"Dammit,” she whisper-groaned, then pushed back gently with her elbow, trying to nudge him loose.
He surfaced only long enough to pull her back against his chest, murmuring something into her hair and then passing out again. She had never seen him sleep this deeply. Dozing, yes. Sleeping sitting up in a chair, sinking down just far enough to stave off exhaustion—but not dead asleep.
That must mean he trusts me, she thought, and felt a pleased shiver trace its way down her spine.
"Justin,” she whispered, “let go of me. I have to go to the bathroom."
He muttered into her hair again, but let her go. Rowan pushed herself up to sit on the edge of the bed.
It was proving to be a peaceful night. Nobody screaming or wounded in the infirmary, no operation going critical, nothing. Rowan took a deep breath, stretched and pushed herself up to her feet.
Naked, she padded to the bathroom, closed herself in. The darkness was immediate, womb-like.
She found the toilet by touch, relieved herself and flushed. Yawned again, bracing herself on the counter. If I turned on the light I'd have to look at myself in the mirror, and I probably look like I've been rolling around in a bed. Good God. I knew he was capable of intense concentration, but that was something else. She was glad of the darkness, because she was actually blushing. Just like a kid.
Justin's sleeping mind still wrapped around hers, a flicker of dreaming deep in blankness. He was sleeping so heavily she felt tempted to shake him, wake him up, make him share her insomnia. But that wasn't fair. He was exhausted. She'd felt the scars from the bullets he'd taken, and the other scars from things she couldn't even imagine, things he kept closed away but that she caught glimpses of. Glimpses of cold white rooms, of pain, of fist meeting flesh, and a soft evil voice sunk into his head like a fishhook; glimpses of a sick, shaky feeling as a needle was thrust into his arm.
Sigma.
Rowan drew in a gasping breath. Her fingers found the light switch. She flicked it on, blinked against the sudden onslaught, her eyes watering.
Her reflection blinked back at her. She was blushing, her cheeks crimson. Her collarbones and ribs stood out starkly, her cheekbones high and too gaunt. She wasn't efficient and tough like Catherine, whose muscles moved smoothly under her pale skin. She wasn't even like Kate, knowledgeable about psychic talent and completely unflappable. Rowan had no illusions about her own usefulness on any of the “operations.” She would, as Henderson said, get someone killed. Or herself.
A part of her wondered if she could just stay here at Headquarters, the only safe space she had ever found. They didn't mock her here, or point at her. But the breathless awe some of them regarded her with was almost as bad. She thought privately that some of that awe—most of it, probably—was the fact that she seemed to be able to handle Justin.
Memory rose.
Rowan's eyes squeezed shut against the light. Her father's surprised face, the small gurgling sound he'd made. Hilary vanishing. Broken glass and terror and the popping sounds of gunfire. Cold air.
She shook the memories free, feeling Justin's uneasiness. He was on the verge of waking up, deep sleep turning to dreaming, his mind reaching for hers. The dream was sharp and hurtful, something burning in his arm, screaming and darkness, and blood threading down from his ribs.
Rowan shut off the light, opened the bathroom door and padded across the room. There was a little ambient light in here, at least she could see the white sheets. She sat down on the bed. “Justin,” she said quietly, touching his hand.
The dream halted, changed. He sank back down into sleep, but his fingers curled through hers and held on. Rowan sighed.
It's official, she thought. I am going to do whatever I can to make them pay. Not just for Daddy and for Hilary, but for Justin too. They could have killed him. And Boomer and Eleanor, and Bobby and Annika ... and everyone. Sigma's evil, and they have to be stopped. And if I have this talent, this gift, I have to use it to stop them. So tomorrow, I start training. No more messing around.
The resolve took place right under her breastbone, in the same place she had buried the truth about her talent since she was five years old. That resolve had carried her through years of learning to be invisible, hanging on grimly while other people's emotions buffeted her from every side, carried her through the wrenching grief of her mother's death and the inevitable heartbreak of her father's relentless aging.
