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And thanks, as ever, to my family. Their patience and understanding make all this possible.
Finally, I send profound appreciation to all my readers. Your e-mails mean the world to me, so please keep writing. That’s [email protected]
ONE
PUERTO LÓPEZ, ECUADOR
The whole world roared.
One minute, Silas had a bottle of beer in his hand; the next, the cantina roof threatened to crumble down on top of him. Nearby, rubble pinned a waitress to the floor; blood trickled from her mouth. With the ceiling collapsing around him, he levered the wreckage off her and felt for a pulse. Dead. Shit. Falling chunks of cement and plaster forced him to dive for the doorway. He crouched, arms over his head, and willed the framework to hold. He hadn’t escaped from the Foundation—and put several thousand miles between him and their hunters—to die here.
The reel of his life spun into motion, full of sorrow and infinite regret. Things he’d done and wished he hadn’t, all the faces of people he’d hurt. In particular, he could still see the blond woman, Olivia. She’d begged him to kill her, time and again. More than most, she’d gotten into his head—because that was her gift—and her curse. To this day, she still haunted his dreams, and he didn’t know how to make her go away. Maybe he couldn’t. Sometimes he thought it wasn’t even her anymore, but that her thin face personified his guilt.
But to be fair, his dark history had not begun down in the lab. It started years before in a deserted parking garage, where a mugger demanded his wallet, and he’d broken the man’s neck. Without so much as touching him. Nobody had ever been able to explain that death; it remained an open cold case in Michigan to this day. That was when he’d known his difference ran bone deep. He just hadn’t known why until the Foundation took him.
The tremors went on for over five minutes while he sat listening to the screams; cries of pain and horror filled what had been a bright Thursday afternoon. For the first time in months, he’d felt safe, because nobody knew him. He was just another anonymous expat. How ironic.
At last, the shocks stopped. Covered in dust and debris, he staggered into the dirt street of the fishing village. The wreckage humbled him. No matter how strong or powerful you thought you were, Mother Nature delivered a crippling kick in the nuts. Most of the buildings had been constructed of lesser materials, and they lay in ruins. He had been lucky; he’d chosen the cantina for its shady interior, knowing cement and plaster kept the cool air better.
“Por favor,” a woman begged. “Ayúdame!”
It sounded like she was close by. God, he wished his gift had some useful secondary application, but it could be used for only one purpose—and that was why he had chosen to accept five years of abuse in lieu of revealing it to his captors. He could never allow them to learn what he could do. The price was simply too high.
Ignoring the shallow cuts and bruises on his arms, he located the woman by listening to her intermittent calls. A fuckton of rubble had fallen on top of her, and he hesitated to start digging. He might make it worse: unbalance the wreckage and kill her. He’d intentionally gone off the grid, but now that decision carried awful weight. Out here, there was no emergency infrastructure, and no telling how long it would take Ecuadoran authorities to mount any kind of rescue. In all honesty, Puerto López probably wouldn’t rank high on their list. More populated areas required assistance first.
Therefore, this woman had him, and nobody else. As he contemplated that, she wept in tiny choking sobs.
Using the brute strength that accompanied his size, he pulled chunks of cement off the pile and tossed them behind him, careful not to let the load topple inward. It required great patience, but fortunately, life had taught him about timing and waiting for the right opportunity. That permitted him to be methodical: shift this, pull that, don’t let it collapse. He listened to her whimpering breaths; they weakened as he worked.
“No abandone,” he said, knowing his accent was terrible. “Casi soy terminado.”
To his surprise, she responded in English. “You’re American?”
“Yeah. I’m doing what I can for you. Nobody official’s on scene yet.”
She responded, her voice tight with pain, “Thank you.”
Silas spoke of inconsequential things as he dug. He told her how he’d traveled from California to Mexico and meandered south on hot, dirty buses. Sometimes there were boats, but he didn’t like them. Everything he owned had been in the duffel he’d left at his hostel, but it was probably long gone.
At last he uncovered her legs. Blood spattered her dusty skin, but he couldn’t tell how badly she was injured. He might be able to pull her out this way, but he needed more information first.
“Where are you hurt? Upper body or spine? Are your arms or shoulders trapped?”
“No,” she said. “Please, just get me out.”
Brave. All right, then. He curled his hands around her calves and towed her out in increments. Each movement made the wreckage teeter, and he was afraid she’d be crushed before he saved her. It was a hot day, overcast, and dust in the air lingered on his dry lips, coating his tongue. Finally, he dragged her shoulders clear, and then it was quick work. As he lifted her into his arms, the whole pile caved, plaster and cement slamming down to fill the space she’d vacated.
Despite the heat, she trembled in his arms, her taut silence revealing a fear he shared and that she’d kept locked down until now. Though they were strangers, he would’ve hated hearing her die. And if he hadn’t intervened, she would have. That was an odd feeling. For once, he’d done something right. While the world wailed around them, she let him hold her for long moments, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so close to a woman. His tough exterior usually terrified them.
Dark, wild hair spilled to his shoulders, uncut for months. They’d demanded he shave it, so they could monitor the hardware in his head. Back then, he’d also cut his eyelashes off because it made him look strange and stupid, easier to maintain the necessary pretense. Since the escape, his hair had grown back, and he had a scar behind his ear where he’d dug out their chip in a shitty gas station bathroom and prayed against infection. So yeah, he knew how he looked—and most of the time, he didn’t care. Better if people kept their distance.
But she still hadn’t glanced up from his shoulder. He might scare her yet. Cradled against his chest, she seemed small, but then, almost everyone did. Few men could look him in the eyes. He was always conscious of taking up space, pulling his arms and legs in so he didn’t intimidate other people. Not that it worked—most practiced snap judgments.
“I’m better,” she said at last.
He took it as his cue to set her down. “Are you vacationing here?”
“No, I’m with an educational coalition, teaching English. You?”
