Harold Goddard, alias Mr. Smith, pounded the table in the control room. His anger surging, he whirled on one of the TV monitors and smashed the screen. His only accomplishment was cutting his hand. He drew it back, looking in shock at the blood welling up and running down his fingers. Shit. He’d done that to himself.
The realization increased his fury, but it also helped to ground him. He had to assume he was under attack from a group of men and women who had superhuman powers. He had to keep his cool. But what the hell was he supposed to do now? Against all odds, the invasion team had made it past the boat dock. They’d gotten into the house. They’d even defeated the psychic scrambler he’d installed out front. And before that, they’d taken out his surveillance system. Now he was Goddamn blind. He didn’t know how many of them were coming. He didn’t know who they were. He didn’t know what had happened to any of his men.
He tried to raise Lambert on the comms system. Nothing from him or anybody else.
He’d heard gunfire somewhere outside and then from his automatic system at the patio door. But they must have gotten past it because the system in the hall had also triggered. Then nothing. And no one who had gone out had come back.
He tried once more to raise the men he’d sent to the dock. Again nothing. A while ago, he’d heard a pop from one of the land mines he’d activated on the back lawn—followed by silence.
Maybe it had gotten some of the invading deviants. But others were definitely in the house. How many? And had the hallway blast gotten them?
He spared precious moments to stick a thumb drive in the computer and download all his important files. Then he checked to make sure his Glock was in the appendix holster. It hadn’t disappeared since he’d felt for it the last time.
Where were the bastards now? Should he stay here? Or try to go out the front? He pressed a hand to his temple. His mind felt muzzy, like someone was pumping nitrous oxide into the air. Sort of like he’d done at Olivia Langston’s house. But that was impossible. There had been no time for anyone to set up anything like that.
With effort, he steered his jumbled thoughts back to his best tactic now. Was the safe room his best bet? If he locked himself in there, could they get to him? Or would that just be delaying capture for a few minutes?
Cautiously, he stepped out of the control room and saw—a ghost.
His eyes almost bugged out of his head as he focused on the stunning visage of Olivia Langston. But it couldn’t be her. She was dead. He must be making it up. A jolt of fear stabbed him like a red-hot blade. Or was somebody making him see things that weren’t there?
Ordering himself to stay calm, he studied her image. Her long auburn hair streamed back from her face as though she were the figurehead on the prow of a boat racing through the waves. Her skin was as white as marble, her white gown rippled around her legs, and she carried the scent of the sea with her as though she’d risen from the deep to come back and haunt him.
“No,” he gasped.
When she said nothing, he managed, “They drowned you.”
“Yes,” she answered in a serene and even voice. “A very painful death it was. Think about your lungs bursting with the need for air. And when you finally have to drag in a breath, there’s nothing there but water. Have you ever swallowed wrong? Of course you have. It hurts when you have to cough that little bit of liquid up. Think about how much worse it must be to drown.”
He shuddered, imagining the pain of her death. Yet she was standing in front of him, talking like a living, breathing woman. Somehow, she must be making his fogged brain believe something that wasn’t true. Raising his chin, he asked, “Then how are you here?”
“I came back for retribution. You almost got Matt Delano and Elizabeth Forester in the bayou. And before that, Stephanie Swift and Craig Branson. But they all got away. Some genius mastermind you are.”
The slur hurt. Pressing his back against the wall, he growled, “And how would you know that?”
Instead of answering, she asked her own question. “How many people have you killed recently? Travis Carson. Gabe Bowman, me? Anybody else?”
He struggled to keep himself from shaking. The only way he could stand was to lock his legs. She couldn’t be here. It was impossible. It had to be a trick. She must be alive. Which meant he could kill her.
Christ, what was he thinking—standing here talking to her? He could kill her.
With a trembling hand, he reached for the gun, but something froze his muscles. He couldn’t free the weapon from the holster.
“Oh, sorry. It looks like you can’t move, like when you had me strapped to that table with my hands manacled,” she said. “How do you like it?”
He tried to speak, but no words came out. His chest was so tight he could hardly breathe.
“Why have you gone after the children from Dr. Solomon’s experiment?” she asked.
Suddenly, the power of speech returned, but not the power to move. “Because you’re dangerous,” he shot back. “You’re proving it now. I was so right to keep you drugged.”
“All we want is to be left alone.”
“And alligators can fly.”
“Where do you keep your information on the children?”
He didn’t speak, but her gaze shot to his pocket. Reaching out she removed the thumb drive and closed her fist around it.
