I Dream of Danger (14 page)

The captain and the other three soldiers had been rescued before they could be sacrificed, and Lee had lost a great deal of research that had been in their bodies and would have been evident in their harvested brains.

He had a new protocol now and was working with the funds funneled to him by Clancy, now retired and the head of a security company.

Clancy wanted better contractors to make more money.

Lee wanted to change the world.

Right now, though, their goals meshed.

Back in Beijing, Lee had enemies, men who resented his growing power. They were sabotaging his plans, mocking him behind his back while he was an ocean away in California.

So he’d decided to make
himself
smarter and faster and stronger, to be living proof of the validity of his Shin-Li project, Project Warrior. He’d been injecting himself with diluted versions of the experimental drug. It worked, it worked wonderfully well. Though he gave no outward sign, he felt immensely stronger mentally and physically. In the mirror in the morning, he could see muscle definition in his chest and arms. It was growing increasingly difficult to tear himself away from his naked image in the mirror.

He
felt
different. Lee was an observer, a scholar, a scientist at home in the world of learning. He often thought he would have been an excellent court scholar in the time of Confucius. He was used to studying the world dispassionately, his only passion that of making it back to Beijing a victorious man, the architect of a new world order.

But now—now he felt like he could take on the world himself, single-handedly. He’d been willing to forge a new world with his mind and scientific training, but now, oh now, it was like he could do it physically.

And now he had an even stronger tool. Literally revolutionary. His special Delphi Project, named after the oracle in ancient Greece. A handful of men and women with special powers they tried to hide and suppress. But you can’t hide from an fMRI. He’d gathered them together to study their capabilities and replicate them. He’d expected the project to last at least a year, right up to the moment he expected to defect back to Beijing. But his hand was being forced. The Ministry of Science and Technology in Beijing was about ready to close the door they’d been holding open for him. And that moron Flynn, who was funding both programs, was increasingly shrill about wanting results.

Beijing and Flynn wanted results?

He’d give them results.

He was rounding up the subjects with special powers. He’d infuse them with massive doses of SL-61 and he’d find the secret to developing super warriors who could fly, who could throw fire projectiles halfway across the world, who could read minds.

Project Warrior was on an accelerated schedule and, he thought as he made a fist, admiring the muscles in his forearm, so was he.

Palo Alto

T
here it was. Probably the only motel in the area that didn’t belong to a chain. It didn’t seem to belong to anyone, really. The once bright green façade was faded to a light pea green. Most of the plants in the courtyard were dead and the bright red neon sign advertising
V CANCI S
sputtered and fizzed.

It wasn’t much, but Elle had to hope it would offer her shelter and protection for a few hours because she didn’t have the strength to go one step further.

Walking into the dirty, dusty lobby Elle realized she was overdressed for the place. Her big down coat was expensive, as were her boots and purse. Luckily, the young guy behind the counter looked either half asleep or like he’d just taken two tabs of FeelGood.

They turn the cameras off,
Jane had said. Still, Elle kept her head down as she registered, pushing across the counter a hundred-dollar bill for the sixty-dollar room. “Keep the change,” she muttered, eyes down. A none-too clean hand with cracked fingernails made the bill disappear and a scratched card key appeared.

A bored voice said, “Down the hall. Take the right corridor.” She walked away, trying to keep her knees stiff. If she fell down or fainted right in the lobby that would make her memorable.

Or not, considering the type of motel it was. Maybe they had drunk or drugged ladies falling down all the time. Elle kept her eyes down on the stained plaid-brown-on-brown carpet, putting one booted foot in front of the other, a huge noise roaring in her head, brightly colored spots in front of her eyes. If the room was far away, she wasn’t going to make it.

Luckily the room was close by, just around the corridor to the right. She held the card up to the sensor with one hand, and balanced herself against the door jamb with the other. She felt more than heard the clunky
click
as it opened. In a normal hotel, by law the card would log her name and time of entrance and eventual time of exit in the central computer, but Jane had said this kind of place didn’t go in for niceties.

Elle stumbled into the room, pulled the door closed, walked to the window, and closed the blinds. She leaned against the wall next to the window and finally her legs gave way, simply wouldn’t hold her up any longer. Her purse
thunked
to the floor as her knees buckled.

She slid with her back to the wall down to the dirty carpeting, clasping her arms around her legs, leaning her head forward until it rested against her knees.

