Beyond Ecstasy (Beyond #8) (30 page)

The other MP took another step toward Jeni. Hawk surged after him, pushing the interrogator out of the way, and slammed into his back. He looped the length of one chain around the soldier's throat, drove a knee into his spine, and they both went tumbling to the floor, inches from where Jeni sat.

Hawk wasn't out for mercy, he was out for
blood
. The chain bit into the big man's neck, raising angry welts. His face had already turned red by the time he reached for the gun in his holster.

Jeni kicked out, every thought centered on keeping the barrel of that gun away from Hawk. She caught the man's hand with one smash of her heel. Bone cracked, and the pistol went sliding across the floor.

The interrogator dove for the gun. He came up with one bloody finger on the trigger, the barrel pointed straight at Hawk.

This was it. Jeni reached for the distance and calm that had brought her this far, but she couldn't find it. Instead, what gripped her was a bone-deep rage that burned away her fear. This wasn't how they were supposed to end. Even in her worst nightmares, Hawk was alive, safe to carry on without her. But this—this was the unimaginable. The worst thing she could think of in the world.

She couldn't watch. She wrapped her hand around Hawk's, squeezed, and closed her eyes.

At least they would go out fighting.

“Briggs, what is the meaning of this?”

Jeni's eyes flew open. The man standing in the open doorway of the cell was painfully familiar, but it took her panicky mind a moment to place him—Edwin Cunningham, longstanding member of Eden's Council.

Noelle's father.

The interrogator straightened and wiped his bloody nose with his sleeve. “It's under control, sir. Just taking care of a few last things.”

“Get out.”

“But—”

Edwin glanced at the two MPs lying on the floor and then back at the man's bleeding face. “Your incompetence has been noted. You can leave and await a disciplinary hearing, or I can have my guard carry out a summary sentence right now.”

With a glare for Hawk and Jeni, the interrogator straightened and stalked to the door with as much pride as he could muster with one hand still pressed to his face. When he drew even with Edwin, the councilman extended his hand in quiet command. After a brief hesitation, the man relinquished the gun and stalked from the room.

Edwin turned the pistol over in his hands and spoke to the guard behind him. “Follow him. Find him a nice cell to occupy while he thinks about what he's done. Somewhere out of the way.”

“Sir?”

“I'll be fine.”

With obvious reluctance, the guard inclined his head, then disappeared down the hallway. Edwin turned back to them, his gaze sliding over Hawk's injuries before landing on Jeni. “You're Ashley's daughter. Jeneva.”

“Jeni,” she corrected. “Why did you stop him?”

Edwin slipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out a key, and tossed it to Hawk. Hawk reached for Jeni's wrists, fitting the key into place and sighing with relief when the first cuff fell away from her chafed skin.

“I abhor everything Dallas O'Kane is,” Edwin said quietly. “I loathe the fact that he's dragged my only child into sin with him. But I prefer the devil who owns his perversions to a liar who cloaks his sin in righteousness.”

Jeni didn't have time to argue right or wrong with a true believer—and she didn't care to. Only one thing mattered to her as she climbed to her feet. “How do we get out of the city?”

“I've arranged—”

The shot was so loud, it was like thunder in the room. Hawk covered her body with his, but she could still see over his shoulder. And it was like Sector Six all over again, but worse, because Edwin Cunningham was standing there without most of his face. Just
standing there
, as if time had frozen in the new worst moment of her life.

Then he fell, and she caught sight of the man behind him. The man with the smoking gun.

When Jared had opened his bar in town, Smith Peterson had made his life a living hell. He'd even gone as far as to have him picked up by MP thugs and beaten. Jared had chalked it up to a small man with a very personal vendetta—Peterson's wife was a longstanding client of his—but looking at him now, over Edwin Cunningham's corpse…

Hatred blazed in his eyes as he stared at them, but so did something else. Hunger, anticipation. Interest, but not in anything as base and simple as sex or even revenge.

Smith Peterson was after
power
.

He stepped over Cunningham, the barrel of his pistol trained on Hawk's forehead. “My best interrogator couldn't break you, so I won't try. But I think it's only fair to give you one more chance to talk.”

