Unleashed, Page 6

  My “please” does it. The rigid line of his shoulders seems to relax. “No. You’re in the US.” He snorts and drags a hand through his hair, sending the dark strands tumbling wildly. “And you think you can make it out there. You don’t even know what country you’re in.”

  This hits its mark. “You’d be surprised just what I’m capable of.”

  His gaze slides from my face to my neck and back again. “I bet.”

  “I was almost there,” I continue, leaning back against the cave wall, suddenly unable to stand without some support. I just need a minute. I drag in a breath. “But then I got shot. Apparently I washed back ashore on the American side.”

  “Apparently.” He nods. “You’re still in the good old US of A. If I’d been leading you, you would have made it.” My irrational brain interprets this as a slight against Sean. Sean, who might be dead. Annoyance flashes through me.

  I stab the knife in his direction. “You’ll never lead me anywhere.”

  He motions behind me, presumably to where the outside world waits. “Fine. Then go.” His voice drops lower. And he’s speaking slower. Or it just seems like it. Like he’s talking to me from somewhere far away. I squint, focusing on his lips. “I predict you’ll be picked up in half an hour. Unless you pass out. Then the coyotes will find you and have a feast. Is that what you want, girl?”

  I flex my hand around the knife, trying to let the solid feel of it reassure me. “I’ll take my chances. And don’t call me ‘girl.’ I have a name.”

  He unfolds himself slowly until he’s standing. My neck angles back to hold his gaze. He’s not as brawny as Sean but he’s taller. Lean and rangy like a wolf. I blink once, hard, shaking off the comparison even though I suppose it’s natural to compare every carrier I meet to Sean . . . Sean who has filled my world for the last several months. Sean who I killed for. Sean who is gone. Lost to me.

  He holds up both hands, long fingers splayed wide. He waves them like I’m some wild animal he’s trying to soothe and tame. “And what’s that?” he asks gently.

  I frown. The circular motion begins to make me dizzy. I focus back on his face, trying to get my gaze off the flurry of his hands. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Sure it does. Tell me your name.”

  He has a nice face, I think, and then blink, trying to snap back to myself and rein in my thoughts.

  Is it just me or has he moved closer? I jab the knife in his direction. “Stay back.” I cringe at the sluggish sound of my voice and press my other hand against my face. “Ahhh.” I inhale a hissing breath against the heat of my skin and the sudden spin of my world.

  My legs give out. I cry as I fall, tumbling in a graceless heap. The fall jars my shoulder and I moan. Boots loom over me. Squatting, he plucks the knife from my hand with embarrassing ease. Like taking candy from a baby.

  “That. Hurt.” I get the words out, each one punctuated with a pained exhale.

  “How are you not dead?” he asks in a maddeningly even voice, but there’s a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “You’re a mess.”

  I laugh, the sound brittle and a little crazy even to my ears. My head spins. “Oh, but I’m special,” I mock, not really knowing what I’m saying. I don’t think my words through. They just fall from my lips. It’s like being drunk with no filter. “One moment I was planning my dorm room at Juilliard, and then this . . .” I wave at my neck. “And then they wanted me . . .”

  Closing my eyes, I search for the dark never that sheltered me earlier. Even a ghost couldn’t find me there. I can feel it close, so very near, like warm breath at my neck.

  “Who wanted you?”

  His voice is insistent, like a buzzing gnat around my cotton-filled head. I crack open my eyes. Whatever flash of humor I thought I saw in his gaze is gone. I watch as he slips my knife away. It disappears beneath his poncho. He took it from me like I’m nothing. Definitely not someone to inspire fear. Even if I do have this stupid imprint on my neck.

  I slowly roll my head side to side. “Funny, huh? They were training me to be a really good killer. And I kind of suck at it.” My head dips to the side. My bangs fall in my eyes. “Don’t I look like a deadly assassin to you?”

