The Society

  Fight it, fight it. But with what? He'd kicked it once, and almost gone mad, had no illusions about doing it again.

  Rowan.

  The sight of her running on the track, her pale hair a banner on the breeze she made, lips moving silently with the song in her headphones. The quick intelligence in her wide green eyes. The feel of her skin against his fingertips, her sleeping curled against him, barely even breathing, trusting him to keep her safe. Shuddering, arched beneath him, her mind open to his.

  Her last despairing cry for him.

  Did they know she could cure a Zed addiction? Did Jilssen know?

  He gave himself one more moment to remember her face, then gathered everything together, hurrying, hurrying.

  He locked his memories of her away while he could, pushing them deep into the most guarded recesses of his brain. Then he slammed the door on them, closing away the sight of her face in the hard, cold, secret part of himself—and before the Zed could reach his head and shut him down, he did the only thing he could.

  He pushed one last time, arching and screaming as the compulsion turned inward, tearing through his own brain, a feedback squeal of nerves and neurons pushed too far.

  Then he passed out, before the drug could reach his brain.

  * * * *

  When he came to again, it was to fuzzy white light. Too white, too bright, sterile.

  Del opened one eye. Then the other. Braced himself.

  Sigma has me, he thought as the door whooshed open. They must have been waiting for him to wake up.

  Delgado blinked.

  The man was tall, white-haired, and dressed in a white linen suit. The face was familiar—he had, after all, seen it in his nightmares for years. Bland and middle-aged, a regular nose, dead dark eyes, hair in a white buzz-cut.

  "Well, well.” Colonel Anton tilted his head slightly. “Agent Breaker. What a pleasant reunion. You've done a little bit of damage, old son.” His voice was kindly, avuncular, as he limped into the room, leaning heavily on the cane. His freshly-polished shoes squeaked against the whiteness.

  There was an IV pole right next to Delgado. The slow, creeping fire of Zed slid through his fingers, up his arms. He blinked, trying to remember ... what?

  For a moment he had it—a flash of green eyes, something—

  Then it was gone. He stared at Anton, willing himself to remain perfectly still. If the man tried to use telepathy on him, the feedback would be excruciating for both of them.

  "Andrews mentioned he'd seen you again. You've been a very naughty boy."

  Del searched for words. “Go fuck yourself,” he rasped, his tongue thick and useless, slurred with the Zed. It was so hard to care about anything when it had its claws in you. But when they took the needle out, he'd only have a short time before he started to unravel without it. Oldest trick in the book—get your unwilling operative hooked. Classic.

  "Now,” Anton said, “we're going to have a little talk about Miss Price. And then you're going to go back into training. You've gone a bit soft. Then you'll start a regular routine of work until your Talent or your body gives out. There is...” Here the colonel paused for effect. “...no hope for you."

  Del blinked at him again. I will do whatever I have to do to escape you, he thought.

  The colonel settled himself, legs braced, leaning on his cane. “Where is Rowan Price?"

  Delgado shook his head. Who?

  "Do you want to be tortured? We can go that route again."

  He cleared his throat. “Whatever you're asking me,” he said slowly, slurred with the drug, “makes no sense. I remember pushing myself to forget."

  Anton stared at him for a moment, then turned on his heel. His cane thumped against the floor.

  Just before he reached the door, he paused.

  "Training starts tomorrow, Agent Breaker. And the first thing you'll be doing is hunting down whatever rats escaped our cleanup."

  Colonel Anton limped out of the room.

  The door hissed shut.

  Del closed his eyes. The Zed reached his head, and everything else faded away.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The buried cache of weapons, rations, cash and clothes was undisturbed, and Cath, Zeke, and Eleanor brought it back to the small house. There was even a small plastic box that held car keys, Yoshi told Rowan that the cars were at a warehouse in the city waiting for pickup.

  The small house Henderson had the keys for was empty except for a few mattresses in each room, but Rowan didn't care. She dropped down on one mattress in the living room and was instantly asleep. She dreamed of blank white walls and something like icy lava eating through her arms and legs.