Hawk met Jeni's gaze. The chains still attached to the cuffs on his wrists clinked softly as he lifted a hand to cup her cheek. “Remind me again what we're going to grow on our farm.”

She knew what he was doing, what he was saying. Even if this had to be how they went, it could still be on their terms, not Peterson's. Fighting tooth and nail to your last gasping breath wasn't the only way to die with grace.

Jeni was so fried she didn't try to hold back her tears. All the back and forth, the ups and downs. They were going to die, they were going to live—she couldn't even process it anymore, the surge of hope only to have it snatched away. Here she was, facing the unimaginable again—the worst thing she could think of in the world—

She couldn't do it. She
couldn't do it
.

“Strawberry,” she whispered. Not an answer to his question, but the safe word she'd chosen by candlelight, a lifetime ago. Hawk stared down at her, the soft confusion in his eyes melting into realization too late.

She turned to Peterson. “Wait.”

After so many weeks of tense waiting, there was a kind of sick relief to being at war.

Cruz walked the line of Five's growing fortifications, a row of trucks usually used for the sector's product deliveries. Men were busy at work on both sides, digging trenches and putting up barbed wire.

The same quick-expanding cement they'd used to block the tunnel exits was being used farther down, creating staggered barricades that would provide cover in a firefight and make it harder to move an army into Five.

Of course, there were downsides to ever-expanding sectors. Dallas and Ryder would have to pick a border for their southern defense—and warn everyone beyond that line to move closer or run for the damn hills.

Not everyone could. The communes would be vulnerable. They were too spread out to be defended effectively, and too reluctant to work together. Jyoti had badgered and cajoled, had bribed and outright threatened. Some had refused to ally themselves with the sectors, foolishly thinking that neutrality was an option.

When Eden sacked the first farm and stripped them bare, with nothing but the empty promise of a payment they'd never see…

Well, by then it might be too late. But Cruz suspected the stragglers would fall in line quick enough.

Cruz stopped next to a truck and lifted a hand to activate his earpiece. “How are we looking from up there?”

Bren's voice crackled over the speaker. “I'm in position. Just waiting for a shot.”

“Good.” Resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder and seek out Bren's vantage point, Cruz continued to the cluster of men gathered around Ryder's makeshift command point. Ryder himself was there, looking calm and collected on the surface, but with an eager edge that was all too familiar.

Cruz wasn't the only one relieved that the waiting was over.

Ryder was directing his men. “These aren't punks out to roll you for your money or your stash. They're out to kill. That's what they're trained to do. You have to fight harder, and you have to fight smarter. Because this is just the beginning.”

The men nodded, scattering in an almost-disciplined wave to take up their positions. Cruz fell into place at Ryder's side and watched the flames sweep across Sector Six. Some still raged toward the sky, but there were darker places now. Places where Eden had contained the blaze.

He glanced at Ryder. “Do we know how many of the farmers made it out?”

“We know jack shit.”

“We know they're coming.” If they were smart, they'd make a run against Ryder's defenses at least once before falling back. Five would never be less prepared to meet Eden than at this moment—and if the farms hadn't sent up a warning, Five wouldn't have been prepared at all.

“Yes,” Ryder agreed. “With some luck—and if you're as good as they say you are—we can take out the first wave completely.”

“He's better,” said a voice behind them, a familiar voice that had Cruz reaching for his gun as he spun around.

Fear tightened in his gut.

Ashwin looked the same. Tall, with brown skin and black hair buzzed so short, Cruz knew he'd been to the Base recently. He was dressed in standard-issue night gear, a black-clad shadow decked out with knives, guns, and grenades. A one-man army, the same as always, but his eyes—

Something seethed in their brown depths, something Cruz hadn't seen since his training days. A Makhai soldier on the edge.

He eased his finger onto the trigger.

Ashwin's gaze flicked to his hand, and his lips curled up into a mockery of a smile. “Not today, Lorenzo. I have work to do, and so do you. They're here.”

A shot sounded overhead, followed by another, and Bren's voice blazed in Cruz's ear. “You have infantry incoming.”

Ashwin took off, reaching a run in the five steps it took to draw even with Cruz. He planted one hand on the hood of a truck, vaulted over it as if he wasn't carrying fifty pounds of gear, and vanished into the darkness.

