Right Through Me (The Obsidian Files #1)(16)

There were no photos of Caroline Bishop.

Freeze-framed, she gazed seductively over her shoulder from the video monitor, looking at him through long lashes. So maybe she was Mark’s spy sent to infiltrate them. Or else Mark’s victim, framed for a vicious murder he committed.

The second option was almost as bad as the first, come to think of it. The Midlanders had a crap-ton of issues. They did not need police scrutiny of any kind.

Convincing though their fake identities might be, they were best left unquestioned. And unobserved.

His losses on rebellion day had taught him the price of boldness. All that was left now was a relentless will to keep his freaky tribe alive and thriving. They wouldn’t beat Obsidian by acting like victims.

Nope. No grand gestures for him. Slow, steady and secretive would win the race.

But Zade was right, much as he hated to admit it. They needed to know what Bishop knew. How how she fit in to this. Why she was hiding.

He’d never run an AVP scan on a woman who affected him this strongly. It might not even be safe for her.

He might not be.

He wanted a long, private, leisurely, unfiltered look in dim light. AVP running free. No spectators. No distractions. Naked eyes. Raw, unfiltered data. Yeah.

He reached for the smartphone, glancing at the video monitor. The seductive flash of her green eyes.

Hah. He could rationalize his ass off, but he knew why he was making that call.

There was no arguing with a stiff dick. It always had the last word.





Chapter 5


“Open the vault, General,” Mark Olund said. “You don’t want to make me angry.”

General Colin Kitteridge’s lungs hitched, constricted by the hot air of the high, remote desert and the microscopic dust that drifted endlessly through Obsidian’s vast research complex. He struggled against the duct tape that bound him, his eyes bugging out, straining to see his tormenter.

Mark was unable to help with that. He could have turned on lights, but less light gave him more control with AVP. Control meant the difference between victory and disaster.

Kitteridge’s rigid ass was taped to a folding stool that Mark had set right in front of the GodsEye Biometric vault door. The man’s own brain was the key to open it. Without the general’s cooperation, any attempt to open the vault would turn its precious contents into ash and cinders.

The GodsEye brainwave sensor helmet looked ridiculous on Kitteridge’s sweaty bald head. But the general couldn’t see himself and Mark didn’t care. So long as it worked.

“I can’t open it,” Kitteridge said.

Mark gave the man’s sig a quick surface reading and concluded that the general was lying. A strongly fortified lie that almost looked like a truth. But not quite.

The old man was tough. He’d die with honor. Screaming and writhing, of course. But never surrendering. He didn’t know that Mark was a genius at finding soft spots and brutally exploiting them.

“Your colleague Lydia Bachmann explained the principles of GodsEye Biometrics to me eight months ago,” Mark said. “Right before she died.”

The general’s sig flashed in startled agitation. “Lydia? You killed her?”

“Never mind Lydia right now. Open the f*cking vault.”

Kitteridge closed his eyes, but his sig revealed that, far from doing as he was told, he was summoning the energy to fortify his defenses. He was a career soldier and an ex-POW, not a pampered *. He knew something about suffering.

Not as much as Mark did, though.

On to the next move. Mark opened the back of the large truck that he’d driven into the complex, and leaped inside. A teenaged boy lay in the cargo space.

“Joseph. You’re still breathing.” Mark grabbed him by the collar, and hauled out General Kitteridge’s grandson. He’d regained consciousness, and his eyes rolled in terror. He was hog-tied with dirty white ropes that showed blood where they’d rubbed his skin raw. Duct tape over his mouth, though. Easier than a gag. Harder to chew, what with the adhesive.

The boy was six feet and weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, but Mark hefted him as if he weighed nothing. Joseph twisted and fought as if dangling from a gallows, groaning as the shirt collar choked him.

“Joey!” Kitteridge’s sig turned inside out. Watery green alternated with pulsing yellow. Soul-chilling fear. Yes.

“I don’t need to describe what I could do to your grandson,” Mark said. “Your imagination might be even more creative than mine.”

“Don’t hurt Joey!” Kitteridge stared at Mark’s unflagging one-armed grip. “Who in the hell are you? Are you modified?”

“Me? I’m just a piece of garbage you threw away years ago. It’s payback time.”

“You’re an older gen—? What year? I thought I was familiar with all of the . . . oh. Oh, God. You helped torch Midlands.”

“Bingo. You’re the second one on my list. You should be honored.”

“Second?” Kitteridge’s eyes kept darting toward his grandson. “Lydia was the first? Please understand, we had no idea what the researchers were doing. We were horrified when we learned about you kids but there was—it was a breakdown in command—”

“Of course. These things happen.” Mark’s soothing tone made Joseph groan again.