Unstoppable

by Long, Heather

  “You have a right to your anger…”

  “Thanks.” She spit out the word. “I certainly don’t need your permission on the subject.”

  “No,” he said, agreeing with her to her surprise. “You don’t need my permission, however, it is polite to acknowledge a counterargument and to show another’s point of view respect.”

  Respect? Blinking rapidly, Joss tried to process the absolute contradiction inhabiting the divide between his words and his actions. “You’re showing me respect by tying me up?”

  “You are thoughtful, skilled, and very well-trained. These attributes make you a dangerous adversary. You got the drop on me, and I am impressed because it is not so easy a feat to accomplish. The zip ties are my respect for the problem you present to me. I would rather not have to fight you, but I have no doubt you would do everything in your power to drop me, if you were free.”

  Well, fuck. He had her in a box there. “Thank you… I think.”

  The man inclined his head. “You’re welcome. Do you require another drink? The physician didn’t want to give you anything for the headache until we are certain of your concussed state.”

  “I’ll live.” She’d gotten worse riding her bike as a kid. “What do you want?”

  He didn’t respond immediately, the appraising look in his eyes sending a heated flush through her system. If she were ten years younger, she might have tossed her head in defiance, let him know his stare couldn’t get to her. But she wasn’t a kid or stupid enough to rely on false bravado. For better or worse, she was a prisoner of war. She needed to find out what he wanted, what was their endgame? How likely was she to survive the experience? Vigilance was her only weapon.

  She would wield it like a sword.

  “We have questions for you regarding the abduction of powered individuals.” Statement, not a question, so she remained silent. The man waited her out. When the quiet wore on impatience crept through her. Finally, she raised her eyebrows, and the man smiled—a slow, delicious, way-too-damn-sexy for a captor smile. “I know, I didn’t ask a question yet.”

  Surprise warred with irritation while vying with an unnatural attraction. Way too early for Stockholm to be more than a thought in my head.

  “There are any number of ways we can do this, Joss.” The way he wrapped his lips around her name felt like a caress. “I prefer the direct method. But there’s the indirect, too. So, do you want to answer my questions or sit there and stare at me all day?”

  It would help to know what his questions were. Then again, he’d mentioned powered people. If he referred to their bag and tag a few weeks earlier, she only knew they’d brought the subjects back to the facility. Whether they remained there or not was above her pay grade. She wasn’t supposed to know what went on behind closed doors. Maybe she should change the dynamic. “I don’t even know your name.” Anything to buy herself some time.

  Head canted to the side, her captor continued to study her. “My name is Drake. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

  “Well, glad you think so, Drake. Here is how this is going to go. You’re going to cut me loose and drop me back where you found me.”

  “Or what?” The quiet inquiry provoked her.

  “Or I’ll make sure hell rains down on your head.” Somehow.

  Somewhere.

  The threat didn’t even seem to faze him. “If you say so…though I know if I let you go, you’ll bring the fire and the rain. So I’m afraid releasing you would not benefit my cause, thus we are at an impasse.”

  Great. Mr. Manners had kidnapped her. “Fine,” she muttered. “Have it your way. Archer, Joss. Sergeant, U.S. Army, retired.” Fixing her gaze to a spot on the wall past his head, she gritted her teeth and began to count her breaths mentally. It didn’t matter what he said or what he asked. Name and rank was all he would get from her.

  Nothing else.

  Ever.

  So help her God.

  Chapter 4

  “Three days, and I think she’s breaking you rather than the other way around.” Garrett leaned against the counter and took a sip of his coffee. Once upon a time, the poisoner would have included a far more antagonistic remark with his observation. Today, he merely tacked on a shrug. “Considering a change in tactics yet?”

  “No,” Drake rubbed the back of his neck. He’d been awake going on seventy-eight hours. They had clocked their max—on their feet without true cognitive deficit at 131 hours with their max physical optimal at 184 hours and with deficits to all areas at 300 hours. After that point, they would all break and need at least a week down in recovery time. Instead of coffee, he drank a dense protein shake loaded with all the vitamins and minerals his body burned through in its effort to stay awake. “In twenty-four hours, if we haven’t made any improvement, I will reconsider the current plan.”

