FIFTY-SIX

The moment he was gone, Kenna stood. “I’ll give you whatever you want.” When her voice boomed, she hoped they wouldn’t realize it was hysteria talking. All she could hope to do now was let bravado carry her through. She pointed to Patrick. “If you let him go.”

Celia arched a brow. “Just Danaher?” she asked in feigned confusion. “What about the rest of the happy little family?”

“They’re virtuals, and you know it,” Kenna said, hoping to God she was right. She needed the control box, but Celia had tucked it away. Tate the werewolf had the other. Where he held it, she couldn’t begin to guess.

“Are you sure about that?” Turning toward the Tate-wolf, Celia pointed toward Ryan.

Lightning fast, the wolf snatched the back of the little boy’s striped shirt. He screamed. Elevating the kicking youngster, the Tate-wolf held him above his nose. The monster’s mouth widened, his black-rimmed lips thick with drool.

Patrick turned his head away.

Celia grabbed Patrick’s chin. “You will watch,” she ordered. “See what you did. Your family is about to die, and it’s all your fault.” Spinning, she addressed the Tate-wolf. “Do it slowly. One piece at a time. Prolong it. I want Daddy to hear his little boy scream.”

The Tate-wolf nodded. He swung Ryan by his shirt like a magician inducing a hypnotic trance with a pocket watch. “Danaher,” Tate crooned. The beast’s blue eyes focused on Mallory, and it licked its chops.

Eyes clenched, Patrick’s lips moved. Kenna knew he must be telling himself that nothing is real.

Kenna scanned the bare area, desperate for any means of defeating the giant wolf when she spotted a bulge in Celia’s breast pocket.

She lunged, taking the woman by surprise. Slamming an elbow into her temple and then wrenching her head backward, she threw Celia to the floor. Celia shouted, but Ryan’s screams drowned her out.

Kenna turned Celia onto her back, beating her fists into the woman’s face, invigorated as tissue gave way beneath her furious poundings. Blinded by determination, she couldn’t tell if the bubbling blood gushed from Celia’s nose or mouth. Her signal medallion necklace jangled out from her blouse; Kenna wrapped the metal chain around the woman’s neck and wrenched it tourniquet tight.

Celia blinked blood. She braced an arm on the floor in an effort to boost herself, to loosen the metal chain around her neck. On her feet now, Kenna delivered a sharp kick to the woman’s chin. She fell back, flat, swollen fingers twitching.

The Tate-wolf clawed at Mallory’s clothing as little Ryan beat at the creature’s back. Tate shook the child off, flinging him away.

He has to be a virtual. He has to be.

Still conscious, Celia rocked from side to side, fingers clawing at her neck. Her face, contorted with effort, began turning blue. Fingers slick with blood, Kenna needed three tries to retrieve the control box from Celia’s pocket.

Kenna tapped in the first numbers of the VR code as Celia managed to snag a finger under the necklace. With wide, red eyes, she wriggled two more fingers under, choke-gasping for breath. Her fingers reached her signal medallion. Seconds later, the woman’s battered form was gone.

“Damn!” Kenna shouted.

When she spun to face the Tate-wolf, she was taken aback by an unexpected appearance. Werner Trutenko stood in front of Patrick’s chair, glaring up at the yellow-furred beast.

“Stand down, Tate.”

Kenna tapped in the code. “Program,” she commanded. “Delete virtuals.”

Mallory and Ryan disappeared. Kenna whispered thanks under her breath.

“Get out of my way,” the Tate-wolf said to Trutenko. The wolf’s great claws whistled as they sliced through the air to carve crimson rivers into Trutenko’s chest.

Trutenko doubled over, then fell to the ground.

“How much power you got now, big man? I’ve been dying to take you down, you stupid son of a—”

“Over here,” Kenna shouted.

Hunched, the Tate-wolf twisted.

“This is for Charlie.”

As the Tate-wolf advanced on her, she shouted again. “Program: weapon, Marlin Guide Gun.”

Continuing her orders, she shouted. “Forty-five seventy.”

Confusion traced across the Tate-wolf’s deformed features. Canine-human, its blue eyes widened as the old-fashioned weapon appeared in Kenna’s hands.

Bending her knees, she pointed the barrel at the beast’s enormous body and barked her final command.

“Load with solid ammunition,” she bellowed, drawing out the words, “in sterling…fucking…silver.”

She cracked the lever forward and back, chambering the first round. Sighting the beast, she took a breath. Held it. Then squeezed the trigger. A jolt exploded into Tate’s center mass as the recoil pounded her shoulder.

He slashed the air, screaming. Yet he kept moving toward her.

Cha-chunk. Another round chambered.

She sighted, held her breath.

Tate lunged.

She fired.

The rifle’s barrel shot yellow flame.

Tate staggered back, clutching his belly. Black blood bubbled between its claws.

Cha-chunk. Another round.

She fired again.

Writhing, screeching, the Tate-wolf dropped to the ground.

Kenna strode forward and emptied the remaining rounds into Tate’s chest, gut, and head.

“Take that, you filthy son of a bitch.”