Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(84)

“How far now?” Greaves demanded.

Silva, in the front passenger’s seat, had the self-preservation not to indicate how childish that question was, even telepathically. In fact, the man and woman in the car with him were both breathlessly careful with their thoughts. All three had been in the room on the day that Chrisholm had been chastised.

“Fifteen more minutes to the address where the phone signal originated. If the phone is still located there, of course. You should be in range in about—”

“I can calculate my own f*cking range, Silva. I have a grasp of basic arithmetic.”

“Of course, sir.”

Greaves stared at the mountainous forest flashing by from the tinted window, vaguely noticing the pain in the palms of his hands. He turned them over. Half-moons, from his carefully buffed and filed fingernails. The crescents turned red as he watched. Blood welling.

He was literally trembling with eagerness, to sink his claws into Lara Kirk and her rescuer. Her shield was like a beacon of hope. The only ray he’d had since those first, early years after Geoff went into the coma. Before he realized that the boy really, truly would not come out.

His people had compiled extensive files for Lara Kirk and her parents, friends, lovers, acquaintences. There was no figure in those files who corresponded in any way to the physical description or profile of the mysterious figure who had rescued her. The man was clearly enhanced with psi-max or something comparable, and had astonishing physical characteristics, as well as combat skills that suggested military training. He must be gifted with long range telepathy to have communicated with Lara Kirk from outside the complex.

Most importantly, he had to have a compelling reason to help her.

That was the part that perplexed him the most. Lara was alone in the world, family gone, no husband or siblings, not even a casual lover, as far as his sources could tell. And the list of human beings on the planet capable of what Lara’s rescuer had done was very short. Cross-reference it with anyone who might have even a passing interest in or connection to Lara Kirk, and he came up blank.

Unless, of course, there was a new rival factor operating out there that he knew nothing about as of yet, and they wanted Lara’s unique abilities for themselves. That was a hypothesis that made sense to him.

In any case, he would soon know the truth.

He reached out, his mind a soft, wide net that extended miles in every direction. It was easier to sweep like this if he’d already tasted the flavor of a mind before. He homed in on familiar signatures much faster. The minds that he had touched thirty-six hours ago had all been very distinctive. All five of them shone very brightly.

Perhaps that was why he picked them up from so far outside his usual five-to six-mile range. Three of them he had tasted the morning before. The unshielded ones. Male, adult, intelligent, aggressive. Lara’s shooter, and his cohorts. They shared a bond that puzzled him, until it clicked into place. Genetic similarities. Brothers, or cousins.

Odd. That did not fit his hypothesis. Family connections suggested a more emotional reason for the rescue, but who? Why?

He scanned for Lara, but felt nothing. Other signatures surrounded his three. He sensed the fourth one, the shielded one that had been on yesterday’s attack team. Silva and Levine were in his car, and Biehl, Mehalis, and Wilcox were in the other. Miranda’s telepathic abilities were on a level with Anabel’s, and Silva, besides his knack for coercion, had a specialized ability almost as precise as Greaves’ own—to cause telekinetic damage on a microvascular level. He could constrict a person’s blood vessel, provoking a fatal heart attack. He was the ideal assassin. Greaves had trained him personally.

“Drive faster,” he said.

“Sir, I’m already going eighty-five, and—”

“Shut up!” He closed his eyes to savor the contact. Almost close enough to read their thoughts.

He could hardly wait to tear them apart.





20


Something was coming down. Something bad.

Even closed in the bathroom, locked in one of those apocalyptic hugs with Lara, Miles felt the change in the energy outside the door. His neck, his balls. Tingling in a nasty way.

He knocked aside the tangle of broom handles. “Let’s see what’s going on out there.”

There was a knot of agitated people around the bar when he emerged. He pushed closer.

Davy was doubled over, his head resting on the bar, holding his temples. His eyes were squeezed shut. “Oh, shit,” he gasped. “Bad.”

Davy being stoic almost to the point of insanity, that sight scared the living shit out of Miles. “What’s going on? A headache?”

Davy slowly lifted his head. His face was gray, contracted. “We didn’t leave soon enough,” he croaked. “He’s here.”

“Yeah.” Sean’s face was pinched, “I’m feeling it, too.”

“And me,” Connor said, grimly. “Asshole. Squeezing us.”

Miles looked around at the people in the room. Davy dragged in a sobbing breath, clutching his head.

They were all here in answer to his call. He had dragged them into this, assuming as always that these exceptional people could handle anything thrown at them. But nobody could handle this crazy shit.

“Got a sense of what direction he’s coming from?” he asked.