CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
With each passing hour, he cared more for Lara, and the ticking of the invisible bomb he imagined was attached to her head grew more deafening with every blackout she had. It was now Monday mid-morning, three days after their night at Moe’s. At Caleb’s summons, Damion and Lara entered the War Room, both dressed in black fatigues, which Lara had called “dressing for success.” They were looking for a battle, and she not only intended to find it, she intended to be ready to fight.
And since they’d yet to have a hit off Houston’s sketches they’d circulated through the government systems, they were both hoping to find out that had changed. Every other lead they’d worked had failed to produce any sign of Powell. It was all Damion could do not to live up to his words and tie Lara to the bed, and well—screw the brain wave testing she still refused—he’d jump right to the blood bond.
Caleb, Michael, and Sterling waited for them in the conference room. Damion quickly noted the sliding panel that hid a wall of six big-screen televisions had been opened. Damion and Lara settled down side by side at the table. “Tell us you have something we want to see.”
Sterling rolled to a keyboard beneath the wall of televisions and keyed one of them to life. An image of what looked like a medical facility appeared.
“That’s the Serenity laboratories,” Lara said quickly.
“Right,” Michael said, his long raven hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. “There was something about the clean way the facility was left that bothered me. We searched for a connecting facility, but if it was there, we couldn’t find it. Still, something bothered me.”
“So we set up satellite surveillance,” Sterling added. “A ten-mile radius in all directions, but the feed consisted of a few wild animals and some birds.”
“So we decided to expand the radius five extra miles,” Caleb said, leaning back in his chair.
“And lookie lookie what we got,” Sterling said, and punched another few keys that brought a new monitor to life, showing what appeared to be cars and people at the foothills of a mountain range.
“You think it’s Powell?” Lara asked, grabbing Damion’s hand under the table.
Sterling brought what looked like an architectural blueprint of the inner caverns of several connected mountain ranges on yet another monitor that seemed to be linked by underground tunnels. “There’s a straight path from the area of activity on the satellite images to the deserted lab. And you, Lara, would never have known that this path existed if Powell didn’t want you to. It could easily be concealed just as the entrance to Sunrise City is.”
“I’m taking a team in to run recon tonight,” Michael said.
“I want to go,” Lara said.
“Not until we know what we’re dealing with,” Damion said. “Not yet, Lara.”
“We don’t have time to waste,” she said. “I don’t have time to waste.”
“Which is why we need to know what we are dealing with and have a plan when we attack.”
“He’s right,” Caleb said. “Not yet, Lara. A few hours could be the difference between success and disaster.”
Lara turned to him, the desperation in her black eyes burning into him. “I have to do this. I have to go.”
“Turn on the television,” Cassandra yelled, rushing into the room with her open lab coat flapping behind her. “Quickly. Turn on the news.”
Sterling quickly did as she ordered, bringing a different station to life on every television. “Screen three,” Cassandra said, stopping beside Michael, who was on his feet now.
Sterling brought the sound to the screen, and the mid-thirties, female newscaster’s voice filled the room.
“The former top-ranking CIA official promises to expose the dirty little secrets of the agency that have kept him underground for a year now, and running for his life. The press conference scheduled at two o’clock tomorrow will be only a few miles from the CIA’s Langley, Virginia, corporate office at the municipal building. That’s what I call a statement, folks. This man is not only talking and talking big. He’s doing it on the bear’s doorstep.”
The screen flashed with a series of images of a man in his late forties with gray hair and a scar down his cheek—walking to his car, shoving through a crowd on another occasion, and standing behind a desk.
Lara was on her feet the instant the first image was shown. “Oh God. That’s Skywalker.” Damion was behind her, pulling her close. She was shaking all over. “Skywalker.” Her hands went to her head, and she let out a blood-curdling scream, a second before her legs went limp, and she went silent.
Voices sounded around him, worry for Lara. Damion caught her against him, fear ripping through him. He’d waited too long. He was going to lose her. “Lara! Lara!” He turned her in his arms, only to have her fall limp and unmoving against his chest. He went to the floor with her, his back against the wall, her body curled against his, as he checked for a pulse. In some far corner of his mind, he heard Cassandra screaming for Kelly, heard Caleb saying something.
