Chapter 25 #2
Her right hand was free. He moved so goddamn slowly. She gathered herself as his fingers asettled on the restraint over her right elbow.
“Of course, we had hoped to have you and Agent Breaker at the same time.” His halitosis was absolutely rank, and she saw with frenzied revulsion that his free left hand was playing with the button on his khakis, reaching to cup his genitals.
No wonder this man had always repulsed her.
“A specimen with his talent and yours would make a very fine soldier. Very fine, once we breed out that regrettable streak of independence.”
Something in Rowan snapped. Pure unadulterated rage boiled free. Haven’t you fucking done enough? Breed me, breed Justin, like animals? Would you watch while we copulated or just inseminate me at a distance?
Jilssen’s eyes cleared. He stared through the horn-rimmed glasses. Horror and comprehension wandered across his expression as he looked down at the unbuckled restraints.
Too late. Rowan struck.
Fear. Agony. Guilt. The fury of her retaliation, the absolute incandescent rage she had never dreamed herself capable of.
She battered at him with the full force of her horror and loathing, her thirst for revenge.
For each traumatized, broken psion she had nursed back to health, each grief she had swallowed, each horror she had witnessed.
She poured it all into his brain, striking snake-quick, severing vital connections, smashing and burning everything she could reach.
It was so easy.
He fell as if shot, straight down, head clipping the chair-arm with murderous force. Something sparked wildly in the lab, the monitor closest to her emitting a shower of fireworks and popping noises. She reached, clumsily, and unbuckled her throat, her torso. Had to get her legs free.
Oh, God.
Jilssen, crumpled in his soiled lab coat.
She blinked back tears. Her head pounded fiercely, the dull red smolder of rage like the aftermath of a forest fire, ash and pillars of smoke, a wrecked mind, a wasteland.
Blood and the reek of feces—death had not come gently for the doctor.
She’d seen enough by now to expect the sphincter’s loosening with its advent.
He lay twisted on his side, a bloody gash in his temple where it had hit chair, one arm curled awkwardly under his body. If she hadn’t known better she could have sworn he was sleeping. Except there was no glow of thought, not even the banked messy fire of a normal mind at rest.
I think I’m going to throw up. Please, God, don’t let me vomit just yet.
She managed to get her legs free, fingers shaking as if palsied, then ripped the electrodes from her forehead, tossed them aside. She tore the IV out of her arm, pressing on the hole the needle left until it sealed. Immediately, she felt better.
Not by much, but better.
Her duffel and kitbag were nowhere in sight. No weapons. The red light flashing at the other end of the lab taunted her. She was in her sock feet, jeans, and a tank top. Dragging her fingers back through tangled hair, trying to think.
Why were the lights turned down? What had Jilssen planned on doing before Anton arrived? She shuffled away from the chair and the slumped human body. Her skin crawled.
A shiver bolted up her spine. Where am I? The installation I was nearest to was thirty miles away. Or did they take me to Zero-Fifteen? What do I do now?
She dropped, crouching behind a lab counter, her breathing coming hard and fast as she sought to think. Anton, this Colonel, was due any minute. He was late for a meeting with Jilssen, maybe to gloat over her capture. She cast around wildly for a weapon, anything.
Could she do it again? She’d killed Jilssen with her mind alone. The very thought made her nauseous. Sickening, but also… Well, there was an unholy glee to the concept.
A cleansing, murderous satisfaction. A step toward revenge, no matter how small.
I’m no better than they are. The thought flashed through her head, was immediately discarded.
She could almost hear Justin’s voice. Move and think, operative. One without the other is useless. Get going.
She searched again for a weapon, found none. Even the clipboard had only a flimsy plastic pen, not likely to stand up to any real abuse. The red light and soft beeping continued. She glanced at the two monitors, useless. Her fingers curled around a heavy, empty glass beaker.
Didn’t Jilssen at least have a gun here? What I wouldn’t give for my kitbag. And boots. I’m in my frigging socks.
The realization was welcome, rational. At least she was thinking for herself again. She let out a soft half-sobbing noise of relief just as a chime rattled against her ears. Down again, taking cover behind another long, low counter as there was a whoosh—a door, opening?
