7: Bolt Saga, Book 7 Read online

  “Not that you’re going to let that stop you.” Despite how far away her voice sounds compared to the ruthless buzzing in my ears, I’m aware of every bittersweet note in her voice. How her pride in me has declared war on her fear for me. How she knows, once she spoke those two words, there’ll be nothing stopping me from trying to get to my brother—or Paris—now.

  Alpha Three.

  Holy. Shit.

  What’s Tyce’s tie to him? Is the Consortium simply using him as a messenger? If so, why would Tyce say he “owes” the guy? Does that mean Tyce is part of the Consortium too? And if Tyce is involved with the bastards, is Dad as well? Is Chase?

  But if that’s the case, why is Tyce trying to get me alone? And more than that, why did he feel the need to send the message through Emma, going through the trouble and effort of cornering her in the bathroom to do it? Why did he not even trust that message with an email or a phone call?

  A thousand more questions pile in, encasing the lightning in my blood in icebergs. On top of those floes, my thoughts careen like penguins in ballet shoes, the riot stopped only when my phone starts buzzing. The screen is filled with an avatar of a coconut with gummy bears for eyes. Sawyer. Thank fuck.

  “Hey. Hey. Dude…you there?”

  His voice sounds like a dream too. A dream. Yeah. That has to be it. I’ve fallen asleep in the limo, and Foley’s somehow in it too, and I’ll wake up any second and not have to deal with…

  The insanity that crashes in on me all over again.

  Alpha Three.

  Words out of my darkest nightmares. My deepest hell. My hottest crucible.

  Spoken to my secret fiancée—by the brother who’s apparently hiding as many mysteries as I am.

  “Reece?” Emma’s query, matching Foley’s for confused concern, makes me realize I’ve said the words aloud. “Baby? You okay?”

  I shake my head like one of those flopping balloon creatures outside strip malls. “I don’t know.” When a disembodied voice answers me instead of her, I realize my phone has slipped from my hand and Foley is shouting at me from the limo’s floor. But once I scoop the thing up again, it’s backward. I fumble to press the thing correctly to my ear while a stream of confused profanity pours from the thing.

  “Foley,” I stab into his tirade with my gritted command. As soon as he falls into stunned silence, I order, “Gather the team. Meet me at the Research building downtown.”

  That handles the who and where of things. The question it doesn’t answer, tumbling out of him next, is the one I’m not prepared to answer at all.

  “Why?” Foley demands. “What’s up, man?”

  Not prepared at all.

  Because what we learn after this will change everything.

  It’ll turn my brother—and possibly my father—into my closest compatriots or my darkest enemies.

  And damn it, how I hate the answer my gut has already sided with.

  And the boulders that tumble and settle there, just to ensure I don’t forget.

  Hours later, those rocks have fused and become a cement block in my stomach. The burden weighs every step I pace across the lab’s polished floor. My agitation is likely giving Foley eye twitches, though he hides them well behind a focused scowl while keying and clicking at his computer as fast as he can.

  Outside, downtown LA starts to stir in the early morning hours of a brisk spring day. Even the building around us begins to bustle, with elevators whirring, coffee machines chugging, and delivery men whistling. The distinctive rush of freeway traffic begins to flow through the city like melted snow into a mountain river bed, quickening everyone’s pace—even Foley’s.

  But he’s still not fast enough. Not for yielding the information we need. The information I need. More accurately, the information I don’t need. The dead-ends I all but order the guy to keep arriving at—at the ends of informational paths I’ve also authorized him to keep following.

  No matter how painful the process gets. No matter how deep we have to go.

  I need to know.

  I need to be positive.

  I need to make sure, no matter how huge or small the bread crumbs are, that Foley follows every last, crazy path that might link Tyce, Chase, or Dad back to the Scorpios or the Consortium. That the cryptic message Tyce relayed through Emma was a bizarre fluke, and that in my brother’s world, Alpha Three doesn’t come close to what it means in mine.

  Are the tests on Alpha Two almost done?

