Fatal Strike (31 page)

The image pixelated in her head and broke up, shocking her back to reality. Carried in the blond dreadlocked guy’s arms. He cradled her against his chest, nuzzling her as if it were a lover’s game. They were outside already, moving down the sidewalk. Rain hit her forehead. She tried to move, but the drug had paralyzed her body.

She heard the sucking “pop” of a big car door opening and was dumped into a big SUV that stank of leather, newness.

“Ah. There we go,” a woman muttered, smugly. “Excellent.”

The front door slammed shut and the car surged forward, out into traffic. A rough hand seized her chin, jerked her limp head around.

It was Anabel. “Bad girl,” she crooned. “Daddy gonna be so mad.”

Anabel looked terrible. Eyes white rimmed and staring, sunken shadows around them, twitching muscles in the tense mask of her face.

“It was like you said,” Blond Dreadlocks remarked from the front seat. “The coercion didn’t work on her. I had to come up with something else, right off the cuff.” He hesitated, then prompted, “No time to plan.”

“Why don’t you just pull over and get out? Get yourself a cab.” Anabel sounded supremely bored. “We’re done here, so get lost. As soon as I tape her up, I can drive. I’ll take it from here.”

“Hey, why the attitude?” Dreadlocks’s voice was aggrieved. “I extracted her for you, twenty-four minutes from the second the facial recog bot identified her, with no pursuit or alarm! It’s fucking unbelievable!”

“Poor baby,” Anabel mocked. “Had to use your atrophied little brain the old-fashioned way when your psi didn’t work? That must have really hurt, Rockwell. Get out, now. Your B.O. is bugging me.”

“Screw this shit,” Rockwell muttered. He jerked the car to a stop.

He got out into the rain and walked away, leaving the car in a lane of traffic, door hanging wide open.

Anabel wound duct tape around Lara’s arms, making agony flare in her injured wrist, taking her time even as the horns of the cars backed up behind began honking angrily. Lara had sagged down onto the seat onto the other woman’s lap, unable to stay upright.

When she was immobilized, Anabel leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. “I missed you, honey. So did the big boss. You’ve been a bad little girl, but he’ll deal with you. And I hope he lets me watch.”

Lara tried to visualize the computer so she could say something to Miles, but then the needle stung her again.

The impulse vanished, drowned in darkness.

yo! wtf? why r u not answering?

Miles forced the panic down. Panic would not help. He crouched in the trees, peering through the scope of the H&K G36 at Greaves’ house.

But it had been several hours since Lara’s last response, and he was fucking
tense.

If they’d left each other on a harsh note, he could have hypothesized that she was giving him the silent treatment, but Christ, they’d parted ways after exchanging what amounted to holy vows of goddamn undying love and devotion. So what the
fuck . . .
?

She could be sleeping. Right. On a bus, as nervous and scared as she was, surrounded by strangers? Maybe all that accumulated adrenaline had crashed her, and she was snoring on the bus, mouth open. At least, the Lara light in his head was still on. But it was strange, indistinct. Different from before.

Fine, then. Asleep. It was the only possible explanation that didn’t scare him shitless, so he was clinging to it.

It felt like a trap, the lack of security around the Blaine house. The place had been gated, of course, but there was no sign of an alarm system. This was a house Greaves had bought for his family twenty-five years ago. A convenient place for the guy and his entourage to park themselves before the ceremony set for the following afternoon. No massive security like Kolita Springs, or the Spruce Ridge complex, or the chateau in Bordeaux, or the country manor in England, or the South Sea island, or the sixteenth-century Tuscan villa, or the luxury high-rise penthouses in Hong Kong, Singapore, and Dubai.

Miles crept through the drenched trees, peering through the scope again. They were up and about, even at this hour. Almost five
A.M.
, though the sky hadn’t started to lighten yet. He’d identified Greaves through the window, plus four others, two men and two women. The guy’s staff seemed somewhat reduced these days.