Okay, she thought, her fingers tight in Justin's sleeping hand. No more messing around.
Chapter Thirty-Five
"Would you look at that,” Henderson said.
"Makes you want to sing, doesn't it?” Delgado's mouth twitched into a half-smile.
Below the observation deck, the shooting gallery resounded with the sound of gunfire. Three of the twelve lanes were taken—two by members of Annika's team, and the third by Rowan and Brew.
Rowan nodded at something Brew said, lifted the Glock in one clean motion, and squeezed off six more shots in a row. Then she glanced at Brew, smiling. The tall man hit the button to bring the target up to their booth, and then gently clapped her on the shoulder, Justin noticed. She must have done well. Brew was a patient, careful teacher, almost as good as Del himself.
"I don't know what you did,” Henderson answered, “but good work. Kate tells me she's never seen such intense work from a trainee. And Catherine tells me Rowan's doing all right on the decks. Knows enough to get out of the fuckin’ way, I believe was Cath's estimation of her skill."
Justin shrugged. “Rowan's doing all the work. Not me."
"How did you convince her to take classes again? She's up for graduation. Kate says there's nothing more she needs except field experience.” The old man leaned against a concrete pillar, watching Rowan as Brew clipped another target in and hit the button. Rowan, her fingers moving quickly, reloaded.
Delgado's mouth was dry. He shifted slightly to ease his sore shoulder. He'd run a new batch of recruits through a combat-training course last weekend and taken a stray amateur shot. Rowan had been invaluable during the class. “I didn't ‘convince’ her. I just kind of put the question to her in terms she could understand."
Admit it, Delgado. You have no idea what suddenly made her snap out of it. Unless it was tumbling into bed with you. Have I infected her with my own anger?
"Well, whatever you did, it's working. Yoshi's got a kit all ready for her. How's she coming along in combat training?"
"Okay.” He watched her lift the gun, take her stance habitually, felt the fierce one-pointed concentration spreading out from her. The observation deck was far above the lanes, and bulletproof. He could see everything going on down there, but still, it made him nervous. The thought of her around that much live fire made his spine go cold. “She still flinches a little. I don't think she's ready."
"If she's not ready now, she won't ever be.” Henderson's eyes were on him. “You're not letting your emotional involvement with her jeopardize her training, are you?"
"Of course not.” I'm lying. Call me on it. I don't want her out there, General. Not even with a whole team's worth of backup. “Fuck it. Look, I want her on standby. Permanently."
"Reason?” Henderson's iron-gray eyebrow arched, his thin mouth quirking slightly.
"If she goes out, I'll have to spend half my time worrying about her,” Delgado said. “Adding her to the team will diminish my capability.” The words felt odd in his mouth. He would never have admitted this if he had to look at Henderson. They both watched as Rowan fired a few more times, just like a pro, her stance braced but easy. He would have been proud of her skill, except that every day brought her closer to becoming a full-fledged operative.
"I don't believe that."
"You want to hang someone's life on it?” Delgado shifted his weight, his eyes dropping down to follow Rowan as she checked the gun and racked it. She and Brew went about cleaning up the booth. Brewster made a comment and she laughed, the sound echoing sharply off the gallery's walls. “I'd
like her on standby."
"Overruled,” Henderson said. “I'm sorry, Del. She's good for the team, and you've never cracked under pressure before. You'll do fine."
"As long as you're aware I'm going to be looking out for her."
"How would that be any different than Zeke and Cath? This isn't Sigma, Del. We don't split up budding relationships."
"It's not budding anymore.” He saw Brewster touch her shoulder as they headed for the safe zone. She didn't flinch. Instead, she laughed, covering her mouth. Even through the safety glasses and earpieces she was gorgeous. Today she wore a blue tank top with a picture of a Buddha on it, borrowed from Catherine, and a pair of worn jeans. Now that he knew what her skin felt like against his fingers, now that he knew what it was like to sink into her and feel the clean depths of her mind closing over him, her body tightening around him as she cried out softly, arching her back, it was even more difficult to keep his mind on his work.
