Edge of Mercy (Sugar & Vice #3)

Chapter One

. . . Nowhere is the danger of empathy more greatly illustrated than by the recent events in British Columbia: the sabotage

and jailbreak at our Polaris Empathic Research Institute; the violent deaths of so many of Dr. Nichols’s valuable scientists;

the Vancouver ambush on Empath Initiative director Holt Traynor, who remains missing; and the subsequent raid on one of Stone

Solutions’ Canadian offices.

There are those who would claim these actions illustrate only the danger of corrupted empathy; who would protest the three empaths who carried out these actions were previously pacifists incapable of harm. But

we must remember that every pacifist empath is a ticking bomb with the potential to transform into a superhuman sadist, like the three corrupted empaths

we now must catch.

The events in British Columbia will not go unmet. We cannot tell the public the entire truth about empaths, but we will secure

its unwavering support for our institution nonetheless. The empaths have their paranormal abilities, but we have opposed them

since the emergence and are stronger and far more dangerous than they will ever anticipate.

They will find themselves cornered, captured and contained.

To that end, I’m coming out of retirement to handle this personally.

—Excerpt from a confidential internal memo at Stone Solutions

If Evan Grayson had been asked if it’d be hard to catch three corrupted empaths who’d raised hell in BC, he would’ve said

no. Didn’t matter that one of the empaths was his little brother, or that another had been a sunshiny therapist, or that the

third looked real cute in an oversized hoodie. Grayson was the Dead Man: an elite anti-empathy defense without emotion or

attachment; a perfectly engineered empath hunter, backed by the world’s most powerful anti-empathy institutions and uniquely

capable of finding and neutralizing any empath.

Or at least, he was supposed to be. But maybe that third empath had scrambled Grayson’s good sense in the back seat of a truck

and left his dick running the show, because here he was, days later, fully unable to stop shit.

“Are you kidding me?” Briony St. James’s voice came through Grayson’s Bluetooth earpiece as he tore down the Bellevue street,

pushing the rental Prius to its limits. “How did they get past the new security?”

“I don’t know yet.” Grayson swerved past a Hyundai, which honked angrily at him. “But they set off alarms on thirteen of the

twenty-two floors. They got in and they’re not hiding.”

The Prius’s tires screeched as he made a sharp right turn into the parking lot and blew past the familiar sign.

STONE SOLUTIONS

DEFENDING AMERICAN MINDS

“Of all possible targets, they went for the flagship empathy defense facility. Again. Why? What is still here that could possibly be worth the risk?” There was a honk in St. James’s background now. “Though I

suppose it won’t do us much good to catch them when your brother took out the Polaris empath prison.”

“Oh, I’ll find somewhere new to stash them,” Grayson promised as he sliced through the parking lot and pulled the car right

up to the building’s front curb. “And I’m not playing nice this time. I’m gonna find a dungeon and throw away the key.”

“Hey,” St. James said in his ear. “That is Reece you’re talking about.”

“And he’s getting chained him up right next to Ms. Falcon and Alex.” Grayson cut the engine. “You gonna catch your homicidal

baby brother or mine?”

“We’ll draw straws. Winner also gets to nab the killer therapist.”

The line dropped. As he stepped from the car, St. James was already turning into the parking lot, in her boyfriend’s borrowed

Corolla from the looks of it, though in fairness, it wasn’t like the past few weeks had left her any time to replace the Charger

she’d driven as a detective on the Seattle police force. A moment later, she’d pulled behind the rental and leaped out to

join him.

They drew their weapons in unison. Stone Solutions’ sliding glass front doors parted for them—unlocked already, not a great sign at this hour—and they stepped together into the cavernous lobby.

The white leather furniture seemed particularly bright at night, flanked by glass coffee and end tables all topped with an array of magazines.

The three flat-screen televisions on the wall were currently dark, the lobby’s lights reflecting off the glass frame of the large poster that read We Support S.B. 1437: Protect American Minds.

“Didn’t you used to have a tracker on your truck?” St. James had automatically taken point, putting herself in the most exposed

and dangerous position. “Why haven’t we used that to find them?”

“This is your brother the car wizard we’re talking about.” Grayson tried to subtly shift in front of her and make himself

the bigger target. “My tracker didn’t make it fifteen minutes before he found it—”

“Evan, get the hell behind me and stay there,” St. James snapped. “Maybe all the normal girls and boys swoon for that overprotective

tough guy act, but save it for people who can’t kick your ass.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Grayson muttered, falling back a step to cover her six.

