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Kestrel’s weakness offered their one saving grace. Sometimes he even planned for it and orchestrated a simultaneous firing of abilities among his agents to overwhelm her, so she couldn’t track any of them. Unfortunately for Finch, he hadn’t been able to coordinate anything on such short notice, so he’d been stuck, waiting and hoping. This was unexpectedly good news.
“Lie low for a while. I’m going to see what I can find out about what’s going on in their organization.”
“Roger that. No powers. I’m on vacation in Mexico.”
“Enjoy the sun.”
This part he loved. He didn’t need the keyboard. Instead, he thought about the information he wanted and it filled the screens around him. Which was why he always knew more about the Foundation activities than they did. If he didn’t work in a protected room, Kestrel would find him in a heartbeat. As it stood, she didn’t know where he was, and he preferred to keep it that way. But he had to be careful. Unlike most hackers, since he used his brain, he was susceptible to viruses that translated as physical ailments. It had taken him years to devise firewalls for his mind, and they were still imperfect.
“Shit,” he said.
Mockingbird read the lines a second time. Ecuador. According to the other data, that had to mean they were going after Silas after all, the sneaky bastard. He must’ve saved Finch’s ass, firing up . . . whatever he can do. All the more reason to get Tanager to him quickly.
He memorized the coordinates Kestrel had sent to the extraction team, and then said, “Call Tanager.” The computer complied, and in a moment, he heard Tanager’s voice.
“This better be good. I just arrived in Puerto López.”
“How? The region’s unstable.”
“I . . . persuaded a pilot to land a small plane nearby. Military base.”
That was Tanager, all right. She could convince her mark to do damn near anything, even if it was stupid, dangerous, or completely counter to his best interests. She was a great asset in the field.
“I know where your target is. Or at least where the strike team’s headed. You ready?”
“Always,” she said.
Mockingbird gave coordinates. Tanager scrawled the location; he heard the pen scratching on paper. “I’ll find someone to take me. Thanks for the info.”
“That’s my job.”
TEN
Silas roused early, a habit born of living so long on someone else’s timetable. He heard nothing now but the lap of the waves and the cry of seabirds. But something hid in that silence. A noise had woken him, but the sunrise kept its counsel. Still, his nerves prickled. Gently, he set Juneau away from him.
God, she was beautiful, but he didn’t linger. He couldn’t let her soft skin or pretty hair distract him. Something wasn’t right.
He crept outside and pulled his clothes off the line. Fortunately, they were dry and permitted him to dress quickly in the half-light. Cocking his head, he listened again. Then he heard them. Footsteps. They were trying to be quiet, but rocks covered the path leading down from the road, and it was impossible not to make some noise. Lots of men, incoming. He snatched her shorts and tank top, and retreated, trying to think, to plan.
It has to be the Foundation. They know, somehow. Though it sounded paranoid, he didn’t doubt his instincts, even if he didn’t understand why or how. They’d take him and kill her because of what she knew, what she’d seen. That, he could never allow. He’d promised to protect her, and he would—whatever the cost.
“Juneau,” he whispered. “Wake up. I need you to hide for me. There’s going to be a fight.”
She didn’t wake up groggy, unlike most people. By the time she got her feet on the floor, she was already stepping into her shorts, eyes gummy but alert. She didn’t even ask him any questions as she pulled the shirt over her head. Instead she cupped his face in her hands, laid a firm kiss on him, and said, “Be careful.”
Silas caught glimpses of them as they surrounded the house, geared in black, wearing bulletproof vests and carrying tranq guns. He surprised the first one at the patio door, but he silenced any outcry with a gesture, cutting off his oxygen. Agony flared, though this couldn’t kill him; it just made him wish he were dead. Blood vessels popped in his own eyes, sending jags of pain tearing through his skull.
He stayed away from inflicting wounds for a reason. Unlike other applications of his power, cutting people made him bleed as well. Though he could, in theory, skin someone alive, he’d take too much damage to walk away. Therefore, choking and broken bones offered the best solution, pain without actual injury.
The curse connected him with his victim, making Silas part of the hunter’s skin and bone. He felt each thrash, each spasm; it wasn’t empathy or telepathy, nothing so kind or clean. No, it was a death bond. When the other man breathed his last, the resultant reverb nearly knocked him on h
is ass.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
If there were a lot of them, the mental echo might knock him out. No. That can’t happen. If they took him, they’d terminate Juneau, and they’d never stop until they perfected his ability for use in black ops. Imagining a whole squadron of men killing in silence, without remorse, sent a cold chill through him. He just had to thresh through them, however many there were. He’d been fighting ever since he first discovered what he could do, fighting against what he might become.
Not anymore. He’d already killed to protect her. He’d do it again and again, however many times they required it of him.
