Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(40)

And there was the element of her sexual appeal. Her mental and emotional signature was delicious. Subtle overtones, delicate aromas.

He would have Lara Kirk, and power over the future. The power to put things right, at his fingertips. Geoff, too. All his.

Lara seemed to be alone. There was no other mental signature near her, but she had to have gotten help, given the shooter, the broken, bleeding bodies of his staff. How had she coordinated such an escape from her isolated cell? She must have powers she had hidden. She’d seemed so beaten. He’d caught no whiff of hidden weapons, hatching plots. He clamped down on her, adding coercion to the mix.

She was so strong. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He laughed. It felt good, to use his mind as it was meant to be used. Like a rousing game of tennis. Finally, something real to push against.

There was a delicate balance to be found. He did not want to damage her beautiful, unusual brain, but she had to learn obedience. He had to be a little cruel to get his point across. He pushed harder . . .

And she winked out. As if she had never been there.

His eyes popped open. What? He groped, lunged, swept feelers where he had been before, then in every imaginable direction.

Nothing. Gone. Hiding behind that f*cking shield of hers.

He pressed further. To the limits of his range, and beyond, straining, until his heart thudded. A red haze of rage before his eyes.

Minutes went by before he could identify it, but only vaguely. It was more like an absence than a presence. A dark spot, denser than nothing, like a cloak of invisibility.

He could barely locate it, let alone breach it.

But he could fish for the others. There was the shooter, and the one who had attacked his staff. He would troll for her team.

He lunged, swept, reached. It was a broad area, but he was highly motivated. Back and forth, around . . . nothing still . . . yes!

Unshielded, on the hillside opposite. Male. Moving quickly downhill. This was the sniper who had destroyed his windows, and spoiled his breakfast. Who might have killed or maimed him, but for his telekinetic shield. The sniper’s mind was surprisingly difficult to grasp. It was so fiercely focused on the job at hand, it was empty of all else, rendering it elusive and transparent. But Greaves got a grip on him.

He clamped down on the man’s mind, relishing the jolt of surprise that quickly turned to anger. The man was strong, with psi elements, but not on a conscious level. Greaves felt them like the overtones of a resonant voice. Excellent candidate for psi-max.

The gunman struggled, in vain. Greaves pinned the man with part of his mind, and ranged further. He found another, then two more. One had a well-developed psi talent, limited training, and a strong shield, but nothing on the order of Lara’s. The other two were like the gunman. Raw, undeveloped talent, but no defenses. Not against him.

It felt good, as angry as he was, to clutch them all and squeeze.





10


It took focus to lope through rough, unfamiliar terrain in the dark with a traumatized girl on his back and evil goons who may or may not start shooting at them. Being hyper-conscious of her body touching him did not help. There was no time for this juvenile shit.

Get down, he scolded. Later for that. He needed every available red blood cell for the big head right now.

The slope was leveling off. They were approaching the riverbank. He smelled motor vehicles, exhaust, gas, rubber. Men. Her face was pressed against his shoulder. Her lips. As if she were kissing him.

It occurred to him that his bandwidth had been getting progressively bigger, ever since he’d started talking to her. Now, with her clinging to his back, his augmented senses did not feel freakish and painful at all. They felt right, like he’d grown to fit them. It felt appropriate, to see in the dark, to hear so acutely. The tidal wave of constant data didn’t jar him. And the smell of her hair, oh God—

Whoa. Keep your nose on the job.

The wide creekbed stretched out before him. He saw the dim outline of two vehicles in the trees, on the other side. One was his own.

Something was off, but he didn’t nail it down until the dark figure came into focus not far from the vehicles, sprawled on the tumbled boulders. It was Connor, clutching his head. Trying to crawl.

Miles put on a burst of desperate speed. “Connor?” He leaped over the rocks, and crouched beside his friend. Lara slid off his back and crawled to Connor’s other side. “Connor? What’s wrong?”

“Head,” Connor rasped. “Pulling.” He jerked his hand in the direction of the house that hung on the top of the hillside above. Blood ran from Connor’s nose and down his neck.

“Greaves,” Lara whispered.

Miles scooped his arms beneath Connor’s armpits, trying to hoist him to his knees. “We’ve got to get out of that bastard’s range.”

“Davy.” Connor’s voice was a breathless grunt. “Sean. Aaro.”

Miles stuffed the fear he did not have the luxury to feel, and braced himself against Connor’s weight. It had never occurred to him that he was putting his friends in danger of this magnitude. They’d always seemed so invulnerable to him. Godlike, even.

“Let me help,” Lara said.

“Concentrate on not breaking both your legs,” he said.

She wiggled her shoulder beneath Connor’s arm. Connor glanced at her, and shot an eloquent look in Miles’ direction “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.