Hunter, Healer [Sequel to The Society]

  Ah. So that's why he was so nervous when some of the kids in Kate's class practiced their talents on him. He was afraid they would find out.

  The mental walls holding his secrets were strong and thick, oozing slime. She didn't even try to breach them. She didn't want any of Jilssen's secrets. She would settle for getting out of his reach.

  She pushed again, very gently. Very delicately. Jilssen, still babbling, moved toward her, his liver-spotted hands trembling. He placed one hand on the restraint on her left wrist and began to unbuckle it slowly, unaware of what his hands were doing under her mental grip.

  "—and of course, we have to pick the stock very carefully. We have samples to be cross-checked, and you can be artificially inseminated. With your penchant for healing, it won't take long, and I wonder if the gestation period will be shortened because of your accelerated healing? It's a question I've often posed to myself. Anton thinks you'll gestate normally. We have a rather large wager."

  Another psion built defenses for him, defenses so good we couldn't tell what he was planning. Who?

  Loathing bloomed under her skin as her attention drifted across Jilssen's words. They wanted to breed her.

  He unbuckled the restraint at her left elbow and then moved to her right wrist. Rowan's head pounded with the effort of keeping him under control, pushing him so gently, so carefully. A soft beeping began, a red light flashing down at the end of the lab. He didn't notice, and Rowan hoped he wouldn't. She strengthened her hold on him carefully, one fine thread at a time, every lesson Henderson and Miss Kate had taught her standing her in good stead.

  The old Rowan would have never been able to shut out the waves of disgust and terror threatening to swamp her. She trembled with both effort and repressed anger, her will turning to steel. The push tipped delicately, subtle mental control so insidious she was almost horrified at herself.

  Her right hand was free. He moved slowly, so damn slowly. She gathered herself as his hand came to rest on the restraint over her right elbow.

  "Of course, we had hoped to have you and Agent Breaker at the same time,” he breathed. His halitosis was rank and foul, and she saw with frenzied revulsion that his free left hand was playing with the button on his khakis, reaching down to cup his genitals. No wonder this man had always repulsed her. “A specimen with his talent and yours would make a very fine soldier. Very fine, once we breed out that regrettable streak of independence."

  Something in Rowan snapped. Pure unadulterated rage boiled out. Haven't you fucking done enough? Breed me, breed Justin, like animals? Would you watch while we copulated or just inseminate me at a distance?

  Jilssen's eyes cleared. He stared at her from behind his horn-rimmed glasses, his gaze suddenly confused. Horror and comprehension wandered across his face as he looked down at the unbuckled restraints.

  Too late. Rowan struck.

  Fear. Agony. Guilt. The fury of her retaliation, the absolute incandescent rage she had never dreamed herself capable of. She battered at him with the full force of her horror and loathing, her thirst for revenge. For each traumatized, broken psion she had nursed back to health, each grief she had swallowed, each horror she had witnessed. She poured it all into his brain, striking like a snake, severing vital connections, smashing and burning everything she could reach.

  He fell as if shot, straight down, his head clipping the arm of the chair by her hand with murderous force. Something sparked wildly in the lab, the monitor closest to her emitted a shower of fireworks and popping noises. She reached up, her hands clumsy, and unbuckled her throat, her torso. Had to get her legs free. Oh, God.

  Jilssen lay still on the floor, crumpled in his soiled lab coat. She blinked back tears. Her head pounded fiercely, the dull red smolder of rage like the aftermath of a forest fire through ash and trails of smoke, a wrecked mind, a wasteland. She smelled blood and feces—death had not come gently for Jilssen. She'd seen enough death by now to know about the sphincter's loosening with its advent. He lay twisted on his side, a bloody gash in his temple where it had hit the arm of the metal chair, his arm curled awkwardly under his body. If she hadn't known better she would have sworn he was sleeping. Except there was no glow of thought, not even the banked messy fire of a normal mind at rest.

  I think I'm going to throw up. Please, God, don't let me throw up.

  She managed to get her legs free, her fingers shaking, then ripped the electrodes off her forehead and tossed them. She tore the IV out of her arm. Immediately, she felt better. Not by much, but better.

