Sacrifice the Wicked (8 page)

Her body wasn’t hers.

Simon invaded her space, her thoughts. Her peace. Claimed what he wanted, left her starved and wild in his wake.

Parker didn’t
like
men like him.

She’d never
met
a man like him.

Pulling her mouth away left her gasping, her lips damp from his kiss, tingling. He let her; she had no reason to think otherwise. As her eyes fluttered open, as she clung to his chest and tried to force her body to suck in the air his kiss had stolen, Simon stared down at her.

His gaze bored into hers, smoldering with the same inferno licking at every measure of restraint she possessed. Knowing. All too aware of the way her heart pounded in her chest.

“I’m going to give you one chance,” she whispered. One chance was all she had it in her to give. “Talk to me, Simon. Tell me what I need to know.” Holy God, was that her voice? So husky and inviting.

His fingers tightened around the back of her head. As if the very sound of her voice did to him what he did to her.

Not that it’d help. “Sorry.” For the first time since Simon Wells had walked into her office days ago, sincerity filled his quiet tone. “You really have to come with me.”

Parker’s kiss-swollen mouth quirked even as she firmed her grip on the gun. “Then we’re at an impasse, Mr. Wells.”

“You have no idea what saying my name like that does to me, do you?”

She blinked. “What?”

Simon’s smile uncurled slowly.

No
. Not this again. This time, this was her scene. She moved quickly, gave no warning; calculated it with the same precision she did everything else. As the gun dug into his sternum, as his hand tightened at her back, she pressed the fingers of her free hand together and jabbed them—hard—into the hollow of his throat.

His curse strangled, an unintelligible grunt.

She followed up with a barefoot stomp on his instep, spun out of his suddenly loosened grip as he grabbed for the back of the armchair with one hand, and ran like hell.

Parker wasn’t an idiot. He had height, reach, and weight on her, not to mention whatever powers that Salem gene bestowed on him. She sprinted for the hall leading to her bedroom—and the escape route out the window. She’d formulate a plan later, but for now . . .

For now, she had him on breaking and entering, assault and battery. If he pushed her, she’d add a self-defense plea to the mix and shoot him. Let the Church try and cover
that
up.

While they tried, she’d have him in interrogation.

A growl hard on her heels warned her it wouldn’t be easy. She didn’t think it would. As a hand closed on the back of her neck, Parker stopped abruptly—too fast, no warning—and slammed her elbow into his gut.

He took the hit. Took it as if her elbow was made of feathers and foam. Stepped into it, into her, slamming her sideways into the hallway wall. Shelves in her living room clattered. His free hand curled into her blouse front, shoved her hard against the wallpaper.

The back of her skull bounced off his palm.

His eyes gleamed, mere inches from her face. His features, already angled, were drawn taut, skin flushed. Mouth set.

She’d surprised him.

Good.

She shifted; he let go of her head to grab the wrist with the gun, pinning it to the wall above her head. “Stop it,” he ordered.

Like she would. “Breaking and entering, Mr. Wells,” she panted, too aware of his greater strength over hers. Of his leg shoved hard between hers, his hip pinning her tightly.

His rain-saturated clothing slowly soaked through her blouse. Warm and suddenly too intimate for the setting.

“The least of your concerns,” he growled back, jerking the damp strands from his forehead with a hard shake. Raw impatience. “Listen to me, you
need
to get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving my home on your say-so.”

His teeth flashed in a hard smile. “You’re a smart woman. You know I wouldn’t risk my neck if it weren’t important.”

She knew no such thing. Far as Parker could tell, Simon Wells was a certifiable lunatic.

But still, she hesitated.

“You’re important enough to kill,” he said quietly, slowly relaxing his grip in her collar. His fingers grazed her throat. Her collarbones. Smoothed over the sensitive curve where her shoulder met her neck. “Which makes you important enough to keep alive. Come with me, Parker.”

“Director,” she corrected coolly, even as her skin heated from the rasp of his callused fingertips. From the damp heat of his body against hers.

“Fine, if it’ll get you out of here.”

She shook her head. “I don’t trust you.”

