The Society - Hunter Healer Part 16

I missed you. Her voice, soft and vulnerable, the feel of her hair under his fingers, and the weight of her head on his shoulder.

It didn't f.u.c.king matter if it was impossible to get her out of there. Nothing mattered except finding her and freeing her.

He opened his eyes, faintly surprised to find himself still crouched in the bushes. The second black van idled with its side door open. They were coordinating in there. It was against procedure to have the side door open, but being in there with a dead body probably meant they wanted a little ventilation. It was a picture-perfect opportunity. He slid the cell back into his pocket and eased out of the shadows, sliding the knives free of their sheaths.

Hold on, angel, he thought. I'm coming to get you.

There was really no other choice.

The push left him in a scalding wave of fire, slamming over the top of the driver's mental defenses. There were three in the van: driver, handler, and Zed-wiped psion. Blood dripped down Delgado's face. He ignored it in the cresting agony of his talent as he rammed through walls and false trails, breaking the driver's mind and taking what he needed. His hands shook as he held the garrote, a simple thin piece of wire with wooden handles. No other Society op carried this. It was his own little secret. He yanked back, keeping the pressure on and hearing the crackles as the small, deep bones in the throat snapped.

The driver was like Andrews, a complacent psion, a military man used to unquestioning obedience.

Del kept the pressure on, and the man's hands flailed wildly. One hit the window with a hollow sound.

I am not a very nice man, he thought, with a kind of dark hilarity. The push rang inside his head. Behind him, the Zed-wiped psion moaned.

The driver's mind broke in a shower of psychic sparks. Del coughed, his injured shoulder throbbing.

He'd made sure Andrews was dead by sinking another knife into the man's throat and wrenching back and forth. Andrews's body laid half-in, half-out of the van, his head dangling out toward the pavement.

Have to pull him in and get that door closed.

His fingers ached as he released the garrote. Rowan. She wouldn't like this at all. No, she would be horrified. Suppose it's a good thing she can't see, right?

He pulled Andrews back in and closed the side door. Then he settled back against the side of the van,his head resting against a small console. This van, like any other Sigma workhorse vehicle, was stuffed with electronic equipment, screens glowing green, strings of code flas.h.i.+ng across two monitors. The small s.p.a.ce available for humans was taken up with bodies. In the very back, the psion moaned again. He was handcuffed to a console to keep him out of the way. Del scrubbed at his face with his hands. He needed a plan. Deep, even breaths, he reminded himself, as if he was talking to a trainee. If you can't breathe, you can't think.

Breathe, Delgado. Just keep breathing.

It took a while to get the limp body out of the driver's seat. Thank G.o.d, the van was still in "park." The last thing he needed was to be in an uncontrolled vehicle with three dead bodies and a moaning, handcuffed idiot. Del slid into the seat and spent a few seconds looking at the steering wheel, trying to remember how to drive. G.o.ddammit. Stop it. You're not in shock. Rowan needs you. Get your a.s.s in there.

"Section 511, report in," a voice crackled from the radio on the dash. He almost jumped. The smell of death was thick and rank in the close confines. He thought briefly, longingly, of opening the window.

"Section 511, report. Zero clear?"

He reached for the radio, the information he'd wrenched from the driver's mind sliding fresh and b.l.o.o.d.y into place. "511 reporting," he said into the handset, in what he hoped was a normal voice. "511 is zero clear. Proceeding as planned, over."

"Ten-four. Over and out." Apparently satisfied, the voice retreated.

Del closed his eyes. I need a plan.

Trouble was, he didn't have one. He buckled the seat belt, slipped the van into gear, and coughed rackingly. First he had to get rid of the bodies.

Then he was going to call Henderson.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Darkness. Soft, forgiving darkness. Burn of a needle in her arm.

"It's not Zed," the voice said. Male, slightly whistling, familiar. "Calm down. It's not Zed. It's just a little c.o.c.ktail to keep you calm while we discuss things."

Rowan's eyelids fluttered. Light slowly, slowly flooded into her aching head. The drugs took effect quickly, wrapping her in a warm blanket. She could not move, but she was upright somehow.

Justin. Where's Justin?

Her head pounded dully. Her eyelids were heavy, so heavy, and she was strapped against something hard. Her head lolled to the side. "Whaaaa..." It was a long, slurred word. Her mouth wouldn't obey her.