  “You should revise it today,” Simon contributed as he joined them in the oversized kitchen. The Rock Isle estate resembled a fortress more than a mansion, although the exteriors had been updated and given an aged look, or so Simon advised. Drake understood the camouflage aspect. A private estate on a private island needed to appear powerful and intimidating. The combination invited its share of would-be tourists who might fly over for a good look or dare the surf to arrive on boats.

  For the most part, the island’s natural defenses of sharp cliffs and unwelcoming rocky shores kept them from landing. The one perfect spot the island had for a marina was also tightly monitored. Thinking about their security did wonders for Drake’s exhausted and frayed nerves. Interrogating Joss Archer proved an exhilarating challenge.

  “You shouldn’t continue with your questioning today,” Ilsa interrupted without preamble as she entered the kitchen. No matter their location, Garrett’s doctor lady always managed to appear cool, competent, and composed. It helped that she was in charge of their handful of patients, four individuals who suffered at the hands of R.E.X. and whom they had as yet not been able to identify.

  “Doctor?” Straightening, Drake eyed the blonde woman with her bright eyes and intense expression.

  “Her vitals are not acceptable. She hasn’t had enough water to avoid the early signs of dehydration. Her urine has an unacceptable tint. You haven’t been feeding her…”

  Drake raised his hand, taking offense at the last comment. “I offered her food. She refused.”

  “She is our prisoner; therefore, her care is our responsibility. The questioning isn’t going anywhere. You will release her from those restraints and at least allow her to shower, eat, and sleep in a prone position.”

  “Babe,” Garrett began, but Ilsa silenced him with a gentle hand on his wrist. It never occurred to Drake how hungry for touch his brother in arms had to be. The man spent years in isolation. Even after they’d freed him, the reality of touching him meant he could kill someone if he wasn’t aware every moment of every day. All save for Ilsa. The doctor proved immune to his body’s natural defenses, but it was her love, which saved him and began the task of healing his soul.

  “I understand the point of the interrogation. I also understand the stakes.” Ilsa kept her tone even, almost clinical. “I also understand willpower and force of personality. That woman won’t break until she is broken beyond repair, which means you will be inflicting harm on an innocent. If you quote collateral damage at me, I don’t care how strong you are, I’ll put salt in your coffee.”

  The threat, so utterly innocuous, dragged a reluctant smile from Drake. “Then what do you suggest, Doctor?”

  Simon joined them, though neither Amanda nor Rory were present. The oddity nagged at Drake, but he kept his attention on Ilsa. Both Rory and Amanda had been spending time with their wounded and returned teammate, so perhaps that was where they were.

  “Tell her the truth. Turn her, make her an ally.” Ilsa straightened, tossing her blonde ponytail. The tall woman possessed a core of strength that belied her fragility in their world. She had neither super strength nor powers to speak of, only her razo
r-sharp intelligence and keen understanding of medicine. “That’s how you all got me.”

  “A measure of difference exists, good doctor.” Simon answered before Drake could. “You had an ally within our ranks already, and you were singularly unaware of the fight. The soldier in holding is neither of these things. She works directly for the enemy. She participates in bag and tag.” Simon had lifted that from her mind during their initial questioning. Since then, he’d gotten little beyond her name, rank and a lot of music. She’d been well trained to resist interrogation. He could go deeper into her mind, but they’d all resisted the invasion based on the level of harm he could inflict.

  “She’s a soldier following orders.” Ilsa didn’t back away from her argument. “It is her job to resist your interrogation. If you give her an opportunity to switch allegiance…”

  “Babe.” It was Garrett’s turn to quiet his partner. “If we turn her, we can’t guarantee her loyalty. She could feed us bad information, create more of a problem.”