  Affirmative. Took two doses of the depressant to tame him this time, but he’s finally finished.

  Good. Alpha Three’s still being prepped in his cell, but he’ll be ready for transport in five.

  I’ll need about that long to take the rest of the needles out of Two. I have about ten more to go…

  “Air.” I blurt the word on a shudder as my arms and legs turn into a thousand pinpricks. I even look down, stunned not to find those extremities looking like neon porcupines.

  “Huh?” Foley barely pauses his frantic typing. “What is it?”

  “I need air.” And am reassured he’ll understand. He’s had similar episodes in front of me before, and I’ve simply nodded without any more questions. For all the public rhetoric about PTSD, sometimes the best “therapy” is being near someone who gets it.

  Or in this case, getting away from them.

  The verb fits. As soon as I get downstairs and reach the atrium between the Richards Research building and the Brocade, I force my lungs to grab every oxygen molecule they can and then greedily suck down even more. Do it, guys. Keep me sane. Right now, I don’t even care how the effort makes my equilibrium swim. For now, I’m just fine with doing the balance backstroke for a bunch of minutes. It’s yet another appropriate metaphor, matching the direction I’ve been propelled over the last two days and nights.

  And it all began with an innocent girls’ lunch.

  Mom’s visit to the new house, which entailed her heart-to-heart with Emma—and then my own journey to the dust of the past, in the mud of my soul-changing passion with my amazing woman. Then a bigger mud bath from the past, in several different ways during the Observatory’s event. What’s the best way to top a key to the city from the mayor himself? Try a massive information bombshell, courtesy of one’s own brother.

  And father?

  Fuck. Me.

  I can’t believe I’m even considering this possibility. Its very reality. Is it reality? What the hell is real anymore? Up or down? Left or right? Friend or enemy?

  Family…or betrayer?

  Goddamnit.

  I have no idea I’ve spat it aloud until a movement in my periphery prompts me to swivel my sights—and be confronted by a pair of awestruck stares. But there’s a new element in the way Fershan Bennett and Wade Tavish gawk at me now, their hero worship mellowed by genuine curiosity. An inquisitiveness for which I find myself oddly thankful…

  “Mr. Richards?” Wade queries, shaking ginger curls out of his eyes. “Errmm…Bolt?” he revises, moving close enough to see I’m really in head-to-toe leathers. “We were just taking a break and noticed you over here, and…well, what I mean is…are you all right?”

  “What he means is”—Fershan throws a fast but frustrated side-eye—“we know you are all right, but perhaps…well…do you need any help?”

  As he issues that, my phone vibrates. It’s a text from Foley.

  Gone as far as I can, but some of the Scorpio’s firewalls can’t be breached. Out of ideas. Sorry, dude.

  I look up from the screen.

  At the two eager faces, still expectant and ready, in front of me.

  “Either of you ever seen The Matrix?” I realize it’s practically a rhetorical question, but better to be safe than sorry.

  “Seen it?” Fershan is the first off the block with a reply. “I’ve memorized it.”

  Wade snorts. “Yeah, whatever. You still don’t have the collectible sixth-scale Neo figure with all the guns, a removable cape, and four pairs of interchangeable hands,
still in the box.”

  Fershan rolls his eyes. “What is the point of four pairs of hands if you never take it out of the box?”

  Same question on my mind, though Wade’s muttered profanity makes me glad Bennett got it out of the way. Besides, I have more pressing things to ask.

  One more pressing thing.

  “All right. What if I asked you to finish your break and then meet me in that building”—I nod toward the glass doors into the Richards Research lobby—“instead of that one.” Then roll my head the direction of the hotel. “And what if, once you were inside, I offered you a blue pill or a red pill?”

  Both their jaws drop open. I hold up a hand, already owning the kick-ass Zen of my inner Morpheus. “Don’t answer now—because you need to think about this. There’s no action figure that goes with this one. No flashy premiere. No taking off the cosplay when your boots get too tight. This is the red pill for real, gentlemen. If you swallow it, your life—and everything you know about it—is part of a new reality.” I harden my stare. “Mine.”