They crossed the Stone Solutions lobby on near-silent feet. Grayson kept his senses on high alert to catch any movement, noises,

or out-of-place scents, especially blood. But all was quiet.

Too quiet.

St. James suddenly nudged him. “The elevators.”

Grayson glanced over to the elevator bank and the five sets of silver doors. Above each door, the illuminated sign was stuck

on 20, and none of the elevators were moving. “Floor twenty is Research and Development.”

“Oh, perfect,” St. James said grimly. “Exactly where we want a bunch of corrupted empaths loose.”

Suddenly, all five elevators began to descend.

St. James swore as she and Grayson stumbled back, both cocking their guns and raising them.

The lobby was silent save for the hum of the moving elevators. Grayson watched the floors tick down as the elevators passed 10, then 5, then 2. Then the elevator doors were opening all at once.

“Get down!”

But St. James hadn’t needed to say it; Grayson was already at her side, both of them diving behind the receptionist’s desk

as security guards poured out of the elevator with bellowing roars.

“I think we found the extra security. Some of them, at least.” St. James was on hands and knees, crawling around the side

of their desk shelter to peer around the corner. “Jesus Christ. Are all of them thralled?”

Grayson chanced a look around the desk’s other side. Eight security guards were rampaging through the lobby like a uniform-clad

wrecking ball. One guard yanked the Protect American Minds poster right off the wall and swung it like a hammer into the nearest television, shattering the screen. Another guard sent

a white leather chair smashing into the wall, while two more guards picked up the glass coffee table together, swung it back,

and then launched it straight into the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.

Grayson and St. James both ducked back behind the desk as the window shattered. “They’re going to find us.” St. James had

her gun out in front of her. “Do we dive in?”

Grayson readied his own weapon. “On your mark.”

St. James nodded once. “Now.”

They burst out together from behind the desk. Eight heads turned in their direction, but Grayson and St. James had the advantage

of surprise and clear minds. Two guards rushed straight for Grayson, but he was faster, blocking one with an elbow and landing

a right cross punch to the other that sent him into the wall.

On his left, St. James had squared off with a man twice her weight, ducking an oncoming blow and following it up with a kick that put him on the ground hard enough Grayson heard his skull hit the tiles. “Evan.”

Grayson levered an oncoming guard over his shoulder and into the white leather chair behind him, then turned in her direction.

St. James had planted her foot on the guard’s chest. “Look at him.”

Grayson’s gaze went to the guard. Then he paused. Under the raging fury, there was a spark of clarity in the man’s eyes.

“Is he not actually thralled?” St. James was staring into the guard’s face. “Just pissed off?”

“Projection?” But over the din, Grayson heard more engines pulling into the parking lot.

St. James must have heard it too, her gaze going to the shattered windows. “The cavalry’s here.”

“It’ll be a SWAT team. Or three,” Grayson said.

“Come on then.” She was already running, leaving the guard on the floor. “We’ve got to find the empaths first.”

A different guard lunged after her. Grayson sent him staggering across the lobby and caught up to her.

But as they approached the elevator bank, he heard a sound from down the hall. “This way.” He sprinted in the direction of

the noise, past the conference rooms, and burst through the door of the first-floor security room.

“Don’t shoot!”

Grayson drew up short, so suddenly that St. James bumped into him from behind.

A familiar-looking security guard was cowering under the desk, knees drawn to his chest. “Don’t shoot,” the guard said again,

rocking back and forth. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, don’t shoot. Please. Please. I’m so scared. I’m so scared.”

It took Grayson a moment, but then he placed him: Wayne Smith, the head of security who’d once caught Reece in the director’s office in Research and Development, back when Reece had still been a violence-averse pacifist incapable of self-defense.

He’d been rough with Reece, leaving him bruised and bleeding before shoving him in a storage closest.

Grayson had had some opinions about that. And while the pacifist empaths couldn’t hit back, the Dead Man sure could.

St. James moved past Grayson into the room. She crouched down, glancing at the lanyard around Smith’s neck. “Mr. Smith.” She

gripped his shoulder. “Mr. Smith, what’s going on?”

Smith didn’t seem to hear her. “I’m so scared,” he whimpered. “So scared.”

Grayson joined her on the floor next to Smith. “This is the guard that roughed your brother up before.”

St. James frowned. “And he’s still employed here?”

