Parallel Seduction (25 page)

Chris stared down at the busted-up alien craft that lay charred on the snow before him. Mirror Lake spread frozen and gleaming around him, a giant set of klieg lights illuminating the otherwise darkened, snowy landscape. At least seventy-five workers from a variety of federal agencies had been on the scene for hours, the whole place looking pretty much like a bad outtake from
2001: A Space Odyssey.

They'd discovered these two black machines, blown semi-apart, right here on Mirror Lake. The investigative teams had spent hours bagging and tagging every blown-up bit of the things, but none of their crew—not one—had a reference point in terms of identifying the crafts. Overland vehicles had been brought in, ready to cart the alien snowmobiles off, but now this—a call from Colonel Peters, asking him if he had the first idea what an alien squad might be.

Chris pressed the cell closer to his ear. "Honestly, Colonel, I don't know what in hell you're talking about."

"I said you wouldn't—unless the FBI was keeping secrets, which I doubt, not when we're running this thing."

"What thing, sir?"

"This is our man, Harper, and he wants you," the colonel explained, breaking up a bit over the connection. "He didn't ask for your SAC or your ASAC—he asked for you, a simple special agent within the FBI." He recited the last with precision, drawing out each letter with his indelible Southern accent.
FB … ayyye.
"Not sure what it means, Agent Harper, apart from the fact that you're now our A-number one most interesting guy."

"You think I can get a meeting with him?" Chris asked, wondering whether Bennett had his sister. If he was lucky, maybe this whole conversation was about to give him the bead on his twin that he needed. "That what you saying? That you think this Bennett and I can have a sit down?"

"I know you can." The line crackled and part of what the colonel said was cut off. "… on our terms."

Chris rolled his eyes. Pissing. Contest.
Hello, federal bureaucracy.
After forcing himself to stay frosty, he asked, "So your crew is calling the shots now?"

"We are always calling the shots in this particular show, son."

"Understood."

"Stand by. Expect a call and be ready to fly—wherever or whenever this Bennett wants to meet."

T
he hotter and sweatier
Scott and Hope became, the more slack his confinements grew. He alternated between glancing about the dark in fear, and feeling the throbbing need to finally take her. His body temperature had been righted already, a wonderful side effect of such devastating and lustful need.

The floor was cold and hard, the only real discomfort other than the welts on his back from the beating. The two of them slid together, her delicate, feline body fitting perfectly atop his.

"Clothes?" he whispered in her ear, panting insanely. "Where are yours?"

She gestured to the side, cradling the back of his head with her other hand. He stared up at her, able to see the outline of her body, limned by the moon high above the overhead windows. Cupping her face within his hands, he stilled her.

"You sure?" He studied what he could see of her face. "Like this … our first time?"

"I want to help you get free." She kissed his forehead, letting her lips linger against his sweaty brow. "It's not about your body temperature anymore; you're fine, I can tell, being the strapping alien man that you are. It's about.…" She slipped her fingers into the slack area of his neck cuff, demonstrating her meaning.

He swallowed hard, nodding. "Then let's spread your clothes out. Use them to soften things for you."

She shook her head. "Not a moment to lose, Scott. Not one moment."

He could feel the heavy weight of the chain that ran from his neck to the wall, pinning him like a naked slave. But he closed his eyes, felt Hope as she straddled him, and gave into the abandon of her body. Of loving her.

With one easy thrust he drove up inside, hard, feeling her warmth and wetness. So sweet. Gods, sweeter than any woman he'd ever been with.

She clasped her thighs about him, arching her back so that the golden strands of her hair appeared like cascading moonlight in the semidarkness. They might never have a moment like this again; or perhaps this tender taste of freedom they were each discovering was the first promise of true liberation.

Grasping his hips, she lifted, rocked, took him to the edge and beyond. This woman knew exactly what his body demanded, the pleasure that he was always driven to find with her kind. Only now it was all about the two of them, not mindless sex with a one-night stand. It was all about finding release in Hope's arms, the woman he knew was meant to be his wife.

Release! Gods, sweet release!
The words burned on his lips and he drove upward, into her, over and over. She rocked atop him, instinct guiding her every movement. She knew his tastes, what turned him on beyond reason because she'd been dreaming about making love to him for what might as well have been a lifetime. It was more than just this moment together; it was everything they'd each seen could happen.

