The invisible man, Justin Delgado.
The receding fire of Zed withdrawal burned under his skin.His legs had turned to solid blocks of frost.
If they caught him, he was done for.He wasfinished.There was no way he could penetrate Zero-Fifteen and get her out.None.
I’ll just have to be careful then, won’t I?I escaped once.
Butescapingyears ago was not the same as penetrating a high-security installation without backup and bringing out a potentially broken psion.It just wasn’t.
He fumbled for his cell phone.Then he shut his eyes, breathed in dust and junipers.Here he was crouching in the bushes, looking for a snakebite or worse, dithering.The only thing that mattered was that van, carrying Rowan away to a fate she probably couldn’t imagine but Del could picture all too well.
The vision of the empty room, Rowan’s room, rose again.Drenched in sunlight—he could almost feel his pupils contract against the force of that light.The scarves thrown across the bedstead glowed in rich blues and greens.The plants grew green and lush, healthy, and the bookshelves were jammed full.The door to the small balcony was open, wind stirring the curtains as they hung.He took a deep breath, smelling Rowan’s skin.
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 fucking matter if it was impossible to get her out of there.Nothing mattered except finding and freeing her.
He opened his eyes, faintly surprised to find himself still crouched in the bushes.The second black van had pulled away from the crowd and now idled nearby, side door open.They were coordinating in there.It was against procedure to leave an entrance hanging, but being inside with a dead body probably meant they wanted a little ventilation.
Thank you, God.He weighed the odds again, measured the distance to the forensics and locals clustering closer to the motel’s bulk.
A picture-perfect opportunity, Fate throwing him a bone.He slid the cell back into his pocket and eased from the shadows, sliding the knives free of their sheaths.
Hold on, angel.I’m coming to get you.
There was really no other choice.
Thepushleft him in a scalding wave, slamming through the driver’s mental defenses.There were three in the van: driver, already-dead handler, and Zed-wiped psion.Blood dripped down Agent Breaker’s face.He ignored it in the cresting agony of his talent, ramming through walls and false trails, taking what he needed.His hands shook, but the garrote was steady—a simple thin piece of wire with wooden handles.
No other Society op carried one; it was his own little secret.He yanked back, hearing the crackles as the small, deep bones in the throat snapped.The driver was very much like Andrews, a complacent psion, a military man used to unquestioning obedience.
Del kept the pressure on; the driver’s hands flailed wildly.One hit the window with a hollow sound, which would be unremarked at this distance.Everyone at the other end of the lot would be busy with their own affairs.
I am not a very nice man.A kind of dark hilarity rose as thepushrang inside his head.Behind him, the Zed-wiped psion moaned.
The driver’s consciousness imploded, with a shower of psychic sparks.Del coughed, injured shoulder throbbing.He’d made sure Andrews was dead by sinking another knife into the man’s throat, wrenching back and forth.That corpse laid half-in, half-out of the van, head dangling toward 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; rolled the side door home with a good solid—but not overly noisy—motion.Then he settled against an inner partition, his head brushing a small console.Like any other Sigma workhorse, the vehicle was stuffed with electronic equipment.Screens glowed green, strings of code flashing across two monitors.
Any space available for humans was taken up with bodies.In the very back, the psion moaned again.He was handcuffed to a console, probably just keeping him out of the way.
Del scrubbed at his face.He needed a plan.Deep, even breaths.As if he was talking to a trainee.If you can’t breathe, you can’t think.
It took a while to get the limp corpse out of the driver’s seat; thank God the van was still in park.The last thing he needed was someone from the other end noticing an uncontrolled vehicle stuffed with three dead bodies and a moaning, handcuffed husk.
Del slid into the seat and spent a few moment looking at the steering wheel, trying to remember how to drive.Goddammit, stop it.You’re not in shock.Rowan needs you.Get your ass in there.
“Section 511, report in,” a voice crackled from the dash.He almost jumped.The smell of death was thick and rank in the close confines.Del 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 bloody into place.“511 reporting,” he said, 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 absolutely need a plan.
