Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Larissa
The tunnels beneath the non-dynamic sector are expansive, as I learned during the pre-mission briefing.
The domain of the criminal gangs and those who do business with them.
Zeb is a zeta, although I know nothing about that dynamic beyond I thought them to be a myth.
He has the look of a larger beta; his fellow soldier is an alpha, but on the smaller side of that dynamic, like Rhett.
Any such men down here are the ones wielding power in Chimera’s underworld, and high up within the gangs.
They will draw some attention but are also unlikely to be challenged, Woodrow explained, and in a confident way that said this was not their first such operation.
I took what comfort I could from that, and ignored what was looming on the horizon—the plan we went over, all the aspects of it, but especially the part where we’re captured. Without that, we will never get Cohen, and I will never be safe.
But that means I have to meet him again.
No mission is perfect. Risks exist, not only to me, but to everyone involved.
I’m also putting my trust in a lot of people, including Ethan Black, the man I’ve watched kill me in his mind.
The one whose mate I hurt unwittingly. The one who will never forgive me.
And yet here he is, taking a key role in the operation.
Don’t think about that part.
Not for the first time, my life is in his hands.
The time for questions and concerns has passed. We’re already in deep. Rhett’s hand closes over mine, steadying me.
We pass three men lurking in a doorway, and their eyes follow our passage. Out of necessity, I slip into their minds, searching for threats in the way Cohen instructed me to monitor his alphas during the briefing, seeking anomalies in thought patterns…
These men react as expected: suspicious, but also wary, quickly looking away.
“Eyes down, asshole,” Zeb had growled earlier when we passed two men, loitering. He definitely gives off a fuck-with-me-and-you’ll-regret-it vibe at odds with his seemingly easy-going demeanor back in the briefing.
My pulse suddenly leaps. “Ahead,” I whisper. “Cohen’s name is in their thoughts.”
Zeb has drawn his gun and fired off two rounds before I finish speaking. Rhett yanks me tight into his body. A high-pitched scream rents the air. I don’t pull back my thoughts quickly enough, and their trauma slams into me.
I recoil. Agony that isn’t mine tears through my chest, imaginary blood bubbling in my throat. I clutch my ribs though I’m unhurt, the echo of his death rattling through me.
Not mine.
Not me.
“You’re okay, baby,” Rhett says, his touch helping me shove down the horror.
“Move,” Zeb says, voice low and steady.
We pivot and retrace our steps.
Woodrow had made it clear that this had to look believable, not staged.
Now two men lie down, groaning, maybe dying, and the whole thing already feels frayed at the edges.
This sector doesn’t take prisoners lightly and the only bait in this is me.
The risk to everyone else is considered acceptable if it makes my capture look real and gets us closer to Cohen. None of which makes me feel any better.
“They’re following,” I say quietly, breathless, trying to focus amid the churning angst. “More are ahead of us. Also working for Cohen.”
Rhett’s fingers tighten over mine.
Shapes emerge from the shadows ahead. Men. Armed. Menacing. I glance back to find the group following has blocked our escape route.
Trapped.
As we planned.
My heart is still in my throat, and I don’t need to fake my terror.
“Hold!” A tall, lean man pushes to the front of the group ahead. “Lower your weapons.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Zeb calls. He still sounds calm and confident. I mean, he looks so… regular. If you were to place him in a line of soldiers, I’d probably find a dozen more impressively built alphas I’d single out first as elite. “You’re not our contact.”
“Lower your fucking weapon and drop it to the floor, unless you want to die,” the lean man calls. “We want the omega. Everyone else is expendable. We will shoot.”
Zeb lowers his gun slowly and tosses it to the side with a clatter of metal on stone. Rhett and the final soldier follow his lead.
The mob approaches cautiously. Two men grab Zeb, shove him roughly against the stone wall and pat him down.
Another man wrenches Rhett away. Pain and panic lance through me at the separation. Rhett drops one with a swinging fist, but other hands seize me, dragging me back screaming.
All I see is a blur of boots and fists. Two men have gotten hold of Rhett, and a third one is pummeling his stomach.
I’m restrained. Hands holding me back, forcing me to watch the man I love be hurt.
