Chapter 45

 

 

ALMONT, COLORADO

1512 hrs.

 

A front-snap punch slid past Calla’s face.

Nash studied her physique. “Always watch your blind spot.”

She turned her head having dodged a potential excruciating clout. She riddled back into fight stance, fists up, one-foot forward, and guard in check. Catching the determination in his eyes, the floor beneath her bare feet was cold and dry. Better for grip.

Nash smirked at her insistence. “Coming back for more?”

The clock on the wall ticked audibly. She counted every second in her mind. This one’s for…

Calla brought her left fist back, and struck at him with her right hand, twisting her hips to gain extra speed and power.

Nash broke her attack with his fists. “Now block me, quickly!” he said.

Nash launched a side fisted punch her way.

She blocked the strike with her left forearm, and stepped with her left foot on his, twisting him counterclockwise. With a firm hold on his biceps, she flung him over her outstretched leg.

Nash rolled on the floor and gripped her neck bringing her down to him. “Good! But you need to finish your attacker.”

Calla’s frustrated look met his eyes. She glimpsed up from where she’d fallen. I want this!

It meant everything to learn to channel her strength, more for self-defense than anything else. She had to master skill. Skill in hand-to-hand combat, and defense while unarmed. Calla had vigor, thanks to her operative genes, but skill she could improve. “How do I finish him?”

“With an arm lock.” Nash rose with Calla looking up toward him. “Here, let me show you. Like this.” He reached for her hand. “Take your hand and place it round your attacker’s right arm, behind the elbow. Then set your left knee down on their neck and the other on their chest. That holds them in a place of mercy. Keep them down. I feel sorry for whomever your attacker may be.”

Nash pulled her to her feet and tugged at his black belt around his white, ju-jitsu suit.

Calla straightened her own ivory suit.

Without delay, Nash gripped her wrist.

She swung her head toward him in surprise.

“Use your strength, Calla, and use it against your attacker.”

Calla rotated her wrist and thrust down his grip. “Gotcha!”

He grabbed her free hand. “Impressive. Listen, beautiful, build your strength from within. You’re tougher than anyone I know, but you have to learn how to manipulate the opponent’s force against them.”

She threw a straight punch at him. Nash pivoted his right foot, moving his body out of the way of the straight fist’s thrust.

Calla lost balance. His left hand reached for her, grappling the top of her wrist. Incapacitated, her hand didn’t move, caught in Nash’s grasp. When he sensed her vulnerable position, Nash loosened his hold.

Calla relaxed her muscles. “How do you do that? No matter what I do, you get me every time?”

“It’s not about strength. The race is not won by the swiftest. A lieutenant learns that he can be forgiven for defeat. But he can’t be forgiven for lack of alertness. You have to be one step ahead. Don’t let your opponent surprise you.”

Calla glimpsed up, mesmerized at Nash’s skill. “How do you know all this?”

He gazed straight into her eyes, and threw her a captivating smile. “It’s a mixture of techniques learned along the way. That move is ju-jitsu. I trained US soldiers for six months in Japan.”

“Was that when you were in the military?”

Nash nodded and gravitated to the end of the training room to grab a towel from the rail. He wiped his perspiring face and ran it through his hair. He smiled. “That’s enough for today. You get it and a million times better than soldiers I trained. Calla, I’ve taught you everything I can about skill, accuracy and tact. You’re great and training is strengthening you. Just keep an eye on your blind spot. The blind spot is more psychological than physical. Most soldiers ignore it.”

“Thanks, Nash.”

“You were already exceptional by my measure, my question is why not train with the operatives?”

Calla glanced away and slid her feet on the bare wooden floor toward the door behind Nash. A slight chill had started to form in her toes. “It’s cold down here.”

Nash regulated a switch by the door. “I keep it cool in here. This basement floor is for training.”

Calla moseyed towards him and slid under his free arm as Nash turned off the lights.

“One more thing,” he said. “I need to teach you how to use a firearm.”

“I don’t like firearms.”

“Can you say that? After what happened at Murchison Falls and in London? You’ve been shot at more than once Calla. You need to learn how to handle yourself with one.”

She shook her head. “Nash, I really can’t.”

“It’s still self-defense.”

It troubled him that as a member of ISTF she’d skipped much of the mandatory weapons training. The truth was she didn’t like violence, though she could handle any fight that came her way. Everything she knew had come by instinct.