"Just be calm," the familiar voice said, and uttered a high whistling giggle of glee. "Nice and calm. I've waited a very long time for this. Shame we couldn't have done it earlier, before the testing was complete."

I know that voice. I know that voice. Where am I?

But she knew. Sigma had her.

With that revelation came a flood of memory and the strength to lift her head, even through the blurring disorientation of the drugs.

What greeted her was obviously a lab-long bare counters, different apparatus set at intervals, and two monitors at the far end blinking with screens of data. She was strapped to a chair, leather restraints around her wrists and ankles, as well as her knees, elbows, torso, and throat. The effect was almost total immobility, though she could wriggle a little and loll drunkenly from one side to another. Wires dropped from her forehead, probably attached to electrodes. She could see an IV pole, some kind of drip.

Sedation? Maybe.

The lighting was clear and low, obviously turned down, and she blinked as a familiar face swam into view. Moist, dark eyes behind horn-rimmed gla.s.ses, thin cheeks and sawlike cheekbones, liver-spotted hands trembling as he raised one and shoved his gla.s.ses higher on his nose. He wore a rumpled white lab coat, and recognition slammed into her.

"Jilssen," she breathed. The traitor who had shut down the security grids and let Sigma into the old Headquarters was standing right in front of her. Justin had mentioned seeing him again and confirmed that he was the one responsible for the carnage. It was small consolation that Rowan's instincts had been right about the good doctor all along. If only she'd known what her instinctive response to him had meant, she might have been able to avert the ma.s.sacre. But even Justin hadn't been able to find anything at the old Headquarters. Jilssen had covered his tracks too well.

"h.e.l.lo, Rowan!" He beamed at her, as if she was a prized specimen. His yellowed, strong, crooked teeth almost glowed. "It's so good to see you again, without any interference."

"Traitor." Her mouth wouldn't work quite right, and her head seemed too heavy for her neck to hold up.

She sagged against the restraints. "Traitor."

He shook his head, his smile dimming a little. "You'll soon see things in a different light, my dear. There's important work for you to do. You'll be serving your country, and that's very important. You should feel proud."She could see a rack of test tubes, and wires leading off to something. The air smelled like chemicals and burned insulation. There was another faint pervasive stench-human pain and desperation. Wherever this place was, several people had suffered here. Suffered terribly. "What ... What are..."

"When the Colonel gets here, we'll begin. You see, Rowan, Sigma is just the first step. We've been trying to create something very important, a physical bulwark, as it were. Several years ago..." He muttered something, scooped up a clipboard and checked it. "He's late. Dammit, it's not like him to be late."

The Colonel. Adrenaline flooded her, fighting the sedation. It became a little easier to think. Anton?

Maybe. Where have they taken me? How long have I been out? If the Colonel's here, I can...

The dream of revenge faded, replaced by a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

The blind man had buried something in her head, something deep and foul, pus.h.i.+ng her through the maze until Sigma could scoop her up. He'd distracted both Justin and her with pain and slipped the fishhook in, neat as you please. Rowan hadn't recognized or felt it because she'd been too busy worrying. Useless, frantic worry. She should have listened to Justin. She should have...

Well, too late for that now. Her head was clearing rapidly. Her freakish talents did that, burned up pain medication and tranquilizers much faster than normal. She tested the straps, taking care not to make any sudden moves.

They were tight and hard. She couldn't get free even if she tried. Now was a fine time to wish she was telekinetic like Cath.

What's going on? Come on, Ro, keep him talking. She let her head drop to the side, as if she was still drugged. "Whaaat?" she moaned, deliberately trying to make her voice loud and drunk.

Jilssen's watery eyes moved over her, a touch almost as filthy as the maggot-squirming blind man's. "You see," he said pedantically, "all along, we've been trying to create. We need reliable means of reproduction. There's only so much a coerced psion will or can do. Agent Breaker proved that, at least.

We can't offer the type of benefits the private sector can, and we lost a great deal of talent to the private sector before we started pursuing our policy of necessary persuasion."

I wish he'd stop pontificating and use a noun, give me something to work with. She took a deep breath and tried to still herself. If this Anton was due along any minute, she might not have much time to figure a way out of the restraints.