Or anything else, for that matter.
"You think you need to tell me that? I could set my clock by you, Delgado. All I have to do is find out where Rowan's gonna be. They're calling you ‘Rowan's shadow’ now.” Henderson waved him away. “Go on, you're due in combat training with your lady love. Go work it out. I'll see you in briefing in three hours."
"Briefing for what?” Delgado uncoiled himself and stalked toward the door.
"The next job, what do you think? There's a Sig installation in Florida we're going to take a look at. We've also got some field testing that needs to be done, and Kate thinks Rowan can help."
Delgado looked back over his shoulder. “Don't wreck my reputation, General."
"Ha. Wild horses won't drag your little secret out of me, I promise. Get me that workup on the Broward facility, will you?"
"Ten-four.” Del closed the door to the observation deck and stood for a moment, his hands flexing into fists.
Christ, what have I done?
He'd maneuvered her into wanting to be an operative to give her something to care about, to pull her out of that numb grief of hers. Now he was seeing the consequences. Would he be able to protect her?
I got her into this, I have to take care of her, he thought. Then the deeper, mocking voice of his conscience spoke up. What, you thought she wouldn't ever come out and play as an operative? You thought she'd never reach this point?
The thing was, he hadn't thought she'd reach this point so fast. She'd thrown herself into being a trainee instead of a neophyte with such fierce determination, it made him a little uneasy. What would happen once she channeled all that energy into fighting Sigma? She was likely to become obsessed.
I'm a fine one to talk about obsession, he thought, setting off for the transports. I'm obsessed myself.
The transport was empty, since the gallery was at the farthest edge of Headquarters. He leaned against the wall and ran through Rowan's training in his head, one more time.
Kate said there was nothing more to teach her. Brew had let her rack her own gun. Catherine had given her grudging stamp of approval, and Yoshi had a kit all ready for her. And Del?
I don't want her anywhere near an operation, he admitted to himself. I don't want her shot at, or trying to open a door while the Sigs bear down on us, I don't know how she'll act under pressure.
Except he did. She would be as clear-eyed and calm as he trained her to be. It was up to him.
"Christ,” he muttered.
When he reached the dojo, he was in a fine black mood. Rowan was waiting—or not exactly. She was in the same tank top and a pair of loose black silk pants, sparring.
With Ellis, whose lanky frame was wrapped in a white gi.
Ellis was one of Blake's surviving team members, one who didn't need training. He was good in a fight, quick and vicious. Delgado almost wanted to stride across the room, wrench Rowan away and yell, What do you think you're doing? Instead he faded into the shadows by the entrance from the men's locker room to watch, driving his nails into his palms.
Rowan balanced on the balls of her feet. Ellis moved in on her, not precisely rushing, but quickly enough that she stepped back, grabbing his wrist, and socking her hip into his midriff as he flew around her, hitting the mat perfectly, bouncing up.
Rowan evidently expected that, because she relaxed, her back to Ellis, a smile on her face.
Then he grabbed her.
Delgado's heart leapt into his throat.
One strike, two—Rowan's body moved without thought, stamping down on Ellis's foot, driving her elbow back into his midriff until the breath whooshed out of the tall man. He didn't let up, though, dragging her backwards, and Delgado took a step forward. If she starts to panic—
She kicked, then went still, her luminous eyes flaring, and Ellis dropped her. “Ow!” he yelled, shaking his hand out. She'd bitten him.
Rowan whirled, her knee coming up. He barely fended her off. Then he instinctively threw an elbow—and caught her in the face.
Rowan went down hard, and Delgado was striding across the floor, rage hot under his skin.
Then she leapt to her feet. Blood dripped down her upper lip, she threw four punches in a row, Ellis shuffling back, blocking. But Del could see how much it cost him, how he was scrambling to stay ahead of her.
This has gone far enough. Delgado didn't break stride. Ellis's eyes flicked up past Rowan's shoulder, saw him coming, and she was on him in that instant, driving him to the ground and giving him a short jab to the ribs. Blood flew—her blood. From her nose. Maybe it was even broken.