  “Who was training you?” His hand is there, brushing the hair back. The contact is almost tender, and I resist leaning into that touch, into the callused fingertips that graze my forehead. They feel so cool on my overheated flesh. At least I tell myself that’s the reason behind the compulsion. He’s not tender in any way. He can’t be. He’s just trying to see my face as I ramble incoherently. Even in my condition I know that.

  “Who?” he repeats, capturing my gaze, those flame-colored eyes drilling me for information.

  “Same people who put that mark on your neck,” I murmur, waving at him like I can see his imprint. I’m practically under him. I can’t see anything. “The Agency.” I say this last bit slowly, dragging out the words. “They put me in a special camp . . . promised I could have my imprint removed.”

  “That so?”

  “Believe it, baby.” I laugh at this, highly amused with myself.

  “You’re dehydrated,” he announces, sounding grim.

  My laughter ends on a sigh. “No. I’m dying.”

  He holds up a bottle to my lips. “Here. Drink.”

  I slap it away. “What for? Go ahead. Do your worst,” I challenge, past caring, ready for the pain to end. The uncertainty. “Kill a killer. I have. I did exactly what they wanted me to do.”

  The truth is always there. Even when his ghost leaves me alone, I know it. And then I’m crying. Weeping uncontrollably as I think of the man I killed. Those eyes that won’t stop haunting me.

  “Shh. You’re not with them anymore,” he murmurs, his hand back, the palm pressing cool and solid against my forehead. “Juilliard, huh? That’s impressive.” It’s like he deliberately ignores all the other stuff I confessed about myself. “I bet you wanted to be an actress.”

  I don’t bother correcting him. This gentleness from him is unexpected. I turn my head in the other direction, pulling away from him, hiding my weakness. It’s embarrassing—that I can still cry and that I even care what a stranger thinks of me. His hand falls from my face.

  He says nothing. The cave is silent, and I begin to wonder if he hasn’t left me after all. If I’m alone again. Darkness thickens around me as a deep lethargy pulls at me.

  His voice, when I hear it again, is a faint, faraway whisper. “I’m not going to hurt you. And you’re not going to die.” There’s a long pause before he adds in a voice so distant I’m not sure if it’s him or a figment of my imagination—of the part of me that wants to believe I’m still that fourteen-year-old surrounded by people who give a damn whether she’s okay:

  I won’t let you die.

  * * *

  Conversation between Dr. Wainwright and the United States chief of staff:

  WAINWRIGHT: The suggestion that carriers are organizing to any degree, that they pose a serious threat, is preposterous. They don’t possess the discipline or levelheadedness needed—

  SWITZER: I’m starting to think the same could be said of you and your staff, Wainwright. . . .

  SEVEN

  I’M MOVING.

  The world jars around me like I’m on top of some lumbering beast. I have a flashback to my second-grade trip to the San Antonio zoo, when we still had class trips, before that part of the city became too dangerous to visit, and I got to ride on top of an elephant. It was just me and my best friend, Tori, laughing and screaming as the giant animal walked us in circles, its enormous ears flapping at flies inches from my tennis shoes. I actually feel my lips lift in a smile at the memory. That had been fun. This? Not so much. Not when my body feels like that elephant has stomped all over it. And my shoulder. Oh God. My shoulder feels like blue-hot flames consume it.

  My cheek rests against something firm and warm. My eyes open, and it’s only slightly less dark than the backs of my eyelids.

  The deep fol
d of night wraps around me. An owl hoots nearby. I hold still, trying to gauge precisely where I am. The beat of someone’s heart thuds against my cheek, and I conclude that I’m being carried. Hands clasp me, one at my arm and the other at my thigh. I try to lift my head but end up moaning, the effort too much.

  A voice sounds close to my ear. “Rest. We’re almost there.”

  Where is there?

  I think the question but can’t get the words out. My throat feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. I whimper. Shapes darker than the night are etched against the horizon. Shrubs and trees. The jagged outline of mountains.

  He’s moving quickly. No small feat in the near dark. The moon is just a sliver, softening the air the barest amount. His steps sketch over the ground rapidly, moving over the uneven rises and dips in the landscape like he knows exactly where to place his feet, like he has the terrain memorized . . . or is a part of it.

