Gena Showalter - Black and Blue

An address flashed across the screen, and Evie gasped. Michael’s house.

Trembling, she set her wineglass aside and reached for her cell. “Michael Black. Father.” The line rang, a screech in her ears.

She went straight to voice mail.

She never went straight to voice mail.

Unknown male . . . hospital . . . disappeared . . . Had to be her father. If he’d been injured and carted away by civilians, his people would have swooped in, stolen him, and taken him to their medical facility. That’s the way black ops worked.

Okay. Okay. So. If the reporter was to be believed, Michael was critical but alive. If Evie hurried, she could reach the facility in half an hour. She could help him.

As quickly as possible she gathered her things and jumped in her car. The sun was hidden behind clouds as she soared down the highway at a speed cars were not supposed to be able to go. But then, most people could not rebuild the sensory system as she could, nor did they know they could disable preset maximum speeds.

You can take the girl out of the agency, I guess, but not the agency out of the girl.

Thankfully, black-market shields kept her from being noticed by any nearby cops.

The farther away from her home she got, the fewer buildings and shops appeared, until they stopped appearing altogether. Finally, her destination loomed ahead. A metal blockade surrounded a sprawling structure with dark concrete walls and shield armor rather than windows. Bright halogens glared down from the steepled roof, chasing away every shadow.

She stopped at the front gate. An armed guard—human—stepped forward to bang on her window. She lowered the partition and flashed the ID she’d never shredded.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Black, but no one gets in tonight.”

“I’m just here to see my father and—”

“I’m sorry, Miss Black, but you’ll have to turn around now.”

Gah! She tried again. “Bloody hell, my father—”

“I’m sorry, Miss Black, but no information is to be given out. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

Can’t kill him. Was Michael inside?

Surely. Why else would the guard act like this if not to protect her father from further harm? “Can you just tell me—”

“No,” he said, one hand motioning for her to back up, the other curling around the handle of his pyre-gun. “Now, I suggest you leave before I’m forced to make you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” she retorted. With the press of a button, she could pepper him with bullets. “But let’s save our tussle for another time, shall we?” She threw the car in reverse, spraying gravel in his face.

At home, she would gather the supplies she’d locked in her basement three years ago. Then she would break into the facility and unleash all kinds of hell. No one kept her from the people she loved.

No one.

EARLIER THAT DAY TIME: CLASSIFIED

A FTER AN HOURLONG MEETINGwith Michael, Solo, and John, Blue received a new assignment: Operation Dumpster Dive. A new target: Gregory Star. And a new female to seduce for information: Tiffany Star.

Blue’s fiancée, Pagan Cary, had no idea he lived a double life, but she would find out what went down with Tiffany. The entire world would find out. Blue no longer tried to hide his “affairs.”

Did you seriously just put that word in mental air quotes? You do actually have affairs.

Yeah, but the one-night stands still aren’t for my pleasure. They’re for my job. Therefore, they don’t count.

Tell that to the Black Plague. His nickname for Evie. Actually, he had a lot of nicknames for Miss Evie. “Honey Badger” was his second favorite.

Don’t think about her or your anger will cause a power surge.

At the very beginning of his relationship with Pagan, he’d told her there would always be other women. She hadn’t cared then and she wouldn’t care now. She stayed with him for his body, his money, and his fame, and not necessarily in that order.

He was fine with that, because he stayed with her for the convenience. A wife would stop targets and assets from planning a future with him.

Hard-core? Maybe. But, in the end, far more merciful.

“I have a bad feeling about this mission,” Solo muttered.

“That’s because it’s going to suck,” John replied, just as quietly.

“What are you guys complaining about? I’m the one who has to do the actual sucking,” Blue said as he led the pair to the front door of Michael’s office. He twisted the knob, prepared to exit.

Boom!

A violent blast of wind lifted him off his feet and threw him backward. He wrecked through a wall. A terrible high-pitched ring vibrated in his ears, his world shrank to only a tiny bubble, and everything hazed with black and white. He managed to draw a breath into his partially deflated lungs, and instantly regretted it. The air burned and blistered, igniting a bonfire.

Lava flowed over him . . . pressure squeezed at his limbs, his chest . . . something hard fell on his arm and leg, snapping the bones, and everything proved to be too much, pain rolling over him, consuming him, melting him, then pulling him apart piece by piece.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, his muscles too heavy and knotted to even twitch. The ringing in his ears eventually faded, allowing him to hear the crackle of flames mixed with little bits of conversation.

“—with this one?”

“—fetch a decent price.”

“—this one?”

“—ashing him.”

“—last one?”

“—keeping him.”

Blue blinked open his eyes, a nearly impossible feat. His lids were like two pieces of sandpaper that had been glued together. A human male loomed over him, one he’d never before met.

Medical personnel?

A thick cloud of smoke surrounded the man, shielding his features.

What the hell had happened?

Blue opened his mouth to ask, but rather than words, something warm and wet gurgled out and trickled down his cheek.

“Stupid alien,” the man muttered, splashing cold water over Blue’s body. No, not water. The pungent aroma of accelerant stung his nostrils. “I have double or nothing riding on your next season. Without you, the Invaders are going to blow it, and I’m gonna lose a fortune.”

A match was lit, the flames immediately capturing his attention. Yellow-gold, flickering, growing taller and taller . . . quite lovely . . . falling . . . landing . . . on Blue .

What was left of his shirt acted as kindling, feeding the flames a delectable treat, and Blue’s already decimated skin bubbled up and liquefied, drip-dripping . . . over his sides, leaving only muscles . . . but even those began to fry.

An agonized roar burst from his throat as he forced his petrified, aching limbs into action, and sat up. A chunk of plaster skidded away from him—had it pinned him? Whatever. He batted at the flames until they died, only to stop and gaze with horror at the condition of his body. His left arm ended in a stump, his hand missing. The rest of him was a mass of blood and meat. He could see several bones peeking past charred muscle.

The man stumbled backward, gasping, “You’re alive.”

A surge of fury activated Blue’s Arcadian power, and he was able to lumber to his feet. Dizzy . . . swaying . . . so much pain . . . And yet, fueled by ragged animal instincts he usually kept on a tight leash, he managed to stomp forward and grab the man by the neck, using his remaining hand, squeezing and lifting.

“Who. You?” Blue’s thoughts were coming swiftly, too swiftly, then breaking apart before he could sort through them and speak coherently. “Why. Kill. Me?”