Voice activated? Or maybe some kind of key? They had both at Headquarters, too.
The thought filled her with fresh fury. It was as if all the anger she’d ever pushed away or repressed in her life was now welling up, demanding an exit. Demanding to be used.
And God, the idea scared and exhilarated her in equal proportion.
“Hello?” A hard, old voice full of unyielding purpose, slightly rasping. “Henrik?”
She heard a tapping—a cane, a footstep, a cane.
Oh, my God. The image of the blind man’s white stick rose, tapping, sweeping the floor. No. Not again. Not again!
She absolutely could not endure another rape of her mind.
Rowan’s head rested well below the top of the counter. Her breathing evened out; she closed her eyes, seeking the stillness within.
There. The static of another psion approaching.
Her pupils dilated, her hands stilled; she now knew what a trapped animal feels as the hunter approaches the snare. She clutched the glass beaker, tightly. The only weapon she had.
That, and her mind. The freakish talent they wanted to breed her for.
Silence. The tapping and footsteps stopped. Could he see the wreck of the chair and Jilssen’s body? If he could…
“Why don’t you come out, Miss Price?” The voice tugged gently at her, whispered comfort, forgiveness. “I don’t blame you; Jilssen was a pervert. Why don’t you talk to me? I can make everything right.”
Hunt me like an animal, try to breed me like an animal, and now you want to make everything right?
There is no way this could ever be right, you son of a bitch, whoever you are.
The borders of her mind were clear and strong, bolstered by the anger that even now filled her blood with a siren song of vengeance.
One more tapping step. She could almost hear the creaking of the cane. Then she heard another sound—the definite click of a chambered round.
Come out so you can shoot me? How stupid do you think I am? On the other hand, here she was, captured by Sigma through her own silliness, her own weakness. Nevermind that it had been a compulsion; she should have been strong enough to resist.
“Come out, Miss Price. We can discuss this like civilized beings. I know you are at heart a very calm, rational person.” He sounded so sure of himself, so certain she would creeping sheepishly into view, a stray dog to a food dish.
Oh, I’m calm and rational all right. But not now. You’ve pushed me too goddamn far. And all this time I thought Justin was the dangerous one.
“Your psych profile indicates a high degree of compassion and empathy, probably a byproduct of your rather unique gifts. We can offer you a chance to serve your country and be a legal citizen, Miss Price. Daniel Henderson and his ragtag little group can’t offer you that.
” The voice pulled, tugged, cajoled, enticed.
Easy to see what this man’s psionic talent was. Rowan shut her eyes, leaning her forehead against the slick, cold plastic of a cabinet door.
“They are, after all, only criminals,” he continued. “Offenders with warrants, and prices on their heads.”
Cath’s fierce loyalty and irrepressible optimism.
Zeke’s phlegmatic good sense and plain, unadorned love for Cath.
Brewster’s quiet efficiency. Yoshi’s calm, practical logic.
And Henderson, who worried about them all, for whom perfection wasn’t good enough when the life of an operative was on the line.
All of them, in the dark tunnel beneath the wreck of the old Headquarters.
Brew pressing a bandage over her bleeding gunshot wound, hustling her to safety.
Cath driving with the windows down and her cigarette fuming.
Eleanor and her clutch of newbies, Boomer’s crusty exterior covering a heart softer than Rowan’s own.
And the children—little Bobby, Elena, a whole collage of young-old faces.
The kids Eleanor and Tamara had taken up north to get them away from Sigma, each one marked with a difference like Rowan’s.
Each at risk of being mindwiped by Zed—or bred, like livestock.
“Come out, Miss Price.” Another tapping step with the cane.
Justin, his eyes now awake, alive, hungry. Nothing I couldn’t handle. He’d said it so casually, as if he wasn’t broken and bleeding inside, wasn’t afraid to open himself up even for a moment because of the danger of someone hurting him again.
That was what was so different about him this time, she realized. He was so tightly closed even she couldn’t get in.
Opening her eyes, the world snapping into place, just as the man with the cane rounded the corner, pointing the pistol at her.
Rowan rose smoothly and flung the glass beaker, striking at his mind in the same moment, as hard as she could.