"Got you!” she crowed, her legs tangled with Ellis's. “Ouch. Ow!"
Delgado set his heels, grabbed her arm, and hauled her up. Ellis rolled, came up in a ready stance. Del ran his gaze over the man and noticed he was wincing. He'd be bruised. Rowan had gotten in a few good shots.
"I don't recall putting you on the roster,” Del said mildly enough, as if his fury wasn't painting the air red.
"I was early,” she said. “Ellis offered to give me a bout.” Her eyes were shining, the tank top spotted with blood. More dripped from her nose—at least it wasn't a gusher. “I got him!"
"Good for you,” he said, hating himself for what he was about to do. “Think you could take me? Sigs work in pairs, and they won't give you a chance to catch your breath."
The challenge in his tone was something new, and he was sure his eyes were flat and cold. I can't do this, he thought, and closed himself up tighter than a fist. She wouldn't be able to read him—not until the anger went away. Anger was the best fuel, and the only thing that let him close her out. She's not ready; she's not ready. She'll hate me for this.
Rowan tore her arm out of his hand and punched him.
Reflex took care of blocking, deflecting the strike. It was a good one, all her weight behind it, she stepped aside like he'd taught her, changing the arc of her movement so he couldn't catch her and throw her off-guard. Delgado moved in on her, pressing her, no time to respond, her own arm came up as he gave her a half-strike punch. She kicked for his knee, but he moved, knowing each move she would make before she made it.
Every move but the one she used—electricity crackling, and his arm going momentarily numb.
He backed up a step, two. “Where'd you learn that?"
"Boomer showed me,” she said, panting, her ribs flaring, dried blood crusting on her face and sweat damping her hair. “It's easy. He calls it a ‘crackle.’”
He started circling, not watching the tank top clinging to her chest, not hearing Ellis's low tuneless whistle as he watched Delgado move in on her. They were starting to draw a little crowd, like most good sparring matches did. This one's Del versus his girlfriend, and Del looks pissed, he thought sardonically, hearing the words as if they were someone else gossiping. More grist for the rumor mill.
Rowan tracked just like he'd taught her—good girl. He moved forward slightly, and she countered, playing through the sequence.
"Nice."
"Thanks.” Her eyes were shuttered,
dark. “You look mad."
She's trying to get into your head. He moved, a flurry of strikes she managed to block, but he was bigger and he pressed her mercilessly, all the way across the mat. She threw one or two halfhearted punches, not enough to hurt him. He was pressing her too hard.
One small miscalculation and he had her, locking her arm and spinning her, his arm across her throat. She kicked, but he was ready for that. He twisted her other arm, not hard enough to really hurt her, just enough to make her feel it, clinically noting that she went limp in his arms, her ribs heaving. “I don't think you're ready,” he said in her ear, feeling her shiver slightly as his breath caressed her skin. “Not yet."
"Not for you, maybe,” she shot back, her free hand hooked over his arm, as if she would try to pull his forearm away. “But for Sigma? Yeah."
"I don't think so,” he said, his tone dropping intimately. He couldn't help it. The heat of her against him reminded him of other things. What was it about her that could deprive him of all good sense and caution?
"Kate told me there's nothing else she can teach me,” she replied, then ever so subtly, instead of going limp she leaned back into him, as if they were playing a game. A deeper kind of game that would end with his hands on her in a different way.
Oh, no you don't, angel. Delgado didn't have to take a deep breath, but he did, searching for control. He wanted to let go of her, apologize, suggest a trip into town for dinner—but no. Here in the practice room, there was no room for friend.
It was one of the first things Sigma had taught him, and the lesson ran deep.
"Can you let go?” she asked, finally. “I'm getting a little tired of this."
He released her—but not right away, just to drive home the fact that he could keep her. “You're still sloppy."
"I'm ready,” she parried, rubbing at her arm. “Even if you don't want to think so."
"We'll see. Yoshi has a kit packed for you. We'll pick it up tomorrow. For right now, we'll start with the heavy bag."