Trembling started from her legs, traveling up through her body like an electric wave. She sat there in the dark, arms and legs shaking, a deep chill in her core, riding out the storm.

She lost control over her own body. It shook and shivered and panted and she could do nothing to stop it. It was physical and mental and spiritual. It was as if she’d come up against some inner boundary, a place where everything had to stop because she could go no further.

Had nothing left.

Could barely breathe, let alone plan the next step.

She sank down deep inside herself, the world slowly turning black.

And it was because she was so weak and so depleted, because she reached some dark place of despair that held her deepest truths, that it slipped from her.

Something she’d sworn she’d never do, something that in any other moment she’d rather die than think, came welling out.

From deep inside her, it came. Totally unstoppable, torn from her.

A call so strong it was a scream inside her head.

Help me, Nick.

Chapter
7

Mount Blue

Haven

Northern
California

N
ick Ross
bolted up in bed on a gasp, heart drumming against his ribs, sweat popping out
all over his body. Clapping his hands for the light, he threw back the covers
and rushed for the door. Remembering at the last minute that he was naked.

In a fever of impatience, he turned back and hopped
into the clothes he’d thrown onto a chair an hour ago. His usual—black jeans,
black sweatshirt, black combat boots. Without bothering to lace his boots he
raced outside.

Usually, he got a rush when he walked outside his
door. He’d rather die than say it, or even show it, but he loved Haven. He and
his teammates were on the run from the U.S. government: fugitives, outlaws.
They’d built a secret city and somehow a community of misfits had gathered
around them. He and Jon Ryan and Mac McEnroe didn’t even question it after a
while. People came, always on the run from something bad, and the three soldiers
protected them.

It was a mountain—a forgotten, hollowed-out silver
mine that had been turned into a thriving community of runaways and outlaws.
Like Hole in the Wall in the old west, only high-tech. The community was
circular, built inside the mountain. Every time Nick stepped out from his
quarters, he always paused along the balcony that ringed the huge open atrium
below. His community, his people. Gave him a rush, every time.

Except now.

He’d pressed their emergency button, the one that
had never been used up until now, connected to Jon’s and Mac’s rooms, before
bolting out the door. Jon’s room was on his floor, Mac’s was two stories up. He
ran straight to the end of the corridor and when he passed Jon’s door he
bellowed, “
Jon! Situation room, stat!”
He banged his
fist, hard, on the door, then hit the stairs at a run. The elevator would be too
slow. He took the stairs four at a time and at the end simply vaulted over the
bannisters down to the floor below and ran for the situation room.

The doors of the room were biomorphically
programmed to open for him, Mac, or Jon, but it took two seconds to process and
he had to stand there, three feet out, practically hopping in place, fear and
panic prickling along his nervous system, until the door whooshed open.

He rushed inside and skidded to a stop, looking
around wildly for something—anything—that could help.

Their situation room wouldn’t have been out of
place in the New Pentagon. They had it all, including holographic monitors
showing every inch of the security perimeter around Haven. If a jackrabbit shat
in the woods, they knew about it. They were illegally linked into every overhead
satellite, and at any given moment one or two of their almost invisible drones
was dropping visual, IR, and thermal images onto their servers. That kind of
intel would be considered a security breach serious enough to warrant a
court-martial, but since the entire U.S. military was gunning for them, and a
court-martial had found them guilty of treason in absentia anyway, they figured
why not. Their server farm, hidden in the mountain, was one of the largest in
the world. They had serious crunching power at their disposal.

Not to mention serious firepower. The armory would
do any military installation proud.

None of it helpful at the moment because what Nick
really,
really
needed was—

What?

Fuck
. He didn’t know
what he needed, but he needed it
now
.

The door whooshed open, Jon came in at a run.
Wheeling to a stop, he checked the monitors—which showed acres and acres of
nighttime mountainside. Utterly peaceful, utterly normal, utterly calm. Sensors
blinking green. “What the fuck, Nick?” Jon’s bright blue eyes narrowed as he
glared at him. His blond hair was tousled, shirt buttoned wrong, sweatpants
hanging off his hips. He looked around again at the monitors, brought his gaze
back. “I repeat—what the fuck?”

It took every ounce of his self-control, but Nick
managed not to twirl around, hands on head, looking for something that could be
an outside sign of what was going on inside. His heart was pounding, adrenaline
running through his system and he had nowhere to go with it. Nothing to hang
this huge flaming ball of desperation on.