  Her duffel and kitbag were nowhere in sight. No weapons. The red light flashing at the other end of the lab taunted her. She was in her sock feet, jeans, and a tank top. She dragged her fingers back through her tangled hair, trying to think. Why were the lights turned down in here? What had Jilssen planned on doing to her before Anton came? She shuffled away from the chair and the slumped human body, needing to get away. Her skin crawled.

  A shiver bolted up her spine. Where am I? The installation I was nearest to was thirty miles away. Or did they take me to Zero-Fifteen? What do I do now?

  She crouched behind a lab counter, her breathing coming hard and fast as she tried to think. Anton, this Colonel, was due any minute. He was late for a meeting with Jilssen, maybe to gloat over her capture. She cast around wildly for a weapon, any weapon.

  Could she do it again? She'd killed Jilssen with her mind. The very thought made her sick to her stomach. Sick, but also ... Well, there was an unholy glee to the thought. A cleansing, murderous satisfaction. A step toward revenge, no matter how small.

  Good God, I'm no better than they are. The thought flashed through her mind and was immediately discarded. She could almost hear Justin's voice. Move and think, operative. You've got to move and think. One without the other is useless. Get going.

  She searched for a weapon and found none. Even the clipboard had only a flimsy plastic pen, not likely to stand up to any real abuse. The red light and soft beeping continued. She glanced at the two monitors and discarded them as useless. Her fingers curled around a heavy, empty glass beaker. Didn't Jilssen at least have a gun here? What I wouldn't give for my kitbag. And boots. I'm in my frigging socks.

  The thought was welcome and rational. She let out a sigh of relief just as a soft chime rattled against her ears. She threw herself down, taking cover behind a long, low counter as there was a whoosh—the sound of a door opening. Voice activated? Or maybe some kind of key? They had those sorts of doors at Headquarters, too.

  The thought of the carnage at the old Headquarters filled her with fresh fury. It was as if all the anger she'd ever pushed away or repressed in her life was now welling up, demanding an exit. Demanding to be used.

  And God, the idea of using that fuel scared and exhilarated her in equal proportion.

  "Jilssen?” A hard, old voice, smooth as silk over a steel table, slightly rasping. “Henrik?"

  She shuddered, crouching behind the counter. She heard a tapping—a cane, a footstep, a cane.

  Oh, my God. The image of the blind man's cane tapping, sweeping the floor, rose. No. Not again. Not again!

  She absolutely could not endure another rape of her mind.

  Rowan came up into an easy crouch, her head still well below the top of the counter. Her breathing evened out and she closed her eyes, seeking the stillness inside herself. She felt the static of another psion approaching.

  Her breathing calmed, her pupils dilated, her hands stilled a little. She now knew what a trapped animal felt like when the hunter approaches the snare. She clutched the glass beaker so tightly her fingers ached. It was the only weapon she had.

  That and her mind. The freakish talent they wanted to breed her for.

  Silence. The tapping footsteps stopped. Could he see the wreck of the chair and Jilssen's body? If he could...

  "Why don't you come out, Miss Price?” The voice tugged gently at her, whispered comfort. “I don't blame you. Jilssen was a pervert. Why don't you come out and talk
to me? I can make everything right."

  Breed me like an animal, hunt me like an animal, and now you want to make everything right? There is no way this could ever be right, you son of a bitch, whoever you are. The borders of her mind were clear and strong, bolstered by the anger that even now filled her blood with a siren song of vengeance.

  One more tapping step. She could almost hear the creaking of the cane. Then she heard another sound—the definite click of a hammer pulled back.

  Come out so you can shoot me? How stupid do you think I am? On the other hand, here she was, captured by Sigma through her own stupidity. Her own weakness. Nevermind that it had been a compulsion. She should have been strong enough to resist it.

  "Come out, Miss Price. We can discuss this like civilized beings. I know you are at heart a very calm, rational person.” He sounded so sure of himself, so certain she could come creeping out like a stray dog to a food dish.

  Oh, I'm calm and rational all right. But not now. You've pushed me too goddamn far. And all this time I thought it was Justin who was the dangerous one.

