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  Dr. Whitehouse had something personal against Vick Corren. And I had to save her from it, whatever it was.

  “You want me to make progress.” I knew he did. His pride in the Fighting Storm was beacon-clear. “Don’t sedate her, not unless her life depends on it. Restrain her if you have to, but leave her conscious. Now,” I said, stopping my wanderings to stand beside him, “let’s wake her up.”

  I DIDN’T think my headache could get any worse, but when Vick regained full consciousness, I realized I was wrong. I fought to keep my eyes open and place one foot in front of the other. Every sound screamed, every light glared, and my vision narrowed to a tunnel before me.

  “You should have let us put her in binders before we woke her,” Whitehouse said from my right.

  “I don’t want her seeing me as the enemy.”

  “She already does.”

  We stopped outside the one-way glass.

  “You signed a waiver as part of your contract,” Whitehouse reminded me.

  In other words, once I stepped inside Vick’s space, I was on my own.

  Nice.

  Vick paced the room, darting furtive glances at the mirror. She knew we watched, or suspected it strongly. Her face bore as many scratches as her arms and back, along with bruises and swellings. I saw signs of attractiveness beneath: rich brown eyes—though her file said these were manufactured to replace the ones damaged from the inside out by bullets—sharp, well-defined cheekbones. But the injuries would take weeks to heal. A wave of despair rolled off her, adding to the pounding in my head.

  Earlier I only had eyes for Vick. Now I studied the walls, noting the indentations and sporadic streaks of blood.

  I pressed my palms against the glass, half an effort to remain upright, half in response to my urgency to get in there. If I thought it would speed things up, I would have broken the barrier to reach her and begin easing her pain and mine.

  “How many times has she tried to kill herself?”

  Dr. Whitehouse blinked, then settled himself. “Three. The implants prevent her from doing fatal damage.”

  Even awake she had no real control over her life.

  I walked to the room’s entry. Whitehouse reached over my shoulder and pressed his palm against the lock. Within the door, gears whirred and grated. It slid open, and I was amazed at its thickness—three inches of steel.

  They did not want her getting out.

  I was three steps in and the door sealed behind me with a hiss-thud. Vick retreated to the far side, shoulders hunched, muscles tense, a drape of hair hiding her expression. In the swirling miasma of her emotions, I had no clue what reigned first and foremost.

  Four steps into the room. Five.

  I never made it to six.

  She charged me headfirst, knocking me flat on my back and forcing the air from my lungs. Bits of broken furniture gouged my skin. My skull hit the tile. I had no breath to scream, and my struggling had no effect; she was too strong. I tried to say something reassuring, anything to calm her down, but I couldn’t speak.

  There was no sense of urgency, no panic from outside the room. No help would come.

  Hands wrapped around my throat, skin-to-skin contact. Every sensation I got from her multiplied tenfold, like we shared a single body.

  Vick froze.

  Her eyes flew wide as mine closed.

  Training and instinct took over, replacing my panic. I opened a conduit between my emotions and hers, letting her feel my fear, my sympathy, my desire to help. It was hard, almost impossible, because the communication had run both ways, and the force of her trauma nearly knocked me unconscious.

  I was a pathway, an escape route, a lifeline. And with our brainwave patterns so close, the path ran clearer than any I’d formed before.

  All the tension fled her. She released my neck. Her forehead sagged to rest on mine. Warm tears bathed my cheeks. She trembled, wracked by sobs. My arms went around her, and I tugged her gently downward. Her head tucked under my chin.

  Beneath the more aggressive emotions, some of the weaker ones peeked through: gratitude and humiliation.

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” I managed, though I was still winded. I stroked her hair as a mother would a child’s. Disappointment joined embarrassment—disappointment in herself. She had let someone down, and she hated herself for it. “Let it go. Let it all go.”

  Indignation rose up—she was a soldier after all—but it carried no force. “I don’t cry,” she informed me, voice hoarse and raw. I wondered if that came from screaming or disuse. She didn’t raise her head. I didn’t think she could.