I reach instinctively with my mind, seize the first ugly memory in the thug’s head, and shove it at him. He reels, choking on his own fears. His fist falters mid-swing, and he drops to his knees.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” another man snarls. Surging forward, he punches Rhett in the face.
I scream. Rhett’s head rolls back. There’s blood all over him, bruises forming swiftly on his jaw. Zeb and the other man already have their wrists bound, and while Rhett is still reeling from the blow, they secure him as well.
I just projected. I’ve never done that before. Not once. A consequence of bonding, or something else? What I’ve just done terrifies me. Did I just weaponize my gift?
The leader pushes through the mass of bodies, coming right up to me. His face is pockmarked, his hair long and dull. He brushes his knuckles down my cheek.
“Get your fucking hands off my mate,” Rhett snarls.
“Mate?” Ignoring Rhett, the leader pushes my hood back, then yanks my collar aside, exposing the bite mark.
That’s going to piss the prick off. His internal thoughts are amused.
There is no visual in his mind as to who the ‘prick’ is, but instinct tells me he’s referring to Cohen.
He taps a communicator on his wrist. “It’s her. We’re incoming.”
Another man yanks my arms forward and a cuff clicks into place over my wrists.
“Let her go, motherfucker—”
Somebody punches Rhett full in the face, again. My stomach churns.
Please, Rhett! This is not part of the show; this is pure instinct on his part to protect me at any cost. I’m okay. They just scared me. Please don’t fight them.
He rages anyway. It matters not to our captors. We are bound and controlled, rough hands directing us along the corridor. At a doorway, one man lifts me, tossing me over his shoulder and carrying me down long flights of stairs. We emerge into a dark tunnel where an underground shuttle waits for us.
I’m dropped into the corner. The shuttle moves off with a clackety rocking motion, the occasional flashing light emerging from the blackness.
Two guards move to stand watch over me, blocking what little I can see of the rest of the interior.
I can’t see Rhett anymore, and it makes me frantic.
I know I can’t be of any use if I can’t control my thoughts.
Deep breaths help me push through the panic, allowing my mind to search out his.
He’s got his emotions locked down tight. But I know he’s hurting.
It’s going to be okay, baby. I’m here. They’ve not broken me. I’ve suffered worse.
Zeb’s mind is quiet and focused. His companion is likewise alert.
The rabble around us is full of violence and greed, but I’m thinking of the man who crumpled under a memory I forced into his head. If I can do that once, what else might I do? What else might reveal at the wrong time?
The slowing of the shuttle reignites my banked fears.
What if we are too deep and they can’t track us?
What if they take us off planet?
What if…
We are taken up stairs and into more corridors.
They appear cleaner: they’re better lit, and graffiti-free.
Armed men are placed strategically, eyes watchful, and weapons at the ready.
At the end of the corridor, we’re shown into a long windowless room filled with soldiers—still underground.
There are two exits. The one we entered through and another on the opposite wall.
His scent hits me even before the wall of men parts.
Hammond Cohen.
Rhett growls.
I suck in a breath. There is a fever in Cohen’s eyes. His skin is waxy, and a sheen of sweat dots his upper lip. A strange smell, like curdled milk, is the base note of his scent. Twisted. Alpha, but wrong.
Because he’s not my alpha; he’s never going to be.
He steps closer, and I shrink back into the man holding me.
For a heartbeat, instinct claws at me, the urge is strong to root out something dark from his mind and shove it back at him the way I did with that thug.
But I hold it back. This was part of the plan.
We needed to be captured so the rest of the team could find him.
Cohen’s eyes glisten darkly, then narrow as he takes another look, then steps right up to me. Like the other man, he yanks my collar aside and inspects the mark. His lip curls in disgust, and he drags in a breath then swings his head over to where Rhett stands.
“They bonded,” says the man who led my capture, indicating Rhett. “He went fucking apeshit when we tried to separate them.”
Cohen’s expression flickers. Old fears rise, threatening to suffocate me. My fledgling new powers beg me to lash out, to defend what is mine.
His gaze lingers too long, as if he senses the defiance in me.
Maybe he does. He is an alpha now, after all.
Steady, I tell myself. This is how we win.