  For the better part of another minute, I remain that way—until the phone in my hand buzzes again. It’s a text. The sender? Sally.

  Without another word to the pair now standing in the atrium with sweating soda cans in their grips, I pivot and walk back inside, quickly tapping back a message to Foley during the trip.

  Hold current position. Will advise action ASAP.

  The lobby of Richards Research is still fairly quiet, even with the guy at the newsstand puttering around, making it all too easy to hear the footsteps besides my own on the polished marble floors. But the cadence isn’t coming from the direction of the atrium. A smile grows on my face as recognition sets in. The noise is emanating from the door of the secret subterranean tunnel between the two buildings.

  Resulting in my personal version of a perfect daybreak.

  One involving sunshine-colored hair, turquoise-sky eyes, and a smile that could turn even London fog into a Malibu dawn. As she strides closer on wedge heels, now out of her party dress and into capri pants and a pink spring sweater, a good chunk of the darkness in my heart lifts, despite the urgency of the task still at hand. But that’s what Emmalina Crist does to my life. With her near, the load is just easier. The path is a little brighter. My world is simply…better.

  “Hey.” Her forehead pinches with concern as she stands on tiptoe to softly kiss me. “Did you get any sleep yet?”

  “Did you?” I press on both words, making it clear whose question is more important here. Yeah, I’m pulling rank. And no, her rebellious pout doesn’t concern me. Much.

  “A little,” she finally admits. “But the bed’s empty without you.”

  She strokes her fingertips through my stubble, letting her gaze convey her next question—probably because she already senses how I’ll answer. But I still owe her the words, so I draw in a deep breath and get them out.

  “Foley’s found nothing.”

  She dips a thoughtful nod. “But that’s a good thing, right? If there’s nothing there, then there’s probably nothing there. Maybe Tyce was just being epic asshole Tyce and taunting us with something he randomly overheard—”

  “From where?” I grate. “From who?”

  She purses her lips, falling into silence. I let the same cloud engulf me, since there’s zero we can do to clear out the fog after Tyce’s figurative bomb. I want to believe her newest theory, but how realistic is that? What Tyce told her last night isn’t exactly the kind of shit a guy “pops” into a conversation—if that’s even what their encounter can be labeled as.

  “I want to believe these are seeds I’ve grown into a tree of crazy by myself, Bunny.” I tuck her close, dipping my head to inhale the sweet tropical goodness of her hair. “I really do.”

  “But?” She offers up the word at which my tone already leads.

  “But Foley’s search isn’t complete.” I set her free so as to brace my stance and fold my arms. “He’s hit some firewalls.”

  “That even he can’t crack?” As she processes that stunner with a whoosh of frustrated breath, the door from the atrium reopens. She pays the sound no mind, continuing to mull over what I’ve conveyed. “So what do we do now?”

  I square my shoulders. Regard her as evenly as I can, even as the two figures rush at us from across the lobby. “What any wise superhero support team would do.”

  She lifts her head, gaze already narrowed. “Which is…?”

  “Add new characters.”

  “New characters?” Her frown tightens. “Like who?”

  “Mr. Richards!” The interruption comes in stereo, precluding Wade and Fershan’s final approach. But the airport analogy is appropriate, since they skid in like a pair of planes slamming down the landing gear before crashing into the terminal.

  Except that Emma now gapes like a passenger stuck in that terminal.

  After bouncing her bugged gaze from me to them and back again, she finally utters, “Are you freaking kidding me?”

  Fershan moves in before I can conceive one word of an explanation. “We want the red pill!”

  “This is one freaky-as-hell red pill.”