  When she awakened fourteen hours later, the house was transformed into an impromptu command center. Yoshi was perched on a chair, looking a lot more comfortable now that he had a computer. He tapped at the keys and murmured to himself. Cath handed Eleanor a cup of something that smelled like coffee, and Bobby was busy sorting ammunition into different boxes. The others were probably out getting supplies or in other rooms, working away like busy little bees.

  Henderson looked down at her from where he sat, hunched over a table with a map and a cell phone on it. There were markers on the map, little lead weights painted different colors. “Morning, Rowan. Want some coffee?"

  She opened her mouth to say yes, but nothing came out. Instead, she levered herself to her feet and found the bathroom, stumbling out of the living room. It was a relief to close herself in a separate room and relieve herself, and the sound of the flushing toilet covered the low sobbing noise she made. There were paper towels stacked near the sink, and she washed her face with cold water and patted it dry. She ran her fingers back through her tangled hair, grimacing. The hum of dampers was normal, now, and she was no longer a wildly-emitting distress beacon.

  Rowan looked up into the mirror. Her eyes had giant dark circles under them and her hands shook.

  Justin.

  She opened the bathroom door and walked like a robot down the hall and into the living room again. The shades were drawn tight, slivers of sunlight falling through the cracks. The house was warm, and Rowan collapsed on the mattress again, staring fixedly at all the activity around her.

  Cath brought her a cup of coffee. “Drink. You drained yourself last night. You'll need food too. Come on, drink."

  Rowan obediently drank.

  The coffee was hot and sweet. Rowan sighed as the sugar and caffeine began to sink in. Henderson made more notations on the map, then rolled it up and turned to look at her.

  She met his steel-colored eyes squarely, and waited for condemnation.

  "You saved lives last night, Rowan,” he said finally. “We wouldn't be here if you hadn't done what you did."

  She cleared her throat, a sad little sound. “I cost you your best operative, General. And I didn't see the trap in time."

  Henderson actually sighed, rubbing at his eyes. His gray hair was wildly mussed, he was missing his steel-rimmed glasses, and his clothes were rumpled and wrinkled around his spare frame. For someone who was usually so precise, the change was shocking. “If Del's alive, he'll come back for you, Rowan. And they won't kill him."

  "Why not?” she asked dully, staring into her coffee cup.

  "They need him to hunt us.” Henderson got up, the chair creaking. “Now drink your coffee and eat something. I need you to help me get everyone to safety and figure out how to rebuild. Delgado needs you, too. If he comes back and finds out you've done something silly, he'll be very unhappy with me."

  She knew he was only using it to needle her, but it worked. She felt the sharp prick of irritation and took another gulp of the hot coffee. Cath brought her—wonder of wonder—two strawberry Pop Tarts.

  "I'm making toast and eggs, but you can start on that. You need sugar or you'll develop a backlash headache.” Cath's Mohawk was sadly bedraggled, but her violet eyes were clear. “That was some good work last night."

  "I failed,” Rowan answered. ??
?And Justin..."

  Cath shook her head. “Quit it. Don't mope, Ro. I hate mopers. We need you to do some of your fancy work for us. Garth's leg is bleeding again, and Melissa ... well, she's retreating. We need you."

  Justin needs me too. Rowan's conscience struggled. They'd shot him with a tranquilizer dart. And she'd dreamed of white walls, and something burning...

  "I'll stay until Garth and Melissa are better,” she said slowly. “But I have to find Justin. He'd find me."

  "Shit, the man's got nine lives.” Cath shrugged. “I gotta go, my eggs are burning. Just ... just don't do anything stupid, okay, Ro?"

  "Of course not,” Rowan murmured, looking back down into her coffee cup.

  I'm going to find him, she thought, feeling icy resolve close over her heart. He'd find me.

  No matter what it takes, I'm going to find him.

  The other thought that lay just under the surface of her consciousness frightened her.

  And God help anyone in my way.

  To Be Continued...

  Excerpt from Hunter, Healer

  Coming October, 2005

  Green eyes, wide and dark, she stood with Andrews's hand around her upper arm. Motionless, she was too sedated to recognize the danger, trusting Delgado completely.