But then, Miles had killed quite a few of them himself.

He wished he had the materials to blow the place up. If he’d been able to access Aaro’s cache, or the McClouds, or Tam and Val’s, he could have flattened the guy, ka-boom. If wishes were horses. He was lucky he had the stolen H&K and a full magazine.

Looked like the big guy was being served breakfast. There was a breakfast nook off the back porch that overlooked the lake, but as luck would have it, Greaves was seated in a chair that was out of Miles’ line of sight, behind a pillar. He saw a hand occasionally, reaching out to have coffee poured, to take a pat of butter. Minions scurried to do the guy’s bidding. But to get a straight shot at Greaves, he would need a boat to row several meters out into the lake.

It was almost as if the guy knew that Miles was out there, and had positioned himself deliberately. But that was paranoid.

pls pls pls lara talk2me

Okay, stop. Last one. The transcript of unanswered messages was way too long. It would scroll for pages.

He crept up to the position that gave him a clear view through the French doors that led out onto the side porch. That room was dark, but he saw lights filtering from an open doorway, and mapped the house with his augmented senses, as he had done in the forest fight. Greaves glowed hot in the front room, a nasty throb of powerful energy. There were the two who had been with Greaves in the forest fight. A car was coming, and he crouched lower in the foliage and followed the headlights. They slowed and stopped at the gate.

He settled down, positioned his scope, crosshairs over the front door, careful not to let himself get blinded by the oncoming headlights.

It was a large SUV. It parked near the RV. It took a couple of seconds to recognize the haggard woman who got out of the driver’s seat. Anabel had aged thirty years since Spruce Ridge. Dull skin, stringy hair, caved-in cheeks, shadowed, sunken eyes.

She jerked open the back seat, leaned in, and grabbed something, heaving it out with some effort, letting it flop heavily onto the ground.

That thing proved to be a person swathed in duct tape, in a long, olive drab wool army coat, a multicolored knitted cap, a tangled mop of long, wavy dark hair. Levis. Purple lace-up kicks. Oh, Jesus.
Lara.

His artificial calm exploded from within, like it had been mined.

 

She swam up through the dark, lungs screaming. Wondering if she’d be better off falling back down into the thick, viscous darkness. Just ending the fight, and falling back into sleep. Endless sleep.

She would have, if it weren’t for the lantern glowing in her head. She had no words in this dark place in her mind, but the closer she came to the surface, the more words, thoughts, images came back. Fear and pain, too. Throbbing in her head, her arm. Twisting in her middle.

Miles. He was her lantern, her beacon. Her star in the darkness. She wanted to call out to him, but she couldn’t visualize images in this condition. She couldn’t see the control room, the computer screen.

She felt numb, frozen. Mute and helpless.

She forced her eyes open. Her head hurt, like it had been whacked with a splitting maul. Arms still bound. She moved slightly, and almost screamed, though her throat was too swollen to make much sound. Oh dear
God
, that hurt.

She rolled onto her side, and raised her head.

She was in a small, blind room. It had shiny, reflective metal walls. She became gradually aware of a whirring sound. Movement, currents. A fan, pumping air. The room was filled with large, irregular shapes, wrapped in white drop cloths. Like stiff, unmoving ghosts.

The one closest to her was an elongated, irregular box, about three feet high. She fussed at it with her feet until the dropcloth was loose, and then turned, grabbing the edge with her uninjured hand. The cloth unwound, and the thing wrapped in it spun, wobbled, and fell.

She gaped, astonished. It was one of her own sculptures.
Pandora’s Box
. It had been bought for a tidy sum, the very day before they came for her. She vaguely remembered celebrating in a bar with some friends that same evening. The Pandora figure stared at her sidewise, as if Lara herself had put that horrified, oh-what-the-fuck-have-I-done? look on her glazed ceramic face.

It gave her a bad moment of stomach free-fall, as if the place was a surreal antechamber to her own private, personal hell.

