Blaze (21 page)

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Authors: Joan Swan

BOOK: Blaze
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“What would you suggest I do?”
Owen shrugged, pushed off the fireplace, and sauntered toward her. He'd gained grace over the years, his body smooth and strong, the kind that a knowing woman could spot regardless of the clothes he wore. And Jocelyn definitely knew his body. Couldn't forget it no matter how hard she'd tried.
He stopped next to her chair, reached down, and lifted the soft fringe of bangs off her forehead, smoothing them to the side. Jocelyn couldn't keep her eyes from falling closed.
“Might have to take a chance, Joce.” His voice was low and soft, his finger caressing her temple. “Might have to just jump and take the risk of exposing yourself for the chance of gaining something even better.”
She leaned into his hand, then nudged it away. When she looked up at him, he was smiling, his mouth and eyes soft.
“Cash,” she said.
He shrugged one shoulder, slipped his hands back into his pockets. “It's an option.”
“It's a huge risk. We'd be completely exposed.”
He turned toward the door and slowly made his way across the office, giving her plenty of time to look at his ass. Jocelyn didn't mind. She rarely let herself indulge, and it was such a fine piece of male flesh.
“The bigger the risk, the bigger the payoff.”
“Or the bigger the fall,” she said.
“True. But if you never try, you'll never know.”
He put his hand on the door handle, and Jocelyn's chest tightened. Dammit, she didn't want him to go. Didn't want him to stay. So she stalled with, “Headed back home?”
“Uh, no.” He lifted his hand from the door, wrapped it around the back of his neck, and turned halfway toward her. “I'm . . . not living at my house anymore, Joce. I moved out.”
Her mouth fell open. “But . . . You . . .
What
. . . ?” Her heart pushed air out of her lungs on each hard, heavy beat. “Why?”
“Libby and I . . .” He pushed his hand back into his pocket. “We haven't been happy for a long time. I don't know if I've ever really been happy in the marriage. But that doesn't matter anymore. We just decided to stop pretending. We're getting a divorce.”
“I . . . I . . .” Her mouth went dry. Her loss of Jason seemed to boomerang out of nowhere and smack her at an angle she hadn't experienced before. “I'm so sorry, Owen. Really. Truly sorry.”
“Like I said, it's been over. Maybe it never started for me, because, honestly, Joce, I never really got over you.”
Oh, God help her. “Owen—”
“I know it hasn't been long since Jason died. But I'm not in any hurry. I've waited twenty years for you, Joce. I can wait until you're ready.” He pulled a card from his pocket and dropped it on a bookcase near the door. “My new contact info. Just in case you decide . . . you want me.”
Jocelyn stared at her office door long after Owen exited. Finally, she wiped her fingers across a damp brow. “I don't need this.”
But now that she was distracted, she might as well open the letter from Jason's attorney. Get all distraction of the male persuasion out of the way at once.
Jocelyn reached across the table and picked up the envelope. Heavy. Something was inside other than paper.
She wedged her thumb under one unsealed corner and ripped along the seam. Poured the contents into her other hand. A key hit her palm. Light, thin, gold. Familiar, because she had one of her own. A safe-deposit box key.
Her eyes closed for a brief second. “Great.”
She unfolded the letter. The sight of Jason's handwriting did something to her guts. They clenched, quivered, went cold, then warm, and kept changing with each emotion like a kaleidoscope.
Jocie,
I hope this makes your future choices easier.
I wish you every happiness.
All my love,
Jason
ELEVEN
K
eira wanted a drink. Needed a drink. Would give her next paycheck for a drink.
If she got another paycheck.
Crap, she needed to call her boss. First thing tomorrow. Wait, it was tomorrow. Okay, as soon as she got some sleep.
She watched Luke walk toward the office and lifted her chin to his retreating back. “But he's drinking.”
“Water.” Luke lifted his glass as he disappeared around the corner, still talking. “The drugs are way better than the booze. Guaranteed.”
“But they take longer,” she muttered as she took the heavy-duty pain relievers from Alyssa, then the glass of water she offered. “Where are the kids?”
“Watching a movie.” Alyssa walked to the office with Keira. “Mateo's already asleep on Kat's bed. Kat will be out any second. A soldier is stationed outside their window.”
“This is crazy.” Keira rubbed her forehead.
Mitch was the last to file into the office, a pair of scissors and a comb in one hand, a spray bottle in the other. He grinned and held them up to Keira. “I have something to keep your hands busy. I'm past due on my cut, pixie.”
“I'll say,” Alyssa muttered, and plopped into the big black leather chair in front of two huge flat-screen computer monitors where X-ray images already filled the space.
