32. Chapter 32
Riley
A bullet hit the concrete wall behind me. Another zipped past my ear and punched into a sedan with a metallic thunk.
I ducked low, weaving between a minivan and a pickup, keeping the vehicles between me and the ogre’s line of sight. Glass shattered somewhere to my left, and the acrid smell of gunfire filled the air.
“Stop running, you stupid bitch,” Garrett snarled. “Or I’ll put one in your spine.”
My lungs burned as the implant sent another zap through my system, trying to keep me upright and moving. “Quit shocking me,” I muttered at the thing. I already knew I needed better cover.
An engine purred to life behind me, and headlights flicked on, sweeping across the garage. A black SUV with tinted windows pulled out and stopped in the middle of the aisle.
Adrian Marlowe stepped out, and my breath seized as I frantically glanced between him and the ogre. He looked the same as he had in Yellowstone, except he wore charcoal pants and a white button-down instead of tactical gear. His eyes found me and lit with satisfaction and pleasure.
Then he turned to the ogre, his face cold. “Why are you shooting at one of my assets?”
“That little asset almost killed my partner–”
Marlowe fired, and the bullet struck Garrett in the throat, just below the jaw. His massive hand came up, and he staggered, took two steps forward, then collapsed.
The garage went quiet as the ogre’s blood spread in a dark pool underneath him, reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead.
I dropped behind a sedan’s bumper, breathing hard.
My knees pressed into cold concrete. The dead ogre lay twenty feet away, one arm outstretched, his fingers curled.
I gritted my teeth against the fear rising in my throat.
“Riley. Come out, sweetheart. We need to go.”
Marlowe’s voice carried across the garage, calm and mockingly intimate. He hadn’t moved from beside the SUV. The silencer on his Glock gleamed dully under the lights.
“Let me help you.” His voice carried that same horrifyingly reasonable tone he’d used in Roswell, only now it held Compulsion energy. The throbbing pain from the burns kept me grounded as my implant hummed, running threat assessments, escape scenarios, and survival probabilities.
I inched forward as quietly as I could, keeping low, and pulled the large gun out of the dead ogre’s hand as Marlowe turned in a slow circle. Then I eased back behind a truck, the thing feeling slick and heavy in my hand.
“I won’t force you, but Wilson and his people are coming.”
I risked a peek around the bumper. He stood exactly where he’d been, his Glock held loosely at his side. His head tilted slightly, as if listening for me, the planes of his face sharp and his eyes searching.
“I’ve made improvements to the implant design.” He took a step forward, casual, unhurried. “Better integration, and more precise control. You’ll be able to access your abilities without the side effects of burnout. No more nosebleeds, headaches, or arrhythmia.”
Marlowe moved toward me, and I raised the gun and fired. The recoil jarred my burned wrist, and I bit down on a scream. The bullet took a chunk out of the concrete pillar behind him, and he ducked. A fluid, almost lazy movement, then he straightened with a low chuckle.
“There she is.” The pleasure in his voice made my skin crawl. “That’s one of the things I love about you, pet. You never quit.”
It was time to go. I scooted around a minivan, heading toward the next row of cars, my breathing shallow. The implant sent another pulse, trying to stabilize the tremor in my hands.
“I’ve thought about you every day since Roswell.
” Marlowe’s footsteps echoed as he moved parallel to me, staying visible, keeping his distance.
Playing with me. “Do you know how rare you are? A Polymorph with your particular combination. Your Resonance and ability to manipulate electricity. Your brains and training. And your mother’s gift. ”
Dread curdled my stomach as he moved.
“We’re going to upgrade your chip, and I’m going to polish you up.” His voice followed me as I slipped between a delivery truck and a sedan. “I’ve written new code. You belong to me, and we could do so much together.”
The bond flared against my sternum, and relief and fear flooded my system. Conall was close. Headlights swept across the garage’s entrance, and a black Range Rover swung into the aisle, moving fast. Behind it, an Escalade.
I kicked off the oversized shoes, my bare feet hit cold concrete, and I sprinted.
The bond roared in my chest, a live wire of relief, fury, and desperation. Marlowe turned when he heard me running.
“Riley, stop.” His voice sounded almost panicked, as if a parent watching his child run out into a busy road.
The Range Rover skidded twenty yards ahead, the passenger door swinging open before the vehicle fully stopped, and Parker leaned out, one hand on the doorframe, the other holding a gun.