  “Fine. I get that you are all on a mission, and I want to do everything I can to help you get Michael and Rex back, and to prevent this apocalyptic future from happening—but if you think torturing someone for information, knowing full well she won’t break until she is utterly broken, then you are part of the problem.” With that, she exited the kitchen, riding a wave of righteous.

  “She isn’t wrong.” Garrett’s support didn’t come as much of a surprise. If Ilsa said the sun needed to rise green, he’d have her back. “We’re all following orders.”

  Simon spared him a look, but Drake said nothing. The others could argue every point they wanted. More often than not, those arguments would climb in volume and, on more than one occasion, Michael and Garrett shouted until Simon played peacemaker.

  “Well, aren’t we?” Garrett grabbed the coffeepot with a gloved hand. After refilling his mug, he glanced at them.

  “It’s not the same,” Simon said slowly, but his tone held the element of doubt.

  “Because it’s us?” Garrett shrugged. “Normally, I would agree with you, but Ilsa makes a compelling argument. We’re here on a mission, a mission we’ve all become distracted from—and one I will remain distracted from if it endangers Ilsa. I’ll put her safety first, the same way Michael did with Rory, and you, Simon—you would do for Amanda.” When their resident telepath didn’t dispute the charge, Garrett set the coffeepot back on the warmer. “It’s how we all got in this damn mess. So, the question becomes are we following orders anymore?”

  “The captain would say yes.” Despite his response, Simon didn’t sound like he believed the assertion. “The trouble is, the captain isn’t here.”

  “Nope, because he decided that protecting Rory was more important than our mission.” Shaking his head, their poisoner set down his coffee mug and gestured to their surroundings. “We’re back here, holed up in one of our earliest outposts, a place where we waited out time passing on the mainland to get to the part of our history we needed to get to because Michael put her before us.”

  “Do you really believe that?” The displeasure in Simon’s tone mirrored his tight expression.

  Drake did. “Garrett is correct. The captain allowed his feelings to compromise his judgment. You are all compromised.” Of the team, only Drake and Rex had not partnered with another. “It eliminates your ability to be discerning in our situation. We need to be razor focused. We need our edge. We’ve lost it.”

  Based on their experiences, particularly the most recent, there was every chance they had already failed their mission. Neither of his fellow Boomers responded immediately. Both men looked lost in thought, or perhaps Simon and Garrett shared a telepathic conversation.

  “She is my prisoner. It is my decision. Our current mission is to rescue the captain and Rex. Once we have them with us, we will re-evaluate.” Decided, Drake set aside his own mug. “You two concentrate on your women and securing this facility. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Who died and made you boss?” No heat marked Garrett’s question.

  “Hopefully, no one. However, neither passion nor love impairs my judgment. I have only the mission, and my focus is clear.” They’d traveled through fire, battle, and time to see their world changed. Drake wouldn’t forget what brought them to this point in the first place.

  Silence settled over them like a heavy fog. Drake waited them out. It was what polite men did when they’d made their statement—awaited the decision and let them have their say. If that meant allowing them time to sort through their thoughts, then so be it.

  Finally, Simon looked to Garrett. Both men shared a nod, before Simon turned to him. “Do it. Whatever you decide to do with her, we’ll support you.”

  Reason won the morning.

  Drake left his team to sort out their own duties then headed out to the underground bunker on the far side of the isle where they’d stored Joss Archer. He checked his watch before releasing the access panel. No change in the security status. The lock slid from red to orange then finally green before the door slid open.

  They’d built the bunker first, long before the house and other properties. It was designed with tech that wouldn’t be available for more than a century, the walls reinforced by concrete, and plasti-steel. It had taken then some time to find the equipment to manufacture what they’d needed. Fortunately, they’d had time.

  Nearly one hundred feet below ground level, they’d installed the facility with its five rooms and one training chamber. In theory, they would have worked from here and only left to complete a mission as needed.

  They’d done so for a decade. The growth of technology, coupled with their unnatural lifespans, left most of them restless. Eventually, they’d begun to range out—as much to get a break from each other as to explore a world where they weren’t hunted, enslaved, or slaughtered.