He tried to speak, but his throat was too tight. On
the second try he got it but what he wanted to say was so enormous his voice
cracked. “She needs me. She’s in danger and I have to get to her now, and I
don’t know where she is and she fucking
needs
me.”
Normally he would have been ashamed to death that his indrawn breath sounded
like a sob, but right now he didn’t give a fuck. It didn’t matter. Nothing
mattered but Elle.

Jon’s eyes narrowed further. “Who needs you? What
are you talking about?”

All Nick could do was stand there and pant, fists
clenched so hard the knuckles were white. Ready to fight Jon, ready to fight the
world if it could help her, but it wouldn’t. He couldn’t help her until he knew
where she was and what she needed.

“Elle,” he said simply, because with all the
thoughts swirling in his head, that was the only thing that stood out. That made
sense. Elle.

Elle. In danger. God.
He couldn’t even stay in the same room with that thought.

Jon shook his head and turned gratefully when the
door opened. Mac walked in, arm around his wife. His pregnant wife. The pregnant
wife Nick had woken up. Both men were now glaring at him. Catherine McEnroe was
an incredibly special woman and Mac wasn’t happy that she’d had her rest
interrupted. Even pregnant, she worked tirelessly as a doctor taking care of
their little community. So, yeah, interrupting Catherine’s sleep was a big
no-no.

Everyone treated Catherine with kid gloves. Even
Nick, who liked her and respected her. But Elle—Elle trumped Catherine any
day.

He didn’t give a shit about anyone’s sleep if Elle
was in danger.

“Elle,” he repeated, his voice raw.

“L?” Mac asked, frowning. “The letter?”

Jon took it up. “L for link? L for lonely? L
for—”

“Elle.” It was the only thing he could say. His
head was going to blow up. Every single danger hormone in his body was awake
with nowhere to go. He was a guy built for action, and he always knew which
action to take. To be so primed, so pumped, so fucking scared and dying to race
to the rescue but have no idea
where
was driving him
bat-shit crazy.

His fingers beat a harsh tattoo against his thigh
and his foot was tapping. Jon, Mac, and Catherine simply stared at him. He knew
what they were thinking—Nick Ross
agitated
?
Scared?
What was that about?

Nick didn’t do agitated and scared.

“Nick,” Catherine said gently and took his shaking
hand in both of hers. Mac tensed. Everyone knew Nick didn’t like being touched.
But this wasn’t someone he didn’t know entering his personal space. This was
Catherine, and her touch . . . soothed. Calmed him, just a little.

She held on to his hand, watching his eyes. After a
moment she nodded. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

His head jerked awkwardly, neck stiff with
tension.

Catherine had something. He didn’t know what,
nobody knew what really, but she had . . . something. If she touched
you, she understood you. And, lately, if she touched you, you felt better. Which
explained why her husband, Mac, the toughest, meanest son of a bitch on the
planet, was walking around with a goofy grin on his hard, ugly, scarred mug.

Nick had wondered about that. About being married
to someone like Catherine. Someone who understood you inside out with a touch.
Understood you and loved you.

Elle had loved him. It had been clear in her eyes,
her voice, her face. She’d loved him and he’d lost her and—Oh God, she was in
danger. She needed him and he didn’t know how the fuck to find her.

He shivered, turned his sweaty face to
Catherine.

“Yeah. She’s the one you felt when you touched me.”
A few days after Catherine somehow found them in Haven—a place three experts in
security had hidden carefully away from the world—she’d touched him and
understood that he’d lost someone, that he was worried sick about someone.

She never went there again and neither did anyone
else.

But now it had to come out.

He grabbed Catherine’s hand, barely noticing Mac
and Jon exchanging looks. “Read me,” he whispered urgently, clasping her hand
hard between his trembling hands. “Tell me where she is. What’s happening to
her. I got a call for help and I don’t know where she is and,
Oh God
. . .”

Nick’s throat closed tight. Nothing more could come
out. He clung to Catherine’s hand as if it were a lifeline. A raging river was
tumbling him over and over down an endless descent into hell and only her touch
could make sense of it.

Catherine was shaking her head slowly, eyes on his,
face sad. “I am so sor—” She stopped, breathed out, tilted her head. Even though
she was looking straight at him, her eyes grew distant as if watching something
a thousand yards away. Her grip tightened, her hand warming up until it felt red
hot in his cold ones.