The idea came like a gift, a haphazard plan depending on instinct, as usual. Oh.

It was risky, but she had to try. She didn't know what the drug he'd injected her with would do to her ability to concentrate, but it was worth a shot.

It took more effort than she thought possible to still herself, to reach for that s.p.a.ce of quiet calm where most of her talent lived. She listened to Jilssen's babble with half an ear while she let her breathing lengthen. Her pupils dilated as she found the s.p.a.ce of alpha waves and pressed, sliding home.

Immediately the room seemed a little brighter and the situation a little more hopeful.

"That's why we try to get them young, raise them right. Unfortunately, there's something amiss. They are always highly resistant."

Of course they are. You're a bunch of repressive fascists. The thought braced her. It sounded steady and amused, with an edge of ironic anger, just like Hilary. She reached delicately, searching for the fringes of his mind through the blur of the drug. It was hard, slippery, exhausting work. Rowan felt sweattrickle down the channel of her spine, smelled the chemical reek of exhaustion and her body metabolizing the drug, pus.h.i.+ng it out through her skin.

Jilssen leaned against the counter, watching a monitor turned away from her. "Heart rate steady, respiration normal," he murmured. "EEG normal. Very good. Very good. You like the alpha waves, don't you, Miss Price? Empaths always do. Anyway, we discovered we had to create. It was a farfetched scheme, but one I felt was viable. And of course, it was shelved until we came across the perfect psion, one who can alter cell metabolism and body functions almost at will. A psion capable of producing the focused bioenergetic fields necessary to alter genetic material and..." Jilssen paused, shaking his head. Rowan breathed deeply, firmed her concentration, and tried again. The borders of his mind were so slippery, and the touch filled her with disgust she had to push aside to make this work.

He continued, evidently liking the sound of his own voice. "There's a time factor, of course. Your body isn't capable of producing more than one at a time. But once we have three or four good stocks to breed from, we can begin to approach the problem of stem cells. There's been some promising advancement-"

Contact.

The sewer of a normal mind flooded her. Jilssen didn't have any psionic talent, which made his ability to hide his intentions from the Society all the more remarkable. There was the shadow of another mind behind his, a psion whose mental footprint filled Rowan with a frantic loathing and made her wonder if she'd ever feel clean again.

Ah. So that's why he was so nervous when some of the kids in Kate's cla.s.s practiced their talents on him. He was afraid they would find out.

The mental walls holding his secrets were strong and thick, oozing slime. She didn't even try to breach them. She didn't want any of Jilssen's secrets. She would settle for getting out of his reach.

She pushed again, very gently. Very delicately. Jilssen, still babbling, moved toward her, his liver-spotted hands trembling. He placed one hand on the restraint on her left wrist and began to unbuckle it slowly, unaware of what his hands were doing under her mental grip.

"-and of course, we have to pick the stock very carefully. We have samples to be cross-checked, and you can be artificially inseminated. With your penchant for healing, it won't take long, and I wonder if the gestation period will be shortened because of your accelerated healing? It's a question I've often posed to myself. Anton thinks you'll gestate normally. We have a rather large wager."

Another psion built defenses for him, defenses so good we couldn't tell what he was planning.

Who?

Loathing bloomed under her skin as her attention drifted across Jilssen's words. They wanted to breed her.

He unbuckled the restraint at her left elbow and then moved to her right wrist. Rowan's head pounded with the effort of keeping him under control, pus.h.i.+ng him so gently, so carefully. A soft beeping began, a red light flas.h.i.+ng down at the end of the lab. He didn't notice, and Rowan hoped he wouldn't. She strengthened her hold on him carefully, one fine thread at a time, every lesson Henderson and Miss Kate had taught her standing her in good stead.

The old Rowan would have never been able to shut out the waves of disgust and terror threatening to swamp her. She trembled with both effort and repressed anger, her will turning to steel. The push tippeddelicately, subtle mental control so insidious she was almost horrified at herself.

Her right hand was free. He moved slowly, so d.a.m.n slowly. She gathered herself as his hand came to rest on the restraint over her right elbow.

"Of course, we had hoped to have you and Agent Breaker at the same time," he breathed. His halitosis was rank and foul, and she saw with frenzied revulsion that his free left hand was playing with the b.u.t.ton on his khakis, reaching down to cup his genitals. No wonder this man had always repulsed her. "A specimen with his talent and yours would make a very fine soldier. Very fine, once we breed out that regrettable streak of independence."