They plodded up the stairs leading from the sizable basement, that incorporated a five-car garage, a training room and an office Nash kept locked. She’d not set foot in there and had never asked him about it. One night about three months ago, when she couldn't sleep, she’d meandered to the kitchen for an apple. Startled by a noise, she caught Nash working in there with the door ajar. What did he do there?

Nash’s work with the NSA was transparent to Calla most of the time. Her position within ISTF allowed her that privilege. She’d never imagined what his life was like outside of London, though they’d met when she’d come to Denver for an anthropological study many months ago. Here they were in his hometown, if she could call it that. Nash had traveled most of his childhood, from continent to continent owing to his father’s work as a diplomat. Later his military career had taken him to the Middle East and Germany.

They reached the ground level, traversing the ultra-contemporary kitchen, fitted with natural wood cabinets and reclaimed wood floors. Calla followed Nash as they moved to the salon, where reset lights, fixed in the ceiling beams, provided an art-gallery-like feel.

“I want to take you into town for a celebration. I think we deserve one, no?” Nash said.

She knew what he meant. Her birthday had come and gone when they were in Africa. “Nash, you’ve done so much already, I—”

“Hey, let me do this.”

An hour later, they settled in a restaurant that used to be a former hunting lodge. Nestled along East River, the exclusive restaurant cabin was only accessed by hired horseback.

Calla let the cool water slide down her throat as she took a sip, rearranging her words in her head. How should she begin?

They shared much of the gourmet offering. A jovial waiter served pan-seared pheasant breast, agnolotti and wilted spinach. When the last course came, Calla had not raised the topic on her mind.

Nash was quiet for several minutes.

“What’s eating you, soldier?” she asked.

He stretched for her hand and took it in his. “We don’t have to think about this now…but what happens after?”

“After what?”

“After you find what you’re looking for?”

“I’m not looking for anything.”

“All right, then when can we talk about us… going forward…don’t you ever want a family?”

Calla watched him bug-eyed. She fingered the thin gold chain she wore around her neck that Nash had given her six months ago. A simple piece set with her first initial.

She knew where he was going with this line of questioning. How could she tell him that after she discovered her parents abandoned her on the doorsteps of an orphanage, she’d sworn never to put any child through the same thing? If she could help it, she would avoid any commitment to a child. And help it she did, by considering major surgery. It was the only way Calla could guarantee never to repeat the faults of her parents.

Calla tunneled a hand through her long mane and glared into his waiting eyes that gleamed with admiration for her. She had to tell him. “Nash, I can’t go there… It’s not for me.”

“Which part?”

“The family part. Us has to be me…alone.”

 

 

 

LONDON, 1708 hrs.

 

Mason glanced up at the security camera. The cell reeked of disinfectant. Several meters from the officers’ cramped quarters, curious gazes he’d often received, after being brought to Belmarsh, scrutinized him.

He leaned his six-foot frame against the cool cement. Fatigued with exasperated emotion rather than physical strain, his dark hair was littered with tiny streaks of gray. One usually guessed his age at forty-five. He didn’t care. Age was not the authority on character and intelligence. A close look depicted a striking warrior, resembling a lieutenant in Napoleon’s army, than the expert cryptographer and capable intelligence analyst he’d become. He’d risen to the ranks of chief of ISTF’s research, signals intelligence, and linguistics divisions. Mason had served in the military as commander in the British army several years ago. A fanatical workaholic, he’d thrived at deciphering puzzling codes, languages, accents and handwriting. He’d once taken on the challenge of decrypting the coded Voynich manuscript, and like others before him, had failed. Upon joining ISTF several years ago, he designed and maintained government systems that kept sensitive data safe from outside threats including impostors, identity thieves and those who caused cyber havoc. With ISTF’s focus on cyber criminals, eighteen months ago, he’d investigated the Stuxvet virus that targeted Iranian computer systems attempting to disrupt the country’s uranium enrichment program. A case he’d intended to conclude. If only…

Rumor had it he could read minds, a reason many chose to avoid him.

This had been his principal investigative procedure. Despite his accolades, he now was notorious for failed attempts at protecting global network systems. Some said he’d sabotaged them. What did they know? What did he care?

