The Tracker

by Leslie Georgeson

  “Because I’m not that boy anymore. I’m Tracker.”

  She studied me a moment in silence. “What boy?” she persisted. “Did you remember something of your past? If you can remember a boy named Liam, a boy that’s not you anymore, then you must have some memories, right?”

  “Drop it,” I said coldly. “And don’t call me ‘Liam’.”

  She flushed and lowered her gaze. Several moments passed. She cleared her throat. “Are you hungry? I can fix you something to eat.”

  I pushed myself up against the headboard, ignoring the pain in my stomach. “Yes. But first, I gotta pee.”

  She was by my side in an instant. “Let me help you.”

  I wanted to protest, but I couldn’t get up on my own. When I tossed the covers aside, I noticed my stomach was covered in a large dressing. I was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. Normally that wouldn’t have bothered me. But my near-nakedness made me feel vulnerable in light of my present weakness.

  I groaned softly as she helped me up from the bed and led me to the bathroom. I had to lean heavily on her the entire way, but she didn’t complain. She turned her back as I relieved myself, then helped me back to the bed without saying a word. Humiliated by my weakness, I kept my gaze lowered, not wanting to see the expression on her face. Not wanting her pity.

  “I’ll bring you something to eat now.” She tucked the covers around my waist, careful to avoid my wound. “That sound good?”

  I nodded, forcing myself to meet her eyes.

  She smiled. “I’ll take care of you, Tracker. It’s the least I can do.”

  I watched her walk away, my gaze drawn to the gentle sway of her hips. God help me, I wanted her. Not just her body. I wanted to know everything about her. She was beautiful, inside and out. She was special. She knew more about me than any other woman ever had. I’d had a real conversation with her, several times now, and that was more than I could say about any other woman I’d known. And I sensed she truly cared about me, though I couldn’t comprehend why. I had no doubt she wanted to “fix” me and quite frankly, I wanted to let her try. If she could take away the nightmares, if she could soothe my battered soul, then I was more than willing to let her.

  She made me feel vulnerable, exposed. It was a scary feeling. Vulnerability was a weakness that could be used against me. As I dreg, I’d been taught to never become vulnerable, to never make myself weak. It gave the enemy the advantage.

  But when I was with Jessica, I didn’t care about anything but her. Whatever was developing between us—and it was definitely more than friendship—left my head spinning. I’d never experienced this with another person before. Sure, Gordon and I were buds. We had each other’s backs. But that was a male friendship and nothing like this. Having a friendship, a connection with a woman was unlike anything I’d ever imagined. Jessica warmed that cold place in my chest that was supposed to be a heart. She made me feel good. Connecting with someone. Sharing with someone. It was a nice feeling. I liked talking with Jessica. Sharing with her. Being with her.

  I rubbed a hand over my face. Jesus. What was she doing to me? I was letting her inside, letting her see the man who was hidden behind the fierce warrior. She was forcing my humanity to the surface, pushing the monster aside. Making me care.

  And that left me vulnerable.

  What was I thinking?

  If the other dregs found out how much she was getting to me, they’d call me “pussy-whipped” and probably toss her out so fast she wouldn’t know what hit her.

  Or would they?

  She’d earned their respect by saving my life.

  Gordon had said he was jealous, that they all were. We might be dregs who’d had the feelings beaten out of us until we felt nothing but coldness inside, but deep down past all that frigid coldness was a scrap of humanity hovering, waiting to be rediscovered. I had felt it shoving itself forward ever since Jessica had come into my life.

  Was it so wrong to want to be loved? To have a woman care for me more than anything in world?

  Even if I didn’t deserve it?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jessica

  Tracker recovered over the next several days, his strength gradually returning. I was pleased that he’d told me his real name, happy that I knew something about him that no one except Gordon knew. I felt special, privileged. I wanted to call him by his real name, but he’d told me not to. Maybe in time he would let me call him Liam. I don’t think he liked that he’d told me the truth. I don’t think he liked to tell me anything about himself. But the fact that he had made me feel good. He must trust me, at least a little, if he were willing to tell me things like that. I was consumed with curiosity about him, literally starving for more information. Who was this mysterious warrior who was giving me small glimpses into his soul? Could I wear him down eventually? Get him to open up to me more?

