by Angel Payne
My own outcry is my interruption, as Kane and Mitch are taken down by a pair of brutal blows to the backs of their heads. A new sob escapes as I battle to comprehend what’s happening. Have Faline’s assholes really just sent two members of Team Bolt to la-la land using a couple of gaudy candlesticks?
“Holy shit.” I grit it past the agony in my broken hand while swiping the good one up to my comm dot, jabbing it three times now. After using the team’s signal for the hamster derailment code, I scream, “Code flash. Code flash. Reece, Tyce, you are in a trap. I repeat, you are in a—”
No yell of a cutoff this time. I crumple to the floor as the screech of electronic feedback fills my ear, joining the misery shooting up my injured arm. But I’m pretty certain Faline’s goons don’t care about any of that. My wails of agony might as well be a kitten’s mewls as they grab me by the shoulders and begin dragging me the same direction in which Lawson just disappeared with his sons.
In my delirium, I entertain the weirdest thoughts—this is ruining the toes of these cute kitten heels…is my left boob coming out of its cup?—but I already concede them for what they really are. Stand-ins for the atrocity I’m really about to face. The nightmare I’m no longer able to shove away or have Reece kiss away for me…
Reece.
“Reece.” I choke it out. Barely. A person needs air to speak, and as of this moment, when I’m hauled to the entrance of the little room lined with racks of expensive cigars, air isn’t a privilege I deserve or a gift I can take. I’m a ball of pain. A twist of remorse. A shell around vital organs, including the eyes blurred by two storms of miserable tears as they look down upon my beautiful man, now flat on his back on the polished wood floor. Unmoving. Unblinking. Unspeaking.
Unconscious?
No.
But one look into his eyes, thick with graveyard despair and battleground heartbreak, and I know he wants to be.
The same agony is stamped across Tyce’s face—the good side and the mottled side. Somehow, he’s no longer able to keep up the pretense of “Tyce.” As I struggle with that recognition, I realize that while he doesn’t move, he’s not bound at all. The same is true for Reece, though his whole body is positioned as if another goon has come in and trussed him up with zip ties. There’s only one captive in here with that kind of bondage, and it’s Chase—who has been given the mercy of getting knocked completely out.
But he’s not the only one.
I flash a fast glance back to the dining room. Sure enough, Trixie has joined Chase’s wife and Tyce’s date in the same kind of coma-state snoozes, their slumped forms surrounded by a few empty aperitif glasses.
“The drinks.” I blurt it while snapping my sights around to Lawson. “You did something to the drinks. That was supposed to be the trap, wasn’t it? But Reece and Tyce—”
“Were always the smarter two of my boys,” Lawson supplies—with freakish, frightening calm. The stare he dips toward them could belong to any father bragging about the brilliance of his sons. With that same pride surging his voice, he continues, “Chase was always my loyal one, almost to a fault. He’s my big Shepherd. But Tyce and Reece? They’re my Dobermans. Smart as whips, both of them. And sturdy too. It was why I made sure this room was lined with special polymers designed for maximum electrical insulation.” He pulls a palm-sized device out of his pocket, reminding me of a garage door opener. “And after one click of this modified EMP, the remaining pups were down for the count.”
“Pups.” I croak it while stumbling backward, until I’m planted directly in front of the men I’m ready to kill this man for. “In case you haven’t noticed yet, asshole, those are human beings you’ve put ‘down for the count’!”
Lawson flinches. For half a second. Then he’s back to being as unruffled as a priest, even flowing his hand out with one finger raised, a la practically every holy man in the medieval paintings enshrined in the museums up the street. “You know, Emmalina, you’re a pretty smart one too.” A strange—and creepy—smile makes its way across his lips. “So you probably know that until recently, people bore children solely for the purpose that they’d serve the family name. Oh, of course you do. So you also know that whether it was increasing the productivity of the farm or expanding the clan’s trade craft or being the centerpiece of an advantageous court marriage, children didn’t receive their life until their duty was served.”