Mason rose from his stale bed. Though it was 5:00 pm., and his single opportunity a day to mingle with the other criminals, Mason had no time for petty socialization.

Besides, she’s coming.

His monotonous cell, not the standard of the rest of the prison, boasted a flat screen television, its own toilet, a pristine shower, which came with large white towels.

Set on the outskirts of London, the rest of the prison blocks were minimalist, modern and efficient. ISTF offices had instigated the tightest security measures and technologies for particular isolation cells like Mason’s. The rumor was this clandestine government agency stepped in where Interpol, the CIA, and MI6 stopped.

What did he care? He’d been a good ISTF leader. Illicit policing and global criminal investigation was now the least of his concerns. Yet, here he was, detained in his own handiwork. After he’d failed to make bail, Mason paid for the extras himself with a sizable donation to the prison charity. Though the state had confiscated most of his assets, his source of income was his own affair and not theirs. They’d barely taken a drop from his ocean of assets in the form of seven offshore accounts in locations as far as the Cayman Islands, the British Virgin Islands and the Cook Islands.

He strolled to the private fridge, retrieved a firm apple, gnawed into its juicy core, and drummed his fingers along a steel cupboard containing his meager belongings.

Belmarsh housed the gravest offenders the country had seen, and was a ruthless prison. Mason was yet to see a trial in court. How long would they keep him here? The case against him though plain, was not straightforward. So what if he’d attempted murder? Ordered it more than once? The Cress woman had walked, so had the NSA agent and now imprisonment itched his skin, like an irritating leach sucking on blood. Her Majesty’s magistrates were up for a difficult fight, and the media had started to speculate whether ISTF would be dissected once the case began. He wouldn’t make it easy for them.

Mason paced back to a pile of papers that created a neat stack on a pine desk against the wall. White magnetic pin boards and oversized, barred windows above the desk overlooked a brick wall. After furtive security, Belmarsh had authorized his laptop, but cut all online activity and connection. He finished his apple and flung the core at the surveillance camera.

How long had he endured? He calculated. One hundred and seventy days. Twenty-four weeks and two days.

He set a dry palm on his knee and continued a game of chess he’d started against himself. Most mornings, Mason’s nostrils took in the strong aroma of coffee drifting through the latch from the halls. The scent was the first thing he’d noticed when he arrived. The coffee was always in plenty. It hit him when he walked the workshop areas, lingered in the games rooms and in the communal apartment-style areas where prisoners lived in groups of seven. Recently, the warden allowed him minimal freedom in the common areas.

The smell of after dinner coffee churned his stomach. He’d not had a proper meal in months. Though he reviled the nourishment the prison dared call food, he purposed to keep up his strength. As much as he detested the blasted routines, sometimes the warden came into his secluded cell with a tall stack of steaming, heart-shaped waffles and pots of jam, which he set on his metal table. He obliged most days, as a way to manipulate the money-hungry mongrel.

It helped the time pass.

The lights-out siren clanged in the upper quarters of the prison. Mason hurtled his unfinished game at the grilled peephole, sending two chess pieces to the other side of the cell. Don’t they know I was trying to help them!

He checked the clock on the laptop. His next visitor would soon arrive, a late call owing to a ridiculous work schedule. His unusual status as an eminent government prisoner and the notable amounts of euros he’d arranged for the prison wardens in offshore accounts had legitimized the late caller. Mason was expecting eleven visits altogether and nine had already crossed the gates of the contemptible establishment.

A wide grin grew on his face. The more fear he could spread in the prison staff and inmates, the easier his next effort would be. Discernment taught him they were watching him more than most inmates. Especially those two fools.

 

 

 

ALMONT, COLORADO

1637 hrs.

 

“I came here for your safety, Nash. They’ll kill you because of me.”

Nash’s eyes glistened in the fire’s glow. “Your protection, I’ll take any day.”

“I had to take you from London, especially after what happened in Jordan and in Uganda. Mason did not hesitate to throw you over a cliff and—”

“Sh . . . I’m here now. That’s over now. I want to move on. I can’t work for the government forever. I want to settle down. I’m thirty-three and I think I’ve done my part.”

She’d never seen his eyes so determined. “But—”

Nash lowered his voice as if reading her thoughts. “I don’t want to know . . . whatever it is. All I care about is you.”

