My Next Breath

by Shannon McKenna

  “Well, yeah,” she agreed. “That about sums it up.”

  “I’m sorry if I scared you,” he said. “But that phone just had to die.”

  “Just don’t touch my stuff again. Ever. Clear?”

  “Crystal. Never again. Swear to God.” He hugged her for emphasis.

  The door to this building’s stairwell was newer than the one from which they had originally emerged, but it yielded quickly to his lock-picking skills. In just seconds, they were hurrying down the staircase of a building that smelled industrial. He followed his ASP amped sense of direction, based on satellite photos in his data banks. He could look at any roof in any major city in the world and calculate exactly what stairwell would let him out closest to his Jeep.

  He helped her into the passenger side and got in, blasting the heat. Even after what had just happened, it would be dickish to make self-serving assumptions.

  “I promised you dinner,” he said. “We could still find a restaurant.”

  “No.”

  Okay, fuck dinner. He’d figure out some other context in which to ask leading questions about her life so he could puzzle out her relationship with Obsidian. The plan had been to take things slowly, wine her, dine her, make her smile, and then take her home and kiss her at the front door. Patience was the plan.

  The plan had not involved licking her to a screaming orgasm on a rooftop.

  He had to keep his defenses strong. Obsidian had loaded him up with insane combat skills and reflexes, but his control codes could fell him. Three simple word sequences: a stun code, a release code, and a kill code. The stun code froze him, the release code undid that paralysis, and the kill code stopped his heart. No second chances. He didn’t have the luxury of going nuts for a beautiful woman.

  One fatal weakness was enough for any man.

  But there she sat next to him in the dark car, glowing at him. So damn beautiful, with that sensual hunger in her eyes. The sweet taste of her still lingering on his lips.

  He just wanted to give in and let this hot, mysterious beauty with the mesmerizing eyes take him down, down, down. All the way. He’d go. Willingly.

  He stared at her mutely. Waiting for her to say it.

  “Your place,” she said. “Now.”

  Yes. His mind was blanked out by the heat in her eyes. But it would be criminally irresponsible to drive with this much of his blood supply diverted from his brain and racing madly to the party spot.

  “What?” she demanded. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” he said hastily. “I wanted to be sure that I hadn’t, ah—”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I want more of that. Lots more. All night long.”

  He blew out an unsteady breath. “Okay.”

  “Is something wrong?” Her voice sounded silky. Lightly amused.

  “Just give me a minute,” he pleaded. “I’m so turned on, I can’t even think.”

  “So don’t think.”

  He caught his breath, clenched his fists. He squeezed his eyes shut. Got a grip. “Locked door. Soft bed. Clean sheets.” He ticked them off one by one. “I need those three things for this to go any further. I’m not fucking you against a wall or in a bar bathroom or a back alley behind a dumpster. Or in a car, either, for that matter. So don’t push me.”

  She got up on her knees, leaned over the big console, and kissed him. A hot, juicy, open-mouthed kiss. “You pushed me first,” she whispered.

  Chapter 6

  Rand Batello sat up tall, blinking against the bright light shining into his face.

  An interrogation, that’s what this was. Staged by Phillip Holt, the CEO of the Mayburg Group. Rand’s liaison with Obsidian. Not that he could see Holt, who sat in a pool of ominous shadow that seemed to deepen his rough voice.

  The bastard had angled the room’s overheads so that Rand was blinded by the glare.

  A cheap power trick. After years of dealing with that conniving asshole, Rand should be used to it. But he was still sweating heavily. He could smell himself.

  He hated being taken to task for something that was not his fault. Exactly why Simone had run wild like this was beyond him. Things were going so well. Unbelievable profits loomed on the horizon, if he could just stay the course.

  But she’d inexplicably decided it was time to throw a tantrum and put everything he’d built over his entire life at risk.

  “You told us she was controllable,” Holt said.

  “She is,” Rand said quickly. “Absolutely. Quiet as a mouse. She never acts out, she never costs money. She just works and produces. Like a machine.”