Her pulse was faint, and suddenly she started to jerk. That was it. Damion didn’t think—he wasn’t losing Lara, he refused to lose her—and in a split second, he had his knife out of his boot. Another second and his palm, and then hers, were sliced open. He pressed the two wounds together and prayed. Please, please, please, let her live. Let her be okay.
The pain, God, the pain in her head, and the darkness. She was cold—so very cold. Somewhere in the distance Beatles music was playing. Where was the music coming from? She shook her head, tried to focus. Music. Right. Wait. She knew where she was. The music was coming from the nearby restaurant and bar. She could feel the cold breeze coming off the wintery Virginia Beach water.
Lara huddled behind a Dumpster—still cold—so cold and so scared. She wanted to be back at the girls’ shelter. She wanted to be warm and safe. And the pain in her head. So much pain and blackness… nothing but black empty space. Until… wait. She was back—she was at the Dumpster, and the pimp had run away—the big man squatting down in front of her had scared him away. She blinked the stranger into focus, the streetlight brushing his high cheekbones, emphasizing the scar, and illuminating the lines around his eyes.
“You’re lucky an old Beatles-loving Spook like me came along when I did,” he said. “What are you doing out here alone?”
His face was hard, his voice steel. And he was at least her stepfather’s age—late forties, maybe fifty. Yet he was nothing like her stepfather. This man felt… safe, like the great warrior she sometimes dreamed of protecting her. “I… I ran when he came after me. I’ve been hiding. I was… thank you.”
“Running is good,” he said. “But next time, you run into a public place and scream at the top of your lungs.” He ran big hands over his jeans. “Why don’t we go inside where it’s warm and call your parents?”
She opened her mouth to explain and shut it, not sure what to say. He narrowed his gaze. “How long have you been on the streets?”
Lara hesitated, considering a lie, but discarding the idea. This man would know if she lied. “A while now,” she settled for.
“You ran away because someone at home was hurting you.”
She hugged herself and gave a quick nod. “Yes.”
He studied her for a moment. “What’s your name?”
“Misty,” she said, and this time she lied. She wasn’t giving him a way to trace her back to her parents.
“Funny,” he said sternly. “You don’t look like a Misty.”
Feeling like a doe caught in headlights, her heart raced, and she blurted, “Lara. I’m Lara.”
“I’m Luke,” he said, offering her his hand. “Friends call me ‘Skywalker’ just to piss me off.”
She shook his hand, and he added, “I’m retired law enforcement, Lara. Do private hire now, but I’ve got lots of friends who can take good care of you.” He stood up, using her hand to pull her with him.
“I’m not going back there,” she said, the defeat of moments before turned back into fight. Her voice lifted, panic balling in her stomach. “I can’t go back there. I won’t.” She didn’t know if he knew where she was talking about, and she didn’t care. He just needed to understand. She wasn’t going back. She wouldn’t let him take her back.
Another long moment of contemplation, and then he surprised her by saying, “How long has it been since you had a good meal?”
Her stomach rumbled with the mention of food. “I’ve eaten,” she said defensively, afraid he was making a case to send her home.
“Well, I haven’t,” he said. “Not for at least a couple hours, that is. How about we walk down to the diner on 21st Street and fill our stomachs? My treat. You can tell me your story, and I’ll tell you mine.”
She hesitated, knowing she should refuse, but a good meal tempted her resolve. Not that she thought this man would let her refuse anyway. Whatever her destiny, somehow he’d stepped in to play a part. “I… okay.”
“Good,” he said approvingly, and motioned her onward. Side by side, they started walking, and he added, “Ever been to V’s Diner?”
“No,” she said. She’d eaten what the shelter gave her, nothing more. Every last bite of it and always wanted more.
“Mama V owns the place,” he said. “She keeps the place hot like a sauna. You’ll get warm and then some there. Good food though. ’Course, Mama has a mouth on her. Screams across the diner, like we all want to know whose order is up. I keep telling her, one day I’m going to pull my gun on her to shut her up.”
Lara stopped in her footsteps. “You are?”
“Of course not,” he chuckled, tugging her forward. “Mama V is ornery enough to shoot me with it.”
Lara blinked and then laughed—laughter that would forever change her life.
A screech filled her head—pain, make it stop! Make it stop! Light flashed in her eyes, blasting her from the darkness. Suddenly, Skywalker’s shout ripped through the air, and she was back in the hallway staring at photos on the wall, ready to deliver cookies.