Something in Rowan snapped. Pure unadulterated rage boiled out. Haven't you f.u.c.king done enough?

Breed me, breed Justin, like animals? Would you watch while we copulated or just inseminate me at a distance?

Jilssen's eyes cleared. He stared at her from behind his horn-rimmed gla.s.ses, his gaze suddenly confused.

Horror and comprehension wandered across his face as he looked down at the unbuckled restraints.

Too late. Rowan struck.

Fear. Agony. Guilt. The fury of her retaliation, the absolute incandescent rage she had never dreamed herself capable of. She battered at him with the full force of her horror and loathing, her thirst for revenge.

For each traumatized, broken psion she had nursed back to health, each grief she had swallowed, each horror she had witnessed. She poured it all into his brain, striking like a snake, severing vital connections, smas.h.i.+ng and burning everything she could reach.

He fell as if shot, straight down, his head clipping the arm of the chair by her hand with murderous force.

Something sparked wildly in the lab, the monitor closest to her emitted a shower of fireworks and popping noises. She reached up, her hands clumsy, and unbuckled her throat, her torso. Had to get her legs free. Oh, G.o.d.

Jilssen lay still on the floor, crumpled in his soiled lab coat. She blinked back tears. Her head pounded fiercely, the dull red smolder of rage like the aftermath of a forest fire through ash and trails of smoke, a wrecked mind, a wasteland. She smelled blood and feces-death had not come gently for Jilssen. She'd seen enough death by now to know about the sphincter's loosening with its advent. He lay twisted on his side, a b.l.o.o.d.y gash in his temple where it had hit the arm of the metal chair, his arm curled awkwardly under his body. If she hadn't known better she would have sworn he was sleeping. Except there was no glow of thought, not even the banked messy fire of a normal mind at rest.

I think I'm going to throw up. Please, G.o.d, don't let me throw up.

She managed to get her legs free, her fingers shaking, then ripped the electrodes off her forehead and tossed them. She tore the IV out of her arm. Immediately, she felt better. Not by much, but better.

Her duffel and kitbag were nowhere in sight. No weapons. The red light flas.h.i.+ng at the other end of the lab taunted her. She was in her sock feet, jeans, and a tank top. She dragged her fingers back through her tangled hair, trying to think. Why were the lights turned down in here? What had Jilssen planned on doing to her before Anton came? She shuffled away from the chair and the slumped human body, needing to get away. Her skin crawled.

A s.h.i.+ver bolted up her spine. Where am I? The installation I was nearest to was thirty miles away.

Or did they take me to Zero-Fifteen? What do I do now?She crouched behind a lab counter, her breathing coming hard and fast as she tried to think. Anton, this Colonel, was due any minute. He was late for a meeting with Jilssen, maybe to gloat over her capture.

She cast around wildly for a weapon, any weapon.

Could she do it again? She'd killed Jilssen with her mind. The very thought made her sick to her stomach.

Sick, but also ... Well, there was an unholy glee to the thought. A cleansing, murderous satisfaction. A step toward revenge, no matter how small.

Good G.o.d, I'm no better than they are. The thought flashed through her mind and was immediately discarded. She could almost hear Justin's voice. Move and think, operative. You've got to move and think. One without the other is useless. Get going.

She searched for a weapon and found none. Even the clipboard had only a flimsy plastic pen, not likely to stand up to any real abuse. The red light and soft beeping continued. She glanced at the two monitors and discarded them as useless. Her fingers curled around a heavy, empty gla.s.s beaker. Didn't Jilssen at least have a gun here? What I wouldn't give for my kitbag. And boots. I'm in my frigging socks.

The thought was welcome and rational. She let out a sigh of relief just as a soft chime rattled against her ears. She threw herself down, taking cover behind a long, low counter as there was a whoosh-the sound of a door opening. Voice activated? Or maybe some kind of key? They had those sorts of doors at Headquarters, too.

The thought of the carnage at the old Headquarters filled her with fresh fury. It was as if all the anger she'd ever pushed away or repressed in her life was now welling up, demanding an exit. Demanding to be used.

And G.o.d, the idea of using that fuel scared and exhilarated her in equal proportion.