Coldness seeped into his awareness with a hard bite. So. Damn. Cold. Brock’s eyelids flipped open to the burn of bright lights. Pain pierced his cornea, forced his lashes downward as if weighted with cement, granting him the comfort of darkness. Yes. Darkness. He liked the darkness. It was all he could feel, all he could see.
The room shifted around him, shadowy movement almost enough to entice him into another attempt to open his eyelids. A soft voice shifted through the empty space of his mind, a sensual, sweet voice, an angel come to help him.
His lids scraped across his eyeballs, and he blinked into that bright light that splintered through to his brain; it turned the coldness into blistering pain that traveled a fast track down his spine. Muscles twitched in his face, across his eyebrows. He inhaled and forced himself to focus.
White ceiling. He was staring at a white ceiling. His vision faded; spots glistened like water droplets above him, disorienting him. Desperately, he fought for something to hold in his line of vision, but there was only that damn white light. It was all over, surrounding him, consuming him.
Panic expanded in his chest, rose to his throat with suffocating precision, and he jerked upward. A sharp tug on his wrists drew a gasp, pain wrenching them and soaring up his arms. He panted several times, his mind a whirlwind of foggy images that he couldn’t make out.
Brock lifted his head, looked around—small sterile room, white sheets, hospital bed. Sharp pains shot through his wrists as restraints dug into his flesh. Desperately seeking freedom, he jerked upward again, finding nothing but more resistance, more pain.
Clarity came to him with the realization that the pain came from the steel pinch of needles, IVs running through his legs, chest, and arms. He glared down at himself, at the tubes and needles around him, in him, and memories weaved a taunting path through his mind. The bridge. The gorgeous female. The injection.
“Powell, damn it! Get the hell in here! Powell!” Over and over he screamed, no concept of time, but there was no response to his demands. He screamed until his throat rasped.
“Easy,” came the soft, female voice he recognized from the van, a moment before her lovely, blue eyes came into view. “You’re okay.” She spoke over her shoulder. “Get Dr. Chin, please.” A gentle hand settled on his arm a second before her piercing gaze blinked into focus.
Jocelyn, he thought. Her name was Jocelyn. “You bitch! You tricked me! You were supposed to be giving me the injection, not bringing me here.”
She recoiled as if slapped. “No. I didn’t trick you!” She leaned closer again. “Brock, sweetheart. The secrecy of our location is a necessity. I know you understand this. You’re a military man.”
“Then use a blindfold,” he snapped back. “It doesn’t require needles or straps. I read the GTECH reports. Don’t jerk me around, lady. They weren’t tied down. They didn’t even know what was happening to them.”
An answer slid quickly off her tongue. “Their transformation was gradual. Yours will not be. You’re tied down so you won’t rip your IVs out as your body transforms. A few days from now when we take them out—”
“A few days!” he shouted, trying to jerk free again. He didn’t care about the pain. He wanted free. “I can’t stay like this for a few days. I didn’t sign up for this. Get the needles out. Let me go.” A small Chinese man entered the room, and Brock glared at him. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Dr. Chin,” he stated, reaching for the chart at the end of the bed and then speaking over his shoulder to someone Brock couldn’t make out. “Push two milligrams of Ativan.”
“Give me that shot, whoever you are, and I promise you, when I get up, I will remember and kill you.” The blur of white cloth hung back without approaching, taking heed of the warning. Wildly, Brock swung his gaze from Jocelyn to Dr. Chin. “I’ll kill you all.”
Jocelyn reached behind her to whoever the white blur was and said, “Give it to me.” She spoke to the doctor. “Is he okay otherwise?”
He gave her a nod. “I checked him thoroughly before he awoke.”
“Then leave us so I can explain everything to him,” she said, and turned back to Brock.
“Give me that shot, and you’ll regret it,” he warned.
Unshaken, Jocelyn’s full lips lifted into a smile, and she reached for an IV attachment. “You’re very tough for a man tied to a bed.” She pumped the syringe into the tube and emptied it.