She bit her lip as they settled in front of a fire. Flames beamed off Nash’s face as he lifted a chilled water glass.

Calla tilted her head, with a penetrating gaze set on Nash. He was tired. Perhaps not physically, maybe something else. For six months, Nash had stopped all travel and battled with NSA and ISTF demands, mostly around signals intelligence. He’d rejected fieldwork where he could, and chose to stay close to her.

A recent cyber threat, involving a NASA spacecraft’s, on-board communication system had kept him occupied most days. Calla had not followed the ISTF brief he’d showed her the other day. She still intended to stay away and neither would she entertain her obligations at the British Museum. She’d lied about a sabbatical involving a study expedition in Egypt and Greece for the museum’s archives. A lie she could no longer deny. ISTF had not questioned her sabbatical seeing she’d been commended for apprehending Mason Laskfell, a conspiring criminal on constant watch in Belmarsh prison.

As a superior linguist and historian, sometimes ISTF and the government called on Calla for her distinct flair in restoration science and her knowledge of the role languages and history played in social and cultural situations. The biggest topic on ISTF’s agenda was global cyber crimes. Historic and language skills had also played a part in disarming recent hacking activity.

Calla raised her feet, slid them under her thighs and settled on the couch. She gazed at the fire flickering in front of her. “Does anyone ever come here, Nash? It’s such a big house for one person.”

“I keep my life private, even from the government when I can.” He reached for her hand. “So I can do things like bring you here without anyone’s knowledge.”

Calla smiled. “Does it get lonely?”

“I’m never here . . . just want to put down roots.”

“Why the secrecy?”

“My father’s public life meant living my childhood in newspaper columns and speculation. It was okay when the news was good, but once it turned sour, it placed so much stress on my mother. My father would have done anything for his career, even at the expense of my mother’s sanity. I don’t want to be like that, Calla.” Nash edged closer. “People important to me come first.”

Calla set a hand on his tightening jaw. “I know—”

He tilted his head. “I’ve always wanted to bring you here. The events in Africa and Jordan took their toll on you. We need a break sometimes. Perhaps a permanent one—”

Desperation rang in her tone. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Nash’s hand stroked her skin and he gave her a strict look of affection. “You can’t lose me.”

It was probably best she kept quiet. According to Allegra and Vortigern, Nash had withheld information, which they thought put the operatives’ interests at risk. She leaned into his arm. “Nash, when we were in Uganda six months ago, I learned much about me from this operative Vortigern. About my genetic and medical history, and my ancestry. When I met Stan, it was a dream come true and I couldn’t be more satisfied until—”

He kissed her fingers. “That wasn’t easy for you.”

“But there’s something I didn’t tell you, Nash, before I do—”

Nash drew her hand towards him and placed it on his chest. “Calla, I don’t care if you have the force of the earth, or the strength of Hercules living in your veins. I also don’t care what people like this Vortigern tell you about yourself. All I care about is the woman I first met at Denver airport, who charmed me for nine hours to London with her knowledge. And most importantly, her passion for the things and people she cares about.”

Calla pursed her lips. She reached for Nash and for several seconds folded her arms around his neck, saying nothing. She released him and shot up before gravitating towards the fireplace and gazed into its soft blaze. “I need to know something.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s that?”

“Mason’s an operative. The breakneck kind.”

Nash leaned back against the sofa. “I don’t believe most operative stuff.”

“Why? But do you believe some?”

Nash rose and moseyed to her side. “When your father first asked me to protect you, I assumed that the British Secret Intelligence Service had denied his request to protect his family. Why come, and involve a favor from former CIA head, Ben Colton?” He watched her face with scrutiny. “Ever since you came in contact with the carbonado rocks the Deveron Manuscript led us to, something happened to you and mostly physically.”

“Nash, I never knew. I–”

“Maybe you’ve always been this way, strong, resistant . . . special. That’s what I like to think. That you were already complete.”

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Yes. Nothing missing. No additions necessary. Things people tell you about you do not define you. Calla, I trust you. I told you once that I was in for the long haul. You’ve special things about you that governments would covet for any of their marines.” He paused and took a breath. “I fell in love with your spirit. That, Cal, no one can take away from you.”

Calla’s face flustered and she fell silent for several seconds. “Nash, have you ever investigated operatives in the CIA, NSA, or ISTF?”