  He wasn't ready for that.

  Pale hair, laying damp and dark against her forehead. More rain kissing her skin and sliding into Del's eyes. Stay still, he thought. Just stay still. Moving, every muscle strained, every nerve screaming. Stay still until I can get to you.

  Andrews sneering, certain he had both of them—but Delgado whirled, throwing the knife. His other hand came up, the weight of the gun strangely familiar, the bullet took out the other Sig as the knife buried itself in Andrews's shoulder with a meaty thunk. Rowan made a thin noise and swayed again.

  He caught her arm. “Are you all right? Rowan? Goddammit, Rowan, talk to me."

  Agent Breaker woke up, his arm flung across his face and the dream fading into unreality. Again. The metal shelf was hard underneath him, and he strained as he did every morning to remember.

  It didn't work. Whatever he'd done to himself appeared to be permanent. Even the Colonel's star psions couldn't reverse it, and the Colonel seemed a little upset. This Price girl, whoever she was, managed to hop one step ahead of every Sigma trick. They seemed to blame Del for that too.

  If he'd trained her, he'd done it well.

  The door to the concrete cube they called a room slid aside, and Del curled up to sit on the bed, a hand closing around a knife-hilt. It was damp and chilly down here, but he didn't care. The bed was a single metal shelf, the cube had a drain in one corner, and two blankets and a bare light bulb were recently accorded luxuries. The single metal bar for exercise—pull-ups, inverts, and the like—sliced across the cell, low enough that he had to duck to avoid it. This room wasn't made for comfort.

  Not like a room he remembered with scarves scattered over the bedstead, books jumbled on shelves, and a clean warm perfume in the air. Sunlight fell through the window and French door of that room in the most secret corner of his mind. Del had the idea that if he waited long enough, was still and silent enough, he might catch a glimpse of whoever owned that room—maybe the woman they were so eager to find. It never happened, but that room had held him during the worst of the beatings and the deepest of the drug-induced questioning sessions.

  That room had saved his sanity.

  Andrews leaned against the doorjamb, without Jilssen for once. “Hey.” His deceptively-sleepy blue eyes under short wheat-gold hair moved over the concrete cube, as if Del was holding contraband in some corner.

  He was, but he wasn't about to let the Colonel's second-in-command know it. “Hey,” he returned, the knife lifting a little, playing through the sequence that would end with it whipping through the air and burying itself in the lean man's throat. It would be immensely satisfying to see Andrews's eyes bug out and hear him choking on steel, maybe with his fingers scrabbling at the hilt while Del moved in on him. Del could strip him of weapons and grab his magkey, but there were armed guards at both ends of all the corridors, as well as the security net and the trackers.

  Don't forget the trackers. Wait for your time, Agent Breaker. Just wait.

  Where was Jilssen? The traitorous doctor who had allowed Sigma to take Society Headquarters had been coming around less and less—maybe because of the way Del stared at him, aching to tear the man's throat out. It didn't matter—Jilssen was a small problem in the scheme of things. Sooner or later Del would have his opportunity. Of that he was sure. Patience brought a man everything he needed, especially when there was nothing left but endurance and the dream of revenge.

  Andrews shrugged under the supple, oiled leather of his rig, Del had copied the pattern for the rigs for the Society. He could remember that clearly. He'd altered them to make them easier and lighter, a few material adjustments. He remembered buckling a rig on someone, testing it. She'd been a little shorter than the usual woman and her nearness had made his hands shake imperceptibly.

  Who? He shook the memory away. His hair was cut short now, none of the longhair crap the Society let its members indulge in. Del had never gone in for that, but his hair had been longer when he'd come in. He remembered that, remembered the click and buzz of the electric razor against his scalp. So he'd been growing it out, he guessed. Something to do with the hole in his memory.

  His arm itched, the creeping fire of Zed wearing off. They'd drugged him hard, always asking the same question.

  Where is Rowan Price? Whoever she was, they wanted her badly.

  That was enough to make Del hope they didn't find her.