On the other side of the street, gunfire erupted. Men screamed—in fear, and then in pain.

“Shit.” Cruz spun and took his place, raising his voice. “Dig in! Hold the line!”

Ryder's men fell into ragged formation. They were green, uncertain. Five minutes ago, Cruz might have been worried.

Five minutes ago, he hadn't seen the look in Ashwin's eyes.

Cruz almost felt sorry for the soldiers from Eden.

Almost.

Hawk had held strong through a beating that should have put him on his knees.

Jeni got him there with one word. “Wait.”

She faced the other man, resolve radiating from her bruised, dirty face. “He's not the one you want, Peterson.”

“Oh, is that so?” A sneer twisted his mouth as his gaze raked over Jeni with a disdain that had Hawk shifting his weight. But the minute the chains clinked, Peterson swung the gun away from Hawk.

To point at Jeni.

“I was listening,” he continued, every word dripping with condescension. “You're the sector-tainted brat of that social-climbing whore. Do you share her delusions of grandeur?”

The words rolled off of her with no visible impact. “No. But I am smarter than you and your interrogator put together. I mean, was he ever going to figure out he was beating on the wrong O'Kane?”

Hawk's heart thumped wildly. He could protest, beg her to stop talking, but that would only confirm to Peterson that she had something of value to tell. Or he could bluster and swear she knew nothing—and confirm to Peterson that she was of value to
him
.

“The wrong O'Kane?” Peterson pointed the gun toward the ink on her wrists with a rough laugh. “Oh, I get it now. You
do
have delusions. You think a man like O'Kane put that ink on you because he gives a shit about anything other than having you around to keep his men happy?”

“Men talk in bed,” she shot back. “So do women. But you already knew that, didn't you? How many of your secrets did your wife spill?”

Peterson turned red. “You mouthy little—”

“I don't forget.” Jeni clenched her hands into fists. “Ever. Your people brought us up in a service elevator, but we passed a directory—fourth floor, Legal Department and Planning Commission. Suite 400, Sebastian Bell, Senior Legal Counsel. 404, Lydia Laterza, Executive Assistant. 405, Cameron Feldt and Iona Simon—”

“Stop.” Peterson frowned, his rage bleeding into thoughtfulness. “Describe the men who brought you in.”

“There were three. One your height—white, bald, with a brown beard and a scar on his left cheek. The second one was taller, by maybe four or five inches, black, clean-shaven. Also bald. The third guy was wearing a dark cap and had stubble. Only he used names—he called the others Banks and Sullivan—and he was left-handed.” She paused. “He groped my ass when he was dragging me out of the truck.”

That spiked Hawk's rage again. He watched the barrel of Peterson's gun, but it didn't waver from Jeni's face. Any movement, any
word
could end with her bleeding out on the floor.

Hawk had never been so fucking helpless in his life.

“All right.” Peterson gestured with one hand, ordering Jeni to take a step closer to him. “Do you know who's calling the shots in the communes?”

“No one.” She took that step—slowly, deliberately. “They just don't like any of you.”

He made a rude noise. “Assume that I believe you're telling the truth. What's your price? I could make you and your grasping excuse for a mother very comfortable in exchange for actionable intelligence.”

“There's only one thing I want.” She glanced at Hawk, but she kept her eyes averted—as if she couldn't bear to meet his gaze. “You get him back to Sector Four,
alive
, and I'll tell you everything you need to know.”

“Jeni,
no
—” Hawk bit off the protest. This had to be a ploy, a way to buy them both some time, because she wasn't stupid. She wasn't a traitor.

And she wasn't serious. She couldn't be fucking serious.

But his outburst had already drawn Peterson's attention. A smug, mean little smile twisted his lips as he surveyed Hawk. “Not so different from your mother after all, hmm? Always looking for a better meal ticket.”

Jeni stared at him. “Sure.”

“I'll consider it.” He backed out the door and gestured to a guard in the hallway. “Clean this mess up.”

“Peterson?”

Men swarmed the cell, dragging the unconscious guard back while someone covered them. Peterson stood on the other side of the bars, one eyebrow raised. Amused by Jeni's presumption. “Yes?”