“He wasn’t supposed to be,” Grayson said. “But Stone Solutions and I haven’t been seeing eye to eye for a while.” He leaned

in and touched Smith’s face.

Smith startled and turned toward him. His pale blue eyes were wide and his skin blanched and clammy. He seemed overwhelmed

with fear, but he was looking right at them now.

Grayson drew his hand back sharply. “He’s not thralled either.”

“Mr. Smith,” St. James addressed the man urgently. “Can you talk to me?”

Smith swallowed. His shoulders were heaving, but he’d stopped muttering. Grayson quickly moved out of his eyeline; if Smith

regained coherence, he’d recognize the Dead Man, and that sure as hell wasn’t gonna help that fear.

“Mr. Smith,” St. James said again.

Smith’s eyebrows drew together. “Who are you?”

“My name is Briony St. James,” she said. “I’m here to help. Can you tell me what happened?”

Smith was breathing hard. He drew his legs in tighter. “There was a break-in.”

“Did you see who?” St. James pressed.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” Smith said. “One moment things were fine. Then everyone started losing their minds. And then—then

I thought I recognized—” He was tensing up again, fear clear on his face. “That empath,” he said in barely a whisper.

St. James stiffened. “Which empath?”

“The one who broke in here before,” Smith whispered. “But I don’t know—I don’t know what I saw. Jesus, I’m so scared—” He

started rocking again.

“Is this projection too?” St. James asked Grayson, keeping her voice quiet.

“That’s my guess,” Grayson said, matching her volume. “One of the empaths made him feel fear, and it’s still got him.”

One of the empaths. Reece, obviously, based on what Smith thought he saw.

“But it will wear off?” St. James pressed. “Same with the guards in the lobby? Temporary projection, not permanent thralling?”

“Seems like it.” Back in the lobby, Grayson could hear the newly arrived SWAT team dealing with the guards in the lobby, doing

crowd control and breaking out handcuffs.

“Do you know what the burglars were after?” St. James asked Smith.

Smith pointed to the open door and the hall beyond with a shaky finger. “They went to the delivery room. I don’t know what

they wanted. There’s nothing in there anymore.”

“Anymore?” she repeated.

But Smith only shook his head uselessly. Whatever the empaths had come for, they seemed to be long gone now—maybe had been gone before Grayson and St. James even arrived, leaving a stage set behind them, perfectly planned to distract any would-be pursuers while the empaths themselves got away.

St. James sat back on her heels. “It’s interesting, isn’t it?” she said, still under her breath.

“In what way?”

“This guy is head of security. Knowledgeable about all of Stone Solutions’ protections and can identify Reece. Would have been a lot smarter to thrall him.” Her gaze was on Smith. “But Reece didn’t.”

“You’re not suggesting mercy,” Grayson said.

“It could happen,” she said with a hint of challenge.

No. It couldn’t. Corruption was permanent; the pacifists were gone, and the empaths were no longer capable of mercy.

But Grayson kept his mouth shut. When his empath brother Alex had destroyed his emotions, it had ensured Grayson would never

feel hope again. But if hope for her own brother kept St. James going, he’d leave her to it.

He got to his feet, careful to keep out of Smith’s view in case it sent fresh fear through him. They likely had only moments

before the SWAT team joined them; anything St. James could learn before then might help. Grayson slipped out of the security

room, but as he leaned against the wall to keep watch, his gaze stole down the hall to a closed door to a storage closet,

the very same one Smith had locked the pacifist version of Reece in back on that November night those weeks ago. At the time,

Grayson had been there to free Reece from Stone Solutions’ clutches, but now his goal was to deliver Reece back to them, along

with his own brother, and Cora Falcon too.

Grayson pulled out his phone—or, more accurately, Reece’s phone, the phone he was stuck using after Reece had pulled a little switch in Vancouver.

He’d discovered texts between Reece and Alex and tried texting the number himself, but his brother had already been corrupted for more than two years and was too even-keeled to take the bait.

His texts sat on read with no response; he could perfectly picture Alex’s eye-roll that Grayson had even tried.

Reece, though. Reece was still running around with Grayson’s phone, and he’d always been easy to rattle. Grayson sent a pair of texts to his own phone number, then pocketed Reece’s phone,

gaze going back to Smith and St. James.

Reece could still be rattled, and that was Grayson’s only motivation for texting a corrupted empath. Obviously. Grayson didn’t

have any emotions or feelings to override his judgment. Bad decisions were Reece’s domain.

He just had to get Reece to make another.