  Joss Archer remained where he’d left her in the medico-interrogation bay. Still strapped to the chair with zip ties, her chin rested against her chest, and her dark hair fell down to hide her face. Via the two-way mirror, he studied her posture. She should look weary and exhausted after the previous seventy-two hours. In truth, she should look like hell.

  Oddly, she looked almost serene. He couldn’t imagine how numb her legs and feet had to be. He’d released her twice to make use of the facilities, usually after she passed out. Simon would take control of her; let her handle her eliminations, then returned her to the seat where she could be secured again.

  An invasion? Absolutely, but Drake didn’t want to hurt her. Hell, he admired her. Admired her strength, her conviction, and most of all her honor.

  Retrieving a bottle of water from the fridge, he carried it into the room. His decision had been made at the house. The bunker was secure; he’d pass coded the lock so she could not escape it. He wanted to show her trust, but he wasn’t a fool. Even if she wouldn’t give them any information—and he gave himself no more than 48 more hours—then he couldn’t afford for her to betray them.

  The moment he stepped inside, her head snapped upward and her bloodshot eyes opened. Weary as hell and mistreated, she maintained her poise, her grace, and her awareness. Guilt thrust a dagger into his gut. Drake had not done right by this woman. Adversary or not, he needed to repair what had been done, and perhaps Ilsa was right. He needed to make an ally out of her.

  “I will be releasing your bonds.” He told her as he crossed the room. “You will find a shower there.” He gestured to the corner. “There are also clothes hanging in there, mostly for men, but we did add some surgical scrubs for the doctor. I think they may fit you.”

  She tensed at his approach, her eyes narrowing even as her mouth compressed. Understanding her reasonable reticence to trust him, he set the water bottle on the table next to her.

  “You will likely have some circulation issues, and you may find it difficult to walk.” It was important he lay out all the ground rules. “I will assist you, if you wish. I will not if you do not. If you try to escap
e, I will stop you. Any attempt may result in physical injury to yourself, particularly in your current state of weakness. I would ask that you do not make any such attempts for both our sakes. I don’t doubt that you are hungry. We have a stock of soups in the other room. They are all in cans, so you can choose what you like, and we can heat it up. I will not prepare it ahead of time, as you’ve resisted eating or drinking for fear of drugging. Although, if we’d wanted to drug you, I could’ve simply used a hypodermic, I still can’t fault you about your defensiveness.”

  Surprise flickered in her brown eyes.

  “Do you have any questions before I proceed?” He believed he’d covered most of the issues, but confirmation was desirable.

  “Who the hell are you?” The words came out rough, her voice raw.

  “My name is Drake. I have been your captor, but I believe that needs to change. I need your help.” Not faulting the disbelief in her eyes, he put words to action and snapped the first zip tie holding her. She didn’t move as he freed her. “Do you require assistance getting to the bathroom?”

  The incredulity in her eyes didn’t dissipate. Perhaps her exhaustion left her with little reasoning capacity. Concerned, but trying to show her a modicum of respect, Drake withdrew a step.

  “There is a bed there, too. If you would prefer to simply rest. I would advise eating first. Restoring your caloric intake can help shore up the metabolic imbalance you’re currently suffering from.” When she still said nothing, he folded his arms. Perhaps he had to simply give her time to regain full cognitive functioning. “I will let you decide.”

  She didn’t cease studying him, but she began to flex her hands. The line of her mouth tightened with every squeeze of her fingers into her palms. Another minute passed, and she began to massage her wrist, not bothering to hide her grimace. At the five-minute mark, she gave up staring at him and began to stretch her legs.

  The strained whimper escaping her throat lashed at him. Guilt became shame and, though she no longer looked at him, Drake wanted to hang his head. The pain she currently experienced was a direct result of his actions. He’d believed his earlier method justified, but the sudden hiss of her breath as her muscles clenched and the care she took with every action added a fresh stone to the weight on him.