Her stomach fluttered, but her nerves held steady. This man was her guard. Tall, red hair, solidly built, it was nearly impossible to ignore him. First had come Sam’s warning and then Ryland Miller, no doubt, had told them all to watch her carefully. She knew the drill. There would be politeness, warm smiles, cold watchful eyes, and guards watching her every move. Every one of these men was a GhostWalker and they recognized one another. She had known, when she’d made the decision to enter their camp, that she’d be at risk, but the end result—to improve her chances of finding Whitney’s location—was well worth it. Her brief trip into fantasy—pretending she could actually have Sam—was gone and her very familiar reality was back.
Lily Miller rushed to Sam’s side, nodded at her with a polite murmur, but her entire focus was on Sam. Thorn kept a hand close to her dagger. If Sam Johnson died from Lily’s attentions, Lily would follow right after him and damn the consequences. Thorn played out each step in her mind. She would kill Lily swiftly, use teleportation to get into the clearing she and Sam had first jumped to, and then disappear. The GhostWalker team would have home field advantage, but she had confidence, not only in herself but in Daiki and Eiji. They might not be enhanced or have psychic abilities, but they had unbelievable skills, and they would never panic.
Thorn kept her eyes on Lily while the redheaded guard kept his eyes on her. Lily assessed Sam’s condition quickly. She handed Thorn a bag of fluids with the briefest of nods.
“Come on, Sam,” Lily murmured softly. “Hang in there for me. Give me two more minutes. Just two. That’s all I need.” Even as she whispered cajolingly, she inserted a needle into his arm, frowning in concentration as she tried for a vein that seemed elusive.
The big soldier kneeling on the other side of the cot steadied Sam’s arm for Lily, his face a mask of concern. He was all muscle, and yet the look on his face revealed hints of genuine affection and love—the sort of emotion a man like him would show only when fear ate at the edges of his mind. He sent her a quick reassuring smile in spite of the fact that he was anxious.
“Tucker Addison, ma’am. Sorry about the circumstances.” He was deeply afraid for Sam—they all were. That frightened Thorn even more. She should have known something was wrong much earlier.
She inclined her head. “Azami Yoshiie.” Sam had used far too much energy teleporting, again and again. She knew from experience how difficult it was on the body, yet he’d done so wounded and unflinching. Was it possible using teleportation had aggravated the wound in his body?
Lily was much easier to read than the man. She was so apprehensive over Sam’s condition, she had no time for anything or anyone else—not even a potential enemy or an honored guest. Sam was her only concern. Thorn felt the tight coiling in her body ease just a little. There was no way to fake the kind of anxiety Lily was displaying.
Lily found the vein in Sam’s arm. With a rapid efficiency Thorn couldn’t help but admire, she hooked up an IV and then a second one. Blood and fluids pumped into Sam nearly before Thorn could take a second breath.
“Is he going to make it, Doc?”
Thorn narrowed her gaze to center on the speaker, the man standing at Sam’s head.
Lily frowned. “Of course, Kyle. I refuse to allow any other option. It’s safe to move him to the tent now.”
She glanced at Thorn, as if really seeing her for the first time. Thorn realized that, until now, Lily had viewed her as little more than an inanimate object on which to drape supplies while she saw to her patient.
“Ms. Yoshiie.” Lily inclined her head in a slight nod of respect. “I’m sorry we’re meeting under such extreme circumstances. We have to move Sam into the tent. Would you mind carrying these?” She held out the bags of fluids. “I need to keep my hands free.”
Thorn shook her head and immediately stepped up to take the bags from Lily. Another man hurried to help Tucker lift Sam into the litter. They moved fast toward the tent, Lily running along beside them. Thorn’s sense of urgency revived with a vengeance. Lily had declared Sam safe to move, but if they were running, he wasn’t out of the woods yet.
Thorn’s mouth went dry and her heart began to pound. The scars on her chest throbbed and burned. Blood thundered in her ears. She moistened her lips. “Are you going to operate right here?”