  Wade’s amendment, tumbling out half an hour later, finally gives Emma a reason to let go of her thunderhead expression—but only as long as it takes for her vindicating “ha!” to pop out. Clearly, there’ll be more words from my woman to come about how she feels about the two newest members of Team Bolt, though at this moment those recruits look ready for the challenge Foley’s asked of them. Yeah, even after the backstory Sawyer and I just laid on them. And yeah, even after the illegal acts we’ve asked them to perform because of it. Granted, even if they leave behind enough electronic “fingerprints” for the Scorpios to follow, the IP addresses will lead those bastards back here, not to Wade or Fershan personally—but being the guy who actually pushes the buttons always implies a certain risk. Foley’s had a lot of years and a bunch of training to get used to that risk. Tavish and Bennett have been briefed for ten minutes.

  Looking at the men’s faces brings that certainty head-on—though I still have to zip up my composure to keep from talking them into the fun of this game. The truth is, there isn’t a lot of fun. The red pill only looks that way in the movies.

  At last, Fershan quietly pushes off his bar stool and turns to take one more chug from the can of energy soda he’s asked for as a beverage—and even chuckles at the colorful images on the container that are from some fantasy video game he and Wade have likely beaten a dozen times by now. His action sparks a similar action from Wade, who drains his can and then smashes it into an inch-thick disk.

  Together, they walk over to the computer command station at which Foley still sits, look down at him, and intone one word. “Move.”

  Fershan takes the chair in Foley’s stead, while Wade remains standing but hovering. One types as the other clicks. Neither stops muttering, as if they’re finishing each other’s sentences only to start newer thoughts. It’s a fast-moving code with which I’m thoroughly fascinated, but it doesn’t seem to jolt Emma or Foley at all.

  “I’ve seen them on their breaks before,” Em explains.

  “I’ve seen lots like them on their breaks before,” Foley adds.

  “And just how fast can we get them added to the payroll?” I volley, though am already set for Emma’s renewed fume.

  “You mean suck them further down the damn rabbit hole?” Her fury is sincere but adorable, enticing me closer until I’m wrapped around her from behind.

  “As I recall, you begged to jump down the rabbit hole.”

  The edge of her jaw clenches beneath my caressing lips. “I’m a grown woman,” she defends. “And I’m also in love with the captain of the rabbit hole. Wade and Fershan are—”

  “Grown men.” Wade doesn’t veer his fixation from the images through which Fershan now scrolls on the largest of the four workstation screens. While yanking out a pair of eyeglasses with wide red frames, he states, “We’re grown me
n, Emma, who can hear and process every word you’re saying, on top of the eight other things we’re doing at once.”

  “Including making up our own minds about being on the Team Bolt payroll,” Fershan interjects.

  “Thumbs up on that from this grown man,” Wade mutters.

  “My thumbs are occupied at the moment,” Fershan comments. “But nonetheless, they are also up and— Whoa.”

  His bellowed exclamation is a team effort, courtesy of Wade lurching forward at the same time. Their excitement spurs the rest of us over, though I’m not sure the radioactive globs in my chest would qualify as “excitement.” Not when Wade takes Fershan’s place in the seat and starts enhancing the grainy image they’ve blown up on the main screen. Not when parts of that picture start to look familiar.

  Horrifyingly familiar.

  Wade clicks and taps and clicks some more, his actions starting to sound like a hunter prepping his rifle in morning mist. The sounds are dull but deafening. Swallowed by silence but enhanced by violence.

  And the prey in his crosshairs?

  Goddamnit.

  “The fuck?” Foley yanks the shock right out of my head with his gritted blurt.

  “Oh, my God,” Emma mutters, stepping over and pressing against my side. “Am— Am I really seeing this? Is that…”

  “Faline.” I say it for her because I have to say it for myself too. Because I have to hear it out loud in order to confirm my eyes aren’t deceiving me. Because every cell of my blood and every beat of my heart yearns for Sawyer or Emma to turn and tell me I’ve gone batshit crazy. That it’s Beyonce, Oprah, Minnie Mouse, any of the Kardashians, the fucking Queen of England—anyone, anyone other than that bitch posing for that picture, laughing in the sun at a picnic table full of people…

  With her head nestled against my father’s shoulder.

  “Who is she?” Fershan queries.

  “Besides the goddess of everything gorgeous?” Wade mumbles.