  I couldn’t imagine more telling first words.

  “You do with me.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” The last of her defenses shattered like a physical wall collapsing.

  “A friend.”

  We stayed there, lying like that, for a very long time.

  Chapter 3: Vick — Role Reversal

  Two and a half years later….

  I AM an idiot.

  Jumping out of a twelfth-floor window may very well be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Having lost twenty-five years of memories, it’s an unfair assessment, but I’d still lay good odds.

  Rappelling line or no, the frantic leap makes it free fall. There’s no time for a leisurely descent. My stomach feels like it’s in my mouth, but it’s not like I had a choice with a bomb about to explode right above me.

  We drop like lead weights into stormy darkness ripped by flashes of light. Rain and small hail pelt my face, and I pull the boy as tightly against me as I can manage with one arm. I think he’s whimpering, but it’s hard to tell. I wouldn’t blame him.

  Without the emotion suppressors, I’d be screaming my ass off. As things stand, I look down, calmly calculating my speed (too fast) and the distance to the roof of the hovervan (too close) rising to meet us. We’re right on target.

  A sudden gust tosses us sideways, whirling dizzily on the twisting line that zings through my grip and cuts into my glove. Gorge rises in my throat while my implants attempt to reestablish visual tracking.

  We spin, out of control, and the side of the building looms. I wrench myself around to take the brunt of our impact, and we slam into the brick wall. My implants register bruising, but I remain functional. There’s a four-inch metal bar replacing a segment of my spine, courtesy of an encounter with a damaged shuttle engine a year and a half back. It would take much greater force to do any real damage there. At least we didn’t strike a window. The glass would’ve torn us to shreds.

  A tremendous explosion blasts from above, spewing more glass, mortar, and—is that a chair?—a variety of other furniture to rain upon us. I jerk and twist on the line, my grip glove slipping farther with so much moisture and motion, then kick off the wall. A few more feet down and my boots impact metal with a resounding clang. We’re standing atop the van, about seven stories up.

  Most hovervans can’t rise that high. The legal limit is twenty feet. But we get all the bells and whistles on our toys.

  “You aboard? Or was that a lamp?” Alex calls.

  “So much for no big booms,” Lyle grumbles.

  Alex and Lyle. Not Kelly. I can’t hear her—my rock, my support, my constant adviser. If she’s not talking, something is very wrong, and even with the suppressors, it scares the hell out of me.

  “We’re aboa—shit!” My boots slide on the wet metal roof as wind buffets the van. Three scrunches of my toes activate the magnetic clamps in the soles, and I yank the boy beside me down into a crouch for better balance.

  He looks up at me, and I’m startled by his grin. “That was wild!”

  Huh. “See me for a job when you’re older,” I shout over the howling gale. “Lyle, keep us steady. Alex, let us in.”

  “You forget who you’re talking to,” Lyle says. Then under his breath, “…taking orders from a walking computer.”

  He can bitch all he wants. I’m team leader on this mission.

  Th
e sliding door opens. I lower the kid, and Alex grabs and pulls him in. I swing myself inside and seal us shut.

  The interior is chaos—equipment scattered about by the buffeting winds, electronics flickering wildly, but my eyes go straight to Kelly, zooming in on her. She’s huddled in the middle of the converted cargo space, pale and trembling under the yellow dome light, back pressed against the metal wall beside Alex’s high-tech gear.

  Emotion shock. I’ve seen it before, but this is bad. Very, very bad.

  “We’re in. Set us down,” I tell Lyle. “As gently as possible.” I never look away from Kelly.

  “Nah, I thought I’d crash us. Figured you’d think that would be fun.”

  “Shut up, Lyle.”

  He shoots me a startled glance over his shoulder.

  I approach her, swaying from side to side as I fight to maintain my balance, and crouch in front of my partner. Alex draws the kid to the pair of seats farther back in the van and shifts so he’s between the boy and us. With the idling engine providing steady background noise, if I keep my voice low, they shouldn’t be able to hear me from there.