The bullet zinged wide, his aim thrown off. Rowan followed the beaker, smacking into him hard enough to knock her own breath out in a huff, driving him back. Move in, get going, do it faster, faster, precise, put your weight behind it, sweetheart! Move!
Her sock feet slid on slick linoleum. The beaker shattering somewhere behind him, and then her opponent went down.
His thin old wrist caught in her hand, she squeezed and twisted as his leg buckled, her knee sinking into his leg as they landed with a jolt. She tore at the gun, wrenching it free, then backhanded him. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses flew.
He wore a white linen suit; dead dark eyes glared under a white buzz-cut.
He fought with surprising physical strength—but she got a knee in his ribs and his breath slammed out with a groaning huff.
The gun reversed in her hand, and she remembered Brewster training her to use a firearm in the dim, long-ago time when she’d first joined the Society.
Squeeze, don’t pull, love. His accent made every word crisp, a precision instrument. Squeeze nice and easy, and don’t flinch. Good show.
Oh, God, her brain was imploding, memories colliding with each other, smashing and burning.
She had the Colonel on his belly, gun jammed against his temple, knee firmly in his back, his left arm twisted savagely. “Who the fuck are you?” she whispered, through a throat gone raw and dead.
“Anton,” he choked. “Richard Anton.” He heaved, trying to throw her off. She dug her knee in and pushed, smacking his forehead into the linoleum for good measure. “Head of… Operations… fuck…”
“Colonel Anton.” Her voice sounded odd. Strange, flat, uninflected. Just like Justin’s.
Kill him, Rowan. Do it.
Her finger tightened on the trigger. Eight pounds of pull, Justin’s voice said, from his own long-ago training of her. When you get to about six and a half, you better mean business.
The man below her was a psion. He struggled, his Talent caught in her own sure grip; she saw, suddenly, the twisted thing that lived in his flesh.
He used his abilities to hurt people, to torture them.
Sigma was made in his image, and he was proud of his access to the corridors of power, proud of the extralegal status he enjoyed.
Kidnapping and torturing psions was only the first step.
She also tasted the same mind which had built the defenses inside Jilssen’s head, before sending him to the Society like a poisonous gift.
If Jilssen was the traitor who had made the breaking of Headquarters possible, here was the hand behind, the finger on each trigger that killed, on each hypo of Zed.
Kill him, Rowan. He won’t stop. He won’t ever stop.
She choked on bile and rising rage, a fury so intense the world shaded with red before her staring eyes. Her finger tightened, tightened.
“Get it over with,” he snarled. “There’s a whole complex of armed guards and psions on alert. You’ll never get out. They’ll catch you and pair you with a handler anyway, it’s inevitable. Go ahead, Price. Pull the trigger.”
Daddy. Her father’s face, the chilling little gurgle as he died in her arms, choking on his own blood. Shot by Sigs.
She gathered herself, and reached.
The man under her bucked and screamed as she poured her rage in, a twisting, barbed flood of agony and grief. She tore at the root of his psionic Talent, clawing brutally, and yanked it free. Burning, cauterizing the open, festering sore.
He screamed again, the sound of a rabbit in a trap; Rowan let him go, rising on her knees. Her hand flashed down, the butt of the pistol becoming a club.
There was a solid chunk; the filthy Colonel lapsed into merciful unconsciousness.
“I’m better than that,” she rasped. “I’m one of Henderson’s Brigade, you sack of shit.”
She sagged over the unconscious body, her breath harsh and loud. Then she pushed upright. Sock feet, no kitbag, and a whole installation to get through.
Well, at least she now had a gun.
She rifled Anton’s pockets, coming up with a wallet, seventy-three dollars in cash, a white plastic card with a magnetic strip—door key, just like a Vegas hotel, let’s hope they don’t use retinal scans in here—and another mag of ammo.
Good thing she had pockets.
White-hot needles burst inside her skull. She wiped at the wetness on her face—tears on her cheeks, and a hot thread of blood from her nose.
I’m a mess. It was such a practical, despairing, everyday thought; Rowan laughed, hunched over the unconscious, bleeding near-corpse.
He wasn’t going to like waking up.
In the middle of her laughter, she rose, headed for the door. Perhaps the magnetic card in her hand would open it.
If not, she would figure out something else.