Illusive (22 page)

“Whoa,” a voice says, and she whips around. It’s Alan’s voice, but she can’t see him, not in this total darkness.

“Marco,” she says, unsure if he’ll know the right response.

“Polo.” He sounds a little off to her left, maybe five feet away. “I’m getting a feeling of déjà vu. Didn’t we just deal with this last night?”

“Oh, the wonders of the basement,” Ciere says grimly. “You have a lantern this time?”

“No, sorry.” There’s a whisper of cloth and movement, and Ciere abruptly thuds into Alan. “Well, I think I found you. Come on—we can feel our way to my room.” Alan’s hand falls on her shoulder and trails down her arm until his fingers twine around hers. “Come on.”

“Why do I feel like you know this basement better than I do?” Ciere complains in a whisper.

“Because I get the feeling you never come down here.” Alan must have better night vision than she does, because he unerringly guides her down the hall and manages to find his room. She hears the creak of a door, and then abruptly her eyes flood with light. Alan stands before her, lantern in hand. Even its dim light is enough to illuminate the small room. “Eureka.”

She can’t help but laugh. Her mirth boils up and overflows, but there’s a hysterical edge to it, and again she’s not really sure
why
she’s laughing—she only knows that she heard Kit talk about killing a fed, and she’s standing in the basement with a guy who’s supposed to be dead and—

Her laughter dissolves into a hiccup and she realizes there are tears in her eyes. “Sorry,” she chokes out, and turns her back on Alan. Pressing her hand into her eyes helps to hold back the gathering tears. She has to hold it together.

“I’m sorry,” says Alan.

Ciere turns to face him again. “Sorry?”

“About this—about all of this.” Alan pushes a hand through his inky black hair. “I know you weren’t looking for a person… when you found me. You didn’t have to take me in.”

“It’s not your fault,” she says.

Alan seems to go far away for a moment. He shivers, as if trying to shake something off. “It’s not yours, either.”

“Yeah, it is.” It’s the first time she’s admitted this to him, and she feels ashamed. “I was, well, I was looking for the Praevenir formula. Just like the feds, just like everyone else, apparently. I’m kind of in trouble with a mobster. I thought I could sell the formula to him and save my own ass.” The skin beneath her bracelet itches. She wants a shower; she feels sweaty and dirty and wants to scrub herself clean of this whole situation. “It’s my fault. I went off on my own because I was afraid.”

She keeps looking at the floor, unsure if she wants to see Alan’s reaction. He’s been so nice to her, so trusting, and she hates to admit that she never came looking for him out of any pure motive. She wasn’t in this to save anyone. She was in it for the money. She swallows, and opens her mouth to speak, but her voice dies away. Something pricks at her, something out of place.

There’s a sound. Not her. Not Alan. Not a voice at all. It sounds like metal—grinding metal. Squeaking and rubbing and protesting.

Alan carefully sets the lantern on the concrete floor. Cold dread trickles down her spine, and she brings a finger to her lips.

She moves to the door and pauses, hand on the frame, peering into the shadows. The silence swallows up her quick breaths and she finds herself hesitant to step into the hallway.
The lantern’s light only goes so far, and if she moves forward, she’ll be in the dark again.

She takes a slow step forward, edging into the dark hallway. Alan follows, and she can feel his warmth at her back, giving her some comfort.

A metal chair swings out of nowhere, slamming into Alan. He staggers and falls backward through the doorway to his room. He hits the cement floor with a sickening thud.

A figure stands in the hallway, and he grasps the door, yanking it shut and jamming that folding chair underneath the doorknob, effectively trapping Alan inside. When the figure twists, Ciere manages to make out the clean-cut features and wrinkled suit.

She opens her mouth to scream, but Carson’s arm wraps around her throat and effectively silences her.

T
he gardens outside of Homeland Security have probably seen a lot of covert meetings. But none like this.
A UAI agent, an FBI agent, and a criminal walk into a garden
, Daniel thinks. It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. They stand next to a large fountain, surrounded by classical statues, and the rhythmic thrum of the water drowns out the chance of being overheard.

“Do it again,” says Aristeus. He crosses his arms and leans against a statue of a headless naked woman.

The sun beats down on Daniel. He’s wearing one of Aristeus’s shirts; it’s too long in the sleeves and a little tight around the chest. The cotton clings to his hot, damp skin and he scratches at it irritably. If only covert meetings could take place in nice air-conditioned rooms.