“Next time you’ll be the one tied to the bed, and I’ll have my way with you.” She owed him some pleasure for her deception.
She arched a brow. “Promises, promises. But right now, I doubt you could manage to tie your shoes, let alone, tie me down.” She tossed the syringe into a trash can and then settled comfortably beside him, resting her hand on his chest. It was warm against his cold skin. “So why don’t we talk about what’s happening to you, shall we?”
A sudden heaviness thrummed across his eyelids, fusing with the heat of her palm, dragging him into lethargy. “Tell. Me.”
“You’ve been given the GTECH serum—a special serum formula no other man has ever received. You will be the strongest, the most capable GTECH—as you should be as their commander.”
Strongest. The word rolled in Brock’s drug-laden mind. He liked that word. He liked Jocelyn’s voice—all rich and womanly. She continued, “There will be some pain with the transition as your muscles and fluid levels adjust. But when it’s over, you, Brock, will be the most powerful man on earth, and we will begin building your army.” She inched closer, that crazy exotic scent of hers spiking in his nose as it had in the van, despite his fading senses. “You’re going to be a hero, Brock.”
Hero, he thought, smiling. He was going to be a hero. The most powerful man on earth. Satisfaction slid into his mind, and he allowed his lids to shut, allowed darkness to overcome that bright light.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
With Cassandra’s limp body in his arms, Michael reappeared outside the cavern wall of Sunrise City—barely able to breathe and certain he didn’t want to if Cassandra did not. Desperate to get her to safety, he stepped to the exact, invisible spot where a scanner tracked his body, identified him. The cavern split in two, dividing into an equally invisible entrance. In an instant, Michael was inside the massive warehouse that served as an entry pod to Sunrise City, the doors automatically closing behind him.
He set Cassandra’s dripping wet body down, feeling like a vise was clamping down on his chest as he stared at her pale face and realized his worst fear—indeed, she wasn’t breathing.
“No!” he screamed in his mind, even as he scrambled to save her, ripping away her body armor to the waist and beginning CPR. She had to live. Had to live. Wildness charged through him, defiance, pain, anger. He pressed his lips to hers. His mind raced with punishing thoughts as he worked to save her. Blame rushed over him. He’d done this to her. He had done this.
Reason tried to save him from the crushing blow—had he lifebonded with her, he couldn’t have been apart from her, he couldn’t have saved the other women inside Zodius, would never have known about Red Dart, would never have gotten the body armor. But had he lifebonded with her, he could have given her his full protection. She would not be dying. Or dead. He reared back and yelled at the top of his lungs. She was dead. She was dead. And so was he. Because losing her was the one thing he could not bear, the one punishment this life had given him that he could not endure.
A loud shout spiraling through the darkness consumed Cassandra, and speckles of white touched the black and gray in front of her eyes. She gasped awake, sucked in air, and sat up, head spinning, stomach twisting. But there was only one thing that mattered. The realization that Michael was shouting. Not just shouting. Roaring deep from inside his chest, pain etched across his face. For her. He was shouting for her. She knew it in every ounce of her being.
“Michael,” she whispered, reaching for her voice, grabbing him. “Michael. I’m okay. I’m okay.”
He looked down at her, instant relief pouring over his features. He grabbed her and held her, then framed her face with his hands. “Cassandra. God. I thought—”
She pressed her lips to his, needing that warm comfort that on some level she knew had brought her back to life. Those lips. This man. A memory—of those guns pointed at them, of being certain she was going to die—washed over her. One minute there were guns, the next…“We wind-walked.”
“Yes,” he said, pulling back. “I had no choice. They were going to—”
“Kill us,” she said. “I know.”