“Run, Lara!”
Adrenaline shot through her veins, and she reacted instantly, doing exactly as he said. She ran. To the cabinet, to grab a gun. She was trained to fight. She wasn’t leaving Skywalker. She wasn’t losing Skywalker.
She fumbled with the cabinet and yanked it open, securing the Beretta PX4. The sounds of a struggle pounded out against walls and floors somewhere on the upper level, and she took comfort in the cold steel beneath her palm. She whirled around, ready to fly up those stairs, when the weapon was ripped from her hand. A woman stood there, dressed all in black, long red hair braided down her back.
“Nice to meet you, sweetheart,” she said. “Name’s Sabrina, and we’re going to be real good friends, you and I.” A smile lifted her lips. “Once Skywalker is out of the way.”
Anger exploded inside Lara, and she attacked, calling on the training Skywalker had drilled into her the last ten years. Kick, block, kick—all sidestepped and dodged as if Lara were an amateur, batting at a fly. The next thing Lara knew, the woman seemed to move at the speed of light, shackling Lara’s arm, jerking a big glob of her hair and holding on. Then Lara was being painfully forced in front of the other woman and up the stairs—pushed with the force of a steamroller.
Fiercely, Lara fought, to no avail. The woman was taller than Lara’s five-foot-five by several inches and outweighed her 118 by a good ten pounds. But she was also stronger than she was big. Abnormally strong. Insanely strong. Inhumanly strong. A crazy thought, but one hard to shake as Lara struggled against the attacker shoving her up those stairs.
No matter how she moved or twisted, nothing worked. She’d gladly lose her hair if it meant freedom, but she wasn’t getting away from this woman without losing her arm—not an option.
Approaching the landing, Lara kicked her foot backward and tripped the woman. Unfortunately, they both tumbled forward, with Lara on the bottom. And since she didn’t have control of one of her arms, she smashed hard onto the wood floor.
Her attacker leaned close, near her ear. “We don’t want to mess up your pretty face just yet, so behave.” Lara’s head was jerked back, as her attacker yanked her up by the hair at her scalp, lifting Lara to her feet and shoving her toward the surveillance room.
It was then that her heart stopped beating, then that she saw Skywalker face down on the floor, unmoving. And then that she saw another woman, a blonde dressed in black like the redhead, standing above him. The Beretta flew through the air, and everything went into slow motion.
“Kill him,” the redhead ordered, and suddenly Lara knew who she was.
Lara screamed as the blonde caught the weapon, aimed at Skywalker, and fired.
The memory replayed with painful clarity, right down to the moment when Skywalker had been shot. Lara gasped and sat up. “Skywalker.” Her eyes settled on Damion.
“Lara.” His hand slid to her face. “Lara. Are you okay?”
Her hands went to his, and she struggled to grasp what was happening. “Damion?”
“Yeah, baby,” he said. “You scared the hell out of me.”
There were other voices in the room too, but she couldn’t make them out, not in the whirlwind of past and present washing over her. All of a sudden, everything inside her crumbled into one big puddle of emotion. “I remember everything. I’m Lara Martin. I ran a girls’ shelter where I’d once stayed myself, but Skywalker found me and took me in. He’s dead, Damion. Powell had him killed to get to me. He died because of me.” She burst into tears, a storm like she’d never known before, shaking from head to toe, and clinging to Damion, the strength of him all that kept her whole. It hurt. It hurt so badly to know she’d caused his death. Everything faded into that hurt, time fading away. All the while, Damion murmured near her ear, stroked her hair, her arms, her back. It was his voice, his comfort that finally calmed her, that finally eased the hurt.
She swiped at the wet mess that was her face and leaned back, remotely aware now that they were on the floor of the conference room. “Thank you. I’m okay. I…”
A biting pain in her hand had her gaze dropping to her palm, and for an instant, her heart stopped. There was a cut on her hand already healing from her GTECH metabolism, blood oozing from the seams.
Her gaze riveted to Damion’s face. “What did you do?”
“I love you, Lara,” he said. “I love you, and I couldn’t let you die. And you were dying.”
Anger, fear, and panic rushed over her. She had to go after Powell and Sabrina, even if it meant she died doing it, and now… now he would die if she died. Her fingers curled around his shirt. “I can’t believe you did this. I can’t believe you did this without my permission. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”