Chapter 1
EXCERPT FROM HUNTER, HEALER
CHAPTER ONE
Kick. Another kick. Knee. Solid contact. Move in. Get going, do it faster, faster, precise, put your weight behind it, sweetheart! Do it. Punch. Ouch, don’t flex your wrist, throw an elbow, keep going, stitch in side. Move. Move.
MOVE!
Rowan Price, Society operative and psion, stood shaking and sweating, head hanging. Her hair swayed to either side, curtaining off the outside world. The punching bag swayed, chain creaking.
Her hands burned. The CD player on the chair by the door gave out a throbbing bass beat. She threw another punch, unwinding all the way from the hip, then moved in. Her fists almost blurred. Good solid strikes thudding into the bag, hands numb, arms on fire, shoulders jolting with pain.
He’d be proud.
“Ro?” Cath half-yelled over the music.
Rowan dropped her head even further, hunched her shoulders, and drove another punch into the bag. Another. Another. Low and dirty, the way Justin had taught her.
Don’t. Don’t think about it.
Another flurry of punches. Elbows smacking the bag as if it had personally offended her.
“Jumpoff in thirty,” Cath finally called. “Henderson needs you in fifteen.”
Rowan turned. Her cheeks were wet, shoulders dotted with beads of sweat. The sports bra was damn near soaked through, and the waistband of her shorts chafed a thin line into her back and belly.
“Ro?” Catherine, her hair cut short in an inky black pixie instead of a punked-out blue mohawk, turned the CD player off. The silence was instant, and shocking.
Cath was plump-cheeked and pretty, or would have been if not for the sheer amount of metal on her face. Nose rings, earrings marching up the curve of each ear, multiple-pierced lip, and pierced eyebrows—Rowan didn’t want to know about any of the other piercings.
Of course, the girl also wore a shoulder holster, the butt of a Glock snug under her left arm. Cath also usually wore a bootknife and a stiletto up her sleeve. For a Society operative, that was damn close to lightly armed.
Especially considering current events.
Rowan’s ribs heaved. A thin trickle of sweat slid chill and tickling down her back. She swiped a few damp tendrils of hair back from her forehead. “I’ll be there. Thanks, Cath.” It was an effort to be polite, to keep her voice toneless.
“You’re being a real bitch lately,” Cath informed her, crossing arms as if in self-defense. Sometimes she really did appear very young, despite the shell of prickly confidence.
Pot calling the kettle black, anyone? Rowan sighed, blew the tension out between pursed lips. “Sorry.” I don’t sound sorry at all. “Really, Cath. I am.”
The girl shrugged, the chain at her belt jingling. Her violet eyes turned cool. “You’re worrying about him again.”
Well, you get the grand prize for stating the obvious. Guilt pricked; Cath didn’t deserve her ire.
“Shouldn’t I? It’s been three months.” Rowan stripped her gloves, tossed them down next to the CD player. “He’s trapped somewhere, Cath. Sigma’s got him.”
“He’ll come back for you.” The girl sounded certain. “I mean, he said he would, didn’t he?”
Don’t remind me. Rowan set her jaw. “I’d better get cleaned up if Henderson wants me. Thanks for the message.”
“There, that’s the Ro I know.” Cath grinned. The change was startling, a flash of how she would look without all the metal. “I’ll meet you for jumpoff. Cool?”
I’m not cool at all, Cath. I’m about two steps away from very, very uncool. “Chilly.”
The girl bounced from the small room. Rowan glanced at the futon folded in the corner. No books and no plants, because they had to move every few weeks. Nothing but her kitbag, clothes, the never-ending tension. And Sigma always yapping at their heels.
Rowan sighed. Her hands hurt, her shoulders twinged, her legs and lungs burned both from the side-kicks she’d been practicing and her morning bout on the treadmill.
The place where Justin should be inside her head was empty and aching, and her mind kept circling it like a tongue poking at a toothache.
A phantom limb, phantom pain. If he was able to come back, he would have by now.
She worked the ponytail holder free of wet, clinging hair; it hadn’t held up too well.
I’d better get cleaned up. Henderson’s probably to try and talk me out of it. She headed for the bathroom, rubbing her neck and grimacing.
She should have dyed her hair; the ash-blonde mane was too distinctive. Even Cath had gotten rid of her trademark mohawk, but Rowan couldn’t bring herself to fool around with Clairol.
That would be like admitting Justin was really gone, and she was on her own. As if I’m some idiot of a fainting maiden who keeps waiting for her man to come back. He cometh not, she said wearily, as she looked from her tower window.
Her mood was getting worse; she was even irritating herself. She kept breathing, deep down into her stomach, trying for calm.
The shower warmed up quickly; she ducked under the water and started scrubbing. No time to luxuriate in hot water.
Ten minutes later she pulled the white cotton tank top down and zipped up her jeans, tossing wet hair back.
She’d braid it in the comm room. She attached the shoulder holster, checked the Glock, and shrugged on a hip-length leather coat.
The knife went in her boot; she scooped up her kitbag—the canvas messenger bag holding an operative’s toys and tricks, settling it so the strap ran diagonally across her body.
She unplugged the CD player and paused, looking around the bare white walls.
He’d stop by the door and smile, ask if I was ready. She shivered, gooseflesh rising on her skin. Maybe Cath’s right. Or maybe he’s dead. Maybe they killed him and I’m going to waste my life on a wild goose chase.
It just didn’t feel right. She would know if he was dead. Wouldn’t she? Sigma hadn’t killed him; they needed to use him against the Society. He was alive, and if he was alive he would come back to her. He’d promised.