With a gasp and a muted cry, he clutched her hips and drove up into her, spilling his seed. He was blind with their shared orgasm, blind with lust and overwhelming need.

As their hips and groins crashed together, a niggling awareness teased at his mind. He did feel free, incredibly so, and as she bent low to kiss him, beads of sweat on her upper lip, she reached for the opened reflexive metal cuff and tossed it to the side. Then she felt along his hands and did the same. The psychic metal, programmed by a torturous, cruel unit of soldiers, had been given no context for such pure heaven as he'd just known with Hope. He almost had to laugh at the irony of it: He'd literally just fucked himself right into freedom.

"Hurry!" she urged, staggering off of him and onto her feet. "We've got to get dressed and run!"

"I don't know where my clothes are, Hope," he told her hoarsely. "They confiscated them when they stripped me down. I've got nothing, baby."

She shook her head, reaching for her sweater and tugging it over her head, dressing rapidly. "They have to be around here—go look. Search. I would, but.… You'll never survive naked out in that snow. In here was one thing, but we've got to find those clothes!"

"And why would you want to do that?" a male voice called out, echoing across the dark and nearly vacant room. Hope could tell there were almost no furnishings or anything else in this area of the warehouse, because everything echoed, the hollow, reverberating sound of nothingness.

Pouncing, Scott shoved her behind himself. "Stay back, Hope," he hissed.

And then Scott's next words caused her heart to plummet. "Veckus, your score is with me—leave her out of this."

"I surmised it was time we talked, and then look what I should find? How is it possible that anyone could escape my reflexive hardware?" She heard Veckus strut past them, then the metallic sound of one of the cuffs skittering across the floor. "I suppose you believe you've outwitted me once again, don't you, Dillon?"

"It's never been about outsmarting you, Veckus. It's been about what's right and what's wrong—we aren't the ones who committed mass genocide back on Refaria."

"Don't you dare imply that!" the alien roared, and Hope heard the scuffling of feet, got the idea that Scott and Veckus were in a physical skirmish of sorts. "Your adopted people, the Refarians, are the ones who released the virus in order to subdue us," Veckus shouted. "They created and masterminded it, and then released it into the Antousian population."

Could Veckus be right? Hope wondered in alarm. What if this whole war wasn't nearly what she'd been led to believe? It seemed impossible, but never had she heard Scott mention that the Refarians had released the virus themselves.

She heard Scott sigh. "Veckus, you know that's a bunch of political propaganda. The virus happened because your people reached too far and too fast for things that didn't belong to them. They got sick because they tampered with genetic therapy when their experiments went wrong. Our people didn't do that. And they got even sicker because they allowed themselves to be enhanced. You can't change your genetic destiny like your people did."

"Your people?" Veckus shouted. "
You
are Antousian yourself, you fool."

"No, sir, I am not. I am half-human, and the rest of me is Refarian in my heart. I could never lay claim to a genetic history shared with you."

Veckus chuckled, and Hope heard him softly exhale a breath. "Like it or not, Dillon, it's still true."

Hope wondered what was happening—what would happen next. Her heart thundered in her chest, and she was incredibly aware that Veckus might strap Scott back into the cuffs at any moment. She listened as the warlord paced the room, walking a few feet away and decided to make her move. Anything to help save Scott.

She moved in the direction where the cuffs had lain, and kicked, successfully scattering one or two of them across the floor. "What the hell?" she cried. Veckus spun on her, but she kicked again, knocking the metal cuffs with her instep. It was enough to take her back to her soccer team days.

"Run, run, run!" Scott shouted, shoving at her. "Get out of here, Hope!"

She shook her head, hearing Veckus charge her. "I won't leave you!" she cried, and at that moment a hard fist slammed right into her jaw, sending her sprawling.

"Guess that means you're not a gentleman," she slurred, rubbing her cheek as she landed on the floor.

There was a click of weaponry engaging, and Hope covered her head with both hands.

"Aim that gun at me, Veckus," Scott announced coolly.

"All right, then," their captor said, "I will."

 

C
hris's cell vibrated in his
hand, and he whipped it to his ear. "Harper here."

"Agent Harper, this is Commander Jared Bennett," came a husky, deep voice. Not accented at all, which surprised Chris for some reason. "I understand you're expecting my call."

"Yes. Go on." He wasn't about to give away more details than he had to.

"We share a common aim right now, which is to locate your sister, Hope Harper."

