Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(5)

Lara’s eyes widened, in shock. She poised her fingers over the keyboard, typed. fck u 2 And she winked out. Pissed. Gone.

He realized three things at once. One, he had a massive hard-on, again. Two, he felt like shit for being rude to her. Bad sign. Three, without him noticing, the cougar had moved in on him. A lot closer.

He grabbed the Glock, jumped up and discharged it into the sky with a shout. The cougar leaped high, and vanished into the night.

The gun report was a hammer blow to his skull. He sank to his knees, let the gun slide from stiff, shaking fingers onto the pine needles. Hid his hot face in his hands. It was time for the meds. Jesus, look at him.

Trying to chase a f*cking dream away by shooting it.





2


Lara’s eyes fluttered at the glare, stomach clenching.

Back in hell again. She wanted to go back to the Citadel, to her fantasy lover. Just thinking about him made her toes tighten with delight. He was the only good thing in the twisted smoking wreck of what passed for her life—and he had just slapped her away.

It hurt so much, she could barely breathe. Her dream lover had never run hot and cold on her before. He’d always been straight hot. Scalding, scorching hot, like she’d never imagined hot could be.

And now look at her, sniveling. Dissed by her own escapist sexual fantasy. How pathetic was that.

You have bigger problems, girl. She opened her eyes and grimly faced them. She was bound to the gurney with wrist and ankle restraints, straps buckled across chest and thigh. She used to fight them. She didn’t, anymore, but Hu had a lingering mark in the shape of her teeth on the meaty part of his thumb. He took no chances.

Their faces hung over her, distorted and nightmarish. Tears flashed out, ran into her sweaty hair. She hated crying in front of these hateful bastards. Not that they gave a shit. She was nothing to them, an inanimate thing to be exploited, but still, she hated her own lack of control. Hot teardrops tickled across her temples.

Breathe into it. Just a feeling. You’re big. It’s small. Breathe.

She willed herself to stillness. So difficult to be dignified when flat on one’s back, strapped to a cot, stoned off her gourd. And weeping.

Today it was Hu, and Anabel, the blond bitch telepath, her usual tormenters. Anabel was always there, to follow Lara’s mind wherever it ranged when they pumped her full of their junk. Hu was enhanced with psi, too, but his abilities were focused around the function of the drug itself, not upon her.

They were using her as a guinea pig, to develop a new drug formula. To what end she was not sure, and was afraid to speculate. The effects of the current formula were scary enough as it was. It kicked her loose of the world she knew, launching her into a foggy nightmare world of shifting visions. Usually she made no sense of the visions. Anabel or one of the other telepaths was always there with her, claws sunk deep. Hanging on like a tick. Usually Anabel.

Some of the visions were recurring. Like her mute, nameless friend, the little boy with the blond hair and the raggedy pajamas, for instance. He would have been a comforting figure if he weren’t so ghostly and forlorn. Still, she’d become fond of him. She needed to care about someone, and the little boy was always there when they launched her into the formless fog. He’d become her guide, running on ahead of her, beckoning her on, gesturing and pointing until she saw the Citadel looming out of the mist.

And then she found him. The Citadel’s incendiary occupant.

She’d been amazed, the first time, to find that Anabel and the others couldn’t follow her inside. She was safe from her tormenters in there. And he was there. Her dream lover.

Not that there was anything that comforting about him, that was for sure. Comforting was not the word for the Lord of the Citadel. Mind-blowing, super-deluxe, over-the-top sexual fantasy was more like it. The masterful intensity of his come-on and his lovemaking had terrified her, at first, but she’d taken to it pretty damn fast. She’d adjusted. Wow.

She’d puzzled at first, the hows and the whys and the whats of it all, but lately, she’d given up on that. It was a gift, and she’d just go with it, accept it, enjoy it.

Or rather, cling to it like a lifeline.

She’d gotten into the Citadel today, briefly, though she hadn’t encountered its amorous lord as she usually did. She’d found the room empty, until she typed in that stupid, ill-fated message.

And got his harsh response. Ouch. It still smarted.

She’d gotten in at this morning’s injection, too. Anabel was doubly furious, having been thwarted twice.

When Lara’s eyes focused, Anabel slapped her. Forehand, backhand. Whap, whap. “Where the f*ck did you go, you sneaky bitch? Where did you learn to block? Who taught you? Helga?”

Lara shook her head, insofar as the strap on her forehead would allow. “Didn’t,” she croaked. “Don’t know how.”

And it was true. She had no idea how to create something like that incredible dream fortress. She had no idea what the hell she was doing when they sent her on those drug trips.

No, she was trespassing in the Citadel. Not that its smoking-hot sex god inhabitant had ever objected to her visits before today. On the contrary. He’d always been happy to see her. To say the least.

“I had her for a while.” Anabel directed the words at Hu. “We were making some progress. She saw that usual weird nightmare with the sleepwalkers, and then she saw the Tokyo bomb thing, and then she shook me off.” She hung over Lara. “Where did you go?” Spittle flew, spattering Lara’s cheeks. “How the f*ck do you do that?”