Fatal Strike (33 page)

oh fuck oh lara baby

RUN!

no

“Mr. Davenport, please put down your rifle, come inside and have a civil conversation instead of lurking out there in the woods,” Greaves announced, in a clear, ringing voice.

pls pls go let me go its ok she pleaded.

“I will count down from five,” Greaves said. “Five. Four. Three—”

“Stop.” Miles’ voice was not loud, but it carried perfectly through the still air of dawn.

He stepped out from behind the RV, and walked toward them. The breeze off the lake blew his coat back, so it billowed behind him. His hair blew back from his face. So beautiful, it hurt to look at him.

He looked calm and unafraid. He stopped, a few yards away from them, his eyes fixed on Greaves. He did not look at her.

“You can put the knife down,” he said.

“I decide when the knife goes down,” Greaves replied. “Silva, go see if he’s still armed. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what happens if you’re not perfectly compliant, Mr. Davenport.”

“Of course.” Miles lifted his arms, waiting patiently. Silva patted him down, while Miles and Greaves stared, measuring each other.

Miles broke the silence. “Shall we go in, have that conversation you were talking about?” His tone was casually polite, as if they were discussing the buying and selling of a car.

She literally felt energy prickle in the air as Greaves bristled silently. “Don’t make suggestions or take any more initiatives,” he said. “Just follow my lead. Is that clear?”

Miles shrugged. “Okay, fine. Your move.”

Greaves’ gaze flicked to Lara and then away, dismissing her. “Put her back in the vault, Anabel,” he said. “Silva, go with them. I’ll wait here with Mr. Davenport until you both return.”

Finally, Miles made eye contact, and she understood why he had not done so before. The look in his eyes pulled her heart outside of her body. Which was where it had been since the night they met. Or even before that, in the Citadel. Her heart’s home. She belonged there, shielded and cherished. His, forever.

o my love she sent.

He gave her a tiny, crooked smile that did not even try to reassure her as they wrenched her around and dragged her back into the house.

ttyl babe he messaged. love makes u strong

“A
nabel.” Greaves’ voice was edged with menace. “You’re overdoing it.”

Anabel wrapped another round of duct tape around Miles’ wrist, and ripped it off, wrapping it tightly around the chair back. “I know this guy,” she said, in her husky, ruined voice, and jolted to her feet, rocking. “I know his tricks. He’s a filthy, dirty, tricky bastard.”

Whap,
she backhanded him on the side of the head.

“Stop!” Greaves snapped. “I want to speak to him, not beat him.”

Anabel panted, eyes white-rimmed. “He deserves it. What he did. Chaining her in the dark. Fucking her on the floor. Pig. He deserves to have his parts cut off in chunks while he watches. He deserves to—”

“Stop!” Greaves’ voice resonated with a massive pulse of coercion.

Anabel yelped, and dropped her duct tape and knife, clutching her temples. Whimpering.

“Go to the back of the room,” he said.

She did so, shuffling. Thudded to her knees, and then onto her face on the carpet, hard, as if she’d been kicked from behind.

“Sorry about that,” Greaves said. “Anabel’s very stressed. I gave her an assignment that cracked her ability to tell fantasy from reality.”

“You do seem to specialize in that,” Miles observed.

Greaves gave him a cold look. He managed to refrain from saying anything else sarcastic about the state of Anabel’s mental health. A guy who was duct-taped to a chair should curb the snark. If possible.

He glanced over at the guy lying at the far side of the room on a cot. Shriveled, skeletal, hooked up to machines. “Who’s that guy?”

“My son,” Greaves said. “He’s been like that for years.”

“I see.” It seemed politic to change the subject. “So. Telepathy. Coercion. Two things you’ve got going for you. Are there more?”

In answer, Miles’ chair rose up into the air, twirling gently as if he hung on a rope swing. Higher, and still higher. Six feet off the ground. Then eight. The room had old-fashioned, sixteen-foot ceilings.

“Telekinesis, too,” Miles said. “Cool.”