  “She was in a street brawl this evening. Did you know that?”

  “Street brawl?” Rand stared blankly at the other man. “Excuse me?”

  “Kruger caught some of it on video,” Holt said, tapping his smartphone and gesturing toward the large video monitor on the wall. “Take a look.”

  The monitor winked on, and a dark street appeared, shining with rain. A parked car. Simone’s Audi. He struggled at first to decipher the figures in the darkness, and then the vid-cam caught a twitch of sudden, violent movement.

  The camera zoomed in. Two men were backing someone slight and unmistakably female against a brick wall. Then one of them jerked and staggered suddenly back, his hand to his face.

  “Pepper spray,” Holt murmured.

  The other leaped forward. The glaring streetlight caught a flash of something bright and metallic whipping down. The second attacker reeled back, but not for long. He swung his arm back, knocking Simone to the ground.

  Another man came into the frame. Big guy, much larger then both the others. His movements were too jerky and swift to make out, but the second attacker was soon on the ground, clamped in the big guy’s grip.

  Rand leaned to squint at the monitor. “Who’s that?”

  “Good question,” Holt said. “We don’t have an answer yet. So. Pepper spray and a wrench, Rand. When she was specifically conditioned to be calm and non-aggressive. Makes you think, hmm?”

  Rand stared at the footage, baffled. “But who—what—”

  “And by the way, the man fighting those muggers paid them to attack her in the first place. It’s all very strange.”

  Rand sputtered, confused. “What?”

  “Maybe he staged it to gain her trust. Anyone’s guess. Kruger acted swiftly. Tased them, in fact, before they could run away. That’s all we’ve gotten out of them so far. They don’t know his name or address. Or just won’t tell us. They’re more afraid of him than they are of us. That will change.”

  “I don’t understand,” Rand said.

  Holt let out an impatient sigh. “I know,” he said. “But here’s the gist. Someone else is taking a strong interest in Simone.”

  “Why?”

  Holt shrugged. “Industrial espionage, maybe. Or she has a stalker. Who knows. We’ll investigate.”

  “She didn’t say anything about being attacked when I called her!”

  “Odd, isn’t it? Kruger monitored her phone conversation with you, of course. I’ve listened to the recording. And after he got the muggers stowed in the van, he filmed her from outside the bar window.”

  Typical, that Kruger hadn’t shared that information. He was supposedly on Rand’s security staff, but in truth he was Holt’s personal watchdog, tasked with logging everything he and Simone said and did. Rand paid Kruger for the privilege of being spied upon, and the sneaky fuck always made Rand look foolish in his reports to the big boys. He had a talent for it.

  New footage, shot through rain-spotted glass, showed Simone sitting at a booth in the back of a bar. Her hair hung loose and tousled over her dark coat. The light caught it from behind, making her look otherworldly.

  Rand preferred her previous style, back when she’d gotten the fuzzy curls blown out. He liked her hair shiny and straight, twisted up into a controlled, impeccably professional style. He hated this wild, slovenly look. It reflected badly on him.

  He’
d lost patience with her. She was behaving badly, she looked like crap, and the powers that be had officially noticed. Strange to see her in a crowded bar. She’d been hiding out at home for some time, but her solitude was an illusion.

  Obsidian watched them tirelessly. Night and day. With eyes that never blinked.

  The recording had no audio, but Simone was smiling and leaning flirtatiously toward the man across the table, the one he’d seen in the still photos that Kruger had deigned to send to him. The brute was attractive enough, Rand supposed, in a musclebound way. Some women were drawn to that type. He was deeply disappointed in Simone.

  “He hired the muggers?” Rand asked. “I want to talk to them.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “At least tell me where they’re being held.”

  Holt shot him an irritated look. “When and if the information proves to be relevant to you.”

  “She’s my daughter! Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Stepdaughter. And that’s not for you to determine.” Holt sounded bored. “We’ve been over this before. You can’t go on being her handler. Your hold on her has slipped.”

