Deadly Genesis (Boomers Book 2) (11 page)

Rory paced into the room with Josh and motioned to the soldier. She wanted to begin the interrogation. Drake shook his head once and tapped his wrist. They would wait. The prisoner must be awake if the Boomers avoided discussing the issue out loud. Simon studied the figure. He’d seen his share of soldiers over the years. Most were fanatically devoted to their cause and trained to withstand interrogation.

Michael…

I’m almost there. Have you put her down yet?
Michael’s flat mental tone disguised genuine concern so Simon ignored it.

She’s fine, and I have it under control. When you’re in place, I’ll scan the soldier—

Why haven’t you already? Drake and Rex are there.

Counting to a mental fifteen, Simon relaxed.
Because I want your impressions and they are not skilled interrogators. If we can obtain the information without a deep scan, I’d prefer it.
The deeper he went into a mind the more he risked permanent brain damage to the recipient and he didn’t want the distraction to further destabilize Amanda.

Have you had the doc check your chip against her DNA?
The abrupt change in questioning surprised him.

No.
Considering he’d had sex with her just a few hours before, maybe he should have. But he seemed to be in control of his faculties.

Do it.
Crisp, brutal and straight to the point.
We need to know.

I’m hardly a liability.
Yes, he’d heard the unspoken thought.
I have as yet not threatened any of you nor shot anyone.
It bore reminding Michael, from time to time, that he had turned into an unreasonable menace upon meeting Rory. Their wild attraction defied all expectations and nearly turned their Captain against his team. If push came to shove, Simon had no doubt that Michael would choose Rory over the Boomers—even if that choice destroyed him.

I understand, but if the DNA is a match then it changes our game plan and I’ll be more inclined to let you twist yourself into knots to keep her together. As it is, you’re crippling us if you have to stay focused on her.

The assessment chilled. He’d kept the team in touch, he’d diverted Drake and Rex to the Stuytown situation, prevented Josh from a bone crushing fall—no, he wasn’t crippling anyone.

And the MRI exploded while you did all of that, Simon.
The tension in Michael’s voice receded.
I’m concerned. Ilsa could have been hurt, more damage could have been done. You told me once to think about what I was doing. We’re not the threat in this, she is.

Next to him, Amanda twisted her fingers together, the knuckles whitening. Reaching over, he covered her hands with his. A small smile flickered around the corners of her mouth. She leaned toward him, turning her palm over to actually hold his hand. Firming up the mental shields holding her together, he dismissed Michael’s concerns. He could do this.

Let’s focus on one issue at a time. Find out who this soldier is and why they went after the Infinity team. Identify, assess, and neutralize.
The soldier in Michael would appreciate the assignment. Although he seemed more mercenary than captain these days, his training and rigid dedication to discipline had kept them together through the decades.

Agreed. But I am not letting this go. You ask the doc or I will.

Understood.
He filed the information away for later. Amanda squeezed his hand and he released his conversation with Michael. The side monitors pinged.

Two keystrokes later the image The Program located filled the central screen. Amanda stood at the edge of a large crowd—a staged sit in on Wall Street from the looks of it. He recognized her blue hair, but sunglasses shaded her amazing eyes. She wore a long black trench coat over black clothes and boots. The only spark of color in the entire image was her hair. The image wasn’t particularly suspicious, so he reached over to tap it off.

“Wait.” Scooting forward, Amanda rose and leaned closer to the monitor as though examining all the minute details. “Can you magnify this area?” She traced a finger around her head. Curious about where she was going with this, he hit the keys to enhance the image to two hundred percent. “More.” He enhanced it to four hundred and she studied her own face.

But the word
roots
flowed through her mind. Her hair roots—they weren’t blue in the image. In fact, they looked almost blonde, or at least significantly paler than the startling blue of the rest of her hair. Turning in the seat, he looked at her hair now. Pale flax peeked at him from the base of her hair. “Your hair really isn’t naturally blue.”