His face was stone. “Move your ass, Bug!” he yelled as he fired at Marlowe. Shots echoed, deafening in the enclosed space. Marlowe grunted and ducked behind a support column.
I reached the Range Rover and dove through the open door. My shoulder hit Parker’s chest, and he caught me with one arm, hauling me inside. The stairway door flung open, and three guards spilled out. Marlowe turned and fired at the guards as he slid into his SUV.
Conall threw his Range Rover into reverse before Parker closed his door, the Escalade behind us reversing too. Guards in tactical gear, weapons raised, spilled into the garage from the north entrance as Marlowe backed out with us.
On the street, Conall followed the Escalade through a red light as I crawled into the backseat, accidentally planting my elbow in Parker’s face, and collapsed.
“Fucking hell.” Parker turned to look at me, sprawled out in the backseat, wearing oversized, bloody scrubs. “Where is the blood coming from? What’d they do to you?”
I couldn’t answer. My lungs couldn’t find air, and the bond was hot in my chest. Conall’s fury and fear and desperate love washed over me in waves, blurring my vision. I pressed my forehead against the seat and shook.
“I’m alright,” I whispered, my implant working to steady me.
Conall sucked in air through his nose and pulled in his energy. The pressure around my heart loosened, and my shaking slowly stopped. Conall’s jaw was tight, and when he assessed me in the rearview mirror, his eyes were pure gold.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to because I could feel his rage and relief.
Parker turned and stared back at Marlowe in the black SUV as we drove away. “That asshole’s providing cover. Why?”
He turned back to look at me, and when he took in my pant legs, he stilled. Gently, he reached back and pulled up the material.
“We need to get her to Sawyer’s Packhouse. She’s got second-degree burns on her ankles, and she looks like she’s going into shock.”
Conall glanced back at me through the rearview mirror, his jaw clenching. Then he changed lanes.
Parker pulled out his phone. “We have her, but she’s a fucking mess.” He paused and let out a mean chuckle. “Yeah, Castillo, I know. Nothing new. We’re heading to your Pack house in Vegas. Will you give your people a heads up? Yeah, I’ll tell her.”
I closed my eyes and tried to get my breathing under control as images flashed through my head.
Wilson, Langston, the dead ogre. That horrible doctor shoving his fingers inside me, Marlowe and his corrupted Compulsor energy and terrifying possessiveness.
The warm, solid bond was the only thing keeping me from coming apart.
“Stay with me, love. We’re almost there. We’ll get you cleaned up and a few pain meds in you. Just stay with us,” Conall soothed as he sped through the exclusive neighborhood.
Sawyer’s Pack house emerged from the darkness, a sprawling modern home set amid lush desert landscaping.
I’d been here once before, after my mandatory registration test. Malcolm had been alive then.
He’d met us in the courtyard, defied Conall when I’d asked for help, and carried me, injured and bleeding, inside.
The memory sat heavy. Parker stepped out and met the house administrator. “Hello, Michael. As Friend of the Pack, I claim my right to seek aid on behalf of Riley Blackthorne.”
Michael was a competent, efficient shifter with silver hair and an easy manner. “Welcome. We recognize and honor your claim. I just got off the phone with Alpha Castillo. What happened now?”
Conall opened the back passenger door and gently cupped my face, thumbing the bruise on my cheek from Wilson backhanding me. “Can you walk?”
“Yes. I’ve never been so happy to see you,” I whispered.
“Never mind. I need to hold you.” He buried his nose in my neck, then lifted me in his arms and carried me across the courtyard. “Hello, Michael. Thank you for taking us in.”
The cool night air caressed my face as I gazed up at the desert sky, salted with stars. My ankles throbbed, the pain returning in full force now that the adrenaline was fading. But gratitude washed through me. I had people who loved me, and they’d come.
Behind us, the Escalade’s headlights swept across the house as Jamie pulled in. The engine cut, doors slammed, and Jamie’s voice carried across the courtyard.
“Jesus, what’d those assholes do to her now?”
Michael led us through the Pack house with its clean lines and warm interior. Malcolm had been the one to carry me the last time I was here. Conall’s arms tightened when he felt the sudden spike of grief through our bond.
The hallway was lined with beautiful Western oil paintings. Michael led us to the same bedroom I’d stayed in before, where a king-size bed layered with plush linens dominated the room, and sliding glass doors led out to a patio.
Conall set me down with excruciating gentleness. My feet dangled, not quite touching the floor, the movement pulling at the burns. I hissed through my teeth.