  “Just let me talk to her. I’ll convince her to go back to Dr. Laera. Her programming needs an upgrade. A little tightening up and she’ll be fine.”

  “No,” Holt said. “The situation can’t continue.”

  “We have to factor in some natural variability,” Rand said carefully. “She’s only human.”

  Holt’s disapproving grunt made it clear that he didn’t entirely agree.

  “At least she’s supposed to act like it,” Rand argued. “Per the Pollack guidelines for blind operatives. Which you explained to me and Anne years ago, in person. In detail. Have the guidelines been revised? What don’t I know?”

  Holt just looked at him, and an uncomfortable chill spread through Rand’s vitals. He regretted mentioning Anne’s name. Simone’s mother. Dead twelve years.

  Anne had never wanted to put her daughter into the Pollack Protocol, but Holt had insisted. Simone had amazing potential, Holt had urged. Let her take her place at the forefront of a new era of human progress and she’ll thank you later.

  Anne had put up a terrible fight. But Holt always got his way.

  “When behavior becomes erratic, all bets are off,” Holt said. “After all, she’s not even bothering to come in to work anymore.”

  “She’s managing all her projects from home,” Rand protested. “Remotely.”

  “Yes, yes. I know. With input from you,” Holt said. “As I told you, I listened to your last conversation with her. You covered a lot of ground. No need to repeat the details. Like my need for, what was it you said? Visual aids to help me pry my mind open to new ideas?”

  Panic made him stammer. “I, uh, didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not offended.” Holt’s voice was coolly amused. “Back to Simone. She’s fighting an active compulsion program, based on her reaction to your ringtone. She defended herself physically on the street. She’s displaying a sexual interest in a man who is not in her permitted social range. All these put her outside the parameters of a blind operative in the Pollack Protocol. And this tutoring group? Please. We didn’t invest seventy million dollars to have her mix with teenage thugs.”

  “Disadvantaged youth,” Rand said weakly. He knew the danger of correcting Holt too often. “She’s doing good.”

  “Which is not our mission. She can’t waste her valuable training. She can’t spend unsupervised time with suspicious outsiders. And that gene analysis she ordered? Have you considered the damage control it will take to make that go away? It was pure chance we caught it in a routine hack-and-scan. Heads would have rolled, Rand. And yours would have been the first to go.”

  Rand ignored the jab with some effort. “That took me by surprise, too. But she’s been suffering from severe headaches, and I told her that Anne died of an inheritable brain disease, so I suppose she must have been anxious to—”

  “It’s a potential PR disaster. Don’t even try to downplay it.”

  “She’s just unstable because of her romantic disappointments,” Rand insisted. “Any normal young woman would be, and she only—”

  “But she’s not a normal young woman. She’s a huge investment, and she’s now becoming a significant risk. As it is, this branch of research has too many variables and too few control mechanisms. It’s just asking for trouble.”

  “But you were the one who insisted on the Pollack Protocol for her,” Rand argued. “Simone’s creative output is incredible. More than worth the risk.”

  Holt was shaking his head. “I knew her programming structures were disintegrating when she broke the engagement with Jordan,” he mused. “She’d been conditioned to bond with him for years, and suddenly, poof. Up in flames.”

  “What do you expect?” Rand snapped. “She caught Jordan with his dick in another woman’s mouth.” Rand couldn’t resist a dig at Holt’s son and heir. Jordan had been groomed for command from babyhood. He’d grown up entitled and arrogant, forever flaunting his unearned superiority. Unworthy of Simone.

  Holt sniffed. “Her reaction was immature. A red flag for worse to come. She should have reconciled with Jordan. I wanted him to replace you as her handler, and that was the safest way. You know that close outside relationships can weaken the programming. That rebound engagement to Gallagher was a potential disaster.”

  “But it was over after just a few weeks!”

  “No thanks to you. And I recall that you also handled her last outside bonding event very badly. That other Pollack Protocol girl that she attached herself to when she was studying, what was her name? Meredith, Maggie?”