Greaves gazed up, arms folded, eyes bright and expectant.

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to be all impressed and intimidated?” he asked. “Clue me in, here. I don’t want to fuck this up.”

Whoosh,
he dropped like a stone.
Crash,
the chair legs snapped like toothpicks beneath his weight, leaving him sprawled and gasping, air knocked out of his lungs. Still taped to the splintered remnants of the chair. He tried moving his legs, his arms. Didn’t seem to be broken.

He shook his legs free of the taped chunks of wood, but when he tried to get up and wiggle his bound arms loose from the detached chair back, a force shoved on his chest, pressing him back down. That pressure, plus his own weight, crushed his bound hands against the back of the chair.
Yow.
That sucked.

“I’m going to teach you some manners before we are through,” Greaves said, walking slowly over to him. He stared down at Miles.

“If that’s what you need to do.” Miles stopped struggling. There was no point in it. It was like having an elephant sit on him.

“You didn’t expect that, with your shield?” Greaves looked smug. “I can’t get inside your head, but I can manipulate your body mass.”

“That’s great,” Miles said. “Are you through? Or do you need to show me more of your junk? You’ve definitely got my attention.”

“My other abilities are harder to classify,” Greaves said. “I have a whole array of talents. And I’m sure you do, too. Time for you to show me your junk, Mr. Davenport. Go on, impress me. What have you got?”

“Not too fucking much, or I wouldn’t be duct taped and flat on my back, hanging out with losers like you.”

Greaves made a dismissive gesture. “Bullshit. I felt your energy when you punched me with it yesterday.”

Miles shook his head, the only part of his body he could move. “I can’t do that when I’m shielded,” he said. “And I don’t know how to control it. It was beginner’s luck.”

“It’s a matter of training and practice.”

“Yeah, most things are,” Miles said. “But I’m not that interested. I don’t get a thrill out of jerking people around. And unless I need to lift a refrigerator by myself, who cares about telekinesis?”

“That’s just inexperience talking,” Greaves scoffed. “You haven’t grasped the possibilities yet. I can help you do that.”

“Help me?” Miles peered up at him, perplexed. “Why on earth would you help me? What the hell do you want?”

“A couple of things. The first is just for you to join my cause, Mr. Davenport. I need people like you. I have enhanced dozens of talented people, but psi-max only goes so far. A potential like yours is one in a million. I could teach you to control and guide huge masses of people, all at once. You could be a vital part of my plan.”

“Your plan,” Miles said. “Yeah, I’ve heard about it. The one where everybody dies?”

Greaves waved that away. “Not at all! You’ve been listening to Lara, and she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. The virus doesn’t have that effect. We’ve tested it extensively!”

“Virus? So you’re a bioterrorist, then?”

“No, you idiot,” Greaves snapped. “Shut up and listen. You’re like me, Miles. There are just a few lingering energy blockages keeping you from your full potential. I could break through them, and set you free.”

Miles gazed up at the guy, struggling for breath beneath that weight. “Free to what?” he asked. “For what?”

“To exercise your full powers,” Greaves said, impatiently.

“Yes, I get that,” Miles wheezed. “But to what end?”

Greaves just stared. “You’re deliberately missing the point.”

“Bigtime,” Miles said.

Greaves sighed. “This virus has been under development for many years. The toxin that it produces is health-enhancing. It lowers aggression, raises seratonin level. In the prison populations where we aerosolized it, there were amazing turnarounds. Violent incidents dropped almost to zero over the course of just months. Cases of rape, suicide, drug use, even cigarettes and overeating went down. Even the prison staff’s lives transformed. There’s nothing this substance does not improve.”

Miles grunted. “Sounds like heaven.”

Greaves frowned. “I need people like you, Miles. I would of course administer the vaccine to you, and to a limited number of other people, of your choosing, if you would rather keep them unaltered. Though the truth is, you would not be doing them any favors by withholding this gift of peace. They remain who they are . . . just better.”

