Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(122)

“Stop!” Greaves’ voice resonated with a massive pulse of coercion.

Anabel yelped, and dropped her duct tape and knife, clutching her temples. Whimpering.

“Go to the back of the room,” he said.

She did so, shuffling. Thudded to her knees, and then onto her face on the carpet, hard, as if she’d been kicked from behind.

“Sorry about that,” Greaves said. “Anabel’s very stressed. I gave her an assignment that cracked her ability to tell fantasy from reality.”

“You do seem to specialize in that,” Miles observed.

Greaves gave him a cold look. He managed to refrain from saying anything else sarcastic about the state of Anabel’s mental health. A guy who was duct-taped to a chair should curb the snark. If possible.

He glanced over at the guy lying at the far side of the room on a cot. Shriveled, skeletal, hooked up to machines. “Who’s that guy?”

“My son,” Greaves said. “He’s been like that for years.”

“I see.” It seemed politic to change the subject. “So. Telepathy. Coercion. Two things you’ve got going for you. Are there more?”

In answer, Miles’ chair rose up into the air, twirling gently as if he hung on a rope swing. Higher, and still higher. Six feet off the ground. Then eight. The room had old-fashioned, sixteen-foot ceilings.

“Telekinesis, too,” Miles said. “Cool.”

Greaves gazed up, arms folded, eyes bright and expectant.

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to be all impressed and intimidated?” he asked. “Clue me in, here. I don’t want to f*ck this up.”

Whoosh, he dropped like a stone. Crash, the chair legs snapped like toothpicks beneath his weight, leaving him sprawled and gasping, air knocked out of his lungs. Still taped to the splintered remnants of the chair. He tried moving his legs, his arms. Didn’t seem to be broken.

He shook his legs free of the taped chunks of wood, but when he tried to get up and wiggle his bound arms loose from the detached chair back, a force shoved on his chest, pressing him back down. That pressure, plus his own weight, crushed his bound hands against the back of the chair. Yow. That sucked.

“I’m going to teach you some manners before we are through,” Greaves said, walking slowly over to him. He stared down at Miles.

“If that’s what you need to do.” Miles stopped struggling. There was no point in it. It was like having an elephant sit on him.

“You didn’t expect that, with your shield?” Greaves looked smug. “I can’t get inside your head, but I can manipulate your body mass.”

“That’s great,” Miles said. “Are you through? Or do you need to show me more of your junk? You’ve definitely got my attention.”

“My other abilities are harder to classify,” Greaves said. “I have a whole array of talents. And I’m sure you do, too. Time for you to show me your junk, Mr. Davenport. Go on, impress me. What have you got?”

“Not too f*cking much, or I wouldn’t be duct taped and flat on my back, hanging out with losers like you.”

Greaves made a dismissive gesture. “Bullshit. I felt your energy when you punched me with it yesterday.”

Miles shook his head, the only part of his body he could move. “I can’t do that when I’m shielded,” he said. “And I don’t know how to control it. It was beginner’s luck.”

“It’s a matter of training and practice.”

“Yeah, most things are,” Miles said. “But I’m not that interested. I don’t get a thrill out of jerking people around. And unless I need to lift a refrigerator by myself, who cares about telekinesis?”

“That’s just inexperience talking,” Greaves scoffed. “You haven’t grasped the possibilities yet. I can help you do that.”

“Help me?” Miles peered up at him, perplexed. “Why on earth would you help me? What the hell do you want?”

“A couple of things. The first is just for you to join my cause, Mr. Davenport. I need people like you. I have enhanced dozens of talented people, but psi-max only goes so far. A potential like yours is one in a million. I could teach you to control and guide huge masses of people, all at once. You could be a vital part of my plan.”

“Your plan,” Miles said. “Yeah, I’ve heard about it. The one where everybody dies?”

Greaves waved that away. “Not at all! You’ve been listening to Lara, and she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. The virus doesn’t have that effect. We’ve tested it extensively!”

“Virus? So you’re a bioterrorist, then?”

“No, you idiot,” Greaves snapped. “Shut up and listen. You’re like me, Miles. There are just a few lingering energy blockages keeping you from your full potential. I could break through them, and set you free.”

Miles gazed up at the guy, struggling for breath beneath that weight. “Free to what?” he asked. “For what?”

“To exercise your full powers,” Greaves said, impatiently.

“Yes, I get that,” Miles wheezed. “But to what end?”

Greaves just stared. “You’re deliberately missing the point.”

“Bigtime,” Miles said.