FIFTY-EIGHT

Feet planted wide, gun pointed downward, Kenna panted over the dead beast. Her entire body heaved with each breath. She stank of sweat and fear and fury. Every pore oozed pure hatred. Blood ran down her face and dripped on the floor. She had no idea where she’d been cut.

“Kenna,” Patrick rasped.

As she hurried over to him, a scuffle behind her made her spin, knees bent, rifle ready. “Reload,” she called.

Ready for the creature to rise up again, she remained utterly still, waiting, watching, hearing nothing but echoes in her head and Patrick’s labored gasps next to her.

The creature moved.

“Damn you,” she said under her breath.

It didn’t, however, leap up. Didn’t resurrect itself like some hideous monster from a horror flick. The Tate-wolf’s image buzzed—a noise that didn’t come from within the creature but from around it. The werewolf’s right claw trembled, then began to shrink.

Humming, the claw’s knifelike nails receded. The wolf’s tail disappeared. Human legs replaced fur-covered ones. The being slimmed and shortened. In seconds, the creature was gone and Tate lay before her, nearly naked, with a blue Virtu-Tech infinity logo tattooed near his shoulder. His blond head reclined in a bloodied pink mess, his features almost angelic in repose.

Except for the bullet holes punched everywhere, he looked like he could have been sleeping. Kenna’s index finger eased from the safe position to caress the trigger. She almost wished the bastard was still alive so she could kill him again.

“Kenna…”

Blood chugged out from Patrick’s right side. He blinked with effort.

“Oh my god, Patrick,” Kenna said, kneeling next to him.

He tilted his head toward Trutenko, who lay motionless on the floor. “Save him. Save my brother.”

“I’m saving you,” Kenna said. She grabbed Patrick’s chin. “Look at me,” she said.

He clenched his eyes, grimacing. He blinked several times and tried to meet her gaze.

“Look at me,” she demanded. Tightening her grip on his chin, she adjusted herself to see his eyes. Red rings circled his irises. “None of this is real,” she said.

He coughed. Blood spurted from his side. “Feels pretty real.”

“Patrick.” Her voice rose in panic. “You’re perfectly safe.”

He pulled in his lips, held himself in check for a moment before his words burst out in a gasp. “Too much. Too long. Can’t…handle it.”

The rim around his iris widened, and the red grew more intense. The pressure behind his eyes had to be unbearable.

“We’ve got to get you out of here.”

He wore no signal medallion. Tugging hers from her neck, she started to put it over Patrick’s head, but he pulled away. “No,” he said, nodding toward the floor again. “Get him out of here.”

Trutenko had regained consciousness enough to lever himself into a sitting position. “Oh dear God,” he said, grasping his midsection. “I had no idea it could be like this.” A second later, he faced his brother. “Take her medallion.”

With effort, Patrick shook his head. “I’m tethered at headquarters, Celia is there. Tate is there. Armed security is there. How long do you think I’ll last? Go now. Before they come back.”

“Where are you exactly?” Kenna asked Patrick. “What floor? I’ll send help.”

“It’s too late.”

“Where. Are. You?” she asked again.

“Third floor. Capsule number two.” Patrick coughed. “Liberty, Kenna, liberty. Everything is at stake. You must stop them. Find Maya. She knows what to do.”

“Maya got me in here,” she said. “I won’t leave you now.”

“You have to,” he said. “Or liberty is lost.”