“I told you,” Gervais says, “I’ve called him. Repeatedly. He’s not picking up.”

“And I told you,” Aristeus says, deadly calm, “that my team found absolutely no sign of him. There is no evidence to support he’s been kidnapped or killed.”

Daniel watches the confrontation with a vague sense of detachment. It’s nice not to be at the center of things for once.

Gervais flushes. “He must be following a lead.”

“Then why isn’t he picking up his phone?”

Really,
Daniel thinks.
It’s like a verbal Ping-Pong match.
All he needs is a bag of popcorn.

Gervais edges closer to Aristeus. He’s broader and more muscular, even if he is a fair bit older. He could probably take down the younger man in a fair fight. If Aristeus ever fought fair.

“The car he took from the Endicott PD is missing, too,” says Aristeus. “We should just call the police and get them to activate the car’s GPS system. It would take a minute—thirty seconds to call and thirty for them to track Carson.”

“We can’t do that.” Gervais flushes. “If we call, then there will be a record saying we don’t know where Carson is.”

“Isn’t that the whole point? We don’t know where he is!”

“There’d be an investigation,” says Gervais. He’s obviously making an effort to keep his voice level. “Internal Affairs
would love to pounce on Carson. We’re already on the brink with the Bureau because they think we let one immune criminal escape. Which is completely unfounded. If you go get a warrant to track his car or even report this, it’ll be the end of Carson’s career.”

“Of course,” says Aristeus evenly. “But why does this affect me?”

“Because Carson is part of your team! If he’s pursuing a lead, it’s in your best interest to let it play out! What if he finds something?”

Daniel heaves a sigh. He has a feeling that, if he doesn’t intervene, someone’s going to lose an eye. “Maybe he lost his phone.”

Gervais shakes his head. “Carson sometimes leaves his phone in his car, but never for over twelve hours and never when he’s on duty. Either he’s working or…”

“Or something’s happened to him,” Aristeus says flatly. “Either way, we need to know.”

Gervais turns his back on Aristeus and stares into the fountain. His fists clench and relax. “I never should’ve let you put him in charge of that stakeout. It was too dangerous. I should’ve—” He cuts off. “Three hours. Just give me three more hours before we report his disappearance.”

“Fine,” Aristeus says. He is already picking up his briefcase. “I’ll give you that. But this investigation is too important
to protect the career of one agent. If he doesn’t get in touch by then, it’s on his head. Come along, Daniel,” he adds.

So much for being part of the scenery. Daniel reluctantly follows Aristeus through the garden, glancing over his shoulder one last time. Gervais has his phone pressed to his ear again, his foot tapping the ground and his eyes closed.

Daniel almost feels sorry for him.

Almost.

Okay, not really.

Aristeus sets a hard pace out of the gardens, and Daniel has to scramble to keep up. “I’m guessing no one’s found any clues about the formula in all that stuff we took from Endicott,” says Daniel. It’s not difficult to deduce, since Aristeus looks ready to strangle someone.

“No,” Aristeus says curtly.

“If we find the formula,” Daniel muses, “the feds could create more immune. Forget elite little subdepartments like the UAI—there’ll be whole armies of freaks like us.” It’s a slightly terrifying thought; Daniel can’t imagine thousands more like himself.

“If we find the formula,” Aristeus says darkly, “then the United States will be the first country to manufacture human beings as weapons.”

T
he first thing Ciere registers is the heat. The presence of a warm body pressed up against her hips and legs. She is so close to Carson that she can feel the coiling tension in his muscles, the bite of a belt buckle, and the rise and fall of his chest. His heart
thudthudthud
s somewhere behind her own.

His arm is the second sensation she notices. The thick muscles of his bicep and forearm catch her throat like a vise. When he flexes those muscles, the world swims and goes gray at the edges. Her heart migrates to her temples. Each beat becomes painful, and she’s going to black out. The arm abruptly slackens. It’s not enough to free her, but it does allow the blood to rush to her head again. She’s limp and useless, held up only by the grip this man has on her throat and waist.

She doesn’t realize that he’s moving until her feet hit the
bottom step. He drags her upward, taking the stairs to Kit’s room. He must have already scoped out the basement and realized that this is the only way out.

The flight is difficult; her legs feel oddly numb and unresponsive, but Carson is strong enough to haul her up.