  Another owl hoots nearby and he stops, holding himself rigidly as he listens. A few moments later the owl hoots again, and he resumes his swift pace.

  I can do nothing but exist. Float through the night. Deadweight in his arms.

  My eyelids sink back shut.

  A voice emerges, softly at first, then louder, clearer, easing through the fog of my mind. Low and velvet smooth, like a wash of something warm going down. Spiced cider or hot chocolate, rolling through me, sinking into my pores, bleeding into my veins.

  “You’re the reason I’m travelin’ on. Don’t think twice, it’s all right. . . .”

  Recognition flares inside me. I know these lyrics. I’ve heard them before. My eyes fight their way open, but only darkness greets me. Gray shadows on top of black night.

  And that voice. It’s there. Everywhere. Swirling, crooning somewhere just above my head. The words rumble up from the chest my cheek rests against.

  The source becomes clear even in my pain-addled state. It’s him. He’s singing. He’s singing to me. His voice is unlike anything I’ve ever heard, and I wonder if this is it. Have I died and gone on to wherever it is I’m supposed to go? I wouldn’t have thought heaven waited for me, not after everything, but there’s nothing in this voice that smacks of brimstone and ash. It’s the complete opposite.

  “Wha—” Speech cracks in my throat, and I try again. “What are you . . . d-doing?”

  He pauses long enough to shush me. Then he starts up again, singing low and deep. My eyes flutter back shut. I fall into the music like a child dropping into the arms of a protector.

  My voice was strong and pure. Before I was a carrier, I was gifted in that way. And he is gifted, too. His voice shines like a ray of light in the darkness and brings me back to myself for a brief moment. Reminds me that I’m alive. That I want to be alive. That life is something I should fight for. I can’t ever let myself stop fighting. His voice, in this moment, gives me all of that.

  The will to live.

  As his lyrics wrap around me, I sink back into the dark, reaching for the music, stretching both hands out, taking that voice with me. The last bit of sunshine in a world without light.

  I wake to a world of sound and pain. Unfortunately, I can’t simply dive back under the blanket of sleep. I wish I could. Wish I could escape the volume, the tiny hammers beating inside my body, fighting to burst out of my skin. No such luck.

  The garbled voices build to an active rumble, separating into distinct words. And there are other sounds as well. The slap of running feet. A sharp clang. Countless small, identifiable noises that alert me to the fact that I’m in a place inhabited by people. It’s not just Boots with me anymore.

  Then the hands that hold me vanish. I’m on a bed, and even though it’s soft and yielding, I whimper, missing that heartbeat against my ear. Cloth tears, an ugly rip. Cool air washes over me and I moan, curling my abused body inward, wanting desperately to ease the inferno raging inside me. More fabric rips, and hands move me. Roll me onto my back. Air crawls over my belly, and I dimly realize that my clothes are being cut off me.

  Normally this would have fired all kinds of alarms to my system, but it seems like a secondary concern now. If even that. Funny how priorities shift. What would have seemed so important before, so critical, doesn’t even register on my panic scale.

  I keep my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep, listening, feeling, assessing what’s happening around me as I push down the fear.

  There are several people in the room. Multiple shoes sound, stepping and scuffing on the floor.

  “She’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “Who is she?” a second male voice demands. Instantly, I don’t like this one. It’s hard with a nasal quality. “Did you blindfold her before bringing her here?”

  Silence meets this. Everything around me seems to go still.

  The ugly voice again. “Damn it, answer me!”

  “Look at her,” Boots finally answers. I recognize the dry response, the velvet, low timbre. I really need to learn his name. “It’s not a concern. She’s in no condition to remember—”

  “It’s my concern!”

  “I’ll take responsibility—”

  “Fat lot of good that does us if she’s an Agency spy and we all end up captured.”

  “You’re overreacting. I found her practically dead.”

  “Did she say anything . . . are there others? Where are—”

  “She hasn’t exactly been a wealth of information.” If I didn’t hurt so much—wasn’t so scared—I might have smiled at his response. In another scenario. Another life.