  The other dregs showed up every so often, checking in on him. I’d met them all now. Gordon, of course, The Gardener, who supposedly could grow just about anything in the plant kingdom. He was Tracker’s best friend and actually a sweetheart underneath his rough exterior. Nate told me that Gordon was good at “planting the seed and watching it grow”. I sensed a double meaning there. His supernatural talent was an ability to make living things grow in even the toughest of conditions, with nothing more than his touch. When I asked Gordon how his ability helped in a war environment, he said he would “plant a seed” or an idea in someone’s head, and then sit back and watch that seed grow into something larger, generally paranoia. In addition to his prosthetic leg, Gordon also only had one lung.

  Nate, The Healer, who was an EMT and whose expertise had helped save Tracker’s life. I was fortunate to have witnessed Nate’s supernatural healing touch and to have it performed on me. Nate had a serious nature, like Tracker, but he also had a dry wit that took me by surprise. Nate’s heart had been damaged by a chunk of shrapnel that had lodged into it during an explosion. Apparently, he’d died several times on the way to the hospital, but somehow the EMTs had brought him back. Miraculously, the surgeon had been able to piece Nate’s heart back together, and with strenuous exercise, his heart was able to heal. However, he’d been left with an arrhythmia that now required a pacemaker to keep it beating properly.

  Tony, The Smuggler, the dark Hispanic man who hated women. When I’d asked Gordon how Tony had come by the name The Smuggler, Gordon said Tony was an expert at concealing things—especially himself—and slipping them into places unseen. Tony’s supernatural talent had something to do with magician-like abilities. Tony supposedly had severe mental injuries, which left him unstable, and convinced me to avoid him at all costs.

  Luke, The Enforcer, who “enforced things”. I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but my imagination gave me a pretty good idea. Gordon had informed me that Luke’s supernatural ability had something to do with mind control, that he could mess with people’s minds and make them think or do things with a simple suggestion. I noticed he liked to push people to the limit, irritate them to the point that they wanted to kill him. He also liked to play people against each other, instigate fights. Pissing people off, playing them against each other, would give him an advantage in a war setting. He was definitely an instigator. Was that the “mind control” Gordon had referred to? Despite the violence I sensed lurking in him, he’d never been anything but nice to me. Luke had artificial knees because his real ones had been blown off. He said it only slowed him down a little bit.

  There was Ryan, The Extractor, a handsome playboy and relentless flirt, who only had one arm below the elbow. He purportedly was an expert at luring women into bed and extracting information from them. Me being the exception, of course. Gordon had told me that Ryan’s supernatural ability was a sexual pheromone that he emitted when around females he wanted to extract information from. The pheromone put women into a sexual haze and made them willingly give in to him and offer whatever information he sought. I was relieved he hadn’t tried to seduce me wi
th that pheromone.

  Noah, The Hacker, an IT wizard who was amazing with computers and any type of electronic device. I was told he could completely erase a person’s identity and create a new one with a few strokes of the keyboard. He could also hack into any webpage, getting past even the strongest firewalls. His one eye didn’t prevent him from being a tech genius. His supernatural talent was his analytical computer-like mind that could read the binary system in seconds, which enabled him to unlock or hack anything. I could only imagine how intelligent he was.

  Logan, The Trainer, a physical therapist who helped other injured soldiers recover after injury. He promised to help whip me into shape whenever I was ready to visit the workout room down the hall. He was also a linguistic specialist. Logan’s supernatural talent was his ability to interpret a foreign language within minutes and then be able to speak and communicate that language in a record amount of time. On a mission, this enabled him to learn what others were saying and then speak back to them in their own language. I could only imagine the amount of intelligence an ability like that would require. Gordon informed me that Logan’s title The Trainer had a double meaning, for it referred not only to his physical therapy workouts, but also to his ability to “train” his mind to learn new languages in record time. Despite Logan’s partial deafness, I sensed he was still a formidable opponent. He and Noah were the “nerds” of the group, but certainly hunky nerds.