“Elle,” she whispered and Nick broke out in a cold
sweat. He was shaking, could barely breathe.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely.

“What?” Catherine blinked.

“Elle, Elle,
Elle
,” he
shouted.

Mac’s jaw tightened. Nick didn’t give a shit. Mac
could shove it up his ass if it bothered him that Nick was shouting at his wife.
Because Catherine knew something and something was better than what he had right
now, which was a shitload of nothing. No intel, no idea where she was, nothing
but ashes in his hand and his head exploding from the need to get to Elle as
fast as humanly possible. Wherever the fuck she was . . .

He had no idea. But maybe Catherine did. He stepped
closer to Catherine and Mac took a step forward too. Jon grabbed Mac’s arm and
shook his head.

Well, fuck.

Nick wasn’t going to hurt Catherine. If Mac used
his brains instead of his dick, he’d know that. But Nick wasn’t letting
Catherine walk away without finding out what she knew, however the hell she knew
it.

“That’s the name you said.” Nick ground his teeth
at her blank look. “Just now. Just now you said Elle. That’s the name of my— The
name of the person I need to find.”

His throat was so tight. Just hearing her name
after so many years—he couldn’t think straight.

“Elle,” she said softly.

Nick nodded, like some big dumb animal that
couldn’t speak. Elle.

Catherine was focusing on him again. Her other hand
came up to clasp his in a tight grip, warm and soft. Something to cling to in
the painful darkness of his terror.

“That’s the one I felt, right, Nick? The one you
lost?”

He nodded again. Tried to speak. Failed.

“You care about her.” It wasn’t a question.

Oh God, yes.
He nodded
again, jerkily. Found his voice. “Where is she? She needs me. Now. I have to get
to her, right now.” He was vibrating with tension, ready to take off anywhere
Catherine said.

There was sadness on Catherine’s beautiful face.
She tightened her clasp. “Oh Nick. I’m so sorry. It doesn’t work that way.”

An icy chill worked its way through his veins and
he realized he’d been subconsciously counting on Catherine to do her woo-woo
stuff. Point him in Elle’s direction so he could race to her. “Then how the hell
does it work? Can you tell me that?” He stepped even closer to Catherine, right
in her face, his voice rising.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jon grab Mac’s
arm again. Not even Jon could stop Mac if Mac didn’t want to be stopped, but Mac
got himself under control. Nick wasn’t going to hurt Catherine, but he
was
going to question her.

He was staring wildly down into Catherine’s eyes,
as if he could will the information on Elle’s whereabouts out of her, drag it
out of her through her skin if necessary. But staring was an act of aggression.
They’d been taught that, at the beginning of their careers as soldiers. Body
language had been a big thing. How to silently threaten, how to pass unnoticed,
how to reassure.

He didn’t want to scare Catherine.

With a wrench, Nick turned his gaze away from
Catherine and stared blindly at the room. Their war room, they called it. With
everything you needed to go on an op. Just as long as you knew where you were
going, of course.

As soon as he knew where to head, Nick was going to
grab Jon, drag him to their ultralight stealth helo, and take off.

Nick was the team driver. If it was anything that
traveled over land, Nick could drive it as fast as it could go over any terrain.
Jon was the pilot. Their little helo could make it anywhere in the Continental
U.S. It was the dead of night. Little Bird could silently land in any private
airfield without detection. They could fuel up and be gone before anyone knew
they were there. They’d done it before.

Nick didn’t even want to think what would happen if
Elle were OUTCONUS. Didn’t want to go there. Couldn’t.

She’d called out to him. That had been a distress
signal he’d heard in his head, loud and clear. Surely there was—was a
range
for that sort of thing? Surely he wouldn’t have
heard it if she were in Europe or Africa?

The signal he’d got was loud and absolutely urgent.
She was in danger
right now,
and if she was across
an ocean she was fucked and,
oh God
. . .
He couldn’t wrap his head around that thought.

Elle dead, Elle dying . . . he couldn’t
do this. Simply couldn’t.

Catherine’s sympathetic face—he couldn’t look at
that either. His eyes roamed the big room, partly to distract himself from that
awful panicky desperation that gripped him, so he could function on some basic
level, and partly to see if something in their gear-packed room could help.