Again, that edged smile. A flicker of approval. But before he could say anything, it vanished as his gaze snapped to the living room beyond the hall. His features settled into hard, dangerous lines. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Quiet.”

The intensity of the order drilled through her outrage.

Her pulse kicked hard.

His mouth thinned. Anger, she read that much. Concern? “Listen to me,” he whispered. “There are three men circling this complex.”

“What?” Her voice slid up an octave.

“You know how you aren’t a field agent?” He turned, slid his hand against the back of her now clammy blouse and snagged her wrist with the other hand. Almost as if they were dancing. Only she couldn’t pull away. “I am, and I’m talking to you
as
an agent. Move your ass, Director.”

Was he telling the truth? Aside from the continual rumble of summer thunder and pattering rain, she couldn’t hear anything but her own heartbeat. And his.

The holster carrying his gun—illegally worn, now that she’d suspended him—bumped her elbow as he leveraged her past her office. “Clearly, the strain is getting to you,” she said evenly.

He didn’t rise to the bait. “You have no idea. Is there a fire escape out your window?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good.” His footsteps didn’t so much as rasp on the colorful runner protecting the hall’s hardwood flooring. Hers dragged.

Parker dug her heels in. His grip on her wrist twisted; she winced. “This is absurd. You need help. Whatever GeneCorp did to you, Simon—”

His face shuttered. The light flickered behind them.

“Time’s up.”

With a low, wheezing drone, the electricity guttered to dead silence.

Thick black night corralled them in utter darkness.

T
his was his fault.

Simon followed Parker’s gaze as she whirled in the dark hallway, her face a bone-white shadow of surprise in what little lightning residue crept through the dark hall.

He couldn’t give her time to adapt. Not this time. Her name on his list proved even the Mission director was fair game. And he wasn’t the only cleanup agent on the roster.

There weren’t that many operatives out there yet, but taking on three by himself wasn’t his idea of a good time. They’d already hit the power grid in the block; not even streetlights remained visible.

“Wait!” she whispered. She took a step back toward the lamplight—and the bull’s-eye target it’d make of her.

He caught her by the shoulders, fingers tight in her blouse. “Leave the cat,” he said tightly. “They’re not after him.”

“It’s not—”

“Now!” he snapped. As his senses unfolded, as the individual bodies pinged on his witch-born radar, he dragged her back further down the hall.

Parker’s mouth flattened into a hard white line. She caught up with his urgency—and to her credit, she caught on fast. Saying nothing, she pushed past him, a red-capped shadow.

Although only an administrative missionary, she had serious spirit. He liked that about her.

He liked a lot of things about her. Her copper red hair, always so tightly wound. Her midnight blue eyes, the way she thrust out her jaw when things didn’t fall into place. Her red lipstick, sultry as hell and one more plate in her polished armor.

The sweet curve of her ass in the jeans he hadn’t thought she owned.

Amid the wild rush of adrenaline, the thought slammed home in a surge of heat.

Focus, damn it.

She crossed the room, her stride long. Her feet bare. Lightning flashed outside, streamed through the flirty sheer curtains he’d never have expected from the uptight director. It painted her bedroom in fluorescent purple and blue, sank it back into darkness made all the worse for the memory of it.

Simon knuckled at his eyes. “Move it,” he ordered quietly, shutting the door as softly as he could. She’d put a lock on it.

Paranoid?

In this case, just paranoid enough.

He slid the metal catch into place, hurried across the room as she forked right.

She ignored him, flinging open her closet and kneeling to rifle through God only knew what. Simon growled a curse.

The look she shot him might have been censure. He wouldn’t doubt it. But spots of color rode her cheeks, and fear shimmered in the depths of her usually so steady gaze.

Maybe there was hope for her yet.

He twitched the curtains aside. Rain splattered the window, hammered the metal fire escape clinging to the building wall. Contrary to his earlier assertion, nothing moved outside, though a muffled series of thuds faded beneath a wild clap of bone-rattling thunder.

“Let’s
go,
Director.”

“I need shoes,” she half snarled, waving sneakers in one hand and her Beretta in the other. Simon flung aside the curtain and unlatched the window. It opened easily.