“No. I told you that.” Her hand trembled where it traced back and forth against the image. “I’ve been dying it religiously for the last ten years. I started using different colors in high school, the brighter the better. But I went blue at sixteen and stayed there.” The quaver in her voice concerned him. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he tugged her into his lap and rubbed her back. He wasn’t sure the action would help, but the tension locking up her muscles eased.

“Okay, and the amount of root showing in that picture concerns you why?” The moment he asked the question, the answer flowed out of her mind. That picture showed weeks of growth without treatment to turn them blue. She never did that. This photograph was not one she could remember—not the outfit, the location, or why she wouldn’t treat her hair. Her mind couldn’t reconcile the image on the screen with her mental picture and habits.

Sliding the chair closer, he balanced her against him and typed in a secondary search sequence. He wanted to know when the picture was taken. The image dated to three months earlier. He could almost feel the ice slithering over the surface of her skin. “I have no memory of that, Simon.” The wooden tone concerned him. “I’m there, watching…looking for what? Why was I there? Why didn’t I contact my team?”

I wasn’t a prisoner.
She stared at her own face.
I was free, so why am I there?

The warehouse monitors showed movement, but no conversation. Simon did a search on the date and the location. The peaceful sit in had lasted in that location for more than two weeks—and an explosion destroyed the local subway entrance, took out three shops on the square, and injured dozens. The city revoked their protest pass and the sit in ended. Officials passed the investigation off to the police who classified it a natural gas leak and not a terrorist event. Clean up came swift with corporate backers restoring the damaged fronts and shops—sweeping it under the rug as it were.

Protest over.

Business as usual.

But to what purpose? He slanted a look sideways at her.
Why wouldn’t you remember?

“The chip.” The door to the workroom opened and Ilsa stood there with Garrett. Her face flushed and her breathing labored as though she’d ran all the way to the room.

“What about it?” Amanda slid off Simon’s lap and stared at the doctor.

“I’ve been so focused on undoing the damage of the chip’s malfunction that I didn’t think about what they did with the chip in the first place.” Ilsa coughed and Garrett rubbed her back, but she shook him off and rounded on Amanda. “The chip’s initial design was to encourage dogs to go home. If they modified or played with The Programming—they could have used it to control you.” She paused to suck in another breath. “It was located in the cerebral cortex which controls our thought processes, behavior and judgment. You’ve had issues with your limbic system, which can blunt or enhance emotional reactions—all issues you’re having now.”

Unfortunately, Amanda’s emotional reaction was far from blunted. Her mind whirled, thoughts tornadoing one into another.
They used me…

The single thought battered him over and over again.
Stop
. He pushed this time, pushed past the darkness and the storm, finding that vibrant spark of her deep within and sheltering it.
Stop. Whatever they did, however they did it, we’ll fix it.

“…but that’s not the worse part.” Ilsa sighed. “That kind of damage, it may be irreversible. They made you dependent on that chip and scrambled everything else in their hatchet implant and failure. I still need to do more scans, but… I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fix it.”

Amanda paced back and forth. She couldn’t sit still anymore. Simon practically sat in the passenger seat of her brain, like her old teacher in driver’s ed—his mental foot hovering over the brake. But she just needed to move. On her umpteenth circuit, she halted. She didn’t just need to move—she wanted to fly.

No.
The stern rebuke in his mental voice brooked no argument.

Simon, I need to…

No.
He shook his head once and didn’t look up from the computer. They’d found at least three more instances of her in the intervening months in London, Moscow, and New York. He suspected one image in Florida of being her as well, but the quality of the image proved too grainy to be accurately matched. Garrett ushered Ilsa away when Amanda hadn’t been able to contain her agitation.

“You don’t understand.” She slapped a hand against her thigh. “Flying helps me clear my head. It’s so full in here—full with you, with wondering, with questions, full of holes. Holes I can’t answer and even the answers I have terrify me. I need to fly.”

Turning away from the computer, he favored her with a soft look. “If you go too far, it might be too dangerous for you.” He held up his hand, stymieing her automatic rebuttal. “Dangerous if you get beyond my mental reach.”

“You can reach all the way to Manhattan.” She flung her hand out to the side. “And, according to you, you were in contact with multiple minds doing that.”

