Dancing on the Wind (4 page)

said in a not-unkind voice. “You’re on your way home. I couldn’t let them kill you. She would

have died if I had.”

Whomp. Whomp. Whomp.

It was a chopper under which he was lying, a black military transport. He was strapped to a

gurney that had been stopped by the hand of the faceless man. The cold air moving over him

came from the spinning blades.

“I’ll be coming for her,” he heard the faceless man say. “Keep her safe until I do.”

He felt himself being lifted into the chopper and the pain was so great he knew he lost

consciousness. The last thing he remembered was the whir of the blades.

Whomp. Whomp. Whomp.

Coming back from wherever he’d been hurled, Fallon suddenly went as still as

death, his eyes open wide. He stared unseeingly at the fan blades circling above him.

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Dancing on the Wind

“Why am I still alive?” he whispered. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Whomp. Whomp. Whomp.

“One of these days I’ll be coming for her.”

“Groves,” he said, and slowly sat up as memories flooded through him. Matty

Groves had saved his life, had rescued him from unspeakable torment at the hands of

his enemy.

Other memories assailed him like flashing neon signs on the Vegas strip. They shot

past his mind’s eye in rapid succession. Snatches of a long-ago conversation rumbled

through his brain to shake him to the core of his being.

“When cloning becomes the norm, we’ll all have expendable molds from which to take the

pieces-parts we need to live fifty years longer than the norm. If I just had the money to complete

my personal research, stuff I’d just as soon the Exchange not know about for now.” He’d lowered

his voice. “I’m working up a facial replica right now from blood and tissue samples I received a

few days ago. Sort of a living mask. Guess who the model was.”

Something snapped inside Mikhail Fallon and he sprang from the bed as though

jerked by unseen hands. He didn’t bother putting on his shoes, ignored the cane as it

fell to the floor. Limping, hobbling, he left her room—crashing into the doorjamb but

barely acknowledging the pain that shot through him. He tore down the hallway, sped

through the great room and yanked open the door, not even bothering to shut it behind

him. He stumbled down the corridor and shoved the stairway door open with a bang.

Down the flights of stairs he flew as though demons were nipping at his heels. The pain

in his injured leg didn’t even register. When he slammed into the lobby of the dorm, he

never heard the doorkeeper yell out to him. His objective was beyond the doorway

leading outside and he plowed through it, shoving it aside as though it were nothing

more than tissue paper. Distantly he heard glass shatter but he didn’t give it a single

thought. He stumbled on the walkway leading to the Exchange, but he managed to stay

on his feet, increasing his speed as he tore across the distance between the two

buildings, his stocking feet tearing across the brick walkway, arms pumping.

Each of the entrances to the Exchange was governed by armed guards standing by

scanners, and when he jerked open the side entrance door and came hurtling through,

he saw guns come out of holsters, two men bending their knees in shooters’ stances, but

he shot through the scanner, ignoring them and their shouts of “Halt!” He’d gone no

farther than ten feet into the building before he was tackled roughly from behind, the

breath knocked from his body, sliding forward on the Terrazzo floor while his arms

were jerked savagely behind him as a third guard knelt with a knee to Fallon’s back,

snapping handcuffs around his prisoner’s wrists.

“Be careful of his leg!” someone shouted.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Fallon?” he heard someone else growl. “Have

you finally lost your mind, bro?”

“She’s alive,” was all he could say in between gasps for breath.
“She’s alive!”

17

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“No.”

“Did I ask your permission?”

Mikhail Fallon glared at the man known only as the Supervisor. “I work alone.”

“You work with whomever I order you to work with,” the Supervisor snapped,

dark blue eyes flashing with irritation. “It has been decided that you are to have an

Extension and…”

Fallon put his clenched fists on the top of the Supervisor’s desk and leaned forward,

chiseled features hardening with rage. “I said no.”

“And an Extension has been assigned to you,” the Supervisor finished as though his

top agent had not interrupted him.

“You know what you can do with your Extension?” Fallon queried.

The Supervisor leaned back in his expensive formfitting chair and steepled his

fingers beneath his chin. “I wish I could say it has been nice working with you, Agent

Fallon, but I’m afraid I can’t. I do, however, wish you luck in your next job.”

Pale amber orbs narrowed dangerously. “That’s the way you want to play it?”

“That’s the way it will be if you refuse my orders.”

Straightening, Fallon nodded slowly. “Fine. You can forward my last check to the

Chelsea address.” He turned toward the door.

“Have you forgotten your service with us can not be terminated under any

circumstances?”

The soft words stopped Fallon in his tracks. He looked back, and the expression on

the Supervisor’s face made him walk back to the desk. “What does that mean?”

A nasty smile twitched the Supervisor’s lips. “You know perfectly well what it

means, but just in case you’ve had an extremely severe brain fart, let me be clear on the

matter. It means, Agent Fallon, that you can never leave your employment with us.

Employment with the Exchange is for life. There are no provisions within the contract

you signed for you quitting or us firing you. There are no provisions for disability or

retirement. Only death can sever the Connection. Now considering what I just said, let

me assure you I can assign you any job within this organization I deem you capable of

performing. Since you are proficient at many things, I can install you in any available

position from janitor to file clerk.” The smile widened. “Which position would you

prefer?” One thick brow arched upward. “Or would auxiliary groundskeeper suit you

better? I can’t offer you the head groundskeeper position since that is already filled.”

18

Dancing on the Wind

A snarl lifted Fallon’s lip. “You can’t keep me here if I don’t…”

“How does solitary confinement for the next fifty to sixty years of your life sound?”

the Supervisor inquired. “If you don’t wish to work, imprisonment here at the

Exchange is your only other alternative.”