Chris's jaw tightened. "What's your interest in Hope?"

Silence crackled over the line. "Are you not concerned about getting her back?"

"You know that I am, so tell me what you've got." Chris bucked up. "I thought she had entered your camp; that's the last I heard from her yesterday. That she'd joined in your fight."

"That is true." The alien's deep voice did not waver.

"And now she's not with you?"

There was a prolonged silence on the other end of the line. "We are concerned about her safety."

"If you don't know where she is—"

"I'm suggesting we pool our resources in order to find Hope and a missing soldier of ours. Your FBI resources and our Refarian ones. Together, we might locate both of our missing operatives."

Chris thought of the male unsub that Blake had briefed him in on, the large, bulky one who didn't fit Dillon's description. "You've lost Dillon too—not just her. Or is it someone else?" he asked carefully.

Of course Bennett sidestepped his question. "The people who have them, Agent Harper, are the same ones who made the play for Warren, and I know you realize what happened there."

"I
was
there."

"Then I shouldn't have to say anything else to convince you."

"How are you suggesting we combine our resources?" Chris kicked at the snow around him, wondering what this alien was truly after.

"I want to arrange for you and Colonel Peters to be transported to our main compound. You won't know where you're going, and will be blindfolded until brought into the lockdown area where we work. In exchange, we will share information. I will debrief you and the colonel about pertinent details on this war. The colonel will get intel that he's after—I will have a better shot at getting both Lieutenant Dillon and your sister back."

"So it
is
Dillon after all," Chris reflected. "He must be pretty important to you."

"Isn't
your
sister important to you?"

"You're saying Dillon is your brother, Commander?" he asked curiously.

There was a moment's hesitation over the line, and then, "He's the closest thing I have to one. Are you in or out on this plan?"

"I have to talk to headquarters first." Chris imagined what Washington would say, their inherent disapproval and the accompanying red tape. "How can I reach you?"

"I'll give you thirty minutes to decide."

S
cott watched in horror
as Hope rubbed her jaw, blinking at the bright overhead lights that once again illuminated the warehouse room. There was no time to waste, or they'd both be back in chains again. Veckus's weapon was trained on him, and in one move Scott delivered a powerful roundhouse kick to the man's jaw, sending him staggering to the floor. Then, kicking again, he dislodged Veckus's weapon from his hand.

Diving, Scott landed atop the K-12 and whipped it around, pointing it right at the warlord. Veckus appeared stunned—as if he couldn't quite believe what had transpired—and Scott took the opportunity to grin in victory just as Veckus had done to him earlier.

"You're going to give me my clothes back," Scott announced, scrambling to his feet.

"Now, why would I want to do that?" Veckus gave him a long, cool slide of assessment. "Not when you're such a strapping, handsome warrior."

"Let's leave your sexual preferences out of this discussion." The rumor had always been that Veckus liked sex—any way he could get it. Scott was beginning to think that idea might be true.

"I meant, Lieutenant, that you may have a gun, but without your clothes you're not going anywhere." Veckus pointed toward the exterior windows. "Not with the way it's snowing out there tonight."

"I can shift—we both know that."

"Not if you want to take Hope Harper with you." Veckus's smoldering gaze narrowed victoriously.

"Where are we? Wyoming? Montana?" Scott demanded, glancing again at Hope to be sure she was all right. She was only partially dressed, lying frozen where Veckus had sent her reeling to the floor. "Get dressed, Hope. Put the rest of your clothes on, so we'll be ready to roll." She nodded and began pulling on her jeans.

"It doesn't matter where we are," Veckus countered, hitting the comm on his arm.

Scott disengaged the weapon lock. "Don't. Don't even think about it."

"You do realize how many soldiers are crawling all over this place, don't you? They'll be on you in a minute anyway."

"Then they won't mind when I blast your head off," he said with a lunge, pulling Veckus back into the crook of his arm. He held the weapon against the warlord's head. "Like this, I figure either you die or we get free. Guess we'll find out how loyal your troops really are, won't we?"

At that moment a whole squadron of Antousians poured into the room. Where had they all been earlier? Too confident in their victory, that was what Scott guessed. Either that, or implementing a specialized kind of torture: leaving him alone in the cold to think about cooperating. Whatever their plans, they had failed, because now he had Veckus Densalt at the receiving end of a pulse rifle.