  "Your psych profile indicates a high degree of compassion and empathy, probably a by-product of your rather unique gifts. We can offer you a chance to serve your country and be a legal citizen, as well as help others, Miss Price. Daniel Henderson and his ragtag little group can't offer you that.” The voice pulled, tugged, sang, cajoled, enticed. It was easy to see what this man's psionic talent was. Rowan shut her eyes, leaning her forehead against the slick, cold plastic of a cabinet door. “They are, after all, only criminals. Offenders with warrants and prices on their heads."

  Cath. Brew. Zeke. Henderson. Yoshi. She thought of them desperately—of Cath's fierce loyalty and irrepressible optimism, of Zeke's phlegmatic good sense and plain, unadorned love for Cath, of Brewster's quiet efficiency, and Yoshi's calm, practical endurance. And Henderson, who worried about them all, and for whom perfection wasn't good enough when the life of an operative was on the line. She thought of them in the dark tunnel beneath the wreck of the old Headquarters, thought of Brew pressing a bandage over her bleeding gunshot wound and hustling her to safety, of Cath driving with the windows down and her cigarette fuming, of Eleanor and her clutch of newbies, of Boomer's crusty exterior covering a heart softer than Rowan's own. And the children—little Bobby, little Elena, a whole collage of young-old faces. The kids Eleanor and Tamara had taken up north to get them away from Sigma, each one marked with a difference like Rowan's. Each one at risk of being bred like an animal or mindwiped by Zed.

  "Come out, Miss Price.” Another tapping step with the cane.

  Last of all, she thought of Justin, of his eyes now awake and alive and hungry. Nothing I couldn't handle. They just slapped me around and strung me out on Zed. He'd said it so casually, as if he wasn't broken and bleeding inside, as if he wasn't afraid of opening himself up even for a moment because of the danger of someone hurting him again. That was what was so different about him this time, she realized. He held himself so tightly closed even she couldn't get in.

  She opened her eyes wide, the world snapping into place, and took a deep, soft breath. Just as the man with the cane rounded the corner, pointing the 9mm at her, she rose to her feet smoothly and flung the glass beaker, striking at his mind as hard as she could at the same time.

  The bullet zinged wide, his aim thrown off by the beaker flying at his head. Rowan followed, smacking into him hard enough to knock her own breath out, driving him back. Move in, get going, do it faster, faster, precise, put your weight behind it, sweetheart! Move! Her sock feet slid on the slick linoleum as she flung herself forward. He flinched, the beaker shattering somewhere behind him, and then he went down.

  With his thin old wrist in her hand, she squeezed and twisted as his leg buckled, her knee sinking into his leg as they landed with a jolt. She tore at the gun, wrenching it free, and then she backhanded him and his wire-rimmed glasses flew off. He wore a white linen suit, and dead dark eyes glared at her from under a white buzz-cut. He fought her, but she got a knee in his ribs and the breath slammed out of him with a groaning huff. The gun reversed in her hand, and she suddenly remembered Brewster training her to use a firearm in the dim, long-ago time when she'd first joined the Society.

  Squeeze, don't pull, love. His English accent made every word crisp. Squeeze nice and easy, and don't flinch. Good show.

  Oh, God, her brain was imploding, memories colliding with each other, smashing and burning.

  She had him on his belly, gun jammed against his temple, knee firmly in his back, his left arm twisted savagely behind him. “Who the fuck are you?” she whispered, through a throat gone raw and dead.

  "Anton,” he choked. “Richard Anton.” He heaved and struggled. She dug her knee in and pushed forward, smacking his head into the linoleum. “Head of ... Operations ... fuck..."

  "Colonel Anton.” Her voice sounded strange even to herself. Strange, flat, uninflected. Just like Justin's.

  Kill him, Rowan. Do it. Kill him.

  Her finger tightened on the trigger. Eight pounds of pull on the trigger, Justin's voice said, from his own long-ago training of her. When you get to about six and a half, you better mean business. Don't go that far unless you're ready to kill, Ro.