Fallon stared at the man everyone within the organization hated—himself more

than most—and his hands curled into fists again. “You are a fucking son of a bitch,” he

said.

“And you are a supremely arrogant little prick but, hey, what’s in a name?” the

Supervisor asked with a smirk.

“I don’t want a fucking Extension!” Fallon shouted so loudly the glass shade on the

lamp sitting upon the Supervisor’s desk rattled.

“There are perks to having a female Extension,” the Supervisor said.

“Goddamn it! I…”

“We went to a great deal of trouble picking just the right woman for you, Fallon,”

the Supervisor cut him off. “She had to meet certain standards even to be considered.”

“
I don’t want a fucking Extension
!” The bellow was like that of an enraged bull. This

time the force of it shook the windows.

The Supervisor smiled brutally. “Well, you don’t have a say in the matter. It’s

settled. Live with it.”

Snarling like a cornered weretiger, Fallon spun around and stalked to the door,

jerking it open with a curse so vile it turned the air blue.

In the office of the Supervisor’s executive assistant, Keenan McCullough looked up

from the novel she was reading as two hundred and sixty pounds of irate male stormed

past her. She saw him glance her way and felt the lash of his fury make landfall along

her spine. He stopped in mid-stride—giving her a murderous glower that might have

quelled a lesser woman—then he shocked her by hissing at her.

She blinked, taken back by the rage she saw brewing in his stormy amber eyes.

“What’s your problem?” she asked.

“Before I’m through with you, you’ll wish you’d never heard my name,” he

prophesied, his gaze raking over her insultingly.

Her eyebrows drew together. She had no idea who this towering hulk of

masculinity was. Although he was movie-star handsome—devastatingly so in fact—he

made her acutely uneasy. This was a man who could maim and kill without the

slightest hesitation. She had the unsettling feeling he was the man they intended to

hand her over to as his Extension.

“I don’t want a fucking Extension!”

That said he stomped from the room, jerking open the door then letting it slam back

against the wall behind his passing.

19

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Who the hell was that?” Keenan asked the man sitting behind the desk.

“That was Mikhail Fallon,” the Supervisor’s EA said dryly. “His friends—and

believe it or not he actually has one or two—call him Misha.” He shuffled some papers

on his desk. “He’s your Alpha.”

Keenan scowled. “That’s
him
?” she asked. “That’s the great and powerful Fallon?”

“I’m afraid that’s the wizard behind the curtain,” the EA replied with a sigh.

“Oh bloody swell,” Keenan mumbled. “I don’t need…”

A buzzer sounded and the EA stood, adjusting the fit of his suit as he did. “The

Supervisor is ready for you.”

By the time he reached the cafeteria, Fallon’s jaws were aching from grinding his

teeth. He had dug deep half-moons into his palms and his back was stiff from the rigid

set of his shoulders. It had been a long time since he’d been this mad and longer still

since anyone had dared to make him do something he truly didn’t care to.

“Old bastard,” he muttered as he strode up to the counter and ordered a cup of

black coffee.

The young woman behind the counter knew better than to inform this particular

man he could pour the coffee himself from the self-service end of the cafeteria. Instead,

she hurried to do his bidding, making note at which table he planted his tall frame. The

service workers took extra care with Fallon, spoke only when spoken directly to, and

were very cautious not to garner his notice if at all possible. They were so terrified of

him that when he made an appearance in the cafeteria, they mentally held their breaths

until he left.

Slamming his brawny body into a chair by the far window, Fallon turned to stare

out at the miles of rolling green hills that stretched as far as the eye could see beyond

the Exchange. No trees dotted the landscape. No water mirrored the bright summer

sky, only acre upon acre of rye grass that was mown and rolled into large round hay

bales that resembled pencil erasers at harvesting time.

As his cup of coffee was placed silently before him, he acknowledged it with a

quick bob of his head then took up the cup to take a long sip of the piping-hot liquid.

The steam made him squint and the heat scalded his tongue but he welcomed the minor

discomfort for it momentarily took his mind from the anger building within him in

leaps and bounds.

“Fucking romance novel,” he grumbled as he put the cup down and returned his

attention to the outside scenery, reaching up to unconsciously tug at the gold hoop in

his left earlobe. “The bitch was reading a fucking trashy romance novel!”

Those few people taking a late breakfast glanced toward the Exchange’s main

operative then quickly away. It didn’t pay to gain Fallon’s attention. If he wanted to talk

to himself, no one would dare listen in to the one-sided conversation.

20

Dancing on the Wind

“She probably has a two-twenty-volt G-spot vibrator in her nightstand,” he said,

and lifted the cup to his lips.

He thought about that for a moment then a nasty smile pulled at his mouth as an

idea began to take shape in his mind.

“I hope I’ve done nothing to cause that spiteful grin.”

Fallon didn’t bother to look up. At the sound of the sardonic voice, he leaned back

in his chair and propped his booted feet on the one opposite. “You’d best be glad you

haven’t,” Fallon replied.

Dr. Matt Groves set down his breakfast tray then took a seat, snapping a linen

napkin into place on his lap. He reached for the salt shaker sitting in the center of the

table and began sprinkling its contents onto the soft scrambled eggs on his plate.

“Who’s pissed you off now, you crazy Mick?” he inquired.

“The old man has gifted me with a fucking Extension.”

Groves looked up, his eyebrows elevated. “The new woman who came in

yesterday?” he asked in a surprised tone. “The one from Langley?”

“I don’t know where the hell she came from and I don’t give a rat’s ass where she

came from,” Fallon growled. “All I know is that that rank old bastard is foisting her off

on me.”

Groves sat back, his meal forgotten. “Misha, what did he tell you about her?”

“Not a fucking thing,” Fallon answered, and took another gulp of coffee before