Legend of Michael (13 page)

Cassandra crawled to his side and handed him a bottle of vodka. “It’s not much of a pain reliever, especially not with your metabolism, but it’s something. Drink it down while I get some hot water. I know alcohol doesn’t have much of an effect on you, but, well, maybe if you drink a lot and fast, it’ll help some. It’s worth a try.”

He accepted the bottle of vodka as she scurried away despite his distaste for it.

With a low curse, he downed several long gulps, the clear liquor burning a path down his throat, the irony of Cassandra’s unknowing choice of the vodka not going without notice. It was as if his father were laughing from his grave, reminding Michael that no matter what he did, where he went, he was still born of his father’s blood, still of his birthright.

Cassandra returned and set the water on the night table, next to the supplies she’d laid out moments before. She drew a breath.

He sensed her hesitation and headed it off. “The sooner we do this,” he commented, “the sooner I can start healing.”

“I know,” she said heavily. “I know.”

He downed another long swallow of vodka, capped the bottle and handed it to her. There was no need to sterilize his wound; he didn’t get infections. “Did I ever tell you how much my father loved a good vodka martini?”

A look of shock crossed her face. “You never spoke about your father.”

Or the mother who hated his guts. Not that she’d said she hated him, but she didn’t write, didn’t call, didn’t give a damn where he was or what he did. Sounded like hate to him. Michael offered her the knife, and she reached for it, but he didn’t let go. Part of him wanted to try and explain why, but it wouldn’t change who, or what, he was. He released the knife and turned onto his side, somehow keeping the towel in place. “I talked about my father,” he said. “I remember precisely telling you he was a bastard.”

She pressed her hand over the towel. “I’ve got it. And yes, now that you mention it, I do remember the bastard description rather clearly.” She shifted to the matter at hand. “Okay. Let’s do this. I’m going to try to see the bullet first.” She lifted the towel for her inspection, and he felt her wiping and wiping at the wound, clearly trying to get a good visual. She let out a shaky breath, then, “I have to pull back the skin.”

“Do what you have to.” She didn’t wait for another invitation, and he jerked and grunted as the bullet scraped his rib.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “It’s deep, Michael. I can’t get to it. Not without cutting you.” She pressed the towel down on the wound and leaned over him, staring at him, desperation in her face. “Call for help. We need a doctor. You have to have a painkiller, Michael. I’m insisting.”

Using the last bit of energy he possessed, Michael reached up and laced his fingers through her hair, pulling her across his body. “Listen to me,” he said, locking eyes with her. “You
have
to do this. There is no one else.”

“A doctor—”

“The Renegades have only human doctors. Meaning they can’t wind-walk, and I can’t wait for them to take a plane. I need you to do this.”

She inhaled and shook her head, her bottom lip trembling. “I hate this so much.”

That made two of them, he thought, as he let her go and lay back down. His lashes lowered, his eyes heavy, the room suddenly spinning. He’d lost too much blood. How he’d kept going this long he didn’t know. He swallowed against the nausea threatening to overcome him.

“Ready?” she asked.

Grinding his teeth, Michael willed his stomach to calm. “Yes.”

She didn’t give him time to change his answer. Steel cut through his flesh, the acid burn of radiating pain following. He was stiff. Sweat gathered on his back, his face, his entire body. In a distant corner of his mind, he knew Cassandra was crying, but still she worked, still she did what had to be done. And he knew the second she hit the bullet; his body jerked despite his best efforts to remain still, and he barely contained a scream as pain splintered through nerve endings.

“I’m sorry,” Cassandra whispered a minute before he felt the blade slicing through his skin again and her finger digging inside him. Little pulses of light spread before his eyes, into his head, into his limbs, a moment before darkness pressed down on him. Panic formed—he never panicked. In his mind, he clawed through the darkness. If he died now, who would protect Cassandra? But it was too late—everything simply went black.

***

Hours after completing Michael’s surgery, Cassandra sat on the edge of the bed, holding a cool rag to his head, scared for him, unsure what to do. She’d seen the GTECH healing process many times, which ranged from tingling skin for a small cut, to violent muscle spasms for more intense injuries. But never, ever, had she seen the kind of torture Michael’s body was putting him through. He was burning up with fever, his muscles jerking and spasming. She could see them pulsing beneath his skin.

She rested her head on his chest, overwhelmed with worry. How much more could his heart endure of this kind of pain? What if the bullet had been poisonous?

