Chapter 3
Raine
Attractive assassins aren’t new to me, killers with killer bodies and all that. But this one rewrites the rules. I may have a cold heart and a compromised soul, but I’m still a woman with two eyes and a pulse. And right now my pulse is between my legs.
The man who I assume is Bodysnatcher sets a matte-black motorcycle helmet (because of course he rides) on the desk, straight in front of O, rainwater pooling beneath it. I notice his tattooed, murderous hands first, knuckles stamped with the words KILL and SHOT.
Subtle.
He may as well wear a badge that says: “I’m an assassin, ask me how!”
He falls into the chair beside me with a heavy thud.
I stare unashamedly and take in the small upside-down cross inked beneath one eye.
A mark to remind the world that he’s the Antichrist, perhaps?
My eyes drop to a snarling hellhound, fangs bared mid-roar, flexing across his throat.
Underneath the beast, two lines of barbed wire twist, jagged and tight, before vanishing around the back of his neck.
Even the shaved sides of his head are tattooed.
Intricate lines blending seamlessly onto the side of his skull.
He rakes a hand through his dark, slick hair, which is longer on top, pushing it back from his face.
Then his gaze slams into mine like a fucking freight train.
For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe. I sink into the most terrifying, yet heart-stoppingly beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. Obsidian eyes, gloriously dark, like a depthless, black lake.
He doesn’t blink either, holding my stare with an intensity that sets my core alight.
Is that lightning coursing through my veins? Whatever it is, it’s magnetic. Possibly chemical. Definitely wrong.
Agent O clears his throat. The spell breaks as the tension is severed, but I still feel his unholy stare burning my skin.
“Now you’re both here,” O announces, “let me introduce you. Angel, Bodysnatcher. Bodysnatcher, Angel.”
The dangerous stranger leans back, legs stretched, expression flat. His body language doesn’t exactly scream he’s thrilled to be here. We’ve got that in common at least.
“Drop the codename bullshit,” he says, turning to me. “I’m Soren.”
Holy hell. His voice. Smooth like caramel. Slow, rich, and very, very bad for you.
“You know the rules,” O replies. “No real names.”
The room hums with tension. Oh, excellent. Let the dick-measuring competition begin. Soren doesn’t argue (or whip it out much to my disappointment), he simply reaches for his helmet, as if to leave. The power move lands, and perhaps more importantly, works.
Soren’s metaphorical dick is definitely bigger.
It takes everything in me to keep a neutral face, because who the fuck walks in and demands what I’ve never had the balls to ask? It makes me question my own steel spine.
Or lack thereof.
Soren turns back to me. “Name?”
I clear my throat. “Raine.”
Thirty years alive, and I can count on one hand the people I’ve trusted with my real name. Saying it does something buried deep inside me. Not sure what.
“Okay,” O snaps. “Raine. Soren. Let’s move on.”
He squares his shoulders and gets ready to give the same old spiel I’ve heard dozens of times.
“You’re here today because you’re two of our best. This assignment is one of the most sensitive we’ve sanctioned. It’s highly classified and unlike any you’ve been assigned in the past. If you’re caught, the usual rules apply, and we deny your existence. Clear?”
I nod. I’m pretty sure dark daddy nods too.
“Ultimately, this is a retrieval.” O meets my eyes, then Soren’s. “But there are three phases, and you will need to get your hands dirty for some of it.”
Hands dirty is a polite way of saying, you’re likely going to need to kill people.
“What’s the retrieval?” Soren asks.
O pauses, as if debating which words to use next. “A bioweapon.”
A bioweapon? Well, that’s new.
“It’s a synthetic biotech compound named PARM-17,” O continues. “Injected intravenously, it mutates DNA, giving the subject enhanced reflexes, heightened senses, and accelerated healing. Superhuman strength. Basically, near invincibility.”
Now he has my attention.
I glance sideways at Soren. No reaction. Either he doesn’t buy it, or he’s too dead inside to care. O taps a few buttons on the keyboard and pivots the computer screen towards us and taps play.
A title card flickers on screen Untitled_Test_Subject_2_PARM-17. The footage is grainy and appears to have been recorded some time ago. A shirtless man is strapped to a chair with an IV in his arm. The room looks clinical—maybe a government lab? It’s giving MK-ULTRA-type shit.
The man’s vitals are steady as the two doctors in white lab coats fuss about on screen.
“Can you hear us, Soldier?”
“Yes, sir.”
Both men have American accents.
“You might feel some tingling.”
It starts as a tremor in the young soldier’s body.
Then a violent seizure takes hold, painful whole-body contortions wreak havoc on him.
It’s distressing to watch. His eyes flutter, muscles tensing, and veins bulging, before he pulls against restraints that don’t hold for long.
He tears free like the straps were nothing but tissue.
What sort of science fiction bullshit is this?
The scene cuts to black before loading again.
Untitled_Test_2_Subject_2_PARM-17.
The same soldier now stands in what seems to be a prison yard.
He faces two opponents, one rushing towards him.
He puts him down with a single shot to the solar plexus, before a knee to the face.
It’s a death blow. The second man charges, but the super soldier kicks him across the yard, the man’s body flying like a ragdoll through the air.
My heart thumps at the sight of the serum’s power.
The screen fades to black.
The whole scene was twenty seconds, total.
O clears his throat. “Two men dead in less than ten seconds. Strength is multiplied, aggression is tenfold. Obviously, there’s major concern if this falls into the wrong hands.
Depending on the subject’s genetics, some can turn them into rabid, bloodthirsty animals, where the only urge they have is to kill. Sometimes even themselves.”
“Jesus Christ,” Soren says. “Is this shit contagious?”
“No,” O confirms. “It’s not a zombie movie. But it’s a massive fucking problem that needs taking care of. Imagine this falling into the wrong hands. Terrorists, mercenaries, rogue states. It’ll give our enemies ultimate power.”
Of course this is about power. It couldn’t possibly be about keeping humanity safe. I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“What happened to the people who couldn’t handle it? The ones that turned … rabid?”
“We neutralized them.”
My lips part involuntarily. O moves on with ease.
“The other big fucking problem is if our enemies get their hands on PARM-17 and successfully reverse engineer it. If they replicate it, formulate more, increase supply … You see where I’m going with this. We can’t allow that to happen.”
That’s an understatement. Whoever has it could build their own private superhuman—or superpsychotic—army. And that’s putting it mildly.