Keira cut Mitch's hair every time they got together. Had even accused him of calling her every six or eight weeks for dinner as an excuse. To date, he'd never denied the allegation. And she loved his company. He was fun, intelligent, sharp, insightful. And he never made moves on her. This bark was all for Luke's benefit. Or, rather, torture. She and Mitch loved each other differently. The same as she and Teague loved each other. Or she and Kai. Or she and Seth. They were friends. They were family.
“You sure?” she asked. “I haven't slept in . . . I don't even know how many hours it's been.”
She took the supplies from Mitch. With a triumphant grin, he pulled a desk chair from across the room, dropped it in the middle of the office, and straddled it. “I trust you, babe.”
“Are we all settled now?” Alyssa asked.
“Sure, sis. Go ahead.” Mitch picked up a remote from the nearby coffee table and pointed it toward the flat screen in the corner. “ESPN2 is replaying the—”
“No.” Alyssa swiped the remote and took it with her to the desk.
“You can mute it. I just want to—”
“No.”
“I can do more than one thing at a time, Lys—”
“No.”
“Mom always said you were kicking me in the balls from the womb.”
Keira threaded her hands through Mitch's familiar jet-black hair. A coil of dark emotion spiraled at her from Luke's direction where he sat on the arm of the loveseat across the small room. Jealousy. Clear and sharp.
She'd done a good job blocking him for hours. But she was tired and hurting, and honestly, she wanted him. Wanted him to fold her into his arms, let her rest there.
“How short?” she asked Mitch.
“I'll leave that up to you, beautiful. Just make me hot enough to turn you on.”
Keira resisted the urge to roll her eyes. This man was the biggest shit stirrer she'd ever known—and she'd lived in a firehouse.
“Are we ready to get serious?” Alyssa turned her attention to the computer screens. “These image slices start at the top of Mateo's head and go through the base of his brain. These are sagittal. For you nonmedical people”—she shot Mitch a look—“that means vertical, and run right to left. And these are transverse, or horizontal, running top to bottom. Here, you can see all the gyri, the folds of brain matter. As you come down toward the spine, there are other structures.”
She pointed them out and named them. Some sounded familiar, some sounded like something out of a science fiction movie.
Keira sprayed Mitch's hair with the water and combed through.
“What is all that stuff in there?” Luke had his arms crossed over his chest, angst wafting off him in tight waves. “The bright white things? The lines?”
“Those lines are the wires I told you about at the clinic.” She pointed to one of the rectangular specks seated within the gyri and followed the wire to the brainstem. “The ones connected to the chip I took out of his neck.”
Keira sifted pieces of Mitch's hair between her fingers and snipped, trying to focus so she didn't yank and chop in accordance with her emotions. “Do you know what they are? Can you tell what they do?”
“Typically, they're used to repair problems such as hearing deficiencies. Only these aren't in the right location in his brain to aid with hearing loss. Nor are they in the right location to aid in depression or seizures or limb movement, which are some more recent advances in the use of implants.”
Keira's hands stopped moving through Mitch's hair. “Then what the hell are they doing in there?”
“I don't know yet.” Alyssa waved toward the myriad of open volumes spread over one end of the desk space, another computer screen above displaying a web page with what looked like a research project on the subject. “I may find something in here.”
“But you have an idea,” Mitch said. “I know that look in your eye.”
She set her gaze on Keira and cleared her throat. She always cleared her throat right before she had to deliver ominous news. Keira leaned closer to Mitch.
“Implants are simply microchips. They're called brain-computer interfaces. They collect and redirect the electrical currents already running through the brain.
“Recently, researchers have added amplifiers, which increase and transfer the voltage to a master or control chip, like the one we removed from Mateo's neck, which then becomes, in effect, an all-in-one power source and microcomputer, harnessing the power of the mind. Those chips have the impetus to perform whatever task they are programmed for. In the last decade, that's typically been to move a prosthetic limb.”
“Well, he obviously doesn't have a prosthetic limb.” Luke sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “So what else might they be doing in his brain with all this . . . current ?”
Alyssa shrugged. “The possibilities are as endless as the imagination. I don't know enough about these implants to guess.”
Everyone went silent for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts. Keira blew out a frustrated breath, rounded in front of Mitch, and started on his cut again. She needed the distraction.
The stress in the room whipped like a hurricane. She'd lost track of where it was coming from. Her walls were now paper-thin. She'd spent years learning to control her abilities, only to find herself at their mercy again after less than twenty four hours of havoc.
“From what I can see”—Alyssa pointed at an image where several little bright spots clustered in the center of Mateo's brain—“the majority of implants are centered around the nerves. Specifically the ocular core where nerves like the optic, occulomotor, trochlear, and abducens nerves are located.”
Teague rubbed a hand over his face. “Baby, English. Please.”
“Those are nerves that affect the muscles and functions related to vision, like eye movement and pupil constriction.”
A hot rock dropped in Keira's stomach. She stopped cutting. “Vision.” It made complete sense. “They were trying to manipulate his powers as a remote viewer.”