  “Hey.” I draw a lock of her long blonde hair out of her face. She stares at nothing with wide, vacant eyes, her chest heaving with desperate gasps for breath. I’m not sure she can see or hear me.

  I remind myself one more time (too late as usual) that Kelly is not military, no matter how much training the Fighting Storm gives her. She’s medical support, breakable, and I’ve broken her.

  “Kelly,” I try again. “Kel. Hey. I’m here. I’m safe.” I tap her face lightly with my fingertips, then yank my hand away when she recoils and an electric jolt runs up my arm. “That was… different.”

  Stupid, Vick. Stupid. Physical contact makes it worse, and she’s still wrapped up in my emotions, all the emotions I would have felt from the elevator to the stairwell to my swan dive. I should know better. This isn’t the first time I’ve overloaded her with one of my crazy stunts, but it’s definitely the worst. I’ve never gotten feedback like that shock from her before.

  I drop my hand to one of my pants pockets and the hypo-press I always keep for her—drugs to calm her when I shoot up her nerves. But they can’t be administered unless she’s at least a little bit responsive. Otherwise they could plunge her more deeply into her comatose state.

  I’m going to have to do this with words. I suck at words.

  “Put your shields up, Kel,” I whisper. “I’m okay. I don’t need you right now.”

  Something inside me twists, and I swallow bile. My internal display shows an image of a seesaw, me on one side, Kelly on the other, the board perfectly balanced.

  That’s not helpful.

  The image fades.

  I’m lying to her and the implants know it. I need Kelly. I always need her. Maybe not right this second, though there’s a disturbing trembling in the hand I used to touch her—a precursor to the meltdowns that follow my missions. If she doesn’t get it together, I’ll revert to how I was after the surgery.

  But I’ve got more reasons for doing this than protecting my sanity. I can’t quite isolate them….

  The flooring vibrates beneath my boots, the tires unfolding from the base of the van, and we settle to the street with a soft clank.

  Everyone watches me, the van’s interior silent except for Kelly’s panting.

  A soldier who can’t control her feelings trying to bring an empath out of emotion shock. We’re so screwed.

  “Won’t she just come out of it on her own? She always has before,” Alex says, his quiet voice like thunder echoing in the metal van.

  “Too much. It was too much. She could go into a coma. Or die. So stop interfering in what I’m fucking trying to do.” Not helping, Vick. I quit ranting. I need to be calm for her to be calm. I take a long, slow breath.

  What should I say to drag her back? One thing I know. I shouldn’t lie.

  “Okay, I’m full of shit.” Unable to look her in the eye, I stand and pace, two feet left, two feet right. “I do need you.” The tremors pick up in intensity. This is going to get bad. My jaw tightens. My throat closes. Kelly once told me I could always cry with her, but I can’t do that here in front of Alex, Lyle, and the kid. I won’t.

  I stop pacing and stare down at the top of her head. Somehow I choke out words. “I can’t show you how I feel.” I can’t explain what she means to me, how much I depend on her, how important she is. Not with the suppressors working overtime to keep me from freaking out. I should turn them off. Kelly would want me to, now that I’m out of immediate danger. We’ve worked on that a lot. They’re a crutch. But I can’t handle what I’m feeling without their cushion. Besides, shutting them down would expose her to more of my anxiety and stress. I want to break something, and my hands clench and unclench at my sides.

  Words try to form, pushing their way through my constricted throat… words that might, somehow, convey the insane chaos of feelings clamped down beneath the tech. The thought dies before it’s born. I force out the only four I can shape into something coherent: “I’m human with you.”

  Her rapid panting slows, then stops. Her head comes up, a few inches at a time. Kelly smiles. Strained as it is, it still doubles the light in the van. “You’re always human,” she says, attempting to rise to her feet and swaying into the wall. I grab her by the arm, steadying her until she finds her balance. She doesn’t pull away but instead leans in close. “I’d hug you if I didn’t think I’d totally embarrass you.”

