Mystical Love (94 page)

“No, but you've wounded him to the max,” Cutter said, bending over and lifting Ned's shirt.

“Killing him would surely kill Sonny,” Logan stated.

“Sonny!”

Beside him, Brad Fletcher bolted around the glass partition. In seconds, Logan had rounded the window with him. Reaching the table, he stuffed his revolver into his waistband and ripped the headset from Sonny's scalp. Grabbing her neck, he shook her roughly.

“Sonny! Can you hear me?” She remained motionless under his clamped fingers, and he gave her body another vicious shake. Her mind was as far away from reality as the moon was to the earth, and he didn't have a clue of how to bring her back to him. “Fight, Sonny. Fight your way back to the present. You do it all the time.” He waited for a response, a tic, a twitch, but nothing came. Her eyelids remained closed, her body a limp rag doll in his arms.

At that moment, Logan experienced true panic, a cramping in his stomach that nearly doubled him over. Not even when he had found himself face down in the gutter, his blood staining the cracks of the pavement, had he given into a sense of panic this great. Now, his heart was pounding, and his blood was turning to ice. If Sonny woke and didn't recognize him, or any part of her old life, he'd never forgive himself. No, she had a pulse—thready, but there. And if she didn't wake?

Stampeded by the thought, he gave her shoulders another shake. “Sonny!”

“Bloody hell, Reed! Are you trying to shake her teeth loose?” Brad snarled. “Step back or you'll kill her for sure!”

The demand burned Logan's ears, and slim fingers hauled him back from the reclining chair. Logan balked at the manhandling, yet gave way as Brad stepped around him and took command. A second later, Logan found himself caught up in the blatant efficiency of the man.

Brad lifted Sonny's right eyelid and checked her pupils. At the same time, his fingers grasped her right wrist and began monitoring her pulse. His stilted call to her was a trifle softer than Logan's.

“It's Uncle Brad, Sonny; focus on my voice.” He brushed her cheekbone, and Logan felt his throat constrict at the caress. Time was running out. “Come back, Sonny,” Brad demanded. He paused, waiting for a response, and Logan was surprised to see an amazed look cross his face as he dropped her wrist and turned from the recliner. Had he convinced himself Sonny would respond to his voice and no other?

Blocking out Brad's stricken expression, Logan brought his mind from the emotional back to the rational. Sonny wasn't going to waken, at least not without major medical help. The important thing now was to get her that help. He motioned to Brad.

“You conduct sessions like this every day, Fletcher. Can't you reverse the programming, or at least slow it down?”

“Not without a trigger word, I can't. If Ned used one, there's no telling what it was.” He motioned to the window. “Does he look like a man who'd give up that information? He'll die first.”

Logan agreed, but not aloud. Instead, he signaled through the window to the lieutenant, who immediately took out his phone.

“Code blue, Daniel Six,” he ordered through the mouthpiece. “I repeat, I need Trauma Hawk at Green Arbor stat. Code blue, code blue.”

The call was relayed quickly, and Logan's gaze lit on the sea of bodies suddenly cluttering the stairwell. Where the hell had all the backup come from? Crime-scene crowds interfered with investigations and made his job of ferreting out secrets almost impossible.

His gaze finally settled on the lieutenant's imposing form, and his expression soured even more. If he thought his mood was black, it was nothing to the fractured scowl staining the lieutenant's face. He still held his hand over Ned's bleeding wound, but he was barking orders at breakneck speed. Bodies left and came back, only to be sent off again.

Realizing he stood no chance of conversing privately with the lieutenant, Logan's gaze shifted to the man on the floor. A female officer suddenly blocked his view as she fell to her knees beside Ned and offered the lieutenant assistance in staunching the flow of blood. Ned remained unconscious at her probing, and even though a sheet of glass separated them, Logan could see a scowl etched on Ned's face. Was the bastard worried he hadn't finished the job? Logan's mind elaborated the thought. Had something gone wrong with the transfer … or had something gone right? It didn't take long for the hairs on the back of his neck to prickle, a sure sign he had hit on something.

“He's not going to make it, Reed,” the lieutenant said, wiping his bloodied hands on a towel as he settled beside Logan and watched the female's efficient ministrations. Logan didn't offer a comment. “You're scowling. What are you thinking?”

