Firestorm

  “He said you were a black belt.”

  He flinched. “Must you remind me of my humiliation? Yes, I should have been able to put him down. He took me by surprise. Mr. Cam told me Brad worked at a university think tank. Something to do with hydrostatics. Whatever that is.” He grimaced. “He didn't learn those moves in college. He's a street fighter and a good one, and he's not above fighting dirty if it means that he'll come out on top.”

  “He told me he'd batted around the world and was something of a black sheep.”

  “He's certainly not like Mr. Cam.” He held out the chair for her. “Mr. Cam would never have objected to me doing the right thing. He always allowed people to set their own code and live by it.”

  “Even his brother?”

  He shook his head. “There was too much love there. It's hard to see someone wandering down a path that you think may lead to disaster.”

  “A think tank is disaster?”

  “I don't know. All I can say is that Mr. Cam was always worried about Brad.”

  She smiled. “You say that name as if it's bitter on your tongue.”

  “Oh, it is.” He moved toward the door. “But soon I'll be ready to make sure I no longer have to say it. Until then, there's always ‘sir.' I never agreed to stop substituting ‘sir.'” He opened the door. “I'll be back in forty-five minutes for the tray. I do hope you'll eat. It must take a lot of energy to handle that Lab.”

  “He keeps me on my toes. You can bring him with you when you come.”

  “I was planning on it. The cook may be fond of your Sam, but I'll bet she's not going to appreciate what he's going to do to her kitchen.”

  Kerry found herself smiling as the door closed behind him. George was a very strange individual, but she liked him. There were enough conventional people in the world, dammit. It was refreshing to run into someone who walked his own path and set his own rules.

  Like Brad Silver.

  The thought jumped into her mind but she immediately rejected it. Silver might walk his own path and certainly set his own rules, but there was nothing refreshing or likable about the path he'd chosen.

  Or that had chosen him. He'd really had no more choice than Kerry, and his experience had been even more traumatic. He'd had to live with episodes every day, not just spasmodically. Could she really blame him for trying to find a way to survive?

  Jesus, she was softening toward him.

  The realization sent a ripple of shock through her. That mustn't happen. She could find a way to coexist, but she mustn't let herself feel sympathy. He was too powerful, and it wasn't a power she could trust.

  But George was no threat. His strangeness was odd and amusing, not dangerous. She sat down at the desk and lifted the silver-domed lid. The steak did look good. And she was sure she'd hear from George if she didn't eat some of it.

  Besides, maybe the food would make her lethargic. She wanted to give herself every chance to sleep deeply tonight.

  Deeply and, pray God, with no dreams.

  6

  Burning flesh. Burning flesh.

  Pull away. Pull away.

  She couldn't do it. He was dragging her into the fire.

  She screamed!

  “Wake up.” She was being shaken. “For God's sake, wake up.”

  Silver.

  Burning . . . smell of . . . burning flesh . . .

  “No! You're not going back. Open your eyes. Now!”

  Her lids flipped open to see Silver's face, tense, demanding, only a foot from her own.

  He let his breath out in a relieved sigh. “That's better. Now, keep them open. No more burning.” He pulled her out of bed. “We're going to go downstairs and have a cup of coffee. Where's your robe?” He spotted it on the bed and draped it around her. “Come on. Walk slowly and talk to me. What did George bring you for dinner?”

  She tried to think through the heavy rolls of smoke surrounding her. “Salad.”

  “What else?”

  “Meat.”

  He was leading her down the stairs. “What kind of meat?”

  What difference did it make? Smoke. Burning.

  “It matters. Think.”

  His voice cracked like a whip, cutting through the smoke like a sword. “Steak.”

  “Good. Now, where are you?”

  Easier now. The smoke was clearing. “Stairs. Your brother's house. No, it's your house now, isn't it?”

  “That's right.”

  “So sad. Your brother . . . the fire.” She bent double as a sudden pain wrenched through her. “Can't smell. Hate it that I can't smell. Too far.”