She had to call for help, and the only person she knew to call was Caleb.
Cell phone
, she thought. Michael had to have one. Maybe it would have Caleb’s number in it. She ran her hand over his pockets, and sure enough, another super slim phone was in his front pocket.

“Yes,” she whispered, retrieving the phone and quickly tabbing through the saved numbers, her heart stopping as she saw one noted as “Adam.” Her stomach clenched at that name, and unable to stop herself she thumbed through his call log. Her stomach rolled this time. He’d called Adam recently. Her mind raced as she saw the date and time. Oh my God. He’d called him the night he’d visited her in that Washington restroom. He’d told her he had already left Zodius that night. Who had she talked to on the phone? Caleb or Adam?

Suddenly, Michael sat up, and Cassandra gasped at this unexpected action, certain he was about to grab the phone. Instead, he was on his feet and headed toward the bathroom, hunched over—sick, she realized. She raced after him.

She found him hugging the toilet, throwing up. Cassandra grabbed the doorjamb, forced herself not to go to him, despite the instincts that told her to.

She held the phone, considering a call to Caleb again. Call for help or wait it out? She watched as Michael threw up over and over, so sick—too sick. Her mind raced, fear twisting her in knots. She’d heard Lucian clearly state that Michael was no longer with Zodius, but what if it was a setup? What if he hadn’t left at all? That should make her more ready than ever to call Caleb, but Lord help her, it didn’t. Because what would Caleb do to Michael if he were Zodius? And more importantly, why did she care?

Chapter 11

Michael gasped as he sat straight up, searching the room around him and realizing he was in a bathroom on the floor, and holy hell, Cassandra was, too. He sucked in air as he tried to gather his bearings.

“Easy,” she whispered, her hand going to his chest where he could feel the light spasms that meant his body was healing.

The scent of her—soft, female, deliciously Cassandra—insinuated into his nostrils and drew him back into the present. Memories rushed over him. The attack, the bullet. The hours hugging that damn toilet while Cassandra soothed him. “How long have I been out?”

“About six hours,” she said.

“Damn,” he murmured. He needed to call Caleb. He reached into his pocket and found it empty.

He started to push to his feet, and Cassandra grabbed his arm. “You were sick like I’ve never seen a GTECH sick before, Michael.”

“I’m fine,” he said, touching her cheek. Damn. “The healing sickness has been getting worse for a lot us. But once it’s over, it’s over.” He pushed to his feet, moved his arms, felt on the mend. “I’m nearly healed, just weak, and in need of food.” He offered Cassandra his hand and helped her up.

“What’s the cause of the reaction?” she asked. She looked tired, the pale skin beneath her eyes now dark from lack of sleep. “It was bad, Michael. I was afraid your heart couldn’t handle what your body was doing to you.”

“The doctors don’t know the cause, but they’re working on it. The best they’ve come up with is an extreme vitamin C deficiency that is much more severe during the healing process.” He patted his pockets. “Have you seen my phone?”

She stared at him a moment too long and then said, “Nightstand.”

Michael frowned, sensing something in her that wasn’t quite right, but shook it off and turned away, the need to communicate with Caleb winning his attention. He walked toward the bedroom, grimacing at the sight of the blood all over the bed, a mess he’d have to deal with before she checked out of the room.

Snagging the phone, he glanced at the clock, noting the early 6 a.m. He was about to hit the autodial for Caleb when Cassandra spoke from behind. “Which brother are you calling?”

Michael froze and turned to her, narrowing his gaze on her pale features. She looked fragile in an inexplicable way that drew his concern, because it was not natural for her. “What does that mean, Cassandra?”

“I was going to call for help, but I saw both Caleb’s and Adam’s numbers in your phone. I wasn’t sure which one would help you and which one would kill you.”

He inhaled at the implications of her words, anger climbing through his veins. “Maybe you should have just killed me yourself while you had the chance.”

“Maybe I should have,” she spouted back. “You called Adam the night you visited me. The night we… you know—in the restroom. Yet you told me you’d left Zodius. So who was I talking to on the phone? Adam or Caleb?”

There was nothing he could say to Cassandra that would matter. Instead, he punched Caleb’s autodial number on the phone and gave her his back.

The instant Caleb answered, he said, “We have problems.” He then relayed his concerns about the new weapon technology and the connection between Brock and Lucian. Finally, he said, “I need Sterling on the line. Cassandra needs to be reassured that I am a Renegade by someone who does not resemble your brother in voice or appearance…” He hesitated. “And ask him to confirm the last night I was undercover inside Zodius.”

