Michael had paused when I had fallen, and I hissed urgently, “Go. Go!” He ran on until a form came boiling out of the darkness to tackle him about the legs. Considering what Michael could do to him, the son of a bitch was brave to make the attempt. Considering the scream that came out of him, that label might be posthumous. But Michael hadn’t changed his mind about using his abilities to save himself. To save me he would break his own rules. For himself, it was still an emphatic no. The kid was too good for this . . . too goddamn good by far.
I reached them and tossed the limp attacker off Michael with one well-placed kick. “What did you do to him?” I grunted as I grabbed a handful of his shirt and pulled him to his feet.
“The same thing I did to that doctor, only this time I used my knee.” His hair a ghostly beacon, he rubbed a hand across his forehead. “They’re everywhere, aren’t they? It’s hopeless.”
“Only if we give up.” Hand still wound in his shirt, I towed him behind me into a haphazard speed. “And I’m not giving up on you, Misha. Now move your ass.”
We’d gone only a few more feet when a bullet kicked up sand at our feet. I missed the muzzle flash and fired in several directions. It was useless, and more bullets hit around us as we raced through the vegetation. We had no choice but to head back to the beach at the water’s edge. They’d formed a line between us and the house; there was no way around them. I didn’t know how long we’d last if we took to the water to swim down the coast, but I was afraid we were going to find out.
“Can you swim?” I demanded between panting breaths as we cleared the grass.
There was the glint of teeth as he smiled. “Theoretically.”
The repeat of his remark from one of our first escapes had a spurt of dark laughter locked in my throat. I only hoped his theory worked better in water than it did in cars. I hoped . . . God, I hoped I lived to see him swimming to safety. I hoped to see him grow to be twice the man I was. I hoped to see him happy and free.
Of course, none of that was going to happen. If God existed, he didn’t seem to be listening. Did he ever? Instead of God, it could be there was only inescapable fate. And fate seemed to like things tidy. What began on the beach should end on the beach. What was born in blood and pain should die the same way. God might be ignoring this particular sparrow, but fate was watching with lascivious interest. It couldn’t fucking wait to see what went down next.
That would be me.
I heard my thighbone break. The sound was so clear. The snap of a tree branch underfoot; the cracking of ice in a spring thaw—I heard that, but I never heard the gun that fired the bullet. And I don’t remember falling; I knew only that I was lying on the ground with the taste of sand in my mouth. I couldn’t feel my leg. There was a slow warmth spreading across my skin, but no feeling . . . no pain. Not yet. Shock took care of that. It also took care of my thoughts. They moved in staggering circles as my hands made vague motions in the sand, trying in vain to turn me over.
“There you are.”
The gloating voice was fatally familiar. I pushed up again as my brain convulsed desperately to grasp what was going on. This time with a leg that was worthless deadweight, I managed to turn onto my back and braced myself, barely, upright on my elbows. Where was he? There was nothing but darkness and a leering moon that all but blocked out the sky.
“All I wanted to do,” the voice floated on, “was to make others like me. With a few minor improvements of course.” There was a laugh rich with mock self-deprecation. “I do get so lonely.”
Jericho. It all came back; a river of fetid knowledge—fear, rage, and despair. The only hope I had left was that Michael was in the water. I didn’t see him. He had to be swimming away—he had to be. As for me—I was dead. It was inevitable. I had seconds, maybe minutes, before Jericho killed me, but if Michael made it out of here, then death was something I could live with. That would look good on a T-shirt. Death was something I could live with. The bile black humor twisted itself onto my lips before a spasm of coughing sent sand from my lungs. “Come out, you son of a bitch,” I rasped. My gun . . . Where was my gun? It had flown from my hand when I fell. Surreptitiously I felt beside me, running fingers through grit for the comforting feel of metal. It was over for me; I accepted that, but my last breath would be spent trying to take Jericho with me. “Come out,” I repeated. “What the hell are you afraid of?”
“Certainly not of a common thief.” He materialized out of a mass of night and moon shadows. He was a shadow himself, lit only with lunar streaks along the planes of his face. “You took my Michael. You took my property. Cheaters never prosper, haven’t you heard? And neither do thieves.” He hadn’t lost his gun. It was still securely in his hand and trained on me.
“Thief? You’re the one who stole him. Stole a little boy,” I spat. “Did you think you could just take him and walk away?”
“Steal? I didn’t steal him. Like any good baker, I made him from scratch.” The grin that carved across his face was as brilliant and cold as the moon overhead.
He wasn’t making any sense. None. The man was insane, but I would listen to his psychotic ranting until the end of time if that gave Michael more of a chance to escape. “How did you find us?” My hands still searched futilely for my weapon.
“A friend.” He crouched down well out of reach and rested his gun hand on his knee. “An old, old friend who sold you a sad, sad story. I hear you’ll let him know when the article comes out. Could I get a copy? Since it is about me, it seems only fair. I could frame it for my office.”
I should’ve felt stupid. I didn’t. I felt worse. It was idiocy that couldn’t be equaled; it was carelessness miles beyond criminal. Bellucci had spun his tale of righteous anger, betrayal, and redemption, and I had swallowed it all like a spoon-fed baby. I’d watched the person who had no doubt planted the tracer on our car and my only thought had been regarding the ugliness of the wet dog she’d been carrying. It hadn’t once crossed my mind that Jericho needed a confederate in the legitimate science world. What better way to get access to cutting-edge new developments that had yet to see the light of the published world? Bellucci was the perfect silent partner. He could feed Jericho information, equipment, and get a nice slice of make-your-own-assassin pie. Even better, he could write outraged refutations of Jericho’s work and show himself to be Jericho’s most devoted rival. If anyone investigated Jericho, where would they go first?
Right.
Jericho’s early-warning system had been our downfall. “College pals,” I said bitterly. “Colleagues. And now you torture children together. Isn’t that . . .” The pain started. I was talking and breathing, and suddenly that was over. A malevolent butcher set up shop and went to work carving my thighbone into a thousand sharp-edged ivory knives. I gasped raggedly for air, then pushed through the black wave that washed over me. “Isn’t that . . . too . . . much togetherness?”
“You bore me.” Dismissive, he stood and walked close enough to kick the foot of my injured leg. As kicks went, it wasn’t much. Fairly gentle, more of a hard tap than anything, it was nevertheless enough to have the salty copper of blood flooding my mouth. “I thought you must be clever to have gotten this far, but close up . . . I simply don’t see it. Although removing his tracking chip wasn’t completely idiotic.” He tilted his head as if truly considering the exact measurement of my stupidity. “Surprising such a thought would occur to you. But even more of a mystery is that Michael stayed with you. He’s not much for killing, more’s the pity, but I fully expected him to take his leave of you quickly enough. Surely he wouldn’t have balked at a short coma for his kidnapper.”