Miles dragged in another painful breath. “I’ve been told that I’m wanted for rape, kidnapping, and murder, thanks to you.”

Greaves waved his hand. “Fixable. In any case, the world will soon be very different. The rules will change, because I will be the one making them. But there is another thing that I need from you, even more urgently.” He paused for dramatic effect. “My son.”

Miles floundered mentally, coming up blank. “You mean
him
?” He jerked his chin in the general direction of the comatose guy.

Greaves licked his lips. “Your shield is the key. It’s almost exactly like his. Let me inside to read your memories of how you built it, its inner workings, and I’ll be able to understand how he generates his.”

“You still won’t get in,” Miles said.

“Lara did,” Greaves pointed out.

“That was because I created a hidden door specifically for her,” Miles said. “You can be damn sure your son did not do that for you.”

“Just let me in. I’ll decide for myself what’s relevant and what’s not.”

Miles groped frantically around in his head, like a rat in a maze for a way through this. All he could think of was
stall, stall, stall.

“So what’s in this for me?” he asked.

Greaves smiled. The pressure lightened on Miles’ chest, allowing him to fill his lungs. He did, with big, rasping gasps of relief.

“You mean, besides power and fame, and a place on the center of the world stage? Noble and meaningful work? Mr. Davenport, open your mind. I can give you your life back. And I can give you Lara.”

 

miles? update?

hey baby Miles responded.

She burst into tears, seeing letters appear on the screen. you ok?

4 the moment. he wants me 2 help him rule zombieland. & wants me 2 give him his son back. bad scene

can u pretend?

not if I open my shield. cant lie 2 a telepath.

Despair gripped her. There was nothing to say, nothing they could do. She said the only thing that came into her mind. I love you.

I love you, too. No shortcuts, no abbreviations.

Lara huddled on the floor of the vault in the dark in a tight ball, hands around her head. It was a yoga pose that was supposed to calm her, but it didn’t. Never worked in the rat hole, either, but she was stubborn. She wanted to keep talking to him, to milk every second of contact, but it was unfair to fracture his concentration.

She hated feeling helpless. She wanted to strike a blow, make a move, but even her psychic gift was a passive one. She couldn’t attack, stab, throw, read, push, or bully anyone with it.

She thought of Geoff, and a half-formed idea tickled her mind, along with a shiver of fear, hope, dread. Possibility.

Geoff had helped her. He had proven to be an ally of a sort. And he wanted something from her, if she could figure out what it was. If she could just change the cards on the table. Something. Anything.

She tried all her tricks, but at long last, it was the image of Persephone’s swirling vase that got her vortex going . . .

. . .
into the otherworld, to the phantom town square. No place else to go anymore. All roads led to this ghostly deathtrap. She wandered through, trying not to look at the charnel scenes. No evidence of violence or conflict. Even cars were correctly parked in legal parking places. In one car, a corpse in the driver’s seat still had a pink blouse adhered to its ribcage, and there was a . . . oh, God, no.

The blow knocked her right out of the vision, jolting her painfully back into the smothering darkness.

It occurred to her that with the light off, the fan had been turned off, too. No air was moving. The vault was airtight. She had clearly felt the change in humidity the moment she had stepped outside. Which meant she probably had fifteen feet squared of oxygen left to breathe.

She blew out a slow lungful of carbon dioxide, and curled into a ball again. All things considered, smothering to death in the vault was a better death than some of the others she could ponder.

 

The words rang between them.

“You can’t give me Lara,” Miles said. “She’s not yours to give.”

“She certainly was yours to take, wasn’t she?” Greaves said, his voice faintly taunting. “Did you give her a choice?”

Miles felt bile rise in his throat. “That’s between me and her.”

“Is it?” Greaves tutted gently, under his breath. “There’s no delicate way to say this—but that passionate love and devotion she feels for you? It was pharmacologically induced, Miles . . . by me. It will pass, as she detoxes. Six to eight weeks is standard, I think.”