He turned and found Cassandra still standing in the bathroom doorway. Their eyes collided, tension shimmering between them as he held out the phone. “For the record, that would be the night before we were in that hotel restroom. You looked at the caller ID wrong. A little too eager to condemn me, I guess. But talk to Sterling.” She knew Sterling from Area 51 and had heard he’d joined the Renegades. “Ask him whatever you want to. Get that peace of mind that I can’t give you.”

Distress washed over her delicate features. “I don’t know what you want from me, Michael.” Strain tightened the words. “How can you expect me not to question you?”

“I’d consider you a fool if you didn’t. Give your trust to Caleb, not me.” This was what he wanted. Her distrust, her hatred. A way to leave without hurting her. He’d get her to Sunrise City, and he’d leave. Get the hell away from her and keep her safe. Work for Caleb from a distance.

She inhaled and walked toward him, taking the phone.

“Hello,” she said. “Is this Sterling?” They exchanged a few words, her side of the conversation softly spoken, edged with discomfort. She ended the short talk and handed him back the phone.

Michael quickly confirmed that all was well with Caleb and ended the call. Preferring to save the confrontation with her over what was, or was not, between them for later—or better yet, never—he flipped the phone shut and shifted the conversation.

“Where is the bullet you removed?”

She shook her head. “Just like that? Where’s the bullet? We aren’t going to talk about why—”

“You needed to talk to Sterling,” he said coldly, “because you don’t trust me. And you
shouldn’t
trust me. End of conversation.”

Her jaw went slack. “That’s it?” She inhaled, then forced it out. “I see. I get it. This is business. Talk to Caleb. Get Red Dart. Leave the personal out of it. Except when you think it might convince me to help. Anything to achieve your mission. Right? Kiss me. Touch me. Oh yes. Why not just
fuck
me while you’re at it? Just to be sure I do what you want? Not necessary, by the way. I not only want to stop Adam, I intend to prove to you that you’re wrong about all of this. Adam has manufactured this Red Dart torture story to divide the Renegades from the government. So please! Leave personal out of this. Stop… with us. With our past. Stop everything but business.”

She started to turn away, and he knew he should let her go. He couldn’t. “Cassandra. Wait.” She paused, but didn’t face him. Seconds of tension-filled silence swelling between them before he softly said, “You are my Lifebond, and I would die for you.”

She half-turned, anger glistening in the depths of her green eyes. “I haven’t seen or heard from you in two years, Michael,” she said. “So don’t give me that Lifebond crap, because it obviously doesn’t mean anything. You’re a soldier, Michael. You would die for your cause, and I am a part of that cause right now—though I have no idea exactly what that is. You were with me at Groom Lake. Then you were gone. You were Zodius. Now you’re Renegade. I don’t know who you are. I wonder if you even know.” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Your damn bullet is in the glass by the bed. It’s green and spiked. Nothing like any bullet I’ve ever seen before. I’m taking a shower. I have a flight to catch.” She disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door.

***

Now probably wasn’t the time to tell her she wasn’t taking that flight, Michael thought, as the door shut. Nor was it the time to explain that he wasn’t worried about “who” he was; he was worried about “what” he was. No normal person could communicate with the wind. No normal person felt the sense of unnamed power growing within them as he did, that might or might not, be about the wind. Nor was any other Renegade tainted enough to endure the brutality of living among the Zodius as he had.

But this wasn’t a conversation for now, or ever, in his book. She hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten; she was beaten up over his return. Oh yeah, and the little detail about Adam wanting her dead. She was definitely not going anywhere but underground, inside the Renegades’ Sunrise City headquarters. She’d hate him for that, too. Which sucked. But it was good. She needed to hate him. Then he couldn’t forget himself and throw her on the bed and fuck her until there was no tomorrow, and then do some stupid shit like admit he loved her.

And on that happy fucking note, he walked to the room phone and called the lobby. His shirt was shredded, his pants bloody, and he couldn’t leave without replacing them, without drawing unwanted attention to himself. As expected, an offer of a big tip scored him the promise of new clothes. He added an order for orange juice and hung up. Feeding his metabolism so he could fully heal had to be high on the priority list, as did getting rid of all the blood—which unfortunately might include the mattress. That would all cost money, lots of it, but he didn’t really care about the cash. His money had been his father’s, after all, and what he hadn’t donated to charity, he now used to fund the Renegades. The Renegades couldn’t depend on their own personal resources or government funding. Not when Zodius was recruiting from private sources in any way necessary—be it promises of power or intimidation.

