“She was a model inmate.”
“How about the records of her cell mates? Of anyone who’d talked to her? Given her a bad time? Maybe even a guard.”
“No. Why?”
“What’s to say Miguel didn’t have eyes and ears in prison, too? In two years, somebody had to have harassed Ana. And chances are they probably paid for it. You should see if you can find proof.”
“Jesus. You really think so?”
“It’s a long-shot theory, but if it’s true, what does that tell you about how our man Miguel feels about Ana?”
Ty pondered the question for a few seconds. “He not only loves her, he’s obsessed with her. He’s watched over her for seven years. And he’d hurt or kill anyone who hurts her and not think twice about it.”
“That’s right. And a man obsessed with a woman is the most dangerous kind there is. And yet the plan is for Ana to catch his eye so he’ll invite you into Salvation’s Crossing. You really think she can handle something like that?”
“Maybe not now, but when we’re done with her, yes. Besides, it’s entirely possible that Miguel’s not as dangerous as he thinks he is. He had a chance to kill me and he failed,” Ty pointed out.
“Something in your tone tells me you regret that. You would rather have died?” Peter asked. “That day? Six months ago?”
“Damn right,” he gritted out. “Dying was supposed to happen. Just like it was supposed to happen when Officer Southcott shot me. And numerous times before that.”
“Hmmm,” Peter intoned, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with him. “Well, I for one am glad I didn’t die. If that makes me some kind of sick fuck, so be it.”
“You’ve also been a vampire for six months. Let’s see how you feel in a few decades. Maybe in a century. Something tells me living without really being alive’s gonna feel a lot like trying to eat a hologram of a slice of cake. There, but not there. I am not looking forward to it.”
“But you’re looking forward to catching the bastards responsible for all this, aren’t you? ’Cause I certainly am. When you start thinking about wanting to die, force yourself to think of that instead.”
“Vengeance won’t bring back my sister. Or my humanity. But—you’re right. It’s something,” Ty agreed. Right now, it was everything.
He fired again and dropped several more pinecones. Peter did the same.
“Score’s dead even. You want to keep going or call it a day?”
Peter grimaced. “My skin’s starting to burn. Let’s go in and you can tell me more about your girl.”
Your girl. That was the second time that Peter had referred to Ana in that way.
Despite Ty’s misgivings, the words sounded right.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Deep within the recesses of Building T, Mahone watched from behind a one-way mirror as Mike Polanski, a twenty-five-year-old army vet who’d had his legs blown off in Afghanistan, ran around the track of a full indoor gymnasium. The guy was grinning from ear to ear, and for a moment, Mahone wanted to grin with him. He didn’t.
Mike Polanski was now a turned vampire.
Just like the turned vampires that had come before and after him, no one knew how he’d been turned, just that he’d been delivered that way by the Rogues that had been doing the FBI’s bidding.
Turning Polanski into a vampire hadn’t made his legs magically grow back, but what it had done was give him amazing strength and speed. The fact that he had to use prosthetic legs was irrelevant. Even with the prosthetics, he still moved faster than any human. Was stronger than any human. And for a man who’d been on the verge of suicide when Mahone had found him, that was an amazing accomplishment.
This was why he’d supported the FBI Turning Program from the beginning. Because it was achieving some incredibly positive things.
And when the program had been threatened, he’d agreed to act as the FBI’s liaison to Belladonna. So that the Rogues didn’t mess everything up.
Only lately …
Mahone couldn’t deny it. He was starting to have doubts about what they were doing and whether they should be doing it at all.
Polanski was running again because the FBI was tampering with forces it knew nothing about. His speed and strength were the equivalent of playing with fire.
Hell no. Not even that. They were the equivalent of playing with an atomic bomb.
The program was based on experimentation and on keeping secrets from the Vampire Queen. Now two vampires had attacked Ty Duncan. They had probably already told their queen about the FBI’s duplicity.
Would she go to the Bureau director? Would she seek out the president himself?
Unlikely, Mahone thought. She’d have to admit her spies had read Ty’s mind against his will, something she claimed vampires were honor bound not to do. She’d also have to admit there was such a thing as Rogue vampires in the first place.
The door to the gym opened and Mahone watched as Malcolm Creeley entered. He was a turned vampire, had been one for about two years now.
Creeley joined Polanski on the track, clapped a hand on his back, then picked up the pace. Mahone reached over to the bay of control knobs and turned on the speakers, listening in on the vampires’ conversation as they ran full-out around the track.
“How many miles have you done today?” Creeley asked Polanski.
“Fifty and counting.”
Fifty miles in about thirty minutes. Again, amazing stuff, but it ramped up Mahone’s worry. Hallifax seemed to think containing the Rogues would be enough, but Mahone wasn’t so sure anymore. What happened if the Vampire Queen, infuriated by what the FBI was doing, decided against anonymity and peace, and launched a full-scale attack against humans? The U.S. certainly wasn’t ready for it. FBI Turning Program or not, they might never be.
On the track below the one-way mirror, Creeley continued the conversation. “You done any sparring yet?”
Polanski shook his head. “Later for the fighting. They say they’ll train me after I’ve overcome the worst of my—”
“Urges?” Creeley finished Polanski’s sentence, grinning as he did so.
A newly turned vampire had to feed. And fuck. Four months past his turning, Polanski’s feral instincts were fairly manageable but they were still very much there, under the surface. Sparring could cause a rush of adrenaline and bring out his latent violence. “If you can control them,” Creeley said to Polanski, not even panting, “you can really start to have fun.”
Together, the two vampires raced around the track, leaping over hurdles and other obstacles. Polanski whooped and pumped his fists in the air.
Like all the vets who had been recruited into the FBI’s Turning Program, Polanski was a gung-ho soldier, sworn to fight Uncle Sam’s enemies. Ethnicity, race, political bent—none of that mattered to him. As far as the FBI was concerned, it was a win-win all around.
Anyone with half a brain would know it wasn’t that simple.
Mahone watched as the vampires slowed to a stop.
“You know,” Creeley said, casting Polanski a sidelong glance, “we train you to be the best. Better than a mere vamp.”
“How so?” Polanski asked.
“Born vampires are losers,” Creeley sneered. “They hide who they are, posing as humans.”
“So we’re an improvement?”
“Yeah,” Creeley insisted. “We combine human ambition and vampire power. Those of us who’ve been turned are now the ultimate predators.”
Tension shot up Mahone’s spine.
Talk about proving his fucking point.