leg. Lucien reached to remove it, his movements sluggish, his hands feeling foreign, oddly distant. He held the paper, marveling for a moment at how the texture felt wrong, almost foggy against his fingertips, before he noticed the picture dominating the front page. His picture. A grainy action shot from a surveillance camera, blurred by the speed he’d been moving. Taken almost a week ago, on the night he’d met Darla.
Darla.
His knee twitched, a minor rebellion against the puppeteer in his brain, but Lucien could manage no more than that. Sweat broke out on his brow.
The platform was nearly abandoned. Not that it mattered. What was a little collateral damage in a war?
His stomach turned. Fight it, Lucien. This isn’t you.
The layers of gauze parted, his mind coming closer to his own control, but his body remained detached, hidden behind the veil of numbness. Lucien focused on the picture.
Why hadn’t someone stopped him? How could America’s most wanted just wander onto a train platform in the middle of the city and sit down?
He heard the familiar sounds of a scuffle from one of the hallways leading to the platform—muted exclamations, thuds, a sizzling charge like the sound of a taser—but he couldn’t turn his head to look. Apparently, his programming didn’t include curiosity.
The six-oh-five train rattled into the station, right on time. Lucien rose. Complete your purpose . He crushed the thought, but his legs carried him through the open doors onto the train. Lucien fought for control, a silent, invisible battle, but the countdown clock continued its relentless ticking.
Seventeen minutes. Then Mirabelle will be free.
Darla Powers had beaten a SWAT team unconscious. She really ought to feel guilty about that.
When she’d heard the call go out over the police scanner that Lucien had been spotted and the order shoot to kill , she’d hauled ass to get to the 39th Street Station before the specially armed anti-super SWAT team could move on his position. Before that moment in the crowded station corridor, she’d still been on the side of the angels. Pummeling a battalion of cops was a pretty solid indicator of her fall from grace. But she couldn’t let them kill Lucien. Not if she could stop him.
You better be worth it, Wroth.
Darla rushed onto the platform in time to see the six-oh-five train pull out of the station—and Lucien Wroth’s profile through the window of the second-to-last car as he stared straight ahead, unblinking. Darla cursed and launched herself off the platform, taking off into the tunnel after the train. She flew up to the last car, catching hold of the handles beside the door and resting for a moment, hanging on to the back of the train, before wrenching open the door and tumbling inside.
The car was crowded, and several faces looked up from their cell phones and newspapers to gape at her less-than-heroic entrance. She couldn’t worry about her image right now though, she had to stop Lucien. Calling out to the passengers to remain calm and remain seated, she threaded her way quickly up the aisle to the next car. It was even more packed than the previous one and for a moment she didn’t see Lucien.
Had he moved?
No. There he was. His back to her, staring straight ahead like a statue.
This time her entrance had been less dramatic, so no one had even looked at her, the commuters exhausted after a long day, their thoughts already on the weekend ahead. Darla tapped those closest to her on the shoulders and waved them toward the next car when their eyes widened at the D emblazoned on her chest. She worked her way down the car, urging as many people as possible out of the line of fire before Lucien noticed her.
How much time did she have before he set off the bomb? There were no landmarks in the dark tunnels that ran beneath the city before spitting out onto the suburbs, nothing to tell her how far they were from Victory Hall.
Passengers at the other end of the car had
Darla.
His knee twitched, a minor rebellion against the puppeteer in his brain, but Lucien could manage no more than that. Sweat broke out on his brow.
The platform was nearly abandoned. Not that it mattered. What was a little collateral damage in a war?
His stomach turned. Fight it, Lucien. This isn’t you.
The layers of gauze parted, his mind coming closer to his own control, but his body remained detached, hidden behind the veil of numbness. Lucien focused on the picture.
Why hadn’t someone stopped him? How could America’s most wanted just wander onto a train platform in the middle of the city and sit down?
He heard the familiar sounds of a scuffle from one of the hallways leading to the platform—muted exclamations, thuds, a sizzling charge like the sound of a taser—but he couldn’t turn his head to look. Apparently, his programming didn’t include curiosity.
The six-oh-five train rattled into the station, right on time. Lucien rose. Complete your purpose . He crushed the thought, but his legs carried him through the open doors onto the train. Lucien fought for control, a silent, invisible battle, but the countdown clock continued its relentless ticking.
Seventeen minutes. Then Mirabelle will be free.
Darla Powers had beaten a SWAT team unconscious. She really ought to feel guilty about that.
When she’d heard the call go out over the police scanner that Lucien had been spotted and the order shoot to kill , she’d hauled ass to get to the 39th Street Station before the specially armed anti-super SWAT team could move on his position. Before that moment in the crowded station corridor, she’d still been on the side of the angels. Pummeling a battalion of cops was a pretty solid indicator of her fall from grace. But she couldn’t let them kill Lucien. Not if she could stop him.
You better be worth it, Wroth.
Darla rushed onto the platform in time to see the six-oh-five train pull out of the station—and Lucien Wroth’s profile through the window of the second-to-last car as he stared straight ahead, unblinking. Darla cursed and launched herself off the platform, taking off into the tunnel after the train. She flew up to the last car, catching hold of the handles beside the door and resting for a moment, hanging on to the back of the train, before wrenching open the door and tumbling inside.
The car was crowded, and several faces looked up from their cell phones and newspapers to gape at her less-than-heroic entrance. She couldn’t worry about her image right now though, she had to stop Lucien. Calling out to the passengers to remain calm and remain seated, she threaded her way quickly up the aisle to the next car. It was even more packed than the previous one and for a moment she didn’t see Lucien.
Had he moved?
No. There he was. His back to her, staring straight ahead like a statue.
This time her entrance had been less dramatic, so no one had even looked at her, the commuters exhausted after a long day, their thoughts already on the weekend ahead. Darla tapped those closest to her on the shoulders and waved them toward the next car when their eyes widened at the D emblazoned on her chest. She worked her way down the car, urging as many people as possible out of the line of fire before Lucien noticed her.
How much time did she have before he set off the bomb? There were no landmarks in the dark tunnels that ran beneath the city before spitting out onto the suburbs, nothing to tell her how far they were from Victory Hall.
Passengers at the other end of the car had
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