  “Christ.” He picked her up and carried her the rest of the way down the stairs. “I can't stand this. I'm coming in. Just for a minute. In and out, I promise.”

  Pain fading. Smoke fading.

  They were in the library and he was dropping into a big leather easy chair in front of the fireplace, cradling her on his lap as if she were a small child. “You're awake. Nothing can hurt you. Pretty soon you're going to realize that. I'm going to sit here, and when you feel like getting up and going to the kitchen for that coffee, you tell me.”

  No smoke. No pain.

  Warmth. Strength. The smell of a spice. Aftershave lotion.

  “It's okay.” He was stroking her hair. “Just relax. Nothing's going to happen. Come back to me. You want to do that, don't you?”

  She nodded drowsily. She could hear the beating of his heart beneath her ear.

  “Now release everything else. No smoke. No pain. It's gone. I'm coming out.”

  Strange. Empty. Peaceful.

  Awake.

  Good God!

  She sat upright on his lap. “Shit!” She jumped to her feet.

  “Not the warmest response I've ever had to a helping hand.” He steadied her. “Are you okay?”

  “No, you did it again, dammit.”

  He frowned. “Guilty. But I couldn't— You were hurting. What the hell else could I do?”

  “What any normal man would do.”

  “It didn't work. I couldn't take— It wasn't that bad. Hell, I told you I was going to do it. And you were damn glad that I was there inside. So don't give me any bullshit.”

  “But I didn't want you to—” She broke off and drew a deep breath. Stop lying to him and herself. He was right. She would have been grateful for any way to stop that hideous pain. She had welcomed him. “Okay. It wasn't entirely your fault.”

  “That's a grudging admission if I've ever heard one.” He stood up. “But I'll take it. Beggars can't be choosers. Let's go get that coffee.”

  “I don't need coffee.”

  “Well, I do. You've put me through hell tonight. I need either a drink or caffeine, and I think I'd better have a clear head.”

  She trailed after him out of the library and down the hall. Her bare feet were cold on the marble floor and she realized for the first time that he was also barefoot and dressed in a brown velvet robe. “I woke you up again?”

  “Oh, yes. You could say that. All of a sudden I found myself being pulled down to hell and thrown in the fire and brimstone. Then I couldn't wake you up so that we'd both be able to break free.” He opened the door of the kitchen at the end of the hall. “So, since I never want to go through that again, we're going to drink coffee and you're going to tell me what was going on in your head. Okay?”

  “Do you think I want to go through—” She met his gaze and nodded. “Okay.”

  “Good.” He went to the cabinet and took down a canister of coffee. “So sit down at the table and catch your breath while I put the coffee on.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “You're not shaking anymore.”

  She was still shaking inside. “I'm not usually a coward. It wasn't the—”

  “For God's sake, I know what you were going through. I was there. Or at least on the fringe. I thought I'd put up a block so you wouldn't have that nightmare. I guess I'm not as good as I thought I was.”

  “Block? Sort of a posthypnotic sugges
tion? Is that how you do it?”

  “Close.” He turned the coffee on before coming and dropping onto the chair opposite her. “But hypnosis subjects have to be willing, and some of mine are fighting tooth and nail. I often have to execute a covert operation to avoid the battle.”

  “But you didn't have to do that with me tonight.” It wasn't a question. She shuddered. “Christ, I wanted out of it.”

  “Pretty evident. You grabbed and held on.” He studied her expression. “Your nightmares aren't usually that violent. I remember when I first started monitoring you, there was fear and horror, but it wasn't—”

  “Because it wasn't the same nightmare.”

  He went still. “What?”

  “It was Trask.”

  “I see.” He got up and went to pour coffee from the steaming carafe. “The fire at your brother's place?”

  “No. I think you know what it was about.”

  “You mentioned Cam.” He brought the cups back and sat down again. “You said . . . so sad . . . and then something about not being able to smell.”