Alyssa lifted her brows in consideration. “That's the most logical conclusion.”
“Do you realize what this could mean?” Keira fisted the scissors and stepped away from Mitch, panic sizzling through her bloodstream. “If they discovered or even believed Rostov could manipulate or control Mateo's power of remote viewing by implanting electrodes in his brain and hooking him up to a computer, what would they do to manipulate or control
our
abilities?”
She waved a hand at Luke. “If boiling water doesn't scald Luke's skin, what would happen if they implanted electrodes to amp that power? Could they make his body resistant to three hundred degrees? Five hundred? A thousand? And if flame doesn't scorch him, what about acid? And if he's bulletproof, what about knife-proof?”
“Keira.” Luke grimaced. “You're making me sick.”
“What about Teague's ability?” she continued. “If he can heal cuts at a certain temperature, stop bleeding at another, what would they have to do to enable him to cure cancer? Eradicate disease? And who would they test his abilities on?
“And then there's me. My abilities aren't that different from Mateo's, only I hear, he sees. Do I need to go on?”
Here we go. Worst-case scenarios again.
She turned to Luke. “Maybe you should open your brain a little wider.”
The room went silent. Keira bit the inside of her lip.
“You two . . .” Mitch's light eyes darted between them. “Having your own private conversation?”
Keira closed her eyes on a sigh.
“Holy shit,” Mitch muttered. “I sure as hell hope you can't hear what I think.”
“Mitch,” Alyssa said. “You are so careless with your money. That's another twenty into Kat's college fund.”
Teague held up a hand. “Keira, don't get ahead of yourself. We don't even know that's what these implants are for. Come over here and let me work on your cuts.”
Mitch wrapped his arm around her waist in the most offensive move he'd ever made toward her. “But not before you get a proper thank-you for my new style.”
The move didn't feel threatening, just . . . awkward. Mitch leaned in, clearly with the intention of kissing her, but slowly. Too slowly. A direct contrast to the way he'd grabbed her. And no, she couldn't read what was on his mind. But Luke's thoughts pierced her skull like a knife.
Over my dead body.
Luke fisted the back of Mitch's T-shirt and yanked him backward. “You don't want to know what I did to the last guy who kissed her in front of me.”
Mitch shot Keira a wink before pulling from Luke's grasp, shaking him off and hitting him with a scowl.
“Get off me, cop. She's a free entity.”
“Guys.” Alyssa's irritable tone made it clear her patience was low. “Knock it off. Keira, let Teague work on your cuts.”
Keira was too exhausted to take much interest in Luke and Mitch's power struggle, one that was more about Mitch's ability to needle Luke and Luke's ability to stab back than it was about either one's feelings for her.
Boys. They never changed.
She dropped into the loveseat facing Teague, curled one foot underneath her, and let her friend inspect her cuts. She'd peeled the loose Steri-strips off after the shower, leaving her injuries clean and exposed.
Teague's warm fingers started on the cut at her temple. His sure touch sent pulses of heat into the first centimeter of flesh before it dissipated, and along with it, the throbbing ache. With every inch of healing, her stress decreased another notch.
“Mitch,” she said. “Were you able to find out about the other kids who survived?”
“As soon as they were stable, the army flew them out to military hospitals. We'll never find them now.”
“In the car,” she said, “Tony talked about Rostov's hereditary research; said the kids that came out of the ranch were of different nationalities.”
“He probably chose different nationalities and genders and ages to test for variations in response to the chemical exposure.” Alyssa rubbed a hand across her eyes. “My God, he's a modern-day Joseph Mengele.”
“Mangled what?” Mitch asked.
“Mengele,” Alyssa repeated. “World War Two.” When that didn't stimulate a response, she started gesturing with her hands. “Scientist. Experimented on kids, took a keen interest in twins, injected dye into their eyes to see if they changed colors, performed amputations without anesthetic. . .” She put up both hands in a “stop” gesture. “Oh, wait. I remember now. Nicole Jamison sat next to you in that class. You almost flunked out. Mom grounded you for a month.”
Mitch's expression went wistful. “Nicole Jamison. Mmm-mmm. Now there's a blast from the past. Haven't thought of ol' Nickie in a long time.” A grin edged his mouth up. “She was so worth that D, and Dad softened Mom down to a week.”
“The double standard in action.” Alyssa looked at Keira as if gaining support from the only other female in the room. “She had an overbite, her mouth was too big for her face, and she was as dumb as a brick wall.”
“Now, now. Be nice if you want me to tell you where these came from.” He leaned over Alyssa's shoulder, picked up the magnifying glass on the desk, and inspected the implants in Mateo's brain. “Someone's got to manufacture these little beauties, which means someone had to invent them first, which means someone knows what they're used for. Write down these numbers, Lys.”

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