Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)

Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)

Shannon McKenna




PROLOGUE

“She’s lost six pounds since last week, sir,” Jason Hu said.

Thaddeus Greaves gazed through the vidcam monitor at the young woman inside the cell. Lara Kirk stood with her back to him. Sharp shoulder blades pressed against her cotton jersey tank. Loose pants hung on her thin but still graceful form. Her slender back radiated defiance. She was conscious of being observed, though she could not see them. Full of psi talent, even unenhanced. He tasted it in the air, like smoke.

Like Geoff. The similarities stirred disturbing memories.

Her long, dark hair dangled as she sank into a perfect back-bend. Her tank top slid down, too, revealing her ribcage. The top snagged on the curve of her breast. He waited, breathless, for it to slip enough and show him her nipple. It did not. “Other changes?” he asked.

“She no longer cries, or talks to herself, or sings. That stopped about a month ago. She spends her time meditating, doing gymnastics—”

“Yoga,” Greaves corrected. “She’s doing yoga, Hu.”

“Ah, yes. Blood samples show her iron is low. I’ve supplemented her food, but she averages six to seven hundred calories a day.”

“That can’t go on indefinitely,” Greaves said.

“We could use a feeding tube,” Hu suggested.

Greaves grimaced in distaste. “Any progress with the new psi-max formula? Who was the latest volunteer?”

Hu hesitated. “Silva went today,” he said. “I went the day before that, and Miranda before that. Our best duration so far is less than ten hours. Without the A component, we’re still stabbing in the dark.”

Lara Kirk kicked up a slender leg. The pant legs pooled around her thighs as she did a hand-stand. The shirt sagged lower, and her nipple was revealed. Her slim arms trembled. They did not look strong enough to bear her weight, yet they did. Her eyes were wide, intensely focused, the message as loud as if she screamed it. You. Have. Not. Broken. Me.

Greaves was stirred. Something steely and indomitable about her called to him. He stared hungrily as she folded her body, and stood.

“Has she manifested psi abilities?” he asked.

“We never dosed her,” Hu said, defensive. “You never authorized—”

“I mean naturally,” Greaves snapped.

Hu looked clouded. “Haven’t noticed. Couldn’t rule it out, I guess.”

Beautiful, how she held herself. That remote dignity. Geoff had been an artist and visionary, too. She was an extremely talented sculptor. He owned a number of her pieces already. They called to his soul.

He made a snap decision. “Dose her,” he ordered.

Hu blinked. “But the formula’s not perfected. Without Helga, we can’t even be sure she’ll survive first-dose. You’re sure we should—”

“I’m sure.” He stared, as Lara sank into a deep lunge, and then arched her arms back, like a bow pulled taut.

Greaves licked his lips. “Do it right now,” he said. “I want to watch.”





1


Stop thinking about her. Stop thinking at all.

Miles stared up at the volcanic granite that reared above him in the dim light of dawn, scanning for handholds, footholds. He channeled a surge of fresh energy into his mental shield. Thinking about Lara Kirk was not useful, but he’d never been good at suppressing unwanted thoughts, even before being reduced to his current suck-ass state.

And the dreams, holy God, what was up with that? White hot, thundering erotic dreams about her, every single night. What kind of scumbag dreamed nightly of nailing the girl that he’d failed to rescue? If he’d saved her, he’d be halfway entitled to his horndog fantasies. But as it was, no way.

Every night, as he prepared for sleep, he gave himself the stern pep talk. Tonight, he chose how he behaved in his dream. People could. He’d read about it. But it didn’t matter. When she came to him, his dream self did not give a f*ck what his waking self wanted. His dream self wanted her, and wanted her bad. Deep, hard, every which way. When she showed up, he seized her, went at her like a maniac.

It was as disturbing as it was exciting.

He remembered every last detail when he woke, in laser sharp detail. No foggy dream lens, no fade-outs. Her sweet, salty taste, her satiny thick hair twisted into his fingers. Her body moving against his. Strong, slender. Hot and slick. He could feel it right now. He could practically smell her lube on his fingers. And, man, he’d done it again.

He contemplated his newly refreshed hard-on, dismayed. The guys with the white coats should just take him and his perpetual stiffie away before he hurt himself.

You tried to help. It didn’t work out. Climb the cliff. Don’t think about Lara Kirk. Don’t think at all.

He stared up, calculating the best ascent. Neutral data, crunched through algorithms. Conclusions organized into neat categories, rank and file. As long as his mind shield was up and running strong, he was chill. He had errant thoughts, but they did not play themselves out through his glands. They just flickered on the edge of his mind, like a TV screen he was barely following.

But if his mental shield wavered, man, it was blitzkrieg. Full on screaming stress flashbacks, of Rudd’s attack at Spruce Ridge.

He’d gotten better at keeping the shield strong, up here in the mountains. Weeks of constant, grinding practice had yielded him at least that much. He’d discovered the uses of rock climbing the second week. The tight mental focus it required pulled him together, somehow. Free climbing, of course, since climbing equipment hadn’t been on his supply list. That was okay. The harder the better, for his purposes.