In a tent? Outdoors? Without anesthesia? For one horrible moment she was six years old again and out of her mind with pain and fear. She ran along beside the litter, her gaze refusing to focus on the ground or anything else around her. She could hear a child screaming so loud she couldn’t focus, the sound high and animalistic. Reality retreated until she could only hear that softly pitched, modulated voice with its perfect elocution that sent chills through her at night and kept her afraid to close her eyes.
Think of the contribution you’re making to science, Thorn. Whitney spoke as if she should be grateful that he was operating on her without anesthesia, and because she was a child and one with a rather low IQ, he thought, he felt he needed to speak very distinctly and slowly for her to understand. When we’re finished here, I will be so much closer to knowing how much pain a GhostWalker can sustain without succumbing to death. You should be grateful you can help so many others.
Whitney stood above her, poised, unflappable, his expression perfectly reasonable and interested as he stood over her writhing body with a scalpel.
Please. The child’s pleading voice. Sweat beading on her forehead, dotting her body, the terrible fear permeating the room. You did this already.
Of course, Thorn. That same soft, reasonable voice. We have to repeat the experiment again and again to make certain of our facts. I’ve explained that to you. You’re old enough to understand what’s expected of you. Lie still and this time, I want you to concentrate on not allowing your heart to stop. You can do that, can’t you?
Thorn pressed her hand over her wildly pounding heart. She felt bruised, her chest so sore she couldn’t breathe, the aftermath of Whitney bringing her back to life again and again. Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night to the sound of her heart flatlining and the echo of the burst of shock pulsing through her body.
Her hand slipped to her dagger and she increased her stride to catch up with Lily, moving in behind her, close enough to kill her and slide away right under the watchful eyes of her guard—and he was watching her. Deliberately she brushed back strands of her hair, allowing concern to show on her face as she looked down at Sam. Her moment would come when she entered the tent. Her guard would be outside. She would have to slip the blade deep, twist, and teleport through the narrow opening back to the clearing she’d used before.
Thorn risked a glance into the tent. It was much larger than she’d first thought. They all stopped abruptly in the first section. Behind a net, she could see two men hastily setting up covered, sterile trays of instruments. Her stomach lurched. She couldn’t catch her breath, her lungs raw and burning for air, her vision clouding until … Eyes stared down at that small child, masks covering the lower half of their face. Him. Whitney. So perfectly calm, shaking his head at how unreasonable and stubborn she was.
Take a deep breath, Thorn. Just like the pool. It isn’t any different. You need to beat your last time. You can do so much better if you just try. That unshakable, reasonable voice, so completely unflappable, the eyes always so bright with dispassionate interest. Very slowly they lowered the transparent plastic wrap that would deprive her of all air. Her heart thundered through the cold, sterile room. She could feel her heart pounding so hard, her chest hurt from the inside out, bruised and battered. Her head had been shaved because Whitney felt it would get in the way of his experiment and he needed to stick electrodes on her scalp.
She was so close to Lily she felt the very rhythm of her breathing as they entered the first small area not netted off as an operating room. This section was all for preparation. She swallowed hard and forced sound to come out of her suddenly blocked throat. “You have anesthesia here?”
�
�I’m not taking chances on losing him. We’ll operate right here. If he has a nicked artery, he’s in trouble. We’ve got everything we need in the tent.” Lily sounded distracted again. “Of course we have anesthesia.”
Both men inside the netting wore scrubs and even their shoes were covered. Tucker and his companion passed the litter through the net to the other two men. Lily took the bags of fluid from Thorn and placed them on the litter at Sam’s side. Immediately he was whisked away—taken to the sterile operating table inside the larger section of the tent. Thorn allowed her fingers to slip away from her dagger, fearing, with memories so close, she might make a mistake.
Lily scrubbed her hands and arms with some kind of solution out of a bottle and held out her arms, and Tucker disinfected his own hands before helping Lily into surgical gloves and a full set of scrubs.
It was obvious the surgical field setup had been practiced often. Tucker, Lily, and the others were too efficient and fast for this to have been a one-time thing: the tent going up, everything in sterile packs ready to use, even the smooth way Tucker had gotten Lily into her scrubs. He covered her hair with a netted cap.