  The man below her was a psion. He struggled, his talent caught in her own sure grip, and she saw, suddenly, the twisted thing that lived in his flesh. He had also used his talent to hurt people, to torture them. Sigma was made in his image, and he was proud of his access to the corridors of power, proud as well of the extralegal status he enjoyed. Kidnapping and torturing psions was only the first step.

  She also tasted the same mind that had built the defenses inside Jilssen's head, and sent him to the Society like a poisonous gift. If Jilssen was the traitor who had made the rape of Headquarters possible, here was the hand behind the traitor, the finger on each trigger that had killed and on each hypo of Zed.

  Kill him, Rowan. He won't stop. He won't ever stop.

  She choked on bile and rising rage, a fury so intense the world shaded with red in front of her staring eyes. Her finger tightened, tightened.

  "Get it over with,” he snarled. “There's a whole complex of armed guards and psions on alert out there. You'll never get out. They'll catch you and pair you with a handler anyway, it's inevitable. Go ahead, Price. Pull the trigger."

  Daddy. Her father's face, the chilling little gurgle as he died on the kitchen floor, in her arms, choking on his own blood. Shot by Sigs.

  She gathered herself and reached.

  The man under her bucked and screamed as she poured her rage into him, a twisting, barbed flood of agony and grief. She tore at the root of his talent, clawed at it, and yanked it up by the roots, burning it, cauterizing the open, festering sore of his psionic ability. He screamed again, the sound of a rabbit in a trap, and Rowan let him go, rising up on her knees. Her hand flashed down, the butt of the pistol becoming a club. There was a solid chunk and he lapsed into merciful unconsciousness.

  "I'm better than you,” she rasped. “I'm one of Henderson's Brigade, you sack of shit."

  She sagged over his slumping, unconscious body, her breath coming harsh and loud. Then she pushed herself up to her feet. Sock feet, no kitbag, and a whole installation to get through.

  But at least she now had a gun.

  She rifled his pockets, coming up with a wallet, seventy-three dollars in cash, a white plastic card with a magnetic strip—door card, she thought, just like in a Vegas hotel, let's hope they don't use retinal scans in here—and another clip of ammo for the gun. It was a good thing she had pockets in her jeans.

  Her head throbbed with acid pain, and white-hot needles were bursting into her skull. She wiped at the wetness on her face—tears on her cheeks, and a hot thread of blood coming from her nose.

  I'm a mess, she thought, and it was such a practical, despairing, everyday thought that she laughed until she cried, hunched over the unconscious, bleeding Colonel.

  In t
he middle of her laughter, she got up and headed for the door. She was going to see if the magnetic card in her hand would open it.

  If not, she would figure out something else .

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I cannot believe I am doing this. Del nodded, the gun pointed up, and Henderson slid around the corner and covered. The sage-brushed chill of a desert night touched Del's cheeks. They were just about to penetrate the second ring of buildings on the east side. Sigma Zero-Fifteen was being infiltrated successfully. So far.

  The team had fortunately been right behind him, following the same signs to Rowan he had and monitoring him through the tracker Yosh had secreted in his kitbag. They were a little less than half an hour away when Del dialed in. After a short, crisp scolding from the old man, Del had gotten rid of the bodies and made the rendezvous, picking up the team in the Sig van and hitting the road. The information gleaned from the driver's broken mind told him that 511 was a cleanup team sent to wipe down the hotel room and head back to Zero-Fifteen in six to eight hours. It was a long drive that wasn't made any shorter by Del's inability to think of anything but Rowan. The mindwiped psion had been turned over to Eleanor, who would take him back to Headquarters and get him started on rehab. If there was anything salvageable in his broken, Zed-stained mind, they would try their damndest to save it.

  Rowan could do it, if she gets out of here. Christ. Please be safe, angel. Please still be alive.

  Everything had gone smooth as silk, the transponder on the Sig van getting them into the underground garage. Yoshi accessing the Sig intranet from the console in the van. Brew staying behind to help support Yosh and keep a weather eye on the parking lot. The complex was several concrete cubes and hangers tucked into the side of a mountain, a collage of underground labs and facilities burrowed into the rock that were virtually impenetrable. The back of Del's neck prickled. It felt like a trap.