  "We've got jump-off in forty. Get your ass up. You're coming topside with me. We've got a snatch and grab to do."

  "Fine.” Delgado coiled himself to his feet and noticed Andrews tense, his muscled shoulders rolling under a black T-shirt. “Who we grabbing?"

  Andrews stepped back. He might look lazy, but he was ready. Del wondered if his shoulder was hurting from the old knife wound. The blond man's lip curled as he looked over the inside of the concrete cube. Del didn't rate even a mattress pad yet; he might not ever. They were confusing his inability to remember with stubbornness. Del didn't blame them. If he'd had a choice, it would have been stubbornness.

  "Some psion the freaks have been courting. We've got a shot to bring in a whole busload of them. Including the golden girl who's been running me around the goddamn country."

  Del let one corner of his mouth tilt up into a smile. He seemed to remember a time when a smile had started to feel natural. But he was back in Sigma now. Every expression, the most minute of facial tics, was a weapon or a betrayal now. You never knew who was watching, who would report what, or when the fist would come down hard.

  I never really thought I'd escape, he realized, as he did every day. I was just waiting for them to scoop me back up. Deep down, I knew it. Knew this would happen. “She's been putting you through your paces, huh?” The more I hear about this woman, the more I like her, you son of a bitch.

  "Oh, yeah. It's almost like hunting you, you sarcastic fucker. Come on, we've got to kit you out.” Andrews didn't sound happy.

  Of course not. For three months this Price had been eluding him, slipping through his fingers like water. Sigma couldn't exterminate the last few vestiges of the Society, no matter how hard they tried. Delgado's knowledge of the ragtag assortment of psionics and their usual procedures hadn't helped as much as Colonel Anton had hoped. Despite picking his brain for every scrap of information that could be gotten out while a cocktail of Zed and Sodium Pentothal was forcibly pumped into Del's veins, the Colonel was no closer to eradicating the persistent thorn in Sigma's side.

  And the Society had even started, incredibly, to fight back. A whole Sigma snatch team had disappeared off the map a month past Del's recapture. Civilian psions Sigma had targeted for acquisition suddenly vanished, reappearing fitted out like Society members, recruiting new
psions and damaging Sigma with a persistent guerilla war. Slowly, incredibly, and successfully, the Society had managed to stay together and fight the massive tentacles of a well-funded black-ops government agency.

  Del kept his face a mask and silently cheered. He gave all the information he could—he had no choice, not if he wanted to end up anything other than a brain-wiped, Zed-shattered hulk. And the beatings hadn't helped. Andrews was sadistic, and his trained bullyboys not much better. Del didn't want to give them any more reason to pummel him. He'd just barely gotten over the last goddamn thrashing they'd given him.

  So Anton was letting Delgado out to play, was he?

  I can use this. Maybe escape.

  But if he escaped, how would he break the Zed habit? He wasn't sure he could do it again. Once was enough for that particular hell, thank you very much. The drug was meant to give you withdrawal so bad you'd do anything for another hit, and without a full detox unit to help him through the worst of the physiological effects he might find himself in an even worse place than he already was now. Strange as that sounded.

  And if he escaped, where would he go? How the hell could he find the Society?

  More importantly, would they trust him once he found them? Probably not.

  He slid off the bed, his rig coming with him. He buckled it on, rolling his shoulders to make sure it fit right. Slid the knife back into its sheath. Giving him a few weapons didn't matter. One man, no matter how gifted or well-trained, couldn't extricate himself from a full-size Sig installation. It would be insanity even to try. “Well, we'd better go, right?"

  "We'd better. You think you can bring this girl in, Del?"

  I'd rather firebomb this whole goddamn place and dance on your burning grave, you sadistic son of a bitch.

  "If I trained her like you say, I should be able to."

  But if I do find her, I'm not bringing her in. I'm going to help her get so far away you'll never find her.

  "You better be careful,” Andrews said. The bastard was smirking, his blue eyes alive as if he was contemplating someone's pain. Probably Del's. “If she keeps this up the Colonel might decide she's better dead, even if she is a golden girl. Jilssen has a hard time convincing him to bring her in alive anyway."