The ground shifted beneath Thorn’s feet, the memories pouring out so fast she couldn’t stop them. Whitney approaching the table and that small child knew—knew—what was coming next. You’re seven now. Not a baby, so stop acting like one. I’m tiring of your endless tantrums. Saber stopped your heart multiple times and you were just fine. This is the same thing.
It isn’t. It isn’t. This hurts. Electric shock. The terrible pain flashing through her body, making her teeth clamp down so that sometimes she bit herself. She tried to tell him, but nothing fazed Whitney. He never lost control. And he never stopped.
Science matters, Thorn. It is necessary to make certain every experiment is reliable.
Thorn could hear the child screaming, her mind nearly gone, her body and heart so weak now, she knew there would come that day when he couldn’t revive her—and she wanted it to come soon. This had to stop. She’d overheard him tell one of his assistants that her heart was weakening fast and the damage would be too great to continue and soon she’d be of no use to them.
“Ms. Yoshiie?” Tucker indicated outside the tent. “Please accompany me.”
Thorn found she didn’t want to leave Sam, which made no sense. His life was in Lily’s hands, and Thorn’s presence would have no impact on whether he lived or died. Yet, still, she didn’t want to leave. Her reluctance bothered her because it was so deep, almost elemental. She pressed her lips together, grateful for her father’s teachings. Her face was composed, even serene. Her hands weren’t even shaking, although deep inside, her mind was crumbling into pieces and her body felt shattered. Her childhood was far too close. She shook her head, uncaring what he thought. She wasn’t leaving, not yet. Her legs were rubber anyway, so she wasn’t at all positive she could leave.
Father. The child called to the one man who had steadied her, thought her worthy enough to save. Help me. I’m lost again. Help me. But he was no longer alive to hear her call even if she yelled at the top of her lungs. She was alone and left with no protection in place.
Her eight-year-old heart still echoed in her ears, that shuddering thud that had lost its rhythm as she lay in the box, her nails digging into the lid, breaking off in an effort to get out. Had she been buried alive? No, she could hear voices. She was so cold—ice cold—for so long and finding it nearly impossible to breathe. She was suffocating in that tiny box, curled up on her side, desperate to know if she would ever get out.
Darkness. A car ride through a strange city with strangers. The car had slowed, her door opened, and she’d been shoved out, hitting the ground so hard she was certain every bone was smashed. She was afraid to lift her head, to look around. The scent of garbage and urine was strong. Small red eyes glowed at her from the darkness. She had never been out of the compound where Whitney conducted his experiments, and this place was almost more frightening.
She heard heavy footsteps, smelled a sweet, overpowering odor, increasing her terror. She closed her eyes tightly. Someone toed her with a boot. Hard hands moved over her body, and the man said something in a language she didn’t understand. A man laughed. She smelled the other—the man she would come to know as her father. The man who saved her. She would always recognize that wonderful scent.
He arrived with no sound, like an avenging angel, complete with sword and fierce eyes, so alive, so warm, and he made her feel safe and warm and worth something. And now he was gone. Father. I’m lost in this nightmare. I can’t close the door. Where are you?
The danger in this mission had always been those nightmare memories that often were more vivid than reality. Daiki had warned her that her memories would surface and try to consume her, but she hadn’t considered that they would be so strong that mere memories could affect her physically. She wanted to wrap her arms around her middle and hold herself very still until the earthquake passed.
Azami?
Thorn stepped back, looking wildly around. Her name had sounded soft, and slurred, but very distinct in her mind. Her father? Back from the dead? She tried to fit the sound with her father’s distinct voice. The accent was off. No matter how hard she tried to make her name sound as if her father reached out to comfort her—she couldn’t make the accent right.