“His mind zap didn't work.”

“Not that we know of,” Cutter said, tossing the towel into the corner of the chamber. “However, if the bastard lives through this, we'll fry his ass for murdering David and attempting to kill Sonny.”

“Look at his face,” Logan said. “Even unconscious, he's worried. It's as if he suspects the mind transfer didn't have time to work.”

“He swamped her mind, Reed,” the lieutenant said. “Just look at
her
face. It's devoid of life. If she wakes, what will she be? A vegetable?”

Logan snarled at the insinuation. “It will take more than two or three mind zaps to take Sonny down. The question is did he have time to execute the entire program before we arrived?”

The sound of thundering rotors and loud sirens filtered down to the basement.

“Trauma Hawk,” Cutter said, moving away.

Logan grasped his arm. “Ned doesn't ride in the chopper with Sonny,” he stated.

“The man needs surgery, Reed.”

“He doesn't ride with Sonny,” Logan emphasized. “Send him by ambulance.”

“He'll die along the way,” the lieutenant advised. He eyed Logan's frigid expression. “Jesus! You're hoping he dies along the way.”

Logan headed towards Ned's prostrate form. Seeing his approach, the officer who had been tending his wound rose and stepped away.

“He's coming around,” she told Logan as she passed him.

Logan glanced down and saw pain-filled eyes staring up at him. The voice was barely audible as it spoke.

“I was sure you wanted me dead,” he whispered.

Logan dropped to his haunches. “Killing you would've served
your
purpose, not mine, Chalmers. It would've been foolish to kill you this soon. And trust me, I'm not a fool.”

“Thank you for not killing me this soon,” Ned said sarcastically. He broke off, his face mired in pain.

“Yet,” Logan emphasized, hearing a raspy pant. “I haven't killed you
yet
.”

Ned's mouth twisted into a lopsided grin, and a spurt of blood spread across his lips. “Once the program is set, it can't be undone,” he wheezed. “There'll be no miracle. You won't save Sonny. She's one with the darkness now.”

“I believe you,” Logan said. “But I also believe that you would never damage her brain entirely.”

He heard another busted wheeze. “You can't imagine the thrill—the power one gets from killing empaths I had to have Sonny's.”

“By turning her into a brand new person?”

Ned's eyes were dilating now. “I would've been good to her.” He tried to raise his hand, but it fell back quickly. “With her talent and my cunning, we would've been unstoppable.”

A scuffle sounded behind them, and when Logan turned, Brad was pushing past two security officers and bearing down on them. When he reached Ned, he dropped to his knees.

“How could you do it, you bastard?” he demanded, his accusation scathing. “How could you send Sonny's mind to God knows where?”

Ned's wheeze was filled with matching contempt. “At least I'm no sniveling coward.” He coughed up blood. “I was willing to gamble that Pandora was still viable, and I was right. Pandora works.”

“So you fried Sonny's brain all in the name of your precious ego?”

Ned coughed up another stream of blood. “Go away, Brad,” he gasped. “Let me die in peace.”

Incensed, Brad reached for Ned's neck, but Logan's hands stopped them mid-flight.

“No one wants the bastard dead more than I do, Fletcher, but if you strangle him, he'll find peace. And I don't want him to ever have peace, in this life or the next.”

“Let me kill him then,” Brad said, knocking Logan's fingers from his. He lowered his voice. “He deserves to feel the same pain Sonny did.”

“He will. He's going to bleed to death right here on the floor. I intend to see to it. He'll never make it into surgery.”

A rasp whistled through Ned's lips. “Dark … ness.”

The stutter was barely audible, but it still rocked Logan's ears. He glanced at the face, suddenly devoid of life, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“The bastard got his wish. He's trapped in darkness for eternity.”

Something warm tickled her face, and she opened her eyes. At least she tried to. A horrendous pounding erupted deep in her head, and a tiny voice urged her to sleep. She sank into a wonderful euphoria, until that same tiny voice came again, demanding she open her eyes. Once again, she felt the same warmth on her face and attempted to lift her lids. When they shot up, she saw a white ceiling.