  I glance around the van, stiffening at the sight of three fascinated sets of male eyes watching our every move, with Lyle leaning around his driver’s seat to get a better view. “Good call,” I tell her. “Shields up?”

  She nods. “I’m fine. You’re not.”

  She’s not, either. Her eyes are haunted, her skin still pale, but she takes one of my hands in both of hers. Even her firm grip can’t steady the shakes in mine. She tugs me toward the pair of seats positioned in front of the rear doors, shooing Alex and the boy forward.

  The kid’s not doing as well as before. He looks shaken and tired. We shouldn’t be worrying about me. We should be getting him home.

  “Go find something to do,” Kelly says to Alex. “If no one’s figured out we’re the source of all this commotion, tell Lyle to maintain position for a few more minutes.”

  Alex consults one of the built-in wall screens on his way up front. “We’re drawing some attention,” he says. “Not a lot of folks out in the storm, but the ones who were saw us go up and then land. Plenty of people coming out now to watch VC1’s fireworks show.”

  Hey, I didn’t set the damn bomb.

  A glance over Alex’s shoulder shows one view of the street, one of the building with flames shooting from most of the windows on the top floor. As if to accentuate the destruction, several more bits of debris patter the hovervan’s metal roof.

  The kid continues to the front passenger seat. Alex has an earbud in now. “Emergency crews heading in. The Rodwells have engaged Team Two in the lobby. Shots fired. I hope they can handle it. Local law’s moving in too. Not coming after us at the moment, but they have us boxed in with their vehicles close enough it’s not safe for us to lift.”

  “I’d rather not move, anyway,” Kelly says. “I’m not at my best. I’ll need to concentrate. That means no jostling me around.”

  “I can hold out ’til the port,” I offer. With our shuttle, and privacy.

  “No, you can’t. You’re too close to a breakdown.”

  She would know. Kelly can detect subtleties in my emotional shifts and physical status even I’m not aware of with all my internal technology. If she says I’m in that much trouble, I have to believe her.

  She waits until Alex responds to her pointed look, abandoning his gear and going forward with the others. He crams himself in between Lyle and the kid. Then Kelly settles me in one rear chair and takes the other, shifting it on its floor tracks so her body blocks mine from view. Placing both palms o
n the sides of my face, she says, “Let it go.”

  I want to. God, I want to. My emotions push and shove at me from the inside, bottled up and ready to explode. But I hang on a little longer. “You sure?” It’s such a delicate balance, my emotions, Kelly’s tolerances, my implants. We’ve postulated over the past two years that denying my release could either send me back into the psychotic state where she first found me… or turn me over completely to the control of the implants, effectively making me the machine I sometimes appear to be. I can’t think of a worse fate, but…. “You looked pretty ragged a minute ago.” Something in me always wants to protect her, even more than I want to protect myself.

  Kelly’s smile is soft. “You’re made to jump out of windows. This is what I’m made for. Let it go.”

  No, I’m not made to do the insane stunt I just pulled, and she’s still paying the price for it. Guilt gnawing at me, I give in. I close my eyes and latch on to the channel she opens. The trembling picks up. I could so easily break down and destroy her again, but I’ve gotten better at this over two and a half years, and I hold it together, easing the suppressors off little by little, letting my feelings out in a trickle rather than a flood, knowing no matter what she says, she can’t take it all at once. Pain, fear, anger, absolute panic. It all goes.

  In exchange, I get the gift of reading her. Calm, peace, weariness, fear for me. It’s all there, wrapped up in caring and compassion that staggers me every single time. She’s learned, too, over the years, and some of her more private emotions she keeps hidden. I resent that a little. I can hide nothing from her. But I understand.

  By the time Lyle interrupts us, I’m exhausted. So is she. We’re only halfway through, but I can breathe again.

  “Hey, guys,” Lyle calls from the driver’s seat, “I hate to break up the warm fuzzies, but we have company.”

  Tired beyond words, I pull from Kelly’s grasp to study two monitors flickering to life on my right. A man and woman have emerged from the lobby of my favorite skyscraper—the Rodwells. Shit.