Nash swallowed hard and turned his face from her. “Yes and I didn’t like what I found.”

“What did you find?”

“I—”

A rapid shattering of glass exploded around them. It came through the window. Glass shards from the grand windows splintered in every direction. Cold, piercing wind shot into the room, bringing the sounds of the mountain valley into the large space.

Nash threw an arm over Calla’s head and drove her to the floor. The lights went out, silence arresting the whole house, except for the cracking of the wood on the fire. They crouched on the floor for several seconds before Nash raised his head.

A can of discharging gas rolled inches from where they cowered.

Nash shot to his knees, pulling Calla up with him. “Let’s move.”

A deafening noise shuffled outside on the lawn. Their ears caught a rumble, sounding like the engine of a large vehicle or tank. With their backs against the wall, the armored vehicle, no bigger than a Jeep, scythed Nash’s lawn, slashing shrubbery with its snow-crushing tires.

“Damn it! He broke my fence.” Nash turned to the surveillance camera on the entertainment center and cursed under his breath. “He blew out my cameras, too.”

Calla gaped out the window as the rapid, frigid breeze fluttered her loose mane.

“We’re trapped. That’s the only way down the mountain.”

Nash swore. “Not on my watch.”

A silhouetted figure raced toward the house, crushing the frozen snow. Calla’s hands shook as she tugged at Nash’s arms. “I knew it, Nash. It’s him, the footprints. How did they find us?”

Calla crawled to the edge of the window for a closer glimpse behind Nash. The figure had stopped a few meters from the house. He raised a weapon that he slung over his shoulder and pointed in their direction.

Nash pulled her away from the window and they shot to the far end of the room. “Got to get downstairs.”

His eyes narrowed with anger. “Your friend’s very daring.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s move.” He grasped her hand. “He’s got a damn bazooka!”

“What?”

“He’s going to torch the place!”

 

 

 

1715 hrs.

 

Elias scratched his itching bald head and departed to meet the feeble woman at the visitors’ gate. “Nice day for a visit.”

She did not respond but kept her head down, shielding her eyes from his questioning gaze. She lifted her head.

He scrutinized her oval face, dark and rather delicate. Her clothes were mismatched and form-fitting with her tweed skirt and a light-green blouse under an oversized sweater. She wore her limp hair in a bun.

“First time to Belmarsh?” Elias said.

She tightened her lips. “And the last.”

Elias registered her shaky, firm Northern England accent and took the calm woman through two air-lock doors. As the first closed, another mechanical door opened. Elias waited as an officer searched her belongings. The visitor, with a face frozen in calm, took off her hat, her coat, belt, and emptied all her pockets, then moved through an x-ray scanner. Her last subjection to a security check was a frisk with a metal-detector and a full pat down.

She frowned at the officers. “Surely by now, you would have found anything I might be concealing in this old tweed and perhaps, anything else I might be hiding on my person! Not to mention my thermal knickers! Are we finished?”

“Quite,” said Elias.

The woman signed her name.

Elias peered down at the printed name.

 

First Name: Veda

Surname: Westall

Profession: Head Curator at the British Museum

 

A series of fortified doors dragged open and guided them to a second house block.

“This is our jail within a jail, only for our special prisoners,” Elias said.

“I don’t need your polite conversation. I need you to stay in there with me for three minutes for my purposes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

 

 

They arrived at a hefty, cell door secured with a grill-gated window. Mason glanced over his laptop. He lay on a freestanding single bunk, three inches thick, with a blue synthetic mattress and observed as Veda ambled into his cell behind Elias.

With her face pale, but proud, she scanned the pitiful environs, the relative darkness, the uninviting concrete floors, the steel toilet bowl, and the shelves firmly bolted to a wall.

“Unimpressed by the décor, Ms. Westall?” Mason said.

“Not quite in line with your keeping from what I understand, even if it’s much more than most of your inmates I imagine. The power of cash flow knows no law.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

She smirked and turned her attention to Elias, who strode over to Mason and helped him to his feet. “Let’s go. You’ll be allowed a private consultation room for an hour. Private, that is, with us in there.”

Elias bound Mason’s feet with boot-cuffs and despite the restraints, Mason stood with the elegance of a gazelle as he reached for Westall’s hand.

Mason set a gentleman’s kiss on its upper side.

She jerked it back with the force of startled panther.