I clutch at my stomach. “So this is their duty. Only you’re making it their life too. Do you get that, asshole? Do you see that your sons, your flesh and blood, will now be Faline’s matched set of trained toys for the rest of their lives?”
He opts for more of the Saint Lawson bullshit, pulling himself up as if wearing a cardinal’s mitre. I wrap my arms tighter around my middle, debating whether to throw up or ignite one of these stogies and ram it into the center of his heart.
After a long moment filled with nothing but his quiet regard and my frantic breaths, he murmurs, “Hmmm. So Tyce did put all of it together.”
“Damn right he did.” I don’t want to surrender an inch of my stance but know that I must, shifting back to stand between my man and his fallen brother. To stand with them and for them. “Why are you so surprised? Isn’t he one of your ‘smart ones’?”
I stumble back a few more steps when Lawson reacts by stomping forward, rage taking over his face. He stills as soon as I crouch into a battle-ready stance. I may not have all of Scarlett Johansson’s moves, but I’ve got all of my fury and indignation, and I’m ready to unload both on this monster, henchmen around the corner or not.
Sure enough, as if giving the goons some mental space has magically summoned them, four figures stalk into the doorway behind Lawson, consuming the archway with their broad shoulders, tree trunk legs, and battle-ready bearings. I swallow hard, gulping down the icy sting of fear, muttering to Reece and Tyce, “I’ve still got this.”
Because I am not leaving your side again.
“Damn right you do, girlfriend.”
And in between one heartbeat and the next, my apprehension morphs into elation.
As the four figures step all the way into the room.
A grinning Dan Colton.
A glowering Max Brickham.
A scowling Kane Alighieri, with blood dripping down the side of his face.
A bloodier Mitch Mori—who still adds an arrogant-as-hell wink onto his one-liner. I’m damn sure he’d be embellishing with a saucy double snap as well, except that double snaps are difficult when a guy has a SIG Sauer aimed at the monster hell-bent on re-kidnapping his friend.
Max is the next one to move, sizing Lawson up as he saunters forward. The Richards patriarch is a strapping man but no match for a guy who’s clearly taken out some nasty bad guys—and likely a few bulls, alligators, and aliens—in his time. I allow myself half a breath when Lawson’s shoulders sag, seeming to accept the same inevitability. As I finally relax enough to drop to my knees next to Reece, imploring him to hang on with the connection of our gaze, Max drawls to Lawson, “We’re just going to take what’s ours, my friend—and maybe drop off a special delivery for the Préfecture de Police on our way out of town too.”
“Ah, oui.” Mitch keeps the SIG trained on Lawson as Max yanks out a pair of zip-tie handcuffs. “I’m sure they’ll be kissing our fine, fine asses for the sweet prezzie—especially when they’re informed it’s a companion piece to the thumb drive that was delivered to them an hour ago, detailing every single one of the crimes you’ve committed both with and on behalf of the Scorpio cartel. From there, we’ve laid some bread crumbs that should lead them to the Consortium as well.” He breaks into a huge grin. “So hey, win-win for everyone, man.”
“Hmmm. Yes.” Lawson returns the smile with an expression that swaps out his chill priest for an even more chill monk—which has me instantly holding my breath again. Though the man bows in submission as Max approaches, I trust the move as much as I would a dog with a side of bacon. The instinct worsens when Lawson murmurs, “Winn
ing is what I’m best at, sir.”
“Not anymore.” I spit it despite my trepidation, vowing it’s the last thing I’ll ever say to the man before I turn to Max with a decisive nod. “Give that magic box a good click, Mr. Brickham, so we can break these two free.”
But I battle lead in my throat again as Max answers me with a stunned gawk. “What magic box?”
“Crap,” I rasp.
Because somehow, even throughout the handcuffing, Lawson Richards kept his magic little console hidden.
And now, with the thing still in his hand, he presses it again…
Triggering a sequence of events I should have expected but never imagined.
With a violent jolt, the room literally comes apart. I fall back to my knees, draping myself protectively over Reece. The floorboards splinter and separate and are then hydraulically pushed apart even farther, exposing several floors’ worth of a black cavern below us—though as unseen motors roar to life, joined by whirring gears and whooshing pulleys, it’s clear the cavity is actually an elevator shaft.