But that human-shaped thing in the corner. That was not hers. She’d never made anything of that size and shape.

She forced herself up, gasping at the needle jabs of agony in her head, her wrist. Oh, ouch. Hung over from their junk, as usual.

She stumbled over to the statue, worrying it with her teeth, then with her good hand behind her back. She yanked at the bungee cords wrapped around it. The hooks came loose, the dropcloth fell.

Greaves.
It was a bronze statue of the guy himself, snapping a photo and smiling. Yes, this was definitely hell.

It was the statue from her visions. She’d never seen its face, since it had always been covered by rivulets of birdshit, but she recognized the pose, the camera.

The vortex took her so fast, she didn’t even try to fight.

And fell right onto her back. Jolted back into her body again, heart racing, dragging in air. Oh, God, she’d fallen right onto her injured wrist. It hurt so badly, she almost vomited.

She rolled onto her side, keening with pain, and tried once again to type onto the interface. This time, she could visualize. miles?

WTF? WHERE HAVE U BEEN WHAT HAPPENED?

nabbed at portland bus depot dont know where I am now

ur in blaine, greaves’ house. me 2. i saw anabel haul u in thru my scope oh baby

god im sorry I ruined everything she typed in, appalled.

not ur fault. im the 1 who should b sorry. where r u in the house?

blind room 15 ft squ metal, like a bank vault. he keeps the sculpture collection here. Miles. my vision! it was of blaine!

He didn’t reply for a moment, baffled. huh?

i saw the statue, remember the statue, covered with birdshit? it’s greaves! they’re dedicating it tomorrow! it’s here! the vision, something horrible is going to happen here!

A brief pause, and then, horrible? really? i’ll tell u whats horrible. mthrfckers abduct my girlfriend and lock her in a vault.

its here miles! greaves is going to do smthing terrible here in Blaine and it starts right HERE AND NOW

one. thing. at. a. time. Miles typed in, sternly. 1) get lara out of the vault. 2) save the rest of the fckng universe. ok?

ur not getting it, she responded desperately. this is huge

At that moment, bolts started to grind and slide in the massive door. they’re coming 4 m L8r love u

me 2 listening waiting always ready yrs 4ever

Oh, man. This rush of sentimental tears was so poorly timed.

She snorted them back as the door sighed open, and Anabel and another man walked in. He was tall, well-dressed, Latino. He stared down at her, frowning in concentration, and shook his head.

“It’s true,” he said, disgruntled. “It’s like she’s not even there.”

“What, Silva, you didn’t believe us?” Anabel mocked. “Even Greaves couldn’t get through that shield, and you thought you could crack her and show us all up? Asshole.”

“Shut it,” the guy snarled. “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

They each grabbed her by an armpit, and hauled her to her feet. The pressure on her swollen wrist wrenched a shriek of agony from her throat, but they didn’t seem to hear it. They hustled her out into a long corridor with a window at the end. The light from the window was a few shades lighter than true black. Dawn was breaking.

Through some double doors, into a large living room. Lavishly decorated, perfectly clean, but it had a chilly air of abandonment.

They passed out of the room and into a hall that served as a gallery of photographs. Anabel and the man that she had called Silva both stopped short as Lara jerked them back, rooted to the spot.

The photos.

The blond boy, in all his many incarnations. There he was as a twelve-year-old, smiling, the arm of a lovely blond woman flung over his shoulders. There was the little four-year-old boy she’d seen in the last vision, but here he was smiling and clean, well dressed, well fed, hair cut. A beautiful, happy little boy. Him as an eight-year-old in a baseball uniform. Him in a suit, holding a violin.

“Move it,” Anabel hissed.

“Who are these people?” Lara asked.

“What do you care, bitch? Move it!” Anabel jerked on her arm, provoking another flash of nauseating pain, but she held firm. “Who are they?” she demanded. “Who’s the boy?”