He reached for the green-spiked bullet in the glass beside him and went cold when he felt the rubbery texture. “Hello Mother,” he murmured, bitterly, all too familiar with the technology he held. Upon his father’s death, Michael had inherited a chunk of stock from the company, which still ground his nerves. He hadn’t spoken to either of his parents since the day he’d found out his father was selling to terrorist operations, and his mother had defended him. She’d sworn his father hadn’t known and sworn Michael was lying when he told her his father had admitted he had.

To the day his father had died, that man had been certain that Michael would come around, that Michael was a chip off the ole block. That the army would make a man out of him, and Michael would come back for the good life. Michael didn’t dispute that he was like his father—he felt it, accepted it, knew on some level he removed emotions and acted when necessary in ways others simply could not. He didn’t give that part of himself time to mature, to take root and grow into something that he would recognize as his father.

Michael had sold that stock like hot potatoes, but not without doing a good share of research on its operations and contacts. He’d seen the published data on the Green Hornets, including a number of manufacturing mishaps endured during testing that had gotten it—temporarily, it seemed—shelved. Oh yeah. Green Hornets came from Taylor, all right. Which meant his mother was the one supplying them to Adam. And if she took a clue from his father, she’d sell to the army as well. A bloodbath in the name of money was, after all, the Taylor legacy.

***

Cassandra stood under the hot spray of the shower, her hands pressed to her face, willing herself not to cry. More confused than she’d ever been in her life. Seeing Michael again was tearing her up inside. She was pretty sure she loved him and always had. And that probably made her insane.

She thought of his vow.
I would die for you
. She laughed bitterly into the water. Right. Like the man didn’t invite death to come for a visit every day of his life. She was his duty. It was all about duty to Michael. Exactly why soldiers equaled pain. Her mother had warned her, and she’d been right.

“Damn you, Michael,” she whispered, thinking of that day by the elevator when he’d been so damn devastatingly hot.
I should have walked away.
She pressed her hands to her face again and then mentally shook herself. This was not about her and Michael. This was about protecting the world from Adam. How had she ever walked away and pretended something so big didn’t exist?

She could only hope and pray that the accusations against her father were not true. He was all she had in this world. A little girl’s hero, one she’d felt she’d lost after the Area 51 nightmare. She’d believed he deserved a chance to mend the past, and she’d wanted to help. And she knew there was no choice but to imprison the Zodius. They were now terrorists against humanity. But she wasn’t okay with torturing them. That would be inhumane.

In their own way, all the GTECHs, Zodius and Renegade, were victims of the government’s experiment. Unwilling ones too. They’d been told they were getting immunizations. No, they didn’t deserve to be tortured, and her father wouldn’t be a part of that. Yet… in the back of her mind, she admitted seeing glimpses of a power-hungry man, desperate to save himself and regain his position of authority.

Resolve formed as she reached down and turned off the shower. She was getting on that flight this morning and copying that hard drive. If Red Dart was detailed on Brock’s computer, she could prove there was no torture mechanism. That easily. One hard-drive copy. Then, the Renegades and the government could refocus together on defeating Adam.

Cassandra reached for her towel and started to dry off when she suddenly froze with a realization. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her clothes were in the exterior room—
with Michael.
Great. Wonderful. She could put her bloodied clothes back on, which really did not appeal to her. Or she could walk out into the room to her suitcase with only a towel to cover her. Flashes of herself and Michael making love, their bodies pressed close, the wildness they’d shared, flickered in her mind. Oh no. The towel was really not a good idea. Her robe made sense. She’d simply tell Michael to grab it from the suitcase.

Quickly, Cassandra towel-dried her hair and cracked the door open. “Michael?” No answer. “Michael?” Still nothing. A fizzle of fear raced through Cassandra. Had he collapsed? Fallen ill again? “Michael!” She yanked the door open, holding the towel tight around her body, scanning, heart pounding a wicked beat against her breast bone. The sheets and blankets were gone, the mattress changed or maybe flipped.

Her gaze swept the room, and still, she did not see Michael. He was not lying on the floor, dead or dying, which was a relief, but neither was he anywhere in sight. Her breath lodged in her chest. Had he left without saying good-bye yet again?