“Feisty, aren’t we?”

Veda’s eyebrows gathered. “I’m not your type.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Mason observed Veda fiddle with her skirt as they paced the ten meters to an interrogation room with plain décor in the form of dark glazed, bulletproof counter windows and minimal furniture. Veda’s full dark hair, graying at the temples was as neat as a straight up whiskey. She was as short as he remembered, and barely came up to his shoulders. They’d met when he’d visited the British Museum to source a personal reference for Calla Cress’s nomination into ISTF.

Mason and Veda took seats opposite each other. Kail, who’d now joined Elias, stood perched by the open door and observed the consultation, armed with incessant curiosity.

Elias shackled a computerized wire to Mason’s left boot-cuff and connected it to a nearby computer in the security room.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Mason said.

“Just procedure.”

Must have been the NSA guy Shields. He alone could recommend this sort of prison surveillance. Damn it, I authorized it myself at the ISTF labs!

The wire monitored his speech and conversation for aggression, much like a lie detector. He would deal with Shields when the time came. Mason eyed the two security cameras pointed at his face from two angles of the room, before turning to his guest.

“Ms. Westall,” Mason began. “Excuse me, for the inappropriate hour. I imagine your work at the museum keeps you tied down.”

“I didn’t come to see you; I came for what you have for me,” she said.

“All in good time.”

“The magistrate ordered you to hand me the logarithms for the Museum’s security systems. Where are they? Who has them? At the moment, we are blind to any threat, should we wish to manipulate them.”

“Straight to the point, I see.”

Kail and Elias glanced from face to face, as Mason’s persuasive manner with women seemed to wane with Veda.

Mason scrutinized their quiet snickers. He pored his eyes into Elias and then Kail. They took cue and took seats by the door, giving him the secluded consultation time he’d requested. He sensed terror spewing from them, also apparent in the shuddering fear in their eyes.

Fear gave Mason energy. In the months he’d been awaiting trial, guards around him were changed every four days, requesting reassignment each time. Fear was his finest associate. He had to work fast. “Ms. Westall, you sit on the London Board of Museums.”

“What of it?”

“I’ve used my influence to acquire you that special piece, Cézanne’s Card Players. The only art piece you seek in the series, held in private hands.”

“What’re you getting at?”

“Experts say it could be worth as much as $100 million.”

Westall raised an eyebrow. “What gives you the inkling that I would take any favors from a convicted criminal?”

“I’ve yet to be convicted.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you are. Now, give me the logarithms I came for.”

Mason ignored her insistence. “London museums need fresh collections to spur on their popularity and keep budgets where they need to be.”

“Mr. Laskfell. What is it you really want?” She leaned closer. “My only purpose here is to obtain security coordinates memorized in that crisp brain of yours. You were the one who placed the British Museum under heavy security last year, a move I firmly resisted.”

“Your museum is of much interest to ISTF.”

“A threat ISTF called it. From what?”

“Intelligence.” Mason studied her perplexed stare. “Do you believe in ISTF?”

Westall shifted in her seat. She struggled to focus under his gaze. “What do you mean?”

Mason’s face broke into a wide smile. Only a few more moments. “ISTF has its uses and was on its way to greatness under my watch.”

“I…. do…not care for—”

Westall’s head shuddered, her bulging eyes focused on Mason’s own. Her body launched into a quake of trembles.

Kail raised an eyebrow and tugged Elias’s sleeve. They gaped at Mason, their eyes widening in unbelief.

Westall’s uncontrollable movements intensified. After several seconds, she jolted back as if an intense, lightning bolt had thrown her back. She sat immobilized in her seat and stared blankly ahead.

Not once did Mason’s eyes leave her.

Her tongue hung from her jaw, like a slack tail and for more than a few seconds, Mason maintained his gaze into her bugged eyes.

To the guards, he may as well have been studying her expression. With Westall’s back to them, they could not grasp that her eyeballs had rolled back into their sockets.

Mason took a deep breath, unwavering in his glare. Tell me what I need.

She remained motionless, entranced by his unblinking eyes.

He edged closer across the table.

Kail shot to his feet. “Hey! No more physical contact!”

Mason recoiled analyzing Westall’s unresponsive face, his fixed gaze blazoning.

Five seconds later, Westall collapsed to the floor unconscious.