It’s a mistake. The moment her legs are free of the floor, she kicks out at him.

It’s a dangerous move—they’re halfway up a tall staircase, and if he falls, she will fall, too. But she cannot simply allow herself to be taken prisoner. It’s not so much an act of will as an instinctive response. Her urge to dislodge this man’s grip is as primal a need as breathing.

Carson lets out a low grunt as her heel connects with his shin. He is unsteady, unable to continue up the stairs while trying to wrestle with her. She flings out an elbow and she feels the impact on his ribs. Another pained sound slips out from between his teeth.

Belatedly, Ciere realizes that the same adrenaline that is allowing her to thrash and struggle must be running through Carson, as well. He is probably pumped full of the stuff; his own pain is an afterthought.

“Stop it,” Carson growls, and he takes hold of her hair, yanking her head back in exactly the same way Kit did to him. It hurts; her neck isn’t meant to be bent at this angle, and she realizes how easy it would be for a bone to crack, for her
windpipe to be crushed. With her throat so exposed, she is an easy target.

His arm tightens, his elbow squeezing relentlessly until she cannot fight back. He releases her throat before consciousness slips away.

Then they are in the walk-in closet, and the light is blinding. Ciere blinks hard, the sunlight stinging her eyes, while Carson drags her through the door. They pass through Kit’s room, and there are more stairs—down this time. Belatedly, Ciere realizes they’re moving toward the kitchen, where Carson can slip out through the backyard.

Abruptly, Carson stops walking. Ciere’s eyes roll up, trying to see what has brought their mad flight to a halt. A figure stands in the hallway. Tall and leanly muscled, with dark hair.

“Get out of my way.” Carson’s voice rumbles.

Magnus says, “Let her go.”

“Screw that.” Carson shifts his grip on Ciere, twists her head even farther to one side. “Let me out of this house and I don’t break her neck.”

“Let her go now, and I won’t stop you from leaving,” Magnus replies. His voice is still mild, still calm.

“I swear to God,” Carson snarls, “if you don’t let me past—”

Magnus pulls something out of his belt. It’s Carson’s gun,
the one Kit took from him. Magnus holds it with ease, like it’s an old friend rather than a deadly weapon.

“Don’t move,” Magnus says quietly.

Ciere makes a noise in her throat, but Carson’s grip keeps it from reaching her lips. She wants to tell Magnus to put the gun down, to let Carson past, because there is no way that Magnus can make that shot without hitting her. He must realize it, too. She is twined around Carson, a human shield between him and any forward threats.

Any forward threats.

Ciere sucks in a ragged breath. Magnus isn’t here to save Ciere. As they stand in this narrow hallway, staring at one another, Carson has left his back wide open.

Magnus is the distraction.

Carson must realize this, as well. He spins around, and Ciere goes with him, her legs hitting the wall. She sees him then—Kit, creeping up behind Carson. Carson lets out a wordless snarl and strikes with his left hand. At first, it looks like a ridiculous move—even Ciere can see that his fist will not connect with Kit’s face. But she sees the glitter of silver and the handcuff still encircling Carson’s wrist. The edges are sharp and rough, as if Carson worked them until the metal twisted and broke.

Kit barely manages to dodge the blow; the metal whispers past his left cheek, inches from his eye.

Ciere recognizes the strategy—it’s an old trick that Daniel taught her, one used if criminals escape with their handcuffs intact. Using cuffs to go after someone’s eyes is a desperate, but sometimes effective, move. It’s a patently crooked strategy, one that no one would expect from a fed.

Kit raises an arm to protect his eyes and Carson throws a punch at Kit’s exposed torso. It’s probably bad luck or maybe an instinct on Carson’s part, but when the agent hits him, Kit takes the blow on his right side—just above his bullet wound.

Kit’s eyes roll up, and his whole body curls in on itself. In that moment, Carson whirls, and Ciere is being propelled forward. She’s flying, hurtling toward Magnus, and she barely catches the panicked, wide look in his eyes before she crashes into him.

She hits Magnus hard and staggers, her wobbly legs crumpling beneath her. Her knees hitting the hardwood floor produces an electric shock of pain, and she barely hears the sound of Magnus crashing into the wall.

The gun goes off.

The world is nothing but noise. Noise and pain. Noise and pain and the scent of smoke. She expects to feel a bullet ripping through her, but the impact never comes. When she manages to crack her eyes open, she sees the pistol on the floor, its tip pointed at the wall. There is a smoking hole opposite its barrel a mere three feet from where Ciere sprawls.

