Grace shifted her arm, eyes closed. Something cool and smooth brushed her skin. She tried to roll over, but her nose smacked into a barrier, one that yielded under the pressure from her body. She inhaled a musty scent. Not a bed. Not her bed, for sure. A chill shimmied down her spine. Where was she?
She pried her lids apart. A brown, shiny surface filled her vision. Her face was pressed into a leather backrest. She pushed up into a sitting position. Crunch. She slid her legs over the sofa's edge, planting her shoes on the floor. Crunch. Nothing under her feet. She scooted forward. Crunch. The leather protested yet again.
Leather. Metal. Wood. Oh hell, she knew where she was. She'd called him, so of course he rushed out to rescue her. Crap. She'd needed rescuing? Oh yeah. Men with guns. Hunting her. Pain. Blood. Screams. Not hers, though. Theirs. She shuddered.
Gabriel Amador saved her. She must be in his home.
The flash drive. She slapped her shirt, right over the breastbone. The flash drive cut into her skin. Thank God. Amador hadn't stolen it.
He might've borrowed it, though, while she was asleep. Cripes. She couldn't worry about everything. Anxiety over David ate up enough of her brainpower.
The weight of fatigue still blanketed her, almost suffocating in its intensity. Yawning, she peered into the near darkness. A lamp on the desk chased away the shadows, but its glow petered out after a few feet. She rubbed her neck. Wake up. Her head ached, though not with the throbbing pain of a migraine. No, her nap obliterated the worst of the headache.
Her stomach growled. The ache of hunger battled with butterflies in her gut, creating a queasy mixture. Every muscle in her body screamed for more rest. Heaving her body off the sofa, she shuffled over to the desk.
The scent of leather and dust wafted over her. She inhaled a deep breath, and another scent — spicy and earthy — infiltrated her senses, erasing the scent memory of gun powder, damp earth, sweat, and blood. A shiver rattled through her. This place smelled like Gabriel Amador.
She brushed her palm across the slick wood. Polished to a brilliant shine, the surface glimmered in the ambient light. The laptop computer was gone. The phone stood upright in its base. Chewing the inside of her lip, she stared at the receiver. She ought to call the cops. Or her grandfather. Someone. Her arm trembled slightly as she stretched it out toward the phone.
Pow.
She gripped the desk. Her pulse roared in her ears.
Pow, pow, pow.
Panic knifed through her. The explosions had issued from somewhere outside. She rushed to the French doors. Pow. She peeked out between the curtains. There, maybe a hundred feet from the house, Roland Wickham stood with legs spread, arms raised in front of him. Black earmuffs protected his ears. He grasped a gun in both hands, homing in on a target mounted on a metal post. Pow. His hands jerked a hair as he fired the weapon.
Target practice? He was a butler or something, she'd thought. Maybe his job involved a lot more than opening and closing doors.
Click.
She spun around just as the door swung open.
Gabriel Amador strode into the room and flicked a switch on the wall. Light burst from the desk lamp. She struggled not to squint. Her stomach flip-flopped. Amador left the door ajar as he crossed the threshold, halting several paces beyond it. Muscles flexed beneath his gray slacks and long-sleeve dress shirt. The pinstriped white fabric hugged his torso. Two open buttons at at the top let the collar drape outward, revealing cinnamon skin sprinkled with dark hairs. His brown loafers glistened with a high-wattage sheen. One of his hands dangled casually at his side. The other dipped into his pants pocket.
"You look better," he pronounced, aiming a genial smile at her. "That must have been a terrible migraine."
"Yes, it was." She leaned her buttocks on the desk, clamping her fingers on its edge. "Um, thanks for coming to — " The words rescue me popped into her head, but she dismissed them. " — help me out. I had a little trouble with Tesler's men."
"So I gathered. You may stay as long as you wish. I promise you will be safe here."
His vow bristled, like a stiff hairbrush grated across her nerves. She frowned at him, folding her arms over her chest. "You can't promise that. I don't know even know how Tesler's men tracked me down. They might find me here too."
"No," he said, in his tone of absolute certainty. The tone that ticked her off big time. Then he added, "I have taken precautions against all varieties of surveillance."
"All varieties? Come on, there must be some type of surveillance you haven't thought to guard against."
He shrugged, his smile mutating into a smirk. Did he actually think he'd guarded his home against all possible surveillance technologies? And what about the non-technological kind?
"If a traveler attempts to breach this house," Amador said, "I will know. I will sense it. Would you not sense it as well?"
Once again, she had the skin-prickling feeling that he'd read her mind. Yet he didn't look frothing-at-the-mouth insane. Maybe he simply had excellent intuition.
"Yeah," she said, trying to sound more certain than she was, "I'd sense it if another traveler came on the scene."
