darkness but now that it was lit it was just an ordinary room, larger than most hotel rooms, with a queen-sized bed, a sitting area with two armchairs, a desk doubling as a table. A quick glance into the room beyond a door showed a very nice bathroom. Stocked, she could see, with a tall stack of blindingly white towels, a bar of soap and a brand-new ultrasound toothbrush.
Okay. A Hilton-level prison. She could do that.
To her surprise, she found the small bag she’d packed, just in case her quest required an overnight stay. She had her small cosmetics case, a nightgown, slippers.
A shower made her feel better, more human. She’d been on the road and on the run for almost twenty-four hours. She crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling,
Everything ached, everywhere, inside and out. Her body and her head and her heart. A wave of loneliness washed over her. Touching Mac had reassured her that he wasn’t dangerous to her, not in the sense that she feared.
But . . . what did she know? Could she be sure? Her gift was so unreliable. Maybe she should have cultivated it instead of pushing it away with both hands, forcing it back into the deepest corners of her mind like a nasty, broken, misshapen twin of herself.
The gift had never been wrong, though it had so often been incomplete. Discerning top notes, the emotions of the moment, utterly missing crucial underlying emotions, because she didn’t want to explore, couldn’t stand delving into the truth of people. So she often got people wrong because she hadn’t been able to discern tones and shadows underneath the strongest emotions.
Mac might not be planning her death, but he had no particular incentive to keep her safe, either. And yet . . . yet there’d been . . . something . Something there, something elusive. Some faintest feather tickling her mind, like a gentle finger touching her.
It felt like safety.
Was it real?
Probably not.
Why should this man care in any way for her? Anyone she’d ever dated considered her a freak. And sex . . . well, that never worked out well.
She was tired. Tired beyond today’s stressful events. Tired of being who she was, tired of being pushed and pulled by things inside her she had no control over, tired of knowing things she shouldn’t.
Tired . . .
The lights went suddenly out and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
January 7
“Maybe I should just keep her locked up until she starves to death,” Mac said sourly the next morning.
Nick and Jon didn’t pay him any attention at all. They were riveted to the Hawk emblem, Jon studying it carefully, then passing it on to Nick.
Jon looked up briefly, white teeth flashing. “Nah. I’ll bet you’ve already sent Stella to bring her breakfast.”
Mac’s teeth ground together. Busted.
Right now his prisoner was being tortured, lashed with the whip of the best breakfast ever cooked in the history of breakfasts.
Nick didn’t look up from the Hawk. “Wouldn’t be efficient. To kill her. Until we figure this thing out.”
“Shit.” Jon cocked his head as he stared at Nick. “More than ten words from Nick. All at once. I think that’s a record, isn’t it, Mac?”
Mac met Jon’s eyes for a second. Nick had only been a team member for a week before the shit came down. He’d been introduced by Lucius—and goddamn, there it was again, that blow to the heart—as the sixth man after Randy Higgins had been lost in a HALO jump. Parachute malfunction two miles up was unforgiving.
Nick had quietly joined the team, doing exactly what he was told, efficiently and well, without speaking more than a word or two at a time. None of the Ghost Ops teammates had a life he could or would talk about, but clues would come out. Mike Pelton’s southern accent. Jon’s California Surfer Dude drawl. Rolf Lundquist’s love for skiing and intimate knowledge of the Rockies.
Not Nick. He could have been hatched in a lab for all the clues he gave to his past.
“Fuck
Okay. A Hilton-level prison. She could do that.
To her surprise, she found the small bag she’d packed, just in case her quest required an overnight stay. She had her small cosmetics case, a nightgown, slippers.
A shower made her feel better, more human. She’d been on the road and on the run for almost twenty-four hours. She crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling,
Everything ached, everywhere, inside and out. Her body and her head and her heart. A wave of loneliness washed over her. Touching Mac had reassured her that he wasn’t dangerous to her, not in the sense that she feared.
But . . . what did she know? Could she be sure? Her gift was so unreliable. Maybe she should have cultivated it instead of pushing it away with both hands, forcing it back into the deepest corners of her mind like a nasty, broken, misshapen twin of herself.
The gift had never been wrong, though it had so often been incomplete. Discerning top notes, the emotions of the moment, utterly missing crucial underlying emotions, because she didn’t want to explore, couldn’t stand delving into the truth of people. So she often got people wrong because she hadn’t been able to discern tones and shadows underneath the strongest emotions.
Mac might not be planning her death, but he had no particular incentive to keep her safe, either. And yet . . . yet there’d been . . . something . Something there, something elusive. Some faintest feather tickling her mind, like a gentle finger touching her.
It felt like safety.
Was it real?
Probably not.
Why should this man care in any way for her? Anyone she’d ever dated considered her a freak. And sex . . . well, that never worked out well.
She was tired. Tired beyond today’s stressful events. Tired of being who she was, tired of being pushed and pulled by things inside her she had no control over, tired of knowing things she shouldn’t.
Tired . . .
The lights went suddenly out and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
January 7
“Maybe I should just keep her locked up until she starves to death,” Mac said sourly the next morning.
Nick and Jon didn’t pay him any attention at all. They were riveted to the Hawk emblem, Jon studying it carefully, then passing it on to Nick.
Jon looked up briefly, white teeth flashing. “Nah. I’ll bet you’ve already sent Stella to bring her breakfast.”
Mac’s teeth ground together. Busted.
Right now his prisoner was being tortured, lashed with the whip of the best breakfast ever cooked in the history of breakfasts.
Nick didn’t look up from the Hawk. “Wouldn’t be efficient. To kill her. Until we figure this thing out.”
“Shit.” Jon cocked his head as he stared at Nick. “More than ten words from Nick. All at once. I think that’s a record, isn’t it, Mac?”
Mac met Jon’s eyes for a second. Nick had only been a team member for a week before the shit came down. He’d been introduced by Lucius—and goddamn, there it was again, that blow to the heart—as the sixth man after Randy Higgins had been lost in a HALO jump. Parachute malfunction two miles up was unforgiving.
Nick had quietly joined the team, doing exactly what he was told, efficiently and well, without speaking more than a word or two at a time. None of the Ghost Ops teammates had a life he could or would talk about, but clues would come out. Mike Pelton’s southern accent. Jon’s California Surfer Dude drawl. Rolf Lundquist’s love for skiing and intimate knowledge of the Rockies.
Not Nick. He could have been hatched in a lab for all the clues he gave to his past.
“Fuck
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