Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(123)

Greaves sighed. “This virus has been under development for many years. The toxin that it produces is health-enhancing. It lowers aggression, raises seratonin level. In the prison populations where we aerosolized it, there were amazing turnarounds. Violent incidents dropped almost to zero over the course of just months. Cases of rape, suicide, drug use, even cigarettes and overeating went down. Even the prison staff’s lives transformed. There’s nothing this substance does not improve.”

Miles grunted. “Sounds like heaven.”

Greaves frowned. “I need people like you, Miles. I would of course administer the vaccine to you, and to a limited number of other people, of your choosing, if you would rather keep them unaltered. Though the truth is, you would not be doing them any favors by withholding this gift of peace. They remain who they are . . . just better.”

Miles dragged in another painful breath. “I’ve been told that I’m wanted for rape, kidnapping, and murder, thanks to you.”

Greaves waved his hand. “Fixable. In any case, the world will soon be very different. The rules will change, because I will be the one making them. But there is another thing that I need from you, even more urgently.” He paused for dramatic effect. “My son.”

Miles floundered mentally, coming up blank. “You mean him?” He jerked his chin in the general direction of the comatose guy.

Greaves licked his lips. “Your shield is the key. It’s almost exactly like his. Let me inside to read your memories of how you built it, its inner workings, and I’ll be able to understand how he generates his.”

“You still won’t get in,” Miles said.

“Lara did,” Greaves pointed out.

“That was because I created a hidden door specifically for her,” Miles said. “You can be damn sure your son did not do that for you.”

“Just let me in. I’ll decide for myself what’s relevant and what’s not.”

Miles groped frantically around in his head, like a rat in a maze for a way through this. All he could think of was stall, stall, stall.

“So what’s in this for me?” he asked.

Greaves smiled. The pressure lightened on Miles’ chest, allowing him to fill his lungs. He did, with big, rasping gasps of relief.

“You mean, besides power and fame, and a place on the center of the world stage? Noble and meaningful work? Mr. Davenport, open your mind. I can give you your life back. And I can give you Lara.”





miles? update?

hey baby Miles responded.

She burst into tears, seeing letters appear on the screen. you ok?

4 the moment. he wants me 2 help him rule zombieland. & wants me 2 give him his son back. bad scene

can u pretend?

not if I open my shield. cant lie 2 a telepath.

Despair gripped her. There was nothing to say, nothing they could do. She said the only thing that came into her mind. I love you.

I love you, too. No shortcuts, no abbreviations.

Lara huddled on the floor of the vault in the dark in a tight ball, hands around her head. It was a yoga pose that was supposed to calm her, but it didn’t. Never worked in the rat hole, either, but she was stubborn. She wanted to keep talking to him, to milk every second of contact, but it was unfair to fracture his concentration.

She hated feeling helpless. She wanted to strike a blow, make a move, but even her psychic gift was a passive one. She couldn’t attack, stab, throw, read, push, or bully anyone with it.

She thought of Geoff, and a half-formed idea tickled her mind, along with a shiver of fear, hope, dread. Possibility.

Geoff had helped her. He had proven to be an ally of a sort. And he wanted something from her, if she could figure out what it was. If she could just change the cards on the table. Something. Anything.

She tried all her tricks, but at long last, it was the image of Persephone’s swirling vase that got her vortex going . . .

. . . into the otherworld, to the phantom town square. No place else to go anymore. All roads led to this ghostly deathtrap. She wandered through, trying not to look at the charnel scenes. No evidence of violence or conflict. Even cars were correctly parked in legal parking places. In one car, a corpse in the driver’s seat still had a pink blouse adhered to its ribcage, and there was a . . . oh, God, no.

Too late. She’d seen it, and she could not unsee the tiny, smaller body curled on the corpse’s lap. The car seat in the back. The woman had parked the car, and then never roused herself to get out. The toddler had crawled up into the front seat into her mother’s lap to die.

Lara stumbled on, hand pressed to her mouth. She wanted to run from her horror, but there was nothing to run from. Everything was dead.

The flash of movement caught her eye, that pale candle flame of a head, bobbing like a will-o’-the-wisp. “Geoff!” She sprinted after him.

She rounded the corner. Geoff stood there, waiting for her. Still in the ragged pajamas, but they were tighter on him. His skin was covered with goosebumps in the chill. He was older today, maybe seven or eight.

“I know who you are,” she told him. “You’re Greaves’ son. You’ve been hiding behind your shield for seventeen years.”

Geoff’s eyes went big. He backed up, as if she’d threatened him.

“You have to help us,” she pleaded. “You’re the one who showed me this nightmare. We have to stop it, and you have to help!”