Warrior's Heart: Iron Portal Series (Paranormal Romance) (6 page)

She didn’t care how long it took or what she had to do, she would stick by his side no matter what.

Warmth radiated off his body, which was good, because the floor was a freaking ice cube. She listened to his breathing, measured and steady, and wished she knew what to say. Anticipation hung in the air. He was probably waiting to see if she was really going to stay and sleep on the floor with him.

You bet I am. And I’m not moving unless you do.

Finally, he cursed again and stood up with a grunt. “Come on.” He held out his hand, his biceps and chest flexing as he pulled her to her feet.

She followed him to the bed, but as soon as they climbed in, he turned his back to her, making it clear that he wasn’t interested in talking…or doing anything else. But at least he wasn’t on the floor.

That had to be enough for now.

V
ince stood
in front of the mirror and ran a hand over his buzz cut and freshly shaved face. He had hoped the new look would make him feel different. Change him into a better version of his former self, someone who could be worthy of Zara.

But he still felt the same.

Dirty. Ruined. Damaged.

Who was he trying to fool anyway? He couldn’t cover that shit with something as simple as a goddamn haircut. He was an idiot to think otherwise.

He slipped out of the bathroom, relieved to see that Zara was still sleeping. If she were awake, he knew he would have to ask about their child. Hell, a decent man would’ve already asked.

His stomach knotted as he thought back to the time when she told him she was pregnant. He’d just come through the portal and wasn’t even fully dressed in the clothing she’d brought for him when she started talking. She was nervous and scared as she blurted it all out, but he’d pulled her into his arms and told her how much he loved her. Promised that they’d be together forever. Become parents together. Grow old together.

What a hollow promise that turned out to be.

He dressed quickly and headed downstairs. He needed to clear his head, go for a run. Try to make some sense of it all. At least that deadbeat brother of hers wore roughly the same size clothes he did, so Vince had something else to put on.

Despite the early hour, the garage was bustling. A classic Skynyrd song blared through the speakers, almost drowning out the sound of an air compressor. Several cars were up on blocks. A guy in a jumpsuit was consulting papers on a clipboard. Two other similarly dressed technicians—one male, one female—were looking under a hood and arguing. No one paid any attention to Vince when he passed, which he found oddly comforting. They didn’t give a shit who he was or where he was going.

A blast of cold hit him in the face when he stepped outside. Nothing like humidity to give the air an extra cold punch. As he stretched his quads, he surveyed his surroundings for the first time as a free man. He could go anywhere. Be gone for as long as he felt like being gone. No one controlled him anymore. If he wanted to keep running, there was no one to come drag him back. A week ago, he never would’ve thought he’d be free right now, rescued by a girl he’d once loved.

A sign for the motocross park drew his attention, so he jogged across the parking lot toward the entrance, past a few junker cars and a really nice travel trailer. It made sense to stay off the road anyway. He ran in through the main gate and stayed to the right next to the trees, where the terrain wasn’t as muddy. The park was an impressive array of tracks and jumps, even though it was a virtual mud pit right now with all the recent rain.

His father would’ve loved this place, Vince thought wistfully as he lengthened his stride. He recalled how the two of them used to go dirt bike riding in Eastern Washington during the summer and snowmobiling in the mountains in the winter. He ached as he thought about how much he missed his father.

He ran faster, his arms and legs pumping like pistons. Finally, when he didn’t think he could go any further, he stopped directly across from one of the big jumps to catch his breath. His muscles were strong from all the backbreaking work he did at the Institute, but his cardio ability sucked big time.

His thoughts kept drifting to what he’d seen in the back of Zara’s car on the drive to Reckless last night. Over and over until he wondered if he’d imagined or dreamed it.

It was a child’s backpack. Blue with an anime character he didn’t recognize sewn to the front zippered pouch.

At a stoplight while Zara slept, he’d reached back and grabbed it. The pack couldn’t have weighed more than a few pounds. Stuffed inside was a lightweight blue jacket, two library books, a plastic container with colored pencils, and a royal blue binder with lettering printed across the top in black Sharpie.

Darius Vincent Kane

Room 17

Mrs. Gandy’s Third Grade Class

He’d nearly choked, almost waking Zara, and he nearly choked now just thinking about it again.

I have a son. A son! And he’s named after me.

P
almer’s boot
steps echoed through the empty hallway like the rhythmic ticking of a clock. He hadn’t expected the hospital wing of the Institute to be this quiet. Not that he thought it would be bustling and teeming with people, but he’d figured he would see a few people milling around.

He’d gotten a message that Dr. Dobrynin wanted to speak with him, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he was going to get his ass chewed. When one of the most notorious prisoners escapes on your watch, you don’t exactly expect to receive a commendation. He just hoped he still had a job when it was over.

He liked the doctor. A little eccentric at times, but he’d always been reasonable. Palmer would explain what happened—that a massive explosion knocked him off his feet, and when he got his bearings straight, Crawford was gone. If that damn dog had been better trained instead of going off half-cocked all the time, he’d have found the guy.