"Of course."
A quivering spread from her knees into her calves and thighs. She glanced around the room. Her purse lay on the floor by the sofa, a few feet from Amador but farther from her. He watched her with a noncommittal expression, though his eyes darted to follow her gaze when she looked at the purse. With the jelly squiggling in her legs, she doubted she could run over there to grab her purse before he snatched it away.
Sighing, she lowered herself onto the nearest chair. The same damn chair she'd sat in the day before. Or earlier today. Whenever the hell it was. Time had twisted into a Mobius strip, with no end and no beginning, everything turning in on itself.
Yesterday. She met Amador yesterday.
She rubbed her arm. The fabric of her shirt was crusty. Her skin prickled. Her gaze flew to the spot on her arm, and the blood dried onto her shirt sleeve. She shoved up the fabric to expose —
Unmarked flesh.
Amador chuckled, a light, airy sound. "Ah yes. I bandaged your wound in the car, but when I checked it later, it was gone. You healed yourself, no?"
A sick feeling sloshed in her stomach. She healed her own injuries before, six months ago, but hoped it was a fluke. Nope.
He plucked her purse from the floor, hooking one finger under the strap. He then approached her and held the purse out, as if he wanted her to take it.
Her mouth fell open a bit.
"Yes," he said, "I know you have a firearm in your purse."
"I have a concealed carry license."
He gave her a tiny smile. "I don't mind that you have a pistol, Grace. Why do you think I'm offering it to you willingly?"
She looked at the purse, dangling from his grasp at her chest level. The purse swayed a little as he adjusted his grip. She lifted her hand, fingers outstretched to take hold of the strap. At the last second, she pulled her hand away.
"Why do you hesitate?" he asked, thrusting the purse closer to her. "This is an act of trust, Grace. Take the purse, and you will feel safer because you have your pistol. I'm trusting you not to shoot me — although, of course, you will be quite able to do so if you wish."
Well, when he put it that way…
She nabbed the purse. Cradling it on her lap, the gun's hardness under her palms, she regarded Amador. "Thank you."
He gave a dismissive wave of his free hand. "As I told you yesterday, I don't believe you would shoot me. I may not know you well, but I can see that you aren't a murderer."
A lump hardened in her throat. She ducked her head to stare at her hands. A murderer. That's what she was, though Amador had no way of knowing it.
Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, Amador dropped to one knee in front of her. His gaze landed on her with a palpable weight that commanded her attention, and a shiver swept through her, prickling the hairs at the nape of her neck. She did not flinch, or avert her eyes from his.
"I killed a man today," she said, her voice flat. "Six months ago, I shot and killed both Jackson Tennant and Xavier Waldron. This evening, I killed at least one other man, maybe more. So you see, I am a killer."
Amador's brows knit together. "I saw a dead man in the forest, when I came for you. He had a gun and was likely the one who shot you." He shook his head. "You defended your life against men who would have done grievous injury to you."
"I know." She leaned back, though she didn't break eye contact. "I said I'm a killer, not a murderer. You shouldn't be so cocksure I won't shoot you if I feel the tiniest bit threatened."
"Of that I have no doubt, but I mean you no harm." Amador lowered his left hand leisurely onto hers. His flesh scalded her skin. She hadn't realized how cold her hands were. He slipped his right hand into his pants pocket, hesitating there, and then pulled it out to rest it on top of her free hand. Almost in slow motion, he coiled his fingers around hers. All the while, his eyes tracked hers, and she discovered she couldn't divert her attention. Those dark eyes trapped her. When he began to trace circles on her palms with his fingertips, the touch triggered a warm tingling in her hands that spread, inch by inch, up her arms and into the rest of her body.
He raised one hand to brush his knuckles across her cheek. "You are no killer, Grace. Tennant and Waldron deserved to die, and they left you no choice but take their lives in self-defense. I saw it through postcognition, remember? I know."
"Right. I forgot." She should've shaken his hands off, but her muscles had liquefied. Her voice came out dreamy too. What was wrong with her? "I appreciate the reassurance, but it's not necessary, Mr. Amador."
"Biel."
"Huh?"
"Please call me Biel." His fingers kept sketching circles on her palm. With his other hand, he cupped her cheek. "I am on your side, Grace. I would never abandon you."
Like David had. Although Amador refrained from saying the words, she knew what he meant.
Amador stroked her cheek with his fingertips. "If you will allow me, I would take care of you."
His caress made the tension in her unwind and scattered her thoughts. Was this man manipulating her psychically? This morning, she would've thought it impossible. Tonight, she'd lost her unerring faith in her firewall.
