12. Chapter 12 #2
The cold metal table sucked the heat from my body as leather restraints cut into my wrists and ankles. The room smelled like antiseptic and burning flesh. It was my flesh. Marlowe loomed over me, his eyes clinical and curious as he pressed the red-hot brand against my shoulder.
“You’re special, Riley,” he’d murmured, his voice gentle even as the metal sizzled against my skin. “This mark identifies you as mine. A perfect subject.”
My screams echoed off the sterile walls, the pain and shame excruciating, consuming, and absolute. He was marking me like livestock, claiming ownership. Something broke inside me.
”I’ve waited years for someone with your potential,” he continued conversationally, lifting the brand to examine his work. The scent of charred skin filled my nostrils. “We’re going to accomplish extraordinary things together.”
Frost coated my mind as I clawed my way back to the present. Each breath came in shallow pants, and cold sweat slicked my skin. I was back in that facility, strapped down, helpless as they cut into me while I lay awake and paralyzed, as they modified me—
Another blast of cold hit me as Jamie’s hand found mine, warm and solid. His face swam into focus, eyes narrowed. A quiet roar filled my ears, and the implant thudded with icy energy. Like a switch being flipped, my racing thoughts slowed, replaced by analytical clarity.
I was about to have a panic attack, and the device was redirecting my neural pathways and enhancing logical processing. My breathing steadied as it worked to stabilize my emotions and separate my mind from the horror I’d suffered getting the fucking thing put into me.
The brutal irony wasn’t lost.
There were four operatives plus Marlowe, two armed with modified AR-15s and likely carrying secondary weapons. They were enhanced and dangerous, and our position offered concealment but limited escape routes. A direct confrontation would cause casualties on both sides.
The implant spit out its analysis. Evasion possible if motionless and silent. Chance of injury or death high if engagement occurs.
Jamie hovered next to me, and we crouched and watched them through the trees.
Marlowe paused on the trail, less than fifteen feet from where we hid. One of his operatives approached, and I strained to catch their words.
“...energy fluctuations increasing as we approach the site, Commander,” the operative reported, gazing at a device.
Marlowe nodded. “We’re close. Any sign of Blackthorne and her partner?”
“No, Commander. But our sources say she’s in Yellowstone again.” My hands clenched. He was keeping tabs on me.
Marlowe smiled. “Good.”
The group passed our hiding spot, and tension eased in my shoulders as the last operative moved past our position.
Then she stopped, her head lifting as her nostrils flared. The female shifter turned slowly, scanning the forest, her movements fluid.
“Commander,” she called, voice unnaturally flat. “I smell something sulfuric.”
Beside me, Mangus tensed. A low growl built in his chest, vibrating against my side. Athena’s crimson eyes narrowed to slits.
Marlowe turned back, his eyes sharpening as he swept the forest. “You two, spread out and find the source.” The two operatives in front peeled off.
Another operative stopped next to Marlowe. “There are several volcanic vents in this area. The smell may be coming from that.”
Marlowe’s head cocked in a gesture that made my spine go straight. There was something unnatural about the movement.
“No. It seems we have company,” he murmured.
The hellhounds trembled beside me, waiting for a signal. Freda and Jamie held their weapons ready as the female shifter stalked closer. She looked up from the ground right into Athena’s red eyes. And Mangus lunged.
He hit the woman like a freight train, a hundred-plus pounds of supernatural muscle slamming into her chest. The operative went airborne, hitting a lodgepole pine six feet away.
I stood, my sidearm sweeping up. Jamie broke left, firing twice in rapid succession at the operative who’d swung his rifle toward us.
Freda was already moving, her body low and fluid, closing the distance on the third operative, who was running back toward us with terrifying speed as Gunnar stalked from behind a boulder.
The troll grabbed the approaching operative, his massive hands closing around the man’s tactical vest, and swung him at the ground. The man went for his gun, but Gunnar ripped it out of his hands and punched him in the throat.
“Left!” Freda shouted. I pivoted. The woman Mangus had charged raised her rifle.
I didn’t hesitate, firing twice, center mass.
She grunted but didn’t go down. Shit! She wore a bulletproof vest. I adjusted and aimed at her head but missed.
She fired a round, spraying the trees, and I felt a sharp sting across my thigh before I brought both hands up, took better aim, and fired.
The rifle fell as her left cheek blossomed with blood.
Athena’s white fur caught the edge of my vision.
She pinned the operative Gunnar had hit in the neck to the ground, her crimson eyes glowing in the dim forest. Her mandible widened with an audible click, the lower half of her face opening like a trapdoor.
She clamped her jaws around the operative’s head and snapped them shut.
A wet crunch echoed through the forest.