Rain splattered the brick windowsill, blew a fragrant blend of wet cement and acid through the room. He braced one hand against the glass over his head, leaned out far enough to study the dark path through the fire escape.

It was a long way down.

“Ready,” she breathed behind him. Simon turned. Offered a hand by rote and raised a surprised eyebrow when a wild fork of lightning turned the room bright as daylight.

Somehow, she’d managed to pack a bag. It hung over her shoulder, a simple canvas rig. Her bare feet now sported laced sneakers, and a black neoprene jacket covered her blouse, hiding the curves he’d had too much time to admire.

“Always prepared, huh, Director?”

If looks could obliterate, he’d be a pile of ash on the carpet. Thunder swallowed her response, but Simon bet on a talk on their immediate future.

Then again, he’d bet on a whole lot more than talking, but not if he didn’t get her out of this net right fucking now.

Biting back a hard little smile, he gestured gallantly to the open window. “After you.” The door creaked as something—someone—tested the lock. Simon’s humor vanished. “Now,” he added, wrapping his hands around her waist and all but spilling her onto the slippery metal platform.

The metal groaned beneath her sudden weight. Telling enough to anyone listening. And Salem Project operatives weren’t stupid.

Under the cover of the storm’s rage, the door exploded open behind him, lock tearing from the doorjamb. Splinters rained into the room.

A man in black plasteel body armor followed.

“Move!” Simon yelled, but he didn’t have time to draw his gun. The operative came at him so fast, Simon couldn’t even gauge any details about him. Black-clad, face covered, build lean and lethal. Gun ready. That was enough.

He lurched to the side, grabbed the man’s gun hand, and yanked him into the room, hard enough to hear his shoulder pop. The operative stumbled, grunting, but twisted sideways. Simon cursed as the motion snapped tension through his side, pulling at his wounds.

Who was he? One of his own generation?

A newer breeding pool?

Three operatives.
Nobody’s working alone.
Fisher’s warning repeated itself in his brain as Simon caught the fist flung at him, rotated his grip, and rammed the agent face-first into the window frame under his own momentum. The whole wall shuddered.

The operative righted himself but staggered. Simon danced away from the boot lashed back in lethal intensity. It grazed his shin. Too close.

As Simon wrenched his gun free, his opponent turned, hands splayed. Giving up?

Simon hesitated.

No. It didn’t matter. Setting his jaw, he pulled the trigger, twice in quick succession. He didn’t even stop to check as the man dropped mid-lunge, skidded face-first on the carpet.

Known or not, the operative made his choices.

And Simon had just sealed his own.

He half dove out of the window, adrenaline pounding in his veins. Another impression in his awareness suddenly changed direction; as if Simon were the center of a compass, he felt it—saw it—alter course. And fast.

Nothing broke stealth like gunfire.

Rain sluiced down the fire escape, making the rails treacherous. He caught sight of Parker’s soaked form two platforms below him, scaling the escape as if she did it every day. She’d hit the ground first; he still had two floors to go.

Humor skated through apprehension.

Faded as a shadow detached from the corner of the building beneath her.

“Parker!” he roared.

She looked up, pale features furrowed with intense concentration.

Only to curse in mingled surprise and anger as the operative grabbed the bag across her shoulders and plucked her, kicking and fighting, from the ladder. Her feet flashed, reflectors on her sneakers throwing back glints of silver. One collided with the operative’s knee.

The man staggered but held tight.

Simon holstered his gun, snapped it in place. Didn’t stop to consider the alternative. Seizing the railing in both hands, he vaulted over the edge and hit free fall. His stomach launched into his chest. Vertigo slammed through his head, wrenching his senses lopsided, even as his feet scraped against the operative’s shoulders. Slid down his armored back.

Silver glinted in a flash of lightning; a metal edge colored blue, and fire seared up his side as Simon hit the ground, took the operative down with him and felt the impact all the way to his bones. He cursed savagely as pain wrecked every nerve from heels to hips. But the operative hit the ground tangled with him, sending Parker sprawling in the opposite direction. The knife flashed as it buried itself in shadow.