With horror, I realize that Tyce, Chase, Reece, Lawson, and I are on the moving side, getting ready to take a ride to the basement without a note of soothing Muzak. All of the Team Bolt guys are left to gape from the other side…
Except for Mitch.
Who’s standing in the middle.
For one more second.
Before he’s not.
“Nooooooooo!”
Kane’s howl follows us all the way down into the darkness. It possesses the walls, claws at the air, and digs a place so deep in my soul, I know I’ll never forget its terrible pain for as long as I live. It’s consuming and wrenching and all-echoing, but I don’t give up the fight to hear past it on the slim chance that Mitch might have survived the plummet…
But as the pseudo-elevator carries us deeper, that hope gets ripped from me in horrifying, agonizing chunks. We’re fifteen to twenty meters down, and everything around us is dark, hard, unforgiving rock. Are we on our way to hell? It feels and looks a lot like what I’d imagine. No fire and magma; that would make everything too interesting. This is a freezing abyss, and there doesn’t seem to be any way out—
Until…
Past the hiccups of my sobs and the grinding of the lift gears, I hear new sounds and feel distant vibrations, now trembling closer on the air. I lift my head a little more off Reece’s chest, straining to identify the new presence down here with us. It rushes and fades. Again and again. Powerful rumbling and then anticipating silence. And beneath it all, the return of a constant hum. Electricity.
So Lawson’s nifty little clicker didn’t penetrate down here. I see that much by looking over as the man again maneuvers the thing in his handcuffed grip, clearly knowing the buttons well enough to operate it in a blind spot. After a tap of his thumb, the lift starts to slow. After another, the rocky chute is illuminated by a blast of light from below, though all I can see is more dark rock. Nothing to explain the sounds and vibrations I’m noticing…
Though enough to silhouette a hand, noble and familiar and strong, closing around my wrist. Barely muting my joyous gasp, I close my other hand over his and hang on for everything I’m worth. Tears come bursting out of me with silent intensity. I swipe them from his face while kissing him with open apology. Reece forgives me in the same wordless way, lifting his other hand to stroke into my hair. He’s still as weak as a wraith but forms his lips into answering kisses for mine, punctuating with heavy breaths that convey their ultimate cost on his shorted-out system.
We waste valuable seconds just confirming the mutual beats of our hearts and the precious mix of our air before he stops and pants harder, seeming to summon every shred of his sparse strength before rasping, “Tyce?”
“He’s right here.” I glance over, noting his brother’s fresh twitches of movement. “He’s alive.”
“Chase?”
“Also here. And alive.”
He nods, though the gaunt tension in his face doesn’t diminish. “Mitch?”
There’s a fresh burn behind my eyes. “Gone, I think.” As the platform bumps to a surprisingly smooth stop, I have to clutch back another gasp. To our right, splayed against the rocks, there’s an eerily inert form sprawled facedown—with slicked-back lavender hair. “Gone,” I repeat and am unable to hold back a couple of hiccupping sobs.
Strangely, I’m relieved to see my grief doesn’t faze Lawson at all. Relieved but not stunned. I don’t want to think of him as a man again, in any way. Right now, he’s disconnected from everything that makes him human, and that includes the ramblings from upstairs about “the good ol’ days” of the freaking Middle Ages. Does he think that justifies any of this? Does he think that if the ghosts from those times were resurrected, they’d be applauding him?
Don’t go there.
It’s insanity—his insanity—and this moment has to belong to the only lucidity down here for me. The man I hold right now. The light in my darkness. The love in my spirit.
“Emmalina.” His whisper, stronger now, surges me with hope despite the deep shadows in his eyes. I compel myself to keep looking, no matter how hard I yearn to shake him and rekindle the storms I’m so used to seeing there. Irony has never laughed harder than in this moment. If Lawson’s bioelectric zapper shorted out Reece’s powers for good, he’s out of contention as a pretty plaything for Faline—but never have we needed his Bolt Boost more to get out of a hole. Pretty damn literally. “Emmalina, listen to me.”