She doesn’t have time to register the shock, because her
hearing is returning, and with it comes the sound of another struggle. Fists hitting flesh—a grunt—someone being slammed into the floor.

Ciere sits up, instinctively scooting back until she sees Carson wrap his arm around Magnus’s throat. A scream hovers on her lips. She wants to conjure an illusion, but she’s paralyzed. Carson begins dragging Magnus down the hall. Toward the kitchen and the back door. Toward freedom and out of sight.

Kit swears loudly and snatches up the gun. She sees a flash of red on his shirt—his wound must have reopened—before he sprints around a corner.

Ciere’s fingers clench, and she forces herself to stand. Her throat still burns, a steady fire on the back of her tongue. When she wobbles out of the hallway, she sees that Kit has confronted Carson.

Carson stands in the kitchen, directly behind the bar. His arm is around Magnus’s throat, and he has one of Magnus’s arms drawn tight, the joint held at a painful angle.

Kit stands on the opposite side of the bar, the gun trained on Carson. Ciere waits for him to pull the trigger, to end this standoff, but Kit doesn’t move. His mouth is so tight that he doesn’t look capable of speech, but his eyes say everything.

When he manages to speak, the words are clipped and his voice raw. “Release him or I drop you.”

Any sane person would be trembling at Kit’s tone, but Carson smiles. It’s a jittery little smile, edged with adrenaline and triumph. “No, you won’t.”

Kit’s finger twitches toward the trigger.

Carson doesn’t so much as blink. “All right, go ahead. Do it.” Ciere can’t understand why he sounds so confident. He is one trigger-pull away from a quick death, and he must know it.

“You can kill me,” Carson continues. “Go ahead. But you know you won’t.” He gives Magnus a shake. “He’s a mentalist. I know what they can do—I know how touch affects them. He’ll feel it. He’ll feel the bullet rip into my skull.” He laughs. “People don’t experience that kind of trauma and come out whole. But, hey, you’ll all be safe, right? What’s one man’s sanity in exchange for your lives?” When he looks at Kit, all the humor vanishes from his face. “Put the gun on the counter.”

Kit doesn’t move.

Carson’s arm tightens around Magnus’s throat, and Magnus makes a soft choking noise; he strains backward, as if to try to relieve some of the pressure.

Kit’s lips finally move: “Ciere, get out.” The words are barely an exhalation of breath, so quiet that there’s no way Carson will hear.

She stares at Kit, uncomprehending. His mouth twitches, and she can make out the words: “Get out.” She takes one step
backward, prepared to run if necessary. He must be planning something.

Kit lowers the gun. Keeping every movement slow and deliberate, he sets the pistol on the counter.

“Now slide it over to me,” Carson says.

Now
, Ciere thinks. This is when Kit’s brilliant plan will happen—

Kit gives the pistol a push and it skitters over the counter, coming to a halt directly in front of Carson.

—Or maybe his brilliant plan is to surrender.

Ciere’s confidence ebbs away as she gapes at Kit, who is now empty-handed and holding both palms out.

“I walk out of here with him,” Carson tells Kit. “I’ll let him go once I’m at my car.”

They can’t let Carson go. They can’t. He knows about Alan.

Ciere flexes her fingers and tries to take a steadying breath. They can’t let Carson walk out of here. She can’t let it happen. If she can illusion herself, maybe she can get the jump on Carson. There’s got to be something in the kitchen she can hurt him with. Her whole body seizes at the thought of using a weapon on Carson, but she can’t just stand here. She sets her jaw and begins drawing on her immunity, coloring her skin to match the white of the walls.

But before she can move, Carson releases his grip on Magnus’s elbow and goes for the gun.

Magnus’s whole body arches upward, bucking like a startled horse, and without his two-handed hold on him, Carson can’t prevent Magnus from lunging forward.

Without so much as blinking, Magnus flings an arm out, his fingers spread wide and grasping for the only other weapon in the kitchen: the knife still embedded in the cutting board. The one Kit threw there, just to prove a point.

Magnus’s fingers close around the hilt. The knife comes free, and the cutting board clatters to the floor. Carson lets out a wordless snarl of rage and swings the gun around.

But Magnus twists, and, before any of them can react, he drives the knife through the FBI agent’s throat.