It should've been David comforting her. If he sensed her anguish, he would've come to check on her. The fact he hadn't pointed to one of three things — he couldn't feel her anymore, he was unable to come to her, or he didn't want to come to her. He ordered her to go away, and proclaimed she got in his way. The memory of his words, and the hardness in his voice, conjured a pain in her chest that made her wince and suck in a shallow breath. Her heart had calcified, cold and brittle and no longer capable of beating.
David had been terrified, though of what, she couldn't figure out. His callous actions, his harsh words, they stemmed from his fear. If only he'd talk to her.
Unlike David, Amador had no trouble expressing his feelings. He also hadn't dismissed her with all the tenderness of a cat throwing up a hairball.
Gabriel Amador was attractive. And attentive. And he rescued her when she needed it.
He ran his fingers down her cheek.
She cringed inside. However attractive and attentive he was, Amador harbored a secret agenda.
And she loved David. No one else tempted her.
She tensed her hands, preparing to yank them free of his.
Amador released her hands and rose. Towering over her, he combed his fingers through her hair. "Even if you cannot or will not trust me, I will help you in any way I can. That is my vow to you."
She nodded. "I appreciate that."
He turned and headed for the doorway.
"Thank you again," she said. It galled her to need his help, but she did. So she opted for a strategic concession. "I'm very grateful to you… Biel."
He froze mid step, and for a couple seconds he neither moved nor spoke. Then he twisted around to face her, and flashed the first genuine smile she'd witnessed on his lips. "No, Grace, thank you. Together, we can accomplish incredible things."
"I'm sure you're right."
"Come, you must be hungry." He gestured toward the door. "I will have Wickham prepare something for you."
He waited for her to stand and then headed out the door. She trailed after him, walking slower than usual. At least she wasn't limping. Amador bounded down the hallway with a light step. He maintained a discreet, but distinct, gap between them. The prisoner led to the execution.
No. He would not harm her.
Yet.
"How long was I asleep?" she asked.
"All night."
A modicum of relief filtered through her. When she peeked out the French doors at Wickham, she caught sight of the morning sun halfway over the horizon and worried she'd slept for days. Overnight was bad, but better than days. She couldn't afford any lost time, not with David held captive and Tesler on her trail.
Amador veered right, into a dining room.
When he pulled out a chair for her, she eased into it. The table gleamed in the ever-brightening daylight filtering through the windows. She rested her hands on the wood. Cool. Slick. Dark.
Smiling, Amador seated himself opposite her. He folded his hands on the tabletop, interlocking his fingers. "I am so pleased to have you here, Grace."
Unease trickled through her. Befriending Amador might prove her best chance of survival, yet it burned her soul like a betrayal.
David.
Circumstances winnowed her choices down to bad and worse.
Amador snaked a hand across the table, slipping it over hers. Warmth tingled through her hand and wrist. It seeped up her arm, throughout her body, and into every crevice of her soul. The urge to yank her hand away flared white-hot inside her. What the hell was happening to her? The wrongness of it screamed in her head, frantic yet indistinct, like a voice from another room. If he was doing something to her, influencing her psychically…
But how could he? Her psychic wall blocked everything. Even David.
She couldn't be sure of that.
Gotta play along. Find out what this creep knows. She resisted gritting her teeth, exhaled slowly relax her muscles, and aimed a tentative smile at him.
And then, the heat swallowed her whole.
"I'll get that breakfast for you," Amador said.
"Huh?" His words vibrated her eardrums, but their meaning failed to register. Quicksand sucked at her thoughts, hauling her downward into oblivion.
Amador patted her hand and ambled out of the room.
Her heart thudded. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead. Conscious but numb, immobilized and breathless, she wrestled for control of her own mind.
And realized she'd already lost.
The guard pitched David into the cell. His body hit the floor with a dull thud, his chin smacking into the concrete. Pangs radiated through his jaw. The pain failed to register as more than a background ache, driven aside by the fire searing his veins. The fire ignited by the drugs.
David struggled to push up into a sitting position. His arms collapsed under him. He whumped back onto the floor and groaned. What the hell had Tesler injected into him? Not JT's formula, for sure. Every cell in his body burned and throbbed. His muscles sagged like wet rags clinging to his bones. And Christ, how his bones ached.
The stench of sweat and blood permeated his clothes, his hair, his skin. He rolled onto his side. His head spun, fast as a tornado. His gorge rose in his throat, but he gulped it back. No vomiting. No passing out. Signs of weakness would please Tesler, and embolden him to switch to phase two. David knew all too well how Tesler's methods progressed. First, drugs. Second…
Physical pain.
He clenched his jaw until the whirling subsided. His head rested on the floor. His shoulder, slumped beneath him, forced his head to lie at an angle. Discomfort tugged at his neck muscles. He raised his head, grimacing from the effort, and surveyed the damage.