I lean over, brushing a thumb against his temple. “I’m here,” I pledge in a fervent grate. “I’m listening.” Though I have a damn good idea of what he’s going to say, which is why I dip down farther, spreading fingers against his skull before amending, “And I’m not leaving your side.”
My assumption was right. I see it across his face as he waits through the interminable minute it takes for his father to walk past us and then cover the short hop off the platform, kicking at the edges of what used to be the cigar room’s floor as he goes. I’m still trying to comprehend that the man had a trap door built into his polymer-lined cigar room, attached to an elevator with an express trip to the bowels of Paris. But the man has also been in bed, professionally and probably personally, with a crime cartel that funds fringe scientists who are infusing human DNA with electricity. One good strand of lunacy deserves another.
As Lawson leaves the lift, new lights flick on to show a tunnel attached to the cavern. It’s actually lined with cement block walls and possesses right angles. If we’re still in hell, it’s now a manmade version, complete with six new henchmen materializing out of the darkness to greet the man. One yanks the snipper feature out from a Swiss Army knife, readying to cut his boss free from the zip ties.
My attention is jerked back down with Reece’s commanding grasp. Though all his strength still isn’t fully back online, the effects of the EMP are fading faster now. With any luck, Lawson isn’t aware that Reece’s blood cells have hit the Boost Star on the regeneration lap. Has he even tried this thing on anyone else before? And do I really want to know the answer to that?
“Velvet.” Though he keeps it to a heavy rasp, the electric authority returns to his voice too. “We don’t have much time. You have to listen to me.”
I settle higher over him, vertically aligning our gazes. I frame his face with matching purpose, my hands deep in his hair, though everything beyond my right wrist throbs even worse now. I gladly endure the injury for this second of basking in his paradise. Even now, defeated and down and damn near depleted, he’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. My superior man. My perfect hero. “As long as it doesn’t involve me leaving your side, I’m all ears.”
His jaw flexes. And, thank God, there are now tiny sparks at the backs of his eyes. “Goddamnit,” he rumbles. “You agreed to all the terms, woman.”
“And you agreed to my amendment,” I counter. “And my modification. No negotiations.” When those sparks flare brighter, I want to scream with joy.
Instead, keeping my resolve firm, I finish, “The monsters have you again—and I’m not stopping until I have you back. Only difference is, you’re along for the ride now. Deal?”
He doesn’t get even a second to answer—which under normal conditions might be a damn fine thing. But I’d gladly endure an hour more of his arrogant growls over watching his father pivot back around, truly and clearly ready for the next phase of kidnapping his own sons. The sight of Lawson Richards with his hands free and half a dozen armed men in tow only slams one awful icicle of a conclusion through me.
I have no idea what this ride is going to be like—except freaking bumpy.
Chapter Five
Reece
The maddening woman and her fucking contract changes.
And I agreed to all of them…why?
All too clearly, my memory sends out that reminder. She was naked when she issued them. Naked and dewy and glorious and irresistible—which meant I wasn’t anticipating, with even a sliver of an inkling, that Dad would have thought through his plan like this. Building an entire room in the Virage for the express purpose of disabling Tyce and me like this. Then capturing Chase along with us and smuggling us out of the city in tunnels below even the Métro itself…
Like nothing more than a commodities shipment.
A drug run.
A gun hoard.
Cash-bearing goods.
That’s all we are to him.
Was that all we ever were to him? Were all those years of my young adulthood, so desperately seeking his approval, just a sham of time and a waste of my heart?
The questions are flames inside me, spread by the gasoline of my bile and the tinder of my heartbreak…
And the forest of my fury.
I really am going to kill him.
One exchanged glance with Tyce, and I see he’s more than on board with that plan too. The second purpose of my look meets with equally outstanding results. He’s recovering from Daddy Bear’s electronic paw swipe as rapidly as I am but is opting to play opossum about it as well. More than likely, Dad got his magic little box from the gang back at the Source and was told to use it in experimental mode until learning how much of a hit we could really take.