Ted watched the slender legs and firm ass of Olivia Gant as she rushed out the door and headed down the corridor. As she turned the corner, he admired the light bounce of her breasts under the sweater. Wouldn't he enjoy getting a piece of that?
Entering Randolph's office, he jammed the paper into the professor's in box. Damn! He shouldn't have bothered working all night. Now the old fart wouldn't get his proposal until at least tomorrow. Fucking waste of time. He could've taken the brunette up on her invitation last night. The girl lived in the apartment over him and wore tight belly-baring skirts and low-necked tank tops.
He'd just have to make up for it tonight. The pretty blonde in Randy's Monday-Wednesday Medieval History class would do nicely. She sat on the front row and crossed and uncrossed her legs, flashing quite a view. He wondered if she knew what she was doing, but quickly amended the thought. Of course the little bitch knew. She liked playing with fire, liked seeing how close she could get without burning.
They all liked to play that game.
Chapter Seven
Keisha Johnson's cell number went directly to voice mail. Olivia had already left three messages, had tried all weekend to reach the girl with no response. Wherever the girl had gone, at this hour on a Sunday night she ought to be back. Olivia sat at her desk in the library, gnawing on the tip of her thumb and wondering what to do. Call the police immediately, or stop fretting about a normal college student who'd probably gone off for the weekend to Tahoe or Monterey?
Fingering the embossed card Jack had left during his visit, she stared at it. His name was raised in bold black letters with a phone number beneath it. That was it. No organization, no title. Very covert ops and hush-hush, and very unlike the open and light hearted boy she'd known. Her hand hovered over the phone. Then quickly, before she changed her mind, she punched in the number, relieved when it went direct to voice mail.
The message was brief to the point of rudeness. "Leave a number."
"Uh, Jack, this is Olivia. Call me." She didn't leave a number. She was pretty sure he knew the details of her life. "Please," she added and quickly disconnected.
For her student, she told herself, for Keisha. If not for the girl's disappearance, Olivia would never have called Jack. He'd be able to find out if the girl was okay faster than the local police and without alarming her roommates or parents.
Otherwise, she'd never ask for his help in a million years.
Jack easily found a gym that suited his needs, one where he could pay a weekly fee with no registration. Fairly seedy and populated with a rough-looking bunch of men. No women allowed. With lots of punching bags and a satisfactory ring, the gym was modeled after the early Gleason's Boxing Gym in Brooklyn. The basement room was large, dank and concrete, and stank of sweat and blood.
It was perfect.
Jack's nostrils flared at the scent as he laced up his gloves and went to work, needing to pound flesh and spill blood. He put in several hours of hard work and bloodied the nose of an asshole who'd overestimated his prowess and underestimated Jack's skill. Feeling more in control – though not necessarily better – he headed for the motel.
Twenty-five minutes later he pulled the rental car into the motel parking lot and climbed out, swinging his laptop over his shoulder. Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached the second-floor room at the end of the landing. Never the lower level. Always at the end of the hall.
He headed straight for the bathroom for a hot shower. Draping a towel round his waist, he frowned at his reflection in the mirror above the small sink. The effect of the gym workout had abated the ragged look, but his facial hair continued to grow rapidly. His beard, heavy at normal times, was a pain in the ass during the Change.
Slowly he applied lather to his cheeks and scraped off the scraggly growth with a straight razor. He preferred the sharp edge and accuracy of the old-fashioned implement, a throw-back to his grandfather's era. Somehow it made him feel more human. Finishing up, he rinsed his face and applied after shave.
He angled his head for another look in the mirror. Still too dark, too rough, too shaggy, he thought. He sighed and checked his watch. Time to make the call.
That's when he saw Olivia's message on his phone. Not the Prima phone – that was reserved strictly for Invictus business – but on his normal cell phone. He knew instinctively she'd changed her mind. But why, he wondered? His chest constricted momentarily before he pressed mail and listened to her voice. He wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or apprehensive.
Collapsing on the bed, he pulled his Prima phone from his briefcase, and punched in speed dial number one, the special line that went directly to the Judge, day or night.
"Yeah?" The voice sounded wakeful even though at this hour on the east coast the Judge had to have been sleeping.
"It's me."
No need to identify himself. Even if Warren didn't recognize his voice, the special sound recognition feature would identify him. Agent Number Thirteen on the display. And if that number wasn't a hell of a curse, Jack didn't know what was.
"Problem?"
"No." Jack hesitated. "The Gant woman's on board."
"Oh?"
Did he detect curiosity in his mentor's voice? Jack considered again that contacting Olivia hinged on design rather than chance. "Are you surprised?"
Warren chuckled. "Hell, nothing surprises me anymore."
Jack heard the long draw of breath over the line, most likely the Judge sucking on one of his cigars. He had to ask. "Did you know?"
"Know what?"
"About the Gant woman." When dead air traveled the length of the line like something spiteful, he continued, "That she was the one. Back then. The one who started it all."
"Is that going to be a problem?"
"For me or for Invictus?"
"Both."
Another long pause while Jack collected his thoughts. Hating to admit a weakness, he dropped the subject. "I'm concerned about the Change. It's different this time."
"The meds?"
Jack thought about Olivia. That too. He sensed the sudden alertness over the line, knowing Warren weighed the potential danger of the special medications against the possibility of the aggression getting out of control. "Yeah," Jack said at last. A small lie. And not entirely false.
"How's that?"
"I stopped the whites, started the red regime, but they're making me feel weird."
"In what way?"
"Headaches, olfactory mismatches." Jack paused and continued meaningfully. "Rough, angry, aggressive." He thought of Olivia again, all that she'd stirred up in him.
"That's not good. The MM's will screw you royally." They both knew it wasn't the olfactory mismatches that were the real problem. "Supposedly Davis eliminated the side effects with the new batch of reds."
Jack paused, mused again about the lusty intensity that being around Olivia brought out. "You need to send the Phens."
When he'd first entered the Invictus program, his medications had been a serious complication. The medical team discovered Jack's body didn't work the same as the other agents, whose natural skills were enhanced with a variety of established drugs, including steroids, so Dr. Davis had concocted powerful cocktails tailored especially for Jack. The Phens were supposed to mitigate the aggression.
And wasn't he the lucky one?
"Are you sure?" the Judge asked.
"Yeah." He paused again, suppressing a sigh. "The aggression's a bitch."
Jack could almost hear the Judge calculating the odds, measuring an innocent's life against a completed mission. Collateral damage or a job well done.
"Did you kill anyone?" the Judge asked finally.
Jack tunneled his fingers through his damp hair. "Jesus Christ! No."