Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(93)

Images flickered on the computer screen that each of them had in front of them. Anabel focused on hers with some difficulty.

Footage from Lara Kirk’s cell. Again. For the umpteenth time, they watched the masked man burst in, with Hu clamped against his body. Lara cowered in the corner, half-naked.

“I still cannot believe there’s no audio,” Greaves said sourly.

“Sir, there was nothing to hear,” Anabel protested. “She was alone, and unless she talked to herself—”

“Shut up,” Greaves snapped. “Pay attention.”

The crouching figure swiveled, glancing up briefly at the camera. He turned back to Lara, and whipped off his mask, revealing a snarled mop of long dark hair, dangling past his collar. But not his face.

“Look at Lara’s face,” Greaves said suddenly. “Stop, and go back two seconds.”

Silva ran the footage back, and they watched the masked ogre peer at the camera, turn, whip off the mask. This time, they watched the stunned look on Lara’s face.

But not terror. There was a flash of hope. Certainly recognition.

“She knew him,” Greaves said slowly. “She was happy to see him.”

“Surprised, too,” Anabel said.

“Yes,” Silva said. “She wasn’t expecting to be rescued. She didn’t respond quickly. He had to force her to move.”

“Yes, Silva. This implies that she was not communicating with him telepathically. So who was communicationg with him? Hmm?”

Fear gripped them all. Anabel braced herself for the probe. Greaves was fast, and good, but oh f*ck, ouch, she was still sore and bruised from the headache and from yesterday’s telepathic reaming.

He moved swiftly down the line and jabbed them all, even the medics. They’d been summoned to this meeting, too, all but one left to constantly attend the turnip. To guard it, no doubt, since it was not permitted to die. She felt almost sorry for the loathsome thing.

The door opened, and that smirking whore Miranda Levine burst in. Her face was perfectly composed, but even on the sad downslide from her last dose of psi-max, Anabel could sense the woman clamping down on her own excitement, playing it cool. Posturing bitch.

“I heard from our contact at the forensics lab,” she said. “They had a hit. The prints from the gun he used to shoot Bixby match up to a Miles Davenport, last known address, Sandy, Oregon.”

“No!” Anabel jerked upright. “It can’t be Miles Davenport!”

Greaves regarded her impassively. “Why not?”

“I know that guy! And he was there, that night at Spruce Ridge! The fundraiser, remember? He was the one who attacked me and tied me up, the one who attacked Alex Aaro and destroyed Rudd’s architectural model! He ended up in a coma after his talk with Rudd. It couldn’t have been him, sir. I probed that guy! I couldn’t get through his shield, but he wasn’t enhanced, or I would have felt it. He was just a big beefcake with a good security system!”

“So you wrote him off?” Greaves said softly.

“No! The guy who took Lara was loaded up with psi! I never forget a signature. I would have known if I had ever come across—”

“Unless his signature had changed,” Greaves said.

“Signatures don’t change!”

“Do not raise your voice in my presence,” he said.

Anabel shrieked as something clutched and cramped in her groin, as if she were being clawed there.

The sensation eased after a few horrible moments. She sagged onto the table, trying not to sob.

“Have you composed yourself?” Greaves asked. “Can we proceed? Are you prepared to act like a professional?”

Straightening up in her chair put painful pressure on her aching nether parts. “Yes, sir,” she croaked.

“Good. As I was saying. You wouldn’t recognize his signature if it had changed. By your own account, after you encountered him he was attacked by Rudd, and almost killed with psychic energy. It’s very possible that he woke from his coma with a very different psi profile.”

“Do you know of other cases like that?” Silva asked.

“Yes,” Greaves said. “Me.”

The wind banged the glass doors loudly as they stared at him.

“That’s how my powers were unleashed, years ago,” he explained. “In my youth, I was subjected to prolonged psychic pressure very similar to what Rudd did to Davenport. It took months for my brain to heal, but when it did, my profile had, in fact, changed. Radically.” He looked around, a sardonic smile curling his lips. “You all take psi-max tabs. But I could give you permanent psi like mine, if you’re willing. The price is screaming agony, followed by constant, crushing head pain, disorientation, and depression. Followed by years of chronic headaches, stress flashbacks, and the occasional psychotic break. All this in exchage for enormous power. Is there a hardy soul among you? No?” He snorted. “Why am I not surprised?” He tapped his pen on the tabletop. “Miles Davenport paid that price, but Rudd didn’t even know he was creating a psychic monster. As far as he knew, he was just beating up the smaller kid in the playground, like the thug that he was. This man intrigues me. I want him taken alive.”

Eyes shifted and flickered around the table.

Greaves laughed. “Afraid?” A needle-jab of coercion made everyone at the table jump, or wince. “I invested untold millions in you people. Anything you might have to fear from Miles Davenport is nothing compared to what you have to fear from me.”