And of course I believe him, don’t I?
Rowan swore, threw one last punch at the heavy bag, and left as it creaked back and forth, its hook sunk into a ceiling stud.
This house was nice, and they’d been able to stay for a little while.
Soon enough Sigma would close in with uncanny accuracy, and they’d be on the run again.
It was as if the Sigma psions had suddenly gotten better…
…or as if someone was helping them.
She didn’t want to think about that, either.
Henderson pushed steel-rimmed glasses up, sharp nose wrinkling slightly. “Morning, Rowan. You ready?” The patch of white hair at his temple had grown in the last three months, but his iron-colored eyes were still bright and interested, and he moved with the same fluid precision as always.
She understood why they called him “the General.” His air of command and cool confidence was almost archetypical in its depth.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” She glanced at the table, collating the maps swiftly.
He was going over the layouts of the building again, each exit, the city for a few blocks in either direction, and routes out of the metropolis.
She knew he probably had everything memorized, but Henderson’s innate precision wouldn’t take “already memorized” for an answer.
Not when it had to be perfect, and an operative’s life was on the line.
Her life, today. She might have cause to thank him for being anal-retentive before sundown.
Her fingers flicked as she finished braiding, tied the thick rope with an elastic band. “What’s the chatter?”
“They’ve scheduled for 1600 when he gets home from work.
Primary penetration unit and a net.” Henderson tapped a printout with one blunt, callused finger.
Before Headquarters was destroyed he’d been the chief of covert operations for the Society.
Now that the handful of psions fighting Sigma had been scattered, he was the closest to an official leader they had.
Rowan had never really found out just who was the actual leader of the Society, but she suspected Henderson’s name would have been on the list of candidates.
“With you to get in and get close, we should get him around 1100 at work. Is he ready?”
She nodded. “It was the file that convinced him. And the reporter that died of a so-called ‘heart attack.’” Her lip curled.
I told Lewis it would happen. Then again, I wouldn’t have believed either, when I was a civilian.
Her throat closed. Another life ended by the monsters who had killed her father.
And was Rowan responsible because she’d initiated contact? She tried not to think about that, either. “Sigma’s pushed him right into our hands.” Just like they pushed me.
“They have a habit of doing that. It’ll be nice to have another precog. Eleanor will like training him.”
Rowan cleared her throat a little uncertainly. “General?”
He knew what she was going to ask. The comm room was deserted—Yoshi’s laptop sat on a desk and Cath’s Dr. Who scarf was draped across an ergonomic chair. Henderson began rolling up the maps. “I can’t send you to Vegas, Rowan. I need you too much; you’re my second.”
Now that Justin’s gone? Hot anger flooded her throat. I’m not qualified for this, General. You know that. “I’m not a replacement.”
“No,” he agreed. “But you’ve stepped into the breach admirably. You’re cool under fire, you’re competent and talented, plus you got us all out of the disaster at Headquarters.”
I didn’t “get us out.” I nearly got us trapped and stuffed. “All except Justin,” she reminded him.
Henderson moved with exacting slowness, his hands steady. “Be patient, Rowan. He’ll come back.”
“It’s been three months.” She swallowed, her voice husky. I never used to be furious. The very idea of getting this angry used to be foreign to me. What happened?
She knew what had happened. They had stolen everything from her. Her father, her best friend—and Justin Delgado.
“He’ll come back.” Henderson’s voice was the epitome of calm faith. “I can’t send you to Vegas.”
You aren’t listening. Just like Dad, set on your own opinion.
“We need the money,” she pointed out, pitching her tone low and reasonable.
“We’ve only got another eight weeks of operating funds, less if we’re unlucky.
Until we get the new Headquarters fully up and running—and drain the old resource net—we’re going to burn our budget down to the bone.
I’m going to Vegas, Henderson. Send Cath with me, if you’re so worried. Or Yoshi. Either will be able to help.”
“You just don’t give up, do you?” Henderson arched a dark eyebrow. “I don’t want to lose you, too.”
But you’re okay with losing him? That was unfair, she told herself. But she still thought it. “You won’t. But we need the money, and Cath and I are the best bet. You know that.”
A slight scuffing sound from the hallway; Yoshi appeared.
“It’s showtime.” He flashed her a quick grin, scooping up his laptop.
The slim Japanese man wore a blue cable-knit sweater and jeans despite the scorching summer heat outside.
Maybe sandaled feet made up for it. Then again, he’d be in an air-conditioned van unless something went terribly, dreadfully wrong. “Everyone’s waiting for Cinderella.”
Rowan’s gaze met Henderson’s. She hadn’t known him too well before, but now she could read the faint, ironic smile. She’d won the argument with cold logic.
“All right,” Henderson barked. “Let’s get moving. And, Yoshi, do a workup for a Vegas run for Rowan while we’re waiting, all right?”
“Love to.” Yoshi’s dark eyes sparkled. He’d already done the workup a week ago, at Rowan’s quiet request. “Gonna play the horses, Ro?”
“You bet. Right after Cath makes us rich at roulette.” Her pulse rose. Adrenaline was copper in her mouth, she lowered her respiration and pulse with a few moments of attention. She couldn’t afford to get nervous now. “Thank you, General.”
“Don’t thank me.” He slid the maps into his battered olive-green map bag. “It’s dangerous, and Del would have my hide.”
“He’s not here to protest,” Rowan said flatly, and followed Yoshi out of the room.