He studied her a moment, tenderness fanning his features. “We need to get you down to medical,” he said, already pulling her into his arms when an alarm sounded. Her heart jackhammered in reaction, and instantly, Michael’s gaze jerked to the cavern wall. Cassandra’s own gaze followed the wall as it parted, and Caleb and Sterling appeared in a gust of wind, shadowy figures in black fatigues that faded into the darkness outside the door. Sterling took one step forward and collapsed, blood pooling beside his body. The wind carried three more men to the door, two of whom were hunched over in pain, injured as well.
Cassandra’s face riveted to Michael’s, and she could see the conflicted emotion spreading across his face. “Go!” she yelled, pushing out of his arms. “I’m okay! Please. Go. Help them.”
He hesitated only a moment before he was running toward the injured soldiers. Cassandra struggled unsteadily to her feet, though she was gaining strength quickly. She watched in horror as Caleb threw Sterling over his shoulder and started moving toward the back of the warehouse in the direction of a row of elevators. Blood trailed in his wake. A lot of blood. Leaving no question about the seriousness of Sterling’s injuries.
Guilt overtook Cassandra as Michael grabbed another injured man, whose name she remotely remembered as Damion. She’d liked Damion, just as she’d liked Sterling. These men had been hurt protecting her.
“Please,” she said softly, her gaze lifting upward, calling on faith she’d perhaps forgotten too much lately. “Don’t let them die.”
Even as she said that little prayer, she charged toward the elevators, determined not to be left in the warehouse alone, determined to help anyway she could. She ended up in the back of one of the two, standing behind Michael and Caleb, the injured soldiers hanging across their backs. She looked from one pair of broad shoulders to the other, feeling a silent, yet kindred spirit between the two Renegades in a way she’d noticed back at Area 51. Renegades. They were both, and had always been, Renegades. How had she ever believed Michael would really follow Adam rather than Caleb?
The underground elevator moved slowly. Too slowly. A lifetime for these men, she feared, the silence thick with that implication.
“What happened out there?” Michael asked, his voice rigid and low.
“Damion was down, and I was going after him. But Sterling was gone before I could stop him. Wind-walking right into the middle of the fucking gunfire and took those Green Hornets meant for Damion. Damn fool. Damn idiotic fool. He knows the Zodius won’t kill me. He knows my brother forbids it.”
Michael glanced at Caleb. “They might not intentionally kill you, but that doesn’t mean you might not have died out there,” Michael said. “Your life is too valuable to risk losing. You have to lead us the hell out of this mess. Correction. You’re destined to lead us the hell out of this.”
“Spare me the talk about the grandness of my life while Sterling is bleeding to death over my shoulder, Michael,” Caleb hissed. “My life is no more valuable than—”
“Like hell it’s not,” Michael countered, “and Sterling knows it even if you don’t.”
Cassandra squeezed her eyes shut. Shaken. Feeling guiltier. A lot guiltier. Could she have prevented any of this by seeing her father for what he was back when Project Zodius began? Wasn’t she here because of him? Weren’t they all here because of him?
“This isn’t your fault, Cassandra,” Caleb said, shocking her with the certainty that he had read her mind. Though nothing should shock her about the GTECHs any longer.
“No,” Michael added roughly. “It’s mine.” Cassandra’s heart leaped wildly. “It’s mine.” Was Michael talking about being the one to bring her here tonight? She regretted that. God, how she regretted coming here, allowing these men to be hurt.
Or maybe for Michael, this was about her father. About allowing him to live. He regretted that, she knew it. That was between them, a wall bigger than any other he’d ever drawn between them, and there were plenty of those.
The elevator doors slid open. Sterling and Damion were quickly placed on the rolling beds that awaited them in a long, narrow stone-covered foyer. Cassandra followed the men and saw other soldiers exiting the elevators on either side of her; all were being attended to or helping others in need.
A whirlwind of activity followed, and Cassandra chased the gurneys down a long hallway that led to the medical facilities. She saw what resembled a large emergency room with a center desk and curtained-off rooms.
Cassandra found herself sandwiched between Michael and Caleb in front of a large window outside a surgical room. And Kelly was inside with Sterling, operating.