Sweat soaked the fabric under his arms. Dots of blood spattered his T-shirt. Whose blood? He palpated his scalp, neck, arms. No injuries. He lifted the collar of his shirt to peek inside it at his chest. No wounds there either. He inhaled, and the metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils. With one finger, he explored his nose. Dried blood caked around his nostrils. What kind of drug caused bleeding from the nose?
Maybe it hadn't been the drugs. He'd fought damn hard to break through the electromagnetic barrier blocking him from contacting Grace. His mind bounced off it with enough force to wrench his physical body. The power of the EM blockade might've overtaxed his brain, triggering a nose bleed. He'd seen similar things happen to other psychics. Never before had he experienced this kind of side effect.
If anyone could breach the barrier, it would be Grace.
Her face hovered before his mind's eye. Her auburn hair glowing in the sunlight. Her hazel eyes sparkling. A glorious smile enlivening her features. If Tesler got his hands on her, the tactics he'd used on David, Sean, and Nkosi would pale compared to his plans for Grace. Tesler's voice reverberated in David's head.
Do you know what the greatest prize of all is?
The pretty pink brain of your darling girl.
David ground his teeth. The grating noise echoed in the tiny cell and vibrated through his skull. Tension rippled through him, tightening muscles that screamed in protest. He choked back a gasp. Please stay away, Grace.
Trouble was, he knew her better than that. She would come for him. She would risk her own life to rescue him. Her stubborn determination, her willingness to endanger herself for others, those were two of the countless reasons he loved her.
But dammit, he should've been the one rescuing her. What kind of man couldn't manage to safeguard his most precious treasure, the woman he loved? Somewhere between his imprisonment at the Mojave Desert facility and his obsession with hunting down Tesler, he'd lost sight of what mattered most.
Grace.
Was it too late to rectify his mistakes? Could she ever forgive him? Only one way to find out. He must escape from this place. He must free Nkosi, Sean, and any other hostages. And then he must track down Grace before she barreled into this facility to find him. He must save her this time — from her own reckless, if well-intentioned, actions.
God, he loved her. More than anything in this world or the next. If he must make the ultimate sacrifice for her, he'd do it without hesitation. He would die for her.
The door burst inward, banging into the wall.
David thrust himself up off the floor. Seated there, he glowered at the man standing in the doorway.
"Nap time is over," Tesler said. "Time to play twenty thousand questions. I believe you remember the consequences for refusing to answer."
"Torture me all you want. I won't tell you a damn thing."
Tesler sniggered. "You don't have to." He hopped closer, bending over to meet David's gaze. "I'd venture to guess that Sean knows everything you do, or close enough to everything. I'll torture you until he cracks."
The scientist flicked his wrist. Two guards tromped into the room, seized David's arms, and dragged him out of the cell. As they rounded a corner, heading down a different corridor than before, David racked his brain to formulate a plan. No way to RV the facility to plot out an escape route. He'd have to rely on his mundane senses, and his intellect. His limbs refused to acknowledge his commands, instead hanging limp.
Half dragging, half carrying him, the guards tossed David through an open doorway into a room much like the previous one where Tesler administered the drugs. But this room contained three chairs. Sean and Nkosi sat strapped into two of the chairs. The middle one stood empty. Waiting. For David.
Two men in white lab coats hauled David into the chair. Yellen and Evans, the men he'd watched when he RV'd the facility, secured the straps around his wrists, ankles, and forehead. Evans buckled the chest restraint.
A long table nestled against one wall held devices of torture. Scalpels. Things with serrated edges and sharp pincers. A wooden paddle with holes in it. A baseball bat.
Yellen scuffled toward the doorway. "Must I watch this, Dr. Tesler?"
"If you can't stomach it, then wait in the corridor."
Yellen rushed outside. Tesler strolled into the room. He picked up the bat, thumping it on his palm.
Sean whimpered. David glanced at him sideways. Tears streamed from the boy's puffy, red eyes. His face was pale and gaunt. On the other side of David, Nkosi sat with chin lifted, jaw set, eyes clear and fixed on Tesler. A gash cut a red line across his cheek, and a clump of bruises purpled his neck.
David glared at Tesler, willing the man to burst into flames. Even if his psychic faculties had been at peak levels, he'd never possessed the power of pyrokinesis. Too bad. The bastard deserved to burn, if not in hell, then here on earth.
Tesler raised the bat. His eyes focused on David, but he spoke to Sean. "Tell me, son, where is Grace Powell?"
Sean sniffled. His voice emerged as a trembling whisper. "No."
"Then you leave me no choice."
Tesler swung the bat at David.