Rowan’s head rested well below the top of the counter.Her breathing evened out; she closed her eyes, seeking the stillness within.
There.The static of another psion approaching.
Her pupils dilated, her hands stilled; she now knew what a trapped animal feels as the hunter approaches the snare.She clutched the glass beaker, tightly.The only weapon she had.
That, and her mind.The freakish talent they wanted to breed her for.
Silence.The tapping and footsteps stopped.Could he see the wreck of the chair and Jilssen’s body?If he could…
“Why don’t you come out, Miss Price?”The voice tugged gently at her, whispered comfort, forgiveness.“I don’t blame you; Jilssen was a pervert.Why don’t you talk to me?I can make everything right.”
Hunt me like an animal, try to breed me like an animal, and now you want to make everything right?There is no way this could ever be right, you son of a bitch, whoever you are.The borders of her mind were clear and strong, bolstered by the anger that even now filled her blood with a siren song of vengeance.
One more tapping step.She could almost hear the creaking of the cane.Then she heard another sound—the definiteclickof a chambered round.
Come out so you can shoot me?How stupid do you think I am?On the other hand, here she was, captured by Sigma through her own silliness, her own weakness.Nevermind that it had been a compulsion; she should have been strong enough to resist.
“Come out, Miss Price.We can discuss this like civilized beings.I know you are at heart a very calm, rational person.”He sounded sosureof himself, so certain she would creeping sheepishly into view, a stray dog to a food dish.
Oh, I’m calm and rational all right.But not now.You’ve pushed me too goddamn far.And all this time I thought Justin was the dangerous one.
“Your psych profile indicates a high degree of compassion and empathy, probably a byproduct of your rather unique gifts.We can offer you a chance to serve your country and be a legal citizen, Miss Price.Daniel Henderson and his ragtag little group can’t offer you that.”The voice pulled, tugged, cajoled, enticed.
Easy to see what this man’s psionic talent was.Rowan shut her eyes, leaning her forehead against the slick, cold plastic of a cabinet door.
“They are, after all, only criminals,” he continued.“Offenders with warrants, and prices on their heads.”
Cath’s fierce loyalty and irrepressible optimism.Zeke’s phlegmatic good sense and plain, unadorned love for Cath.Brewster’s quiet efficiency.Yoshi’s calm, practical logic.And Henderson, who worried about them all, for whom perfection wasn’t good enough when the life of an operative was on the line.
All of them, in the dark tunnel beneath the wreck of the old Headquarters.Brew pressing a bandage over her bleeding gunshot wound, hustling her to safety.Cath driving with the windows down and her cigarette fuming.Eleanor and her clutch of newbies, Boomer’s crusty exterior covering a heart softer than Rowan’s own.And the children—little Bobby, Elena, a whole collage of young-old faces.The kids Eleanor and Tamara had taken up north to get them away from Sigma, each one marked with a difference like Rowan’s.Each at risk of being mindwiped by Zed—or bred, like livestock.
“Come out, Miss Price.”Another tapping step with the cane.
Justin, his eyes now awake, alive, hungry.Nothing I couldn’t handle.He’d said it so casually, as if he wasn’t broken and bleeding inside, wasn’t afraid to open himself up even for a moment because of the danger of someone hurting him again.
That was what was so different about him this time, she realized.He was so tightly closed even she couldn’t get in.
Opening her eyes, the world snapping into place, just as the man with the cane rounded the corner, pointing the pistol at her.
Rowan rose smoothly and flung the glass beaker, striking at his mind in the same moment, as hard as she could.
The bullet zinged wide, his aim thrown off.Rowan followed the beaker, smacking into him hard enough to knock her own breath out in a huff, driving him back.Move in, get going, do it faster, faster, precise, put your weight behind it, sweetheart!Move!
Her sock feet slid on slick linoleum.The beaker shattering somewhere behind him, and then her opponent went down.
His thin old wrist caught in her hand, shesqueezedand twisted as his leg buckled, her knee sinking into his leg as they landed with a jolt.She tore at the gun, wrenching it free, then backhanded him.A pair of wire-rimmed glasses flew.
He wore a white linen suit; dead dark eyes glared under a white buzz-cut.He fought with surprising physical strength—but she got a knee in his ribs and his breath slammed out with a groaning huff.The gun reversed in her hand, and she remembered Brewster training her to use a firearm in the dim, long-ago time when she’d first joined the Society.
Squeeze, don’t pull, love.His accent made every word crisp, a precision instrument.Squeeze nice and easy, and don’t flinch.Good show.
Oh, God, her brain was imploding, memories colliding with each other, smashing and burning.
She had the Colonel on his belly, gun jammed against his temple, knee firmly in his back, his left arm twisted savagely.“Who the fuck are you?”she whispered, through a throat gone raw and dead.
“Anton,” he choked.“Richard Anton.”He heaved, trying to throw her off.She dug her knee in and pushed, smacking his forehead into the linoleum for good measure.“Head of… Operations…fuck…”
“Colonel Anton.”Her voice sounded odd.Strange, flat, uninflected.Just like Justin’s.