“I also lost my focus on yours, and you blew up the MRI.” His patience, it seemed, could be tested.

“But you’re not going to be doing the mental hokey pokey this time. And I won’t fly away. I just want to fly.” She hated the whine that crept into her voice, the pathetic note of self-pity.

“What if someone sees you? Blue hair is extremely noticeable. If I can track your past activities through months old images—stored on surveillance cameras and Facebook postings—don’t you think the ones that took you captive can do the same?”

Fair point, but she didn’t give a damn if they tracked her. At least then she could blow them up for doing this to her in the first place. Mutiny seared her soul and she stomped her foot. “It’s worth the risk.”

“To you? Maybe.” His gaze turned to steel. “What about the other victims upstairs? Or Doctor Blaine? Or Rory? What would it do to her if they took you—or worse, killed you this time?”

He mentioned everyone, but himself. Guilt stabbed through her frustration. Rory would be five different kinds of pissed, but she might understand. More than Mister Robot. Glaring, she pivoted and strode toward the door. His hand caught her elbow and spun her around. She landed against his chest and his mouth crashed against hers.

Passion flared, eagerly licking up all the crumbs of rage filling her soul. His tongue demanded access, and she opened her mouth to meet the ferocity in his kiss. His arms were like twin bands of steel, wrapping around her and holding her. His thoughts threaded through hers, firming up all the dangerous dark spots and chasing away the shadows. She barely knew where she ended and he began. Their tongues dueled, and he gripped her ass. Her moan turned to a whimper when he lifted his head. His breath came in explosive little pants, and she grinned in triumph. He was nowhere near as unaffected as he acted.

“You’re flying,” he murmured.

Puzzled, she glanced down and saw that they floated above the floor—three feet above it—and their heads nearly brushed the ceiling. The energy cocooning her had warmed the air until she lifted them both.

“Floating isn’t quite flying.” Heart hammering, she rubbed her nose to his and teased the corner of his mouth with a kiss. They came together in a far gentler kiss, breath mingling, and the raging restlessness inside her settled. The kiss was sweet, attentive, and giving. He demanded nothing, and she started to acquiesce to his refusal.

“Do you really need to fly that badly, little bird?” he murmured against her mouth in between the gentle massaging brushes of his lips on hers.

She remembered the first time she flew—really flew. Soaring up the miles to the icy cold air high above and the way she could just let the energy flow out of her, racing the wind and plummeting only to rise up again. The absolute perfection and pure freedom—she ached with the want of it.

Simon’s expression changed, doubt mingling with wonder. “Okay.”

“Really?” Her eyes widened.

“Yes.” He nodded slowly and kissed the tip of her nose. “We’re going to have a few rules though.”

“Anything,” she promised fervently. She would promise anything to feel that freedom again.

He chuckled softly. “Really?”

The distinctly sexual overtone really sent another wave of heat tingling from her breasts to her belly. “Anything.”

As much as she longed to take to the sky, hesitation captured her the moment she stepped out into the sunshine. It was a crisp fall day and the chilly air blowing in from the Atlantic stung her cheeks and teased her lungs. The summer had come and gone while she languished in their enemies’ hands. They took time away from her. The unfamiliar chokehold of fear held her fast. Simon brushed a hand down her arm, reminding her that she wasn’t alone. The rules were simple. She had to stay within line of sight and return the moment Simon ordered it.
This is like some naughty game of Simon says…

He groaned and gave her a pinch on the bottom. She jerked away and spun to face him, laughter bubbling through the melancholy. The tender, almost amused smile on his lips tinged toward sadness and she glanced up at the sky once. “Watch me.”

I intend to.

She danced away a dozen steps. The nervousness in her breast fluttered. She didn’t need to be nervous. Flying—like riding a bike—returned to her naturally. She didn’t need to think about how to do it, just had to let the energy surge through her, and she rose, climbing. Her eyes closed and her face tilted up to bask in the sun, the warmth a direct contrast to the cold breeze ruffling her hair. The moment she went airborne the fear and hesitation melted away. She soared up, climbing for the sun.