  And a new guy I hadn’t met before named Jacob. His dreg name was The Fighter. Jacob was a quiet, watchful man with dark hair and striking blue eyes. He was a mixed martial arts expert and Gordon said Jacob’s nickname was “Phantom of Death”. Jacob’s supernatural talent was his ability to move so gracefully, so swiftly, so quietly that he became a ghost, a phantom. Apparently he’d never been defeated in any type of fight, because of his ability to move so silently and so fluidly. I learned that Jacob had been discharged after getting shot in the throat, which damaged his trachea and vocal chords. The bullet had miraculously missed his spinal column. He’d had to undergo a tracheostomy and surgical repair of his vocal chords. A three-inch scar trailed across his neck. He’d had to learn how to talk again after the surgery. His voice was deep and raspy, scratchy sounding, and a little creepy. I understood why he didn’t talk much. He probably didn’t like to scare people with his raspy voice. He was indeed a “phantom”. One minute he was there, the next he was gone. Without a sound.

  There were nine dregs in all. Of all of them, Luke, Tony and Jacob gave off the scariest vibes. I sensed those three were more violent than the others.

  When I asked Tracker about the dregs, he said that Tony and Nate were partners, Noah and Logan were partners, Ryan and Luke were partners, and Tracker and Gordon were partners. He said Jacob’s partner was no longer with them, that he’d been one of the dregs who’d been killed when they’d escaped. All the dregs were nice to me, with the exception of Tony, who had that constant sneer of disdain on his face whenever he looked at me. I took Tracker’s advice and just ignored him.

  As Tracker lay in bed, letting his body heal, I brought him books to read, his pencil and sketchpad so he could draw, food and water, and I helped him get up to use the restroom and to the tub so he could shower. I left him alone while he showered, but I thought about him in there, naked, his muscles glistening with water, wondering what it would be like to step in there with him and run my hands all over his muscular body. My feelings for him—my attraction to him—was growing stronger with each day. What I felt for him was real. It was powerful and a little scary.

  I learned several things about him while he endured my company and I took care of him. He was a quiet man but very observant. His eyes were constantly moving, always aware, and I doubted he missed anything that went on around him. I had to initiate ninety percent of our conversations. He didn’t seem to mind talking about the other dregs, or things like what the book he was reading was about or what he wanted for dinner, but if the conversation turned too personal, he clammed up. Whenever I brought up his past, he would shut me down with a terse word or a cold look. He didn’t like talking about himself. But I was determined to get the truth out of him eventually. I wouldn’t give up.

  I sensed he was embarrassed by his injury and having to rely on me to help him do basic things. I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to be bedridden and rely on someone else to help me do everything, either.

  I knew now that it wasn’t just my imagination, he truly was attracted to me. I felt it in the tension that filled the room whenever we were alone together. I caught it in his hot stare whenever our gazes met. Or the way he flinched whenever our hands accidentally brushed. Or the time when I leaned over him to help adjust the pillows behind his head and he inhaled sharply when my boob accidentally smashed into his face. That had been awkward and embarrassing.

  What would happen when he was better? Would he kiss me again? Did I want him to? That brief moment after he’d awakened and pulled me in for a kiss ran constantly through my mind. Would he leave the apartment once he was well and resume his search for Eliza, abandoning me like he had in the beginning?

  He was healing a little more with each day and I knew it wouldn’t be long before he was better.

  After dinner on the fourth day, he reached for his sketchpad and pencil that were sitting on the nightstand beside his bed. I turned from the room with his empty plate and glass to give him some privacy, but his voice halted me.

  “I want to draw you again.”

