Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(128)

“No!” Miles yelled, leaping forward.

Anabel snarled like a feral cat. The beaker soared up . . .

The gun went off, bam. The beaker froze in the air, suspended. The gun’s kick had forced Anabel’s arm up. Miles clamped her into immobility so she could not shoot again, but Lara was sliding down the wall, hand clamped to her wound, a streak of bright red blood smeared on the white planks behind her.

Anabel’s eyes shone with fury as she fought him. She sagged, put her chin over the gun barrel—

Bam. The contents of Anabel’s head fanned behind her on the white siding.

Miles didn’t even watch her fall. He righted the beaker, lowered it to the floor, and dove for Lara. Shoulder, not chest, thank God. So pale.

He wrestled himself out of his coat, ripped out some of the flannel lining, pressed the wad of fabric against her wound while groping inside his coat for the smartphone hidden in the lining. An eternity of one-handed fishing before he found the thing. He switched off the recording mode, smearing the touchscreen with so much blood he could barely see the numbers on the keyboard to dial nine-one-one.

He got someone on the line, delivered details as coherently as possible. Address, ambulance, police, people shot, heavy bleeding, yada yada. He let the phone drop, forgotten, and concentrated on Lara’s wound. Christ, so pale. Her lips, almost blue. But she was smiling.

“You’re going to be fine,” he told her.

She nodded faintly. I love you, she mouthed.

“Me, too.” The rag was soaked. He put more pressure, wincing as she gasped.

“You killed Greaves.” It was a man’s voice, awestruck. “Jesus, how did you do that? How the hell did you kill that guy?”

Miles looked around. It was the big dark guy. Silva. The woman followed him out, too, the redhead. He was intensely aware of the uncorked beaker, but the two of them made no move to approach it.

“That’s amazing,” the redheaded woman said, her voice admiring.

“Do either one of you have medical training?” he asked.

The two glanced at each other and shook their heads.

“Then shut the f*ck up and get down on the ground, hands where I can see them,” he said.

“You’re as powerful as he was,” the woman said. “My God. You’re just like him. Telekinesis, coercion . . . how did you do it?”

“I am not like him,” he snarled. “Lady, what part of ‘shut the f*ck up’ do you not understand?”

She batted her large, hazel eyes. “We could work for you,” she offered hopefully. “With psi-max, we can do anything you want. Greaves controlled our supply, but if you could just get us more psi—”

“No,” he snapped. “I don’t have your fix, and I want nothing to do with you. You’re a couple of sick ghouls who tried to chop my girlfriend’s hand off. Go to jail and rot. Now get . . . the f*ck . . . down.”

They weren’t moving, so he used telekinesis on both for the smackdown, as Greaves had done to Anabel. A vicious jab at the hamstring, a hard tap on the back, and whap, they were on their faces.

He clamped them down. Scary, how easy it was. Every time he used it, it got stronger. He could keep them flattened now with just an idle corner of his attention. And all of this souped-up power was utterly useless, for the purposes of helping Lara. Her lip was clamped between her teeth. She’d lost so much blood. “Lara,” he said. “Stay with me.”

Only when her eyes popped open, startled, did he realize he’d used a little jab of coercion on her, without even thinking.

Bad, but whatever worked. He was desperate. Not that a person could coerce another one into not bleeding to death. But still.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he said. “Help is coming.”

She nodded, and he suddenly felt that soft tickle at his consciousness, the lovely one that made sex and happiness hormones squirt directly into his brain and his bloodstream. The feeling he got when she was doing her seductive mind dance to get inside the Citadel.

He blocked it, instinctively. Shifting energy flows, forming walls, blocking holes. No. She could not come in, not until he knew what he had become, and how dangerous it might be for her. For them.

You’re just as strong as he is. You’re just like him.

Yeah. And his war machine, cool and expedient, had chosen the beaker of death to freeze telekinetically in that split-second he had to choose. Not the trigger of the gun that shot his girlfriend point-blank.

Arguably, a logical choice, considering the circumstances. But this wasn’t about logic. It never had been.

He couldn’t let her back into the Citadel. Where he could feel her, see her, control her, manipulate her at all times. That was one step short of confining her. Which was the beginning of the end.

That wasn’t who he was. It wasn’t who he would become.

You keep her in a cage, right? Isn’t that control too, of a different sort? And don’t you like it?”

Yeah, in fact. He’d liked it fine. Greaves’ words echoed in his head, making him sick inside. Even now, he was tempted to glom onto her. Hey, she was gunshot, clinging to him like a lifeline. What better time to pound on that particular nail? Shore up that bond, make it unbreakable? His forever. Swallowed up. Always his. Only his.

No. He clenched his teeth, his guts. It hurt like hell, but no.