The soldier named Tucker stood a few feet from her, watching her closely, the curiosity in his eyes telling her she was not keeping her countenance as serene as she should. Just to her right lounged the silent redheaded soldier she was certain had been appointed to guard her. She was about to lose reality right in front of these people. She would disgrace herself—live in shame for all time. Her father had taught her to overcome such things. Her mind and body could be divided if need be. She would dishonor her father if she couldn’t pull herself back together.
“Ms. Yoshiie?” Tucker stepped closer.
The scent of blood was overpowering. It was so difficult to breathe, but she made herself stay still. “Please call me Azami.” Thank God her voice didn’t shake as her insides were. She could feel sweat trickling down the valley between her breasts. “My brothers and I have adopted a more Western approach than some of our fellow countrymen. It doesn’t offend me to have you use my given name.”
“I’m Tucker then, ma’am,” the large man replied.
Like Sam, he was dark-skinned and brown-eyed. He looked like the kind of man you wanted at your back in a fight. He flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Although he didn’t appear to be watchful or suspicious, she knew that he was every bit as alert as the soldier in the background. Every bit as alert and on guard as she was.
Thorn needed a few minutes of solitude to push back the memories of a child’s terror. She glanced into the tent and knew the moment she’d done so that it was a mistake. Bright lights shone down on Sam. She could smell blood. She could see a bloody scalpel in Lily’s blood-covered glove. The lights blinded her eyes until all she saw was that terrible sharp blade coming toward her chest, slicing through her skin, muscle, and tissue, digging for her heart.
She was cold. So cold. Ice had invaded her veins. Everywhere she looked the lights stung her eyes and exaggerated the monstrous features of the masked figures bending over her. The doctor, with his reptilian-cold eyes, reached for a shiny metal instrument with two handles connected by a bar in the middle.
It is nothing to fear, Thorn. Simply an instrument to spread your bones to get to your weakened heart. Surely you want me to fix it for you.
He moved the paddles closer together and leaned over her. She bit back a scream, sweat pouring from her body, her heart hammering so loud it echoed through that cold, sterile room.
Azami. The voice was more slurred than ever. Male. Brushing over the memories of a terrifled child. Soothing. Warmth pouring through all that terrible ice-cold.
Thorn stiffened, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth. Father? Oh, God, she was truly losing her mind. S
he couldn’t pull back and there was nowhere to run and hide, to be alone in order to gather herself and push those memories back behind that steel door she kept closed in her mind.
“What’s wrong with you, Kyle?” Lily’s voice snapped out. Imperious. Demanding. “Keep him under. Do you think I can do this when he’s awake? We’re going to lose him to shock if he doesn’t die from blood loss.”
“He’s fighting it,” a man answered. “I swear, I’m afraid to give him more. He might not come back. He won’t go under. I’ve never had a patient react like this before.”
Through the netting, Thorn saw Lily bend over Sam. “Don’t fight it, Sam. Go to sleep and let me take care of you. Don’t fight me.”
Azami.
There it was again. Her name. But it was Sam, not her father calling to her. It was Sam, still connected to her mind, reading her memories of childhood. That child who had been used for experiment after evil, bloody, torturous experiment. Her body sliced open—usually without anesthesia so the doctor could gauge her ability to withstand pain. So many experiments from depriving her oxygen, forcing her underwater into a cold pool to see how long she could hold out and if they could bring her back. The enhancements that Whitney believed were complete failures. Her DNA tampered with. Forcing the other girls to use their gifts on her to perfect their abilities.
I will not have you destroying my record, Thorn. You are such a disappointment to me and I’ve given you every opportunity—far more than anyone else.
She knew even if she clapped her hands over her ears, she would never stop that voice from telling her that her brain was useless to him, but at least he could dissect her body and examine her so he could avoid inadvertently creating other useless subjects like her again. If she would only behave and cooperate, he could test new medicines and procedures before trying them on his more valuable subjects.
He had operated without anesthesia many times to judge the body’s ability to withstand pain before it gave out. He’d stopped and restarted her heart just as many times. Her heart had grown so weak Dr. Whitney had believed she would die anyway, so he’d finally thrown her away—into the alley of one of the worst streets where human trafficking and sex traders plied their slaves.
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