lines, both jagged and smooth, circles, patches of burns. Scars from battle. From weapons. From violence.
As I stared, he effortlessly ripped a strip off his shirt and wrapped it around my bleeding hand.
“That will suffice for now. And this.” He pulled out some small plastic tube, about an inch long and jammed it against my bicep.
I felt a prick and jumped. “Ow! What the heck?”
“For the pain,” he said.
Almost immediately, the throbbing in my hand lessened. I blinked, mildly lightheaded... but then...oh, nice, yeah, that was much better. Woo-hoo.
He stuffed the tube back in a pants pocket, and shoved the end of his now ragged shirt into his waistband, letting the rest hang down over his hip. I flinched when he pulled out another small vial from another pocket, but he only flipped up the lid and sprinkled some of the contents onto my blood that was smeared on the table.
“Come with me.” He took my uninjured hand in his, the grip strong, just shy of painful, and we stepped over Jumpsuit.
Well, I stepped over him. Armani stepped on the knife in his chest, shoving it even deeper. Blood oozed. Jumpsuit moaned.
“He’s not dead?” I said, surprised.
“Too much paperwork.”
Funny. I would’ve laughed, but he didn’t seem to be joking.
“Wait.” I reached down.
Cristiano jerked me back. “Do not go near him.”
“But I need my—”
“I will retrieve it.”
He snatched the umbra stone from Jumpsuit’s limp fingers and dropped it in one of the pockets of my cargo pants. As we stepped through the tattered remains of the doorway which Cristiano had crashed through like a raging bull, two women hurried toward us.
“You have my instructions?” Cristiano asked them, glancing back at Jumpsuit.
A bit wide-eyed, the women nodded.
“See it is done.” Still holding my good hand, he guided me forward.