Lora Leigh - Primal

“Shit,” he said.

Mockingbird read the lines a second time. Ecuador . According to the other data, that had to mean they were going after Silas after all, the sneaky bastard. He must’ve saved Finch’s ass, firing up . . . whatever he can do. All the more reason to get Tanager to him quickly.

He memorized the coordinates Kestrel had sent to the extraction team, and then said, “Call Tanager.” The computer complied, and in a moment, he heard Tanager’s voice.

“This better be good. I just arrived in Puerto López.”

“How? The region’s unstable.”

“I . . . persuaded a pilot to land a small plane nearby. Military base.”

That was Tanager, all right. She could convince her mark to do damn near anything, even if it was stupid, dangerous, or completely counter to his best interests. She was a great asset in the field.

“I know where your target is. Or at least where the strike team’s headed. You ready?”

“Always,” she said.

Mockingbird gave coordinates. Tanager scrawled the location; he heard the pen scratching on paper. “I’ll find someone to take me. Thanks for the info.”

“That’s my job.”

Silas roused early, a habit born of living so long on someone else’s timetable. He heard nothing now but the lap of the waves and the cry of seabirds. But something hid in that silence. A noise had woken him, but the sunrise kept its counsel. Still, his nerves prickled. Gently, he set Juneau away from him.

God, she was beautiful, but he didn’t linger. He couldn’t let her soft skin or pretty hair distract him. Something wasn’t right.

He crept outside and pulled his clothes off the line. Fortunately, they were dry and permitted him to dress quickly in the half-light. Cocking his head, he listened again. Then he heard them. Footsteps. They were trying to be quiet, but rocks covered the path leading down from the road, and it was impossible not to make some noise. Lots of men, incoming. He snatched her shorts and tank top, and retreated, trying to think, to plan.

It has to be the Foundation. They know, somehow. Though it sounded paranoid, he didn’t doubt his instincts, even if he didn’t understand why or how. They’d take him and kill her because of what she knew, what she’d seen. That, he could never allow. He’d promised to protect her, and he would—whatever the cost.

“Juneau,” he whispered. “Wake up. I need you to hide for me. There’s going to be a fight.”

She didn’t wake up groggy, unlike most people. By the time she got her feet on the floor, she was already stepping into her shorts, eyes gummy but alert. She didn’t even ask him any questions as she pulled the shirt over her head. Instead she cupped his face in her hands, laid a firm kiss on him, and said, “Be careful.”

Silas caught glimpses of them as they surrounded the house, geared in black, wearing bulletproof vests and carrying tranq guns. He surprised the first one at the patio door, but he silenced any outcry with a gesture, cutting off his oxygen. Agony flared, though this couldn’t kill him; it just made him wish he were dead. Blood vessels popped in his own eyes, sending jags of pain tearing through his skull.

He stayed away from inflicting wounds for a reason. Unlike other applications of his power, cutting people made him bleed as well. Though he could, in theory, skin someone alive, he’d take too much damage to walk away. Therefore, choking and broken bones offered the best solution, pain without actual injury.

The curse connected him with his victim, making Silas part of the hunter’s skin and bone. He felt each thrash, each spasm; it wasn’t empathy or telepathy, nothing so kind or clean. No, it was a death bond. When the other man breathed his last, the resultant reverb nearly knocked him on his ass.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

If there were a lot of them, the mental echo might knock him out. No. That can’t happen. If they took him, they’d terminate Juneau, and they’d never stop until they perfected his ability for use in black ops. Imagining a whole squadron of men killing in silence, without remorse, sent a cold chill through him. He just had to thresh through them, however many there were. He’d been fighting ever since he first discovered what he could do, fighting against what he might become.

Not anymore. He’d already killed to protect her. He’d do it again and again, however many times they required it of him.

Cold settled inside him as two more pushed through the back door. Silas swung around the corner to avoid the tranqs. The darts slammed into the wall, and then he took them. Twin gestures, dual focus. He’d never done that before, and anguish streaked red-black across his field of vision. These men, he didn’t choke out. He snapped their necks cleanly, as he’d sworn he’d never do again. The resultant blaze in his own spine made his eyes water, but it wouldn’t last. No damage. No broken bones. Only blood drew blood. He just had to hold on and stay alert.

How many were left? He crouched and hugged the wall, edging down the hallway. They would be coming in the front, too. Surrounding a structure was protocol for these guys. He felt shaky and nauseated from the feedback, but he forced himself to keep moving. Juneau didn’t make a sound in the closet, thank God. Silas didn’t know if he could do this, if he had to worry about her, too.

Since it wasn’t a big house, he reached the door fast. No choice. Gotta end this. He flung it open, expecting to dodge more tranqs. Instead, he found a small woman with white blond hair, cut in short, jagged strands, standing before three motionless men. They wore gear just like the others, but they’d forgotten their mission. Her voice rolled over him, sweeter than a nightingale’s song.

“You don’t want to hurt us,” she was saying softly, irresistibly. “You’re going to put down those guns, turn, and walk into the sea. Nice day for a swim, don’t you think? Then you’re going to swim until you can’t see land anymore. Once you’re out there, you’ll check out the ocean floor.”

Horror overwhelmed him. Even though she wasn’t focused on him, he felt the siren call of her voice, and he almost wanted to go with them when they took their first somnambulant steps toward the sea. Silas planted his feet and watched them go, pain pinching at his temples.

“You’re like me.”

“Nuh-uh, pal. We’re all special snowflakes . . . I’ve never seen the same ability manifest twice. Mockingbird thinks the abilities come from our unique genetic code. But if you mean I’m a former test subject, then . . .” She tapped her nose.

“Who are you?”

“Tanager will do. I’m here to extricate you, but we need to move fast, since we’ve both used our abilities at this site. Come on.”

The bounty hunters were almost at the ocean now, still shuffling like sleepwalkers. “Do you have a vehicle?”

She nodded. “It’s parked up on the road.”

“Let me go get Juneau.”

“Mockingbird didn’t say I was supposed to rescue anyone else.”

Silas spun. “It’s nonnegotiable. You take both of us, or neither. I presume you have some use for me, or you wouldn’t have come.”

The woman sighed. Her makeup looked particularly heavy in the morning light, eyes ringed in dark kohl. Her lips, too, were painted black, offering sharp contrast to her spiked platinum hair. She ran tired fingers through it and then said, “Whatever. We need to make tracks.”

He went inside at a run and found Juneau pressed up against the back of the closet. She reached for him first, letting him draw her out. But she was trembling, despite her silent bravery. He hugged her close for a moment and then stepped back.