  She closed her eyes as the memory washed over her. “Not me. It was him. Trask couldn't smell your brother's burning flesh. He was too far away. He could see the burning limousine, but he couldn't smell it. He was in a rage as he thought about it, remembered it.” She opened her eyes. “He's still in a rage.”

  “Still?”

  “He was staring at this house and wondering how he could let the child loose on it. But he knew your brother had put in protective jamming devices to stall out Firestorm. It was the frustration that triggered his anger.”

  He was silent a moment. “You're not talking about a nightmare.”

  “It was enough of a nightmare for me. One minute I was sleeping and the next I was there with him, feeling what he was feeling.” Her hand was shaking as she lifted the cup to her mouth. “No, it wasn't a nightmare. He was here tonight. He was standing in the trees beside the front gate.”

  “Shit!”

  She shook her head as he half rose from his chair. “He's gone now.”

  “Why the hell didn't you tell me?”

  She glared at him. “I wasn't in any shape to send out an alarm. If you'll remember, I could barely function. And I knew he wasn't there anymore after I did wake up.”

  He smothered a curse and then said with an effort, “Sorry. I just hate the idea he was that close and slipped away.”

  “Didn't you think he'd follow us?”

  “Hell, yes, and George arranged to have security patrolling the grounds. How the devil did he get anywhere near the gate? The son of a bitch is like a ghost.”

  “He's no ghost, he's a monster. You were right about that.” She wrapped her cold hands around her cup. “And I think we'd better go over the names of potential victims on his hit list.”

  “Now?”

  She nodded. “He's angry after remembering his lack of satisfaction with your brother's death. He's hungry to experience the full range of the senses.” She moistened her lips. “His child needs a good kill.”

  “How soon?”

  “I don't know. I think . . . sometime tonight. He was thinking . . . before the night is over.” She glanced at the clock. “But we may have a little time. He'd like it to be right away, but he has to wait for the setup.”

  “What setup?”

  She shook her head helplessly.

  “And you don't know who it will be?”

  She shook her head. “He just thinks of him as the target. Everyone's a target. He doesn't think of them as people. Just fuel for Firestorm.”

  “You didn't catch anything else?”

  She thought about it. “Water. There was an impression of water. Very vague.”

  “Lake? Ocean? Creek?”

  She shrugged helplessly. “Dammit, I don't know. It's like being a sponge. I'm not like you. I haven't got any control. I can't make him think in specifics.”

  “I know. I know.” He set his cup down on the table and rose to his feet. “So let's go to the library and we'll go over pictures and dossiers and see what we come up with. Maybe you absorbed more than you think you did.”

  “I hope so.” She got to her feet. She could feel the tension and restless energy he was emitting, and she didn't want to deal with it yet. She needed a little time alone to pull herself together. “I'm going upstairs to get dressed. I'll meet you in the library in fifteen minutes.”

  He frowned. “Do you have to— Good idea.” He glanced down at his robe. “I'll do the same. Come on.” He was ushering her out into the hall toward the steps. “Thirty minutes. Take a quick shower. It may be a long night.”

  “To look through the dossiers?”

  “And maybe to go to sites that look promising.”

  She should have known he'd want to go after Trask full steam ahead. Well, so did she. The thought of the urgency of Trask's threat was scaring the hell out of her. She just needed a little time to recover before she came in contact with him again.

  “Okay?” He was studying her expression.

  “Of course.” She started up the stairs. “I'm fine now.”

  “No, you're not. You're scared.” His eyes were narrowed on her face. “And I just remembered a little bit of that nightmare. You were being dragged into the fire. Not Cam. It was your flesh that was burning.”

  She nodded.

  “Dammit, talk to me.”

  “What is there to say? What did you expect?” She didn't look at him. “I was an automatic target when he thought I was going to help you. But it got personal when his precious ‘child' failed to kill me. He wants me very badly.” Her lips twisted as she glanced at him. “Maybe more than he wants you, Silver. He's having fantasies about how I'll look, how I'll smell as he burns me to ashes.”