  “Megan,” Rand said. “Megan Donato. I’m on that, Phillip. I make sure that Megan’s handlers keep her away from Simone. They haven’t seen each other in years. I’ve been extremely careful about that.”

  Holt gave him a long, slit-eyed look. “Not careful enough. They email, they live-chat, they vid-stream. Every week. Sometimes multiple times. Very sloppy, Rand. Still, putting Simone through a full reconditioning cycle should put a stop to all that nonsense. Megan could use one, too. I’ll suggest it to her handlers.”

  “But I don’t think Simone needs it,” Rand protested. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “I think she’s burning a little too hot.” Holt gestured toward the flickering monitor. Simone was staring at the man across the table with obvious lust.

  Rand suppressed his embarrassment. “Where are they now? I assume Kruger is still following them?”

  “No.” Holt’s voice was bland. “He expected them to come out the front door, but they evidently slipped out a back exit. She’s vanished, Rand. And we have you to thank for this catastrophe.”

  Rand felt his face heat. “She’ll be back. She’s not going rogue.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right. I’d hate to cut our losses the way we did with Anne. No doubt you’re fond of your stepdaughter, but business is business.”

  “Don’t delete her!” Rand burst out. He stopped. Licked his lips nervously. “She’s a spectacular success. It would be insane to waste a resource like that.”

  “That’s also not your call,” Holt said. “We pull the plug at our discretion.”

  “I understand.” The words felt dragged out of him.

  Rand heard the squeak of a chair being shoved back. A tall rectangle of light appeared as Holt pushed open the door and exited. A sharp click and the door closed.He sat there, hunched and shaking. Like a whipped dog. The video of Simone continued to play in the dim room. The man was leaning toward her, squeezing her hand. So romantic.

  A surge of murderous rage made his guts cramp.

  Maybe Holt was right. She was useless. A squirt of random hormones, and poof, tens of millions of dollars in neurological research toppled onto its back, legs in the air.

  Her timing was fucking priceless.

  Chapter 7

  Shyness descended on her again in the ca
r. It was too much to hope that this rush of wild sexual boldness could last any amount of time without her insecurities launching a fresh attack. Even so, she was taking this guy to bed tonight. Nothing and no one was going to get in her way.

  Not even her own damn self.

  The head pain provoked by that diabolical ringtone had retreated. The buzz and the pressure were still there, but with the new talisman trick, she’d managed to push it away. Which changed everything. Something huge had shifted inside her.

  She wanted this night. Like she’d never wanted anything, ever.

  He stopped the car in an alley next to an old brick warehouse near the waterfront and pointed a remote that sent a huge armored rolling door grinding up. As they drove inside, the headlights lit up a cavernous garage. He killed the engine. A row of high windows let orange-tinted streetlight slant in through the gloom. There were at least a dozen cars, as well as shapeless humps in the shadows that had to be still more vehicles hidden under drop cloths.

  “You live in a loft?” she asked. “Looks like everyone’s home.”

  “Nah, just me. No other residents.”

  She looked around, startled. “This whole place? All these cars are yours?”

  “I told you, remember? I like playing with cars. Building them, tearing them down, restoring them, making them purr. It keeps me chill.”

  He got out and moved around the vehicle so fast, he was right there to take her hand as she got out. His fingers closed around hers, warm and strong. The contact sent a shimmering glow of warmth through her body.

  He led her carefully through the parked vehicles. A sensor flicked a light on by the wall, revealing a battle-scarred freight elevator with a massive cage door. He slid it open with a rattling crash and beckoned her in.

  Voices in her head shouted about bad ideas, emergency exit strategies, but those voices were outside the safe space she’d made in her mind that was all hers. They were outside in that howling blizzard of noise, so she ignored them.

  Fuck them all sideways.

  A jolt to start and they started rising. A low-watt bulb at the top of the elevator was the only illumination, casting a sickly light on the rough concrete wall moving slowly behind the heavy mesh of the cage.