Palmer passed a corridor that looked exactly like one he had passed a few minutes ago. Scratching his head, he wondered if he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere. He should’ve reached the nurses’ station by now. He paused next to an empty gurney and pulled out his cell phone to call the doctor’s secretary.

“Damn.” No signal.

And then he noticed the time. He was late.

He picked up his pace and walked under an arched doorway inscribed with a Latin phrase. The Institute was located in an old monastery built around the turn of the last century and then retrofitted later, which explained the confusing labyrinth of hallways.

Around the next corner, he spotted what looked to be a receptionist’s desk at the end of the hallway.
Finally
. When he got there, the desk was empty, so he rested his hands on the raised counter and waited for someone to show up. After a few minutes, he grew impatient. Where was everyone?

The third door on the right was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of light streaming into the hall. Could the receptionist, nurse, or whoever was supposed to be manning the desk be in there?

“Hello?” he called, stepping toward the door. “Anyone around?”

Almost immediately, the door swung open and a beefy-looking security guard with close-cropped hair stepped out. “You Palmer?”

“Yes.”

“In here.”

It was a standard hospital room. White walls. Gray floors. Medical equipment with blinking lights.

And a patient in the bed.

Frowning, he glanced at the guard for an explanation, but the guy’s face was unreadable.

Was this right? Why was he summoned to come here?

Then he noticed Dr. Dobrynin on the other side of the bed, leaning over the patient, his arm moving left to right. It took Palmer a moment to realize what the doctor was doing. He was brushing the woman’s hair.

An awkward curiosity clawed at his insides. Who was this lady and why had the doctor summoned him here? It was damned freaky, if you asked him.

The woman was middle-aged with dull brown hair and skin the color of a moth’s wings. Tubes were everywhere. Her neck. The backs of her hands. Protruding from under her bed. A thin line of spittle trailed from one corner of her mouth. Her eyes were open and she stared, unblinking, at the ceiling above Palmer’s head.

He glanced down at his hands, noticing for the first time that his nails were encrusted with dirt. Had he known he was going to be inside a hospital room with an actual patient, he’d have cleaned up a little more. He shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly wanting to leave. This didn’t feel right. He shouldn’t be here. He took a step backward, but the guard was right behind him.

Dr. Dobrynin looked up, his watery eyes cold and hard. “You’re late.”

“I’m…I’m sorry. I got lost.”

“Lost,” the doctor repeated, shaking his head as if he didn’t quite believe it. He reached into his medical bag and pulled out a small red bottle.

Palmer assumed it was a medicine vial until the doctor unscrewed the cap, grabbed the woman’s hand and began painting her nails.

Okay, this was fucking weird. If the doctor touched the urine bag dangling from the side of the bed, he was out of here.

“I got a call from the army commander,” the doctor said without looking up.

Palmer was actually relieved to be talking about why he had been summoned here, because seeing the doctor dote over this patient was really creeping him out.

He wasn’t surprised the CO had talked to Dobrynin. Palmer had spoken to his superior yesterday about what had happened with the prisoner. “And I told him everything, sir. I cooperated fully.”

“Vince Crawford never should’ve been allowed off the premises. None of them should have.”

And the doctor was blaming him? “But...I thought...” Palmer scratched his head. He didn’t understand how the prisoners could be working on a chain gang without the doctor’s approval. He was the head guy around here. Didn’t he call the shots?

“And you know what else he said?” Dr. Dobrynin lifted the woman’s hand and blew on her nails.

“Um, no.”

“They’re thinking about shutting down my program.”

Palmer swallowed nervously. “But what about the prisoners?” Certainly, they weren’t thinking of letting them go, were they? Those men were a danger to society. Everyone knew that. That’s why they were here.

“They’re questioning the effectiveness of what I’m trying to accomplish.”

He didn’t know what the doctor’s goals were, and he didn’t dare ask. Some things were best left alone. “That’s not good, sir.”

“You’re damn right, it’s not good,” Dobrynin snapped. “I’m so close to a breakthrough with my research. The Impedio has been proven to work well in suppressing a Talent’s abilities, and the new drug I’m developing will give us even more control over them. What good is a Talent who refuses to do what they’re told?”

Palmer had no idea what the old man was talking about. Drugs? Research? But he went along with it anyway. “You’re absolutely right, sir. A drug like that is…will be…really good. I’ll bet Crawford wouldn’t have escaped then, right?” He was glad that they were in agreement. It made him nervous to think that he might be at odds with the doctor.

A muscle in Dr. Dobrynin’s jaw twitched. He carefully placed the woman’s hand on the sheet, then started on the other. “Do you know who this is, Mr. Palmer?”

“No, sir, I don’t.” He chewed on his lip, wishing he had a cigarette. Hell, when he got back, he was going to smoke a whole pack.

“This is my daughter, Nancy.”

Palmer blinked, not sure if he should be more or less comfortable. He guessed that explained the hair-brushing and nail-painting. Sort of.

“She used to be such a happy girl,” the doctor explained, his voice tinged with a hint of nostalgia. “The biggest, brightest smile. Smart as a whip.”

Palmer’s mind wandered as the doctor continued to extoll his daughter’s accomplishments. Was there another frozen dinner in the freezer or had he eaten the last one? To be on the safe side, he should probably stop by Dick’s Drive-In on the way home. He’d had a helluva last few days and deserved something special. A Dick’s Deluxe with fries and a shake beat out anything frozen from a box.

The guard elbowed him in the back. He jerked his head up. The doctor was still talking. Something about the daughter’s friend manifesting special abilities.

“Turns out the young lady was a Mind-Talent,” the old man was saying. “And she thought it would be funny to play a trick on my Nancy. So that little brat reached into my daughter’s brain and stirred everything up, leaving her a vegetable.”

Palmer couldn’t understand why the doctor was telling him all this. He’d worked here for three years and never once had the doctor confided anything personal. He’d had no idea the man’s daughter was a patient here. “That’s terrible, sir.”

“Because no one knew how to control that girl, my daughter was irreparably harmed. That was forty-seven years, three months and fourteen days ago, Palmer. From that day forward, I committed myself to doing whatever it took to make sure no one else suffered like Nancy did. Those with Talents are abominations. They need to be controlled and monitored.” He gave a little laugh that chilled Palmer to the bone. “If I were in charge, I’d kill them all. But I’m not, so I’m doing the next best thing.”

Palmer hated Talents too. Freaked him the hell out to be working so closely with them. At least the drugs suppressed their abilities and the pay was good. By the end of the month, he’d have enough money saved to buy that fucking awesome flat screen he’d been looking at. A mammoth sixty-incher. Just in time to watch the biggest MMA event of the year. He planned to invite his hot neighbor over, a big, beautiful woman with curves that went on forever. And during the commercial breaks, if he was lucky, maybe she’d let him feel her tits.

He cleared his throat. “So what can I do for you?”

The doctor looked up, made eye contact with the guard. “Bradford,” he said with a nod, then gave a tight-lipped smile to Palmer. “A few things, actually.”

“Can you help me with this?” The guard—Bradford—grabbed a roll of black plastic. It had been leaning against the wall near the bathroom, but Palmer hadn’t noticed it before.

“Yeah, sure.” Palmer took an edge and stepped backward, unrolling a tarp. Were they going to be painting? Guess it shouldn’t surprise him that the doctor wanted to make the room nicer for his daughter, given how he doted over her. A bright yellow would be nice. Or maybe purple. Didn’t all women like purple?

The doctor adjusted some of the woman’s tubes, including the urine bag. Scratch what he said about yellow. He glanced around the room and didn’t see any painting supplies.

Oh Jesus. They didn’t want his help with the woman, did they?

Bradford pointed to the center of the tarp. “Can you step there and flatten it out?”

Palmer hesitated. His boots were dirty. Filthy, actually, now that he looked at them.

The guy must’ve noticed his reluctance. “It’s okay. We’re just going to be throwing this away when we’re done.”

Palmer stepped onto the plastic and started to flatten out the creases, glad to at last be doing something. Whatever it was. The plastic rustled and Bradford bumped into him, making Palmer stagger. The man gripped his elbow to steady him.

“Hey, watch where you’re—” He felt a wetness on his shirt and frowned. Had the idiot just spilled coffee on him? He glanced down and saw a growing red stain. It didn’t register what had happened until the man pulled a handkerchief from an inside pocket and wiped something he was holding. A knife.

Adrenaline shot through him. This was bad. Really bad. But before he could make a move, his knees weakened, and he sunk to the plastic on all fours. “You…you stabbed me,” he sputtered.

His mouth had a metallic taste, like he was sucking on a bunch of copper pennies. The throbbing in his left side turned into a stinging pain. He touched the wound, and his hand came away covered in blood.

This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real.

Above the sound of the beeping monitors, Palmer could hear the
drip drip drip
of his blood hitting the plastic.

The plastic. How could he have been so foolish to think he’d been called here to paint? What a damn idiot.

The doctor spoke up from the bedside. “Incompetence and carelessness do not belong within my organization.”

“What are you…talking about?”

“You let one of my most valuable prisoners escape.”

“It wasn’t…because of me.” His breathing was labored. God, he was tired. He just wanted to sleep. Uttering each word was like climbing a mountain. “Dog…should’ve…tracked him.” He coughed up blood and collapsed. The plastic was cold against his cheek.

“Always the excuses, Mr. Palmer. People these days are so concerned with not taking the blame for anything. When I was a youngster, we didn’t shirk our duties. We worked hard and did as we were told. And we did it well or there’d be hell to pay.” He pointed the nail polish brush at him. “So, Mr. Palmer, you only have yourself to blame for the consequences of your actions.”

Palmer was cold. Very cold. He exhaled, blowing out a long, slow breath. If only he could wrap himself in a blanket and sit by a fire somewhere. The stinging sensation along his left side had gone numb, and there was a low-pitched ringing in his ears.

He was floating now, looking down at himself. The growing pool of blood glistened under the lights.

No. That was just someone who looked like Warren Wayne Palmer. It couldn’t be
him
on that black plastic tarp.

Because if it were, he’d be dying.