Flinching under the light, she immediately closed her eyes and fell back to sleep. But the tiny voice came again, urging her to stay awake. She opened her eyes, and this time, they stayed open. The white ceiling shimmered in a blur and then shifted to the top of a glass-paned door. Somewhere close by, she heard a light scratching sound. She followed the sound and saw a tree branch bobbing against an open patio door. A sprinkling of light peeped across a stone wall, capturing her attention. Sunlight. It was morning, and the sun was rising. But what sun? And where?

She let her gaze drift left and studied the tree branch. Where was she? She tried to think and found herself hit with that same pounding in her head, although it wasn't quite as painful this time. She closed her eyes, seeking release from the tiring ache, and the tiny voice let her.

Soon, too soon for her liking, the voice came back, prodding her to wake up. The thought made her suddenly cry. It felt as if her mind was trying to test her in some way, trick her.

She attempted to raise her hand and brush the annoying wetness away, but found she didn't have the strength. What was wrong with her hands? She glanced down and spotted bandages covering both of them. She flinched under the jolt erupting in her head. For a moment, she thought the tiny voice would advise her to go to sleep, but when her gaze remained focused on the bandages, the pain drifted away. Why were her hands wrapped? Had she tried to commit suicide? Yes, she must've. That's why her brain was testing her. She had lost touch with reality and tried to kill herself. She had been locked up because she was crazy. Her glance found the open doorway again. No, that couldn't be the answer. There weren't any open doors in insane asylums—just cells, little cells, with shackles and chairs. And pain, intense pain.

The throbbing pain in her head ignited again, sending her into a dark place with shackles and chairs. Think. No, don't think, it's too painful. Go to sleep. No, don't go to sleep. Think. Too hard to think. Better to sleep. Yes, sleep. No, think. Find the answer. Too hard. Must sleep. No, better to know the answer. Time to remember the answer. Yes, time to stop sleeping …

A musky aroma wafted into her nose, and she opened her eyes. Aftershave. Who was wearing it? She attempted to turn her head and found her neck muscles stiff and sore. What the hell had happened to her neck? She glanced down, surprised to find IV lines protruding from under her bandages.

Slowly, her mind began to backtrack. She had been driving on a sharp curve. Blinding lights had hit her head-on, and then, intense pain and ... nothing. The rest was lost, at least for the moment. She tuned in to the rhythmic tick of a heart monitor above her head and lowered her chin. A set of wires jutted from the top of her hospital gown onto the pillow under her head. By some miracle, she had survived a car accident. She had been brought to a hospital. But when? And how long ago?

She felt the sheet around her toes rustle and followed the sound. Her eyebrows shot up when she spied a white-coated figure standing at the foot of the bed, totally engrossed in the clipboard he was holding. His expression telegraphed concern as he lifted each of the pages and read them. Was she in that bad of shape? Perhaps the accident had left her paralyzed. No, she realized. She could move her arms and had wriggled her toes slightly. You couldn't do that if you were numb from the waist down. It had to be her head. It had taken a walloping hit during the accident, but how long ago? Days? Weeks? Was that why the doctor's brow was so furrowed?

She let her gaze travel the strong lines of his face. Confident, trustworthy—everything a doctor should be. She'd speak to him. Let him know he needn't worry anymore; she was fine. She felt her eyelids flicker down. A second later, she heard movement, and a strong grip encircled her wrist.

A deep voice called, “Try to stay awake if you can.”

She followed the instructions, opening her lids to find a pair of gray-green eyes leaning into her.

“You must focus on my voice ... No, don't try to speak. You must save your energy. You've been a very sick young woman, but you'll get better now that you're awake.” He cast a harried glance over his shoulder and then reached up above her head. He must've adjusted her IV, because she felt a euphoric dizziness consume her.

“Don't ... make ... me … sleep ... ” she mumbled.

“My God, she's awake! Awake!”

Scuffling sounds ensued, and then two tall figures leaned over her bed and assessed her face. More doctors? She must've really banged herself up during the crash to garner so much attention. There was even a doctor on standby, just inside the door. Why hadn't he rushed to the bed in concern like the others? A blinding pain erupted in her head at the question, and she reeled back into the pillow. She felt her pulse taken quickly and turned her attention to the doctor on her right. She heard his soft mutter.