The one called Kryn stepped forward, both palms extended. "Lieutenant Dillon, please calm down. Tell us what you want."

"My clothes, damn it! And after that, our freedom."

Kryn's lips curled in a cruel smile. "And what of Ms. Harper's medication? Don't you think she'll be needing that also?"

Scott glanced swiftly at Hope, and for the first time realized that she had grown pale and was even shaking a bit. "You'll hand that over too. Unless you want Veckus to die."

Kryn shook her head. "That's funny, because from this end, I think the one who might die is your beloved Hope Harper." She shrugged. "And without her medication, well, I think that might happen a lot sooner than you think."

Scott's mind reeled; how many hours had it been since she'd eaten? Taken a shot? Done any of the things he knew she had to do if she wasn't going to slip into diabetic shock?

"Don't listen to her," Hope argued, bracing her hands against the floor. "Get us out of here, and I'll take care of myself."

Scott jammed the weapon harder against Veckus's temple. "Clothing, medicine, and freedom. Or this man dies. That simple."

Several of the other soldiers now had their guns trained on Hope, and she bent forward, pressing her head to her knees.

"You have a decision to make, Dillon," Veckus hissed in his ear. "If I die, she'll die next. Either at gunpoint or from her illness. You're surrounded and out of possibilities here. Now, be a good boy and give over that weapon."

Hope stood suddenly, and the guns around her all cocked. Scott watched her, horrified. "Stay down, Hope!" he called.

With a strange look around her, she began to convulse, her whole body jarring as she collapsed to the ground. "She needs her medicine!" Scott insisted. "She needs help now!"

Hope writhed for a moment on the floor, and then—almost spookily—became rigid, just lying there, both eyes wide open.

"Hope, what's happening to you?" Scott called.

She blinked. "Diabetic shock," she managed to mumble. "I can't move."

Veckus chuckled. "Well, I suppose that puts an end to the escape plan."

"What do you mean; you can't move?" Scott tightened his grip on Veckus.

"I … I can't control my muscles. I can talk, but can't budge at all." She sounded terrified, and Scott glanced at the weapon in his hand. He had no other choice right now.

With a jab of his weapon he said to Veckus, "Bring me her medicine, and I'll let you go."

Veckus laughed, a low hissing sound. "I'm not so sure it's as simple as all that, Lieutenant."

Along the periphery of his vision, Scott saw Kryn kneeling beside Hope. "Don't you dare harm her, Kryn. I've still got a gun to your commander's head."

Kryn didn't answer, but whispered something to Hope. At that precise moment three Antousian ghost shifters materialized at his side. He'd been so distracted by Hope's predicament that he hadn't sensed their approach, as he normally would via his Antousian tracking abilities. The three soldiers grappled with him, knocking his weapon away, snapping restraints about his neck and wrists, until once again Scott found himself locked hard within the confines of reflexive metal.

T
hey'd brought Hope to
some small room toward the back of the warehouse, where there was actually a pallet and a space heater that would keep her warm. Kryn knelt, maybe squatted, beside her. Hope was paralyzed from head to toe, just barely able to talk. Her throat clenched, but somehow—amazingly—she still had a remnant of speech. This kind of shock had happened to her on only two other occasions, and it was one reason Chris was always so damned protective of her: because her worst seizures terrified him.

"Tell me what to do," Kryn directed her calmly.

"Why do you care?" Hope closed her eyes. "Isn't this what you want?
How
you want it—me dead?"

Kryn gripped her arm roughly. "You're not a lot of good to me if you die. So give me instructions. Now."

It was one thing to find yourself in the clutches of your enemy, but quite another to be literally paralyzed. Hope could hardly think for the fear that kept clawing at her body and mind. Blind, unable to move, she had the sense of being buried alive. Tears burned at her eyes, and she blinked, wishing that those tears would wash away the blindness.

Kryn gave her hair a quick, soothing stroke. "Tell me, Hope. I want to help."

"My kit," Hope whispered finally. "There's juice. There's medicine you can put on my lips … that would be better. It will right my glucose levels faster."

There was a rustling sound, and Kryn asked, "Is this what you mean? It's called Glucose Fifteen."

Hope swallowed, nodding, and Kryn slowly rubbed the gel over her lips. "Is this enough?" the alien asked her after applying it.

"I don't get you. Why should you even care?"

"Because you're my captive, and I try to be as generous as possible with those under my 'care.'"

