What the hell?
I glanced up to discover three cyborgs headed straight for me.
4
Larkspur
* * *
The intruders were huge, well over six feet, with mechanical, robotic parts attached to their bodies. One had a completely metallic arm. One had silver eyes. Half of his face looked like he’d been dipped in liquid mercury the way an ice cream cone was dipped in chocolate. The one closest to me—their leader?—had his silver and black gaze locked onto my face. All three looked like they were wearing body armor. Not just a vest, but head to toe, boots to neck, black and silver armor.
I swallowed. Hard. What the hell were these things? Something escaped from a secret military experiment? Hybrid cyborgs of some kind? Robot soldiers? They weren’t human. At least, if they had been—which I doubted based on the odd orange, bronze and copper skin tones—they weren’t any more.
I could run, but where? I came here regularly. They kept the side door—the only other exit—locked at night. Fire hazard? Sure. But when you’re working with a skeleton crew in the wee hours of the morning, the risk from fellow humans is much greater than the risk of a fire. Maybe there was a door in the kitchen? Would that be locked as well?
No. I couldn’t count on it being open. Which meant the only way out of here was the front door. To get there, I’d have to go through them. “Shit.”
The three weirdos—I couldn’t make myself use the word aliens—stopped, their leader’s thigh aligned with the booth across from where I sat. He towered over me. I lifted my head. Made eye contact. “Larkspur Linton, come with us.”
“No.” Damn it. I should have brought my pistol. I had the damn concealed carry permit. Why did I leave my pistol at home?
Because you’ve been carrying a gun for over a year and never had a need. Because instead of making you feel safe, it made you feel like a target.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Although, the armor they were wearing, which looked like something out of a sci-fi movie, was probably bulletproof. They were so big my little 9mm handgun would probably just piss them off.
Where was my camera? I had seen these guys before. Well, not exactly these three, but something just like them. In the fight club. Those silver eyes freaked me out, even now. Same silver eyes. Same weird body augmentation, like they were part robot. I’d stared at the fight club photos so much, I had them memorized.
Could I sneak my camera out of the bag and get more pictures? The lighting in here was phenomenal. No blurry images. No shadows. No doubt about what was standing in in the frame. This time, the pictures would be perfect. They’d sell. Absolutely. Talk about a huge payday.
Pictures of aliens, real, scary aliens. Not the beasts everyone raved about being so big and sexy, who were supposedly protecting Earth. No, these guys weren’t pretty at all. They were scary. Ugly. Cyborgs. They were real life, honest to god, cyborgs.
Why were they here? What did they want with me?
“Larkspur Linton, you will come with us now.”
“What do you want?” I should be panicked, right? But then, I never did anything the way I was supposed to. Not normal. So not normal.
I lifted my cell phone, just barely, trying not to draw their attention. With a flip of my thumb I activated the camera and started recording video. I couldn’t get to my real camera, but this would be good enough.
“Come. Now.” The cyborg reached for my upper arm.
I slipped out of the booth and ducked under his outstretched arm. My camera bag bumped against my hip. Not the first time I was thankful for the crossbody strap and the ritual of never taking it off until I had the pictures safely backed up.
The reacher’s two buddies fanned out to block any further movement. Standing now, I realized how huge they truly were. Seven feet tall? Eight? Who could afford to hire muscle like this? Not that stupid state senator. So, who did I piss off now?
“What do you want?” I purposely stayed away from certain topics. Aliens, military operations and weapons technology were off limits. The only reason I’d been in that fight club was to catch our mayor participating in illegal, underground betting schemes with a local loser named Snook who fancied himself a crime lord. I had a hunch he was taking bribes from Snook to keep the cops out of the area on fight nights. Catching the aliens on camera had been a freaking accident of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Kind of like right now.
These guys—or things—were definitely military…and weapons…and maybe even some AI, mind-control, super-soldiers with cybernetic attachments or something. I scanned their uniforms, looking for any kind of badge or insignia I recognized. Nothing.
“Larkspur Linton. Come with us.”
“I think you have the wrong woman.” How did they know my name? Even if they were some top-secret, government program, why were they here? I cared more about people in the civilian sector, normal, everyday people just trying to survive. People like me, Lav and our mom. I exposed fraud and political liars, not military black projects. Never, ever military. Our bio-dad died in Spec Ops when I was four. Our piece of shit stepfather formally adopted us, then divorced our mom a year later. Dead soldiers were a raw wound I had no desire to rub with salt. Felt like if I attacked the military, I was attacking my father. I didn’t remember him, but I loved him, or at least the idea of him. Soldiers were sacred ground.
“Our Nexus will explain.”