  I slowly turned and met his intense gaze. Heat coiled in my loins. My face burned. I swallowed hard. If I said yes, would he touch me? Did I want him to? Would he make love to me? Was he well enough to do something like that?

  If I said no, what would he do? I didn’t think he was well enough to chase after me.

  “Naked?” I whispered, my heart pounding.

  “Yeah.” He motioned toward his feet. “You can lay across the bed down there, and I’ll draw you while I sit here.”

  I hesitated, pulling my gaze back to his. “What if I don’t want to?”

  He stared into my eyes for a long moment. I stared back, trying to decipher the flicker of emotion that passed across his face before disappearing.

  “It’s not a demand, but a request. You don’t owe me anything anymore, Jessica. Now I owe you. If you choose to let me draw you, it will be because you want me to. But I would really like to draw you, if you will let me.”

  Was he serious?

  He’d called me Jessica, not slave.

  My heart pounded. I couldn’t drag my gaze from his.

  He waited, his gaze locked on mine.

  I cleared my throat. “I will if you tell me something about yourself. Something real.”

  He looked away. “Jess…”

  My breath caught. My heart clenched.

  Jess. Now he was calling me Jess. What did it mean?

  He sighed. Then he rubbed a hand over his face in obvious agitation. “What do you want me to say? Should I tell you about waking up in a jail cell when I was twelve years old and learning that I was now a prisoner but having no memory of how I’d gotten there? Should I tell you about the repeated torture and abuse and brainwashing that I’d endured from that day forward in an attempt to make me stronger, to make me mean and cold, a killing machine? Should I tell you all about the experimental drugs that were pumped into my system on a regular basis, the animal DNA, trying to turn me into something stronger than human, something more dangerous and animal-like?”

  I gasped softly and shook my head, my eyes filling with tears. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t have to tell me anymore.”

  His gaze hardened. “Oh, there’s more, and you asked, so you’re going to hear it all. Why don’t I tell you about the people I slaughtered like bugs beneath my shoe? Or would you prefer more details? Do you want me to describe how I interrogated a man, plucked his fingernails off, then removed his appendages, one by one, until he talked? Or maybe you want to hear about
the man whose eye I gouged out, trying to get information out of him, while Gordon held him still? His screams still haunt me at night, just like the screams of all the others I tortured and killed. Is that what you want to hear? Because there’s more, Jessica. Lots more. That’s my past. That’s the man I am. That’s the ugly truth. That’s the real you’re looking for.” He held my gaze, his eyes cold and hard. Unforgiving.

  I swallowed hard, my heart racing, unable to look away. Oh God. I spun on my heel and raced away, fighting back the bile that threatened its way up my throat.

  “Yeah, why don’t you run and hide!” Tracker shouted after me. “Can’t have your naive little mind actually believing there’s bad people in the world or that horrible things happen!”

  I stumbled into the kitchen and dropped his dishes in the sink, horror twisting in my gut. Why had he told me that? Was he just trying to scare me? I leaned back against the counter and drew in several deep breaths, trying to come to grips with what he’d just told me.

  That’s the ugly truth. That’s the real you’re looking for.

  He was only being honest. Telling me the truth. Because I’d asked him to.

  You wanted this, Jess. You asked for the truth.

  I’d been trying for days to get him to open up to me, and then when he finally had, I’d fled. How did that make him feel if I ran away like I was disgusted every time he told me something about himself? No wonder he hadn’t wanted to tell me before now.

  I’d been in denial all this time, not wanting to admit the man I was falling for had done horrible things, or that horrible things had been done to him. I’d convinced myself that he was a good man, that he would magically be “fixed” over time. But I couldn’t “fix” him with dreams. Fixing him would take effort. Mostly from him. But also from others who cared about him. From me. If I ran in horror every time he revealed something about his past, he would believe he wasn’t worth saving—if he didn’t already. Tracker had to want to be fixed, but he couldn’t want it if I didn’t make him feel like he was worth saving to begin with.