  “Jesus.”

  “But it's not going to happen.”

  “You're damn right it's not. I won't let it.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She smiled mirthlessly. “I'd rather rely on myself, thank you. We've already established where your priorities lie.” She opened the door of her room. “Thirty minutes, Silver.”

  Silver muttered a curse as he watched the door shut behind her. Why did he feel this sense of outrage and frustration? She was right. He had his priorities and he'd already decided that he had to use her. She was the key to Trask. Tonight had proved that beyond the shadow of a doubt. She had made contact with Trask during a period when there was no immediate danger of fire. According to her, it was the first time that had happened for her with any subject. She was getting closer and more knowledgeable about him with every encounter.

  And every encounter was more painful and fraught with horror.

  He could protect her. He'd managed to jerk her out of that mental quicksand tonight.

  Barely.

  No doubts. He could control it. If he moved fast, there would be minimal danger.

  He hoped.

  The phone was ringing as he opened his bedroom door.

  “I beg pardon,” George said when Silver picked up. “Though I don't see why I should apologize when you were the one disturbing me. As you know, my quarters are right below the kitchen, and it sounded like two horses galloping over my head. Now, I don't mean to interrupt a midnight tryst, but I thought I'd check to see if there is anything wrong or if I could be of assistance.”

  “You can fire your security team that's patrolling the grounds. Trask was out there tonight.”

  Silence. “You're sure? O'Neill didn't report any disturbance to me.”

  “I'm sure.”

  “How?”

  “Dammit, I said I was sure. Now, why don't you stop questioning me and go see why O'Neill didn't do his job.”

  “Excellent idea. I do hope I find that you have a copious amount of egg on your face.” George hung up.

  Silver was spreading dossiers on the desk when Kerry came into the library. “Hello. You look more wide awake. Ready?”

  She nodded. “Would it matter if I wasn't?”

&
nbsp; He met her gaze. “Yes, it would. I hate like hell prodding you. And it surprises me as much as it does you.”

  She looked quickly down at the dossiers on the desk. “Well, I'm ready.”

  Silver came around the desk to stand beside her. “This is all that's left of Trask's hit list. One senator. Three scientists from the Firestorm project who Trask would consider a threat. Where do you want to start?”

  “Who was his last target?”

  “Senator Pappas. He burned to death in an automobile accident a few days ago.”

  “And before that?”

  “Bill Doddard. Professor of molecular chemistry at Princeton.”

  “Then he's hitting randomly?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Then let's look at the scientists first.” She opened one of the dossiers and studied the photo of a fortyish woman with short wavy hair and an engaging smile. “You've examined these?”

  “Many times. The one you're looking at is Dr. Joyce Fairchild. She has a PhD in three fields and was instrumental in the completion of the larger dish. She wasn't at all pleased when the project went down the tube.”

  “Angry enough to try to take it out on her own?”

  “Trask might think she was.” He flipped open another dossier to reveal a photo of a plump, bushy-haired man in his sixties. “Dr. Ivan Raztov. He was in a think tank in Russia before the Cold War ended and he joined Firestorm. He was head of testing as well as making contributions to the development of the larger dish. According to his notes, Trask never trusted him. Of course, Trask didn't really trust anyone. He was too possessive.” He handed her the last dossier. “Gary Handel. He's in his late twenties, a young wunderkind who is reputedly a wizard of a molecular engineer. He came in near the end of the project, but he's brilliant, ambitious, and definitely after the gold ring.”

  Handel was thin, sandy-haired, and looked as eager as Silver had described him, Kerry thought. “And the senator?”

  “Senator Jesse Kimble. He's been in the Senate for over twenty years. He's a good old boy from Louisiana.” He paused. “Cam liked him. They didn't agree on most things, but he said he had integrity.”

  “Evidently they agreed on Firestorm.”

  He nodded. “It seems they did.”