  That other guy keeps pressing, clearly unhappy to have me here. “Is she what all the commotion is about on the wire? And all that gunfire last night? Some of those other cells out there don’t know their right from their left—”

  “Well, since there’s a bullet buried in her shoulder, I’m guessing yes.” Again, I fight a smile. He’s funny. “She’s lucky to be alive.”

  Hands grip me and roll me onto my stomach. At least my face is out of sight. They don’t know I’m awake yet. Sure fingers probe at my gunshot wound, and a scream tears past my teeth as my chin lurches off the mattress.

  “Well, she’s awake.”

  My eyes flare wide to a room full of bright artificial light. For a moment I’m confused. The place has that overworked, stale smell layered with the requisite aroma of antiseptic, but it’s no hospital. That much I know.

  I can’t hold my head up any longer. The innocuous face of a middle-aged man drops eye level with me where my cheek presses flat to the bed. He wears wire-thin glasses that sit on the middle of his nose.

  “Hello there, I’m Dr. Phelps. We’re going to get you patched up. What’s your name?”

  “Doctor?” I repeat, like I don’t understand the word’s meaning. In a way, I don’t. Last time I checked, I was in the middle of nowhere, sans civilization. How am I suddenly in the care of a doctor?

  “No, your name, my dear,” he prods with a smile, and I realize he’s making a joke. “I’m the doctor.”

  He’s the doctor. This plays over and over in my mind. As in a real doctor. Someone who might help me not die.

  “It’s okay. Doc’s going to take care of you.”

  I lift my head at the familiar voice, searching for and finding Boots. Only he looks more dangerous than I remember. His hair near black. His features more angular. His jaw rigid in the harsh lighting. The room is mostly white, and he stands out starkly against the sterile surroundings. There’s little in his face that matches the voice that sang softly to me as he carried me across the desert. But then he moves closer, placing a palm over my forehead, holding it there with a gentleness that makes something inside me flutter loose.

  “You brought me here,” I say dumbly.

  “I said I’d get you the help you needed.” He flashes me a smile, his features easing, losing some of their harshness. “Now do yourself a favor and get better.” His gaze holds mine, like he can will me to health.

  I feel him leaving me, the warmth of his body de
parting, slipping from me. I grab for him. My fingers meet skin, firm and solid under my fingertips. He has become that familiar thing. Something to hang on to.

  His face lowers close to mine.

  “Shh.” His voice still strikes me as lyrical and deep. Like a low purr. “You’re safe here. You’re in good hands. Better than whoever was helping you before. We’re the best. I won’t let anything happen to you.” I feel myself soften, relax, but I don’t let go. My fingers have a mind of their own, and more strength than I would have thought. Especially when I’m this weak. This hurt and tired.

  His hand squeezes mine back while he places his other broad palm to my forehead again. It’s how a mother would comfort a child. How mine once comforted me. “You can let go.” His voice feathers against my cheek.

  I can let go.

  I believe this. I believe him, for whatever reason. Maybe because it’s just been so long and I need to believe in something. In someone. Or maybe just because I don’t have any other choice. My hand unfurls from his.

  “There you are,” he murmurs approvingly like I’ve done a great thing—as though he understands the leap of faith I just made.

  He bestows a final smile on me and turns away, disappearing from my line of vision. I listen to his steps fade away. My ears strain long after the sound of his tread dies.

  With a pained whimper, I drop my head back to the bed—or gurney, rather. I can see now that I’m laid out in the middle of an exam room.

  Another person walks around me and squats eye level to me. He’s a little older, early twenties, with a serious buzz cut. Only the slightest shadow of hair hugs his scalp. My gaze immediately goes to the imprint on his neck. “I’ve got some questions for you. For starters, your name.” Even if I didn’t recognize his nasal voice, I’d know this is the guy who was talking to Boots earlier—the one unhappy with my arrival. The one I don’t like. I wish Boots had stayed.

  “Davy.” I doubt last names matter here.