She hadn’t even known Kelly was with the Renegades. She’d selfishly shut out everything when she’d fled Groom Lake. Shut out a war that wasn’t going away. Refused to fight while Adam became more dangerous. And right now, watching Kelly in there fighting for Sterling’s life, as Sterling had fought for all of them—Damion, Caleb, and yes, her—she hated herself for that. She vowed she would make it up. She would find Red Dart. She would destroy it. She’d help get those bullets, too. She wouldn’t allow Adam to get more of them. If confronting her father would make a difference, she’d be out in that canyon right now; she’d be charging back to demand he make this all right. But it wasn’t that easy, and she knew it. God. If only it were that easy.
She glanced up at Michael, at the hard set of his jaw, the stiff posture. Waves of turbulent emotion rolled off him and crashed over her. Whatever was behind his words in that elevator seemed to be eating him alive. The walls between them had crumbled while he’d worried for her and had rebuilt in seconds as he worried for his friend.
She yearned to strip those walls away, to touch him, to comfort him, but for the first time since she’d met him, she felt she should not. They stood shoulder to shoulder, but it seemed as if he were on the other side of the world, lost with no way home.
“He’s crashing!” someone yelled, a moment before a warning buzzer pierced Cassandra’s mind.
A harsh breath of air ripped through Cassandra’s lungs, and her hands flattened on the glass. She watched as the medical personnel prepared to shock Sterling. And deep in her core, Cassandra knew that this gut-wrenching minute would change this war. Because this moment spilled blood and cut deep in the hearts of those on the front lines. They were not, nor was she, going to sit by and let it be for nothing. These men had saved her life. She owed it to them to fight by their side, to make their sacrifices matter. She stared through that window and willed Sterling to survive, so she could tell him so herself.
Michael stood by the surgery window, watching as Kelly worked on Sterling, holding his breath. The instant the monitor by his bed began a steady, stable rhythm, his shoulders relaxed, relief filling him. Those bullets, those Taylor Industry manufactured green bullets had not stolen a good man’s life. Nor would he let them. Beside him, he could hear the sighs of relief from both Cassandra and Caleb, the tension in the small enclave of the waiting area immediately easing.
“Caleb.” The male voice came from behind.
Michael turned to find Dr. Walker, one of the half-dozen doctors who’d followed Caleb from Groom Lake. A tall, human male with short, dark hair, he was casting Michael a suspicious look. Caleb didn’t miss the look. “He’s one of us. He’s always been one of us.”
Michael wanted to bare his teeth and watch the man jump,
damn him. Like he didn’t feel like crap enough right now without being made to feel he didn’t belong here. But then, maybe he did not.
“Do you have something to tell us?” Michael barked irritably, barely keeping the growl out of his voice.
Dr. Walker cleared his throat nervously. “Noah, Cooper, and Jacob have avoided major organ hits. I’m about to take Damion into surgery to remove a bullet near his heart, but I don’t anticipate any complications. It wasn’t a direct hit, so he should be fine. His body will heal quickly.”
Caleb gave a sharp nod, but apparently wanted a few minutes alone with the man, motioning him down the hall as he followed for a little one-on-one private time. And Michael had no doubt that it was about him, which only served to make him more damn agitated.
His gaze settled on Cassandra’s mud-smudged pale face, and he motioned to a nurse. “We need medical attention.”
Cassandra shook her head, motioning the woman away. “Let them deal with the men who are in life-threatening situations. I’m not.”
“No,” he said in instant rejection, thinking of those moments when he’d held her lifeless body in his arms. “You stopped breathing. You need to be checked.” He raised his hand again and motioned to the nurse who was staring at him as if he were Freddy Krueger from A Nightmare on Elm Street. He scowled. “Holy hell, woman. I’m not a Zodius. I’m a Renegade. And we bloody well need medical attention.”
“Easy, Michael,” Cassandra said, shaking her head at the woman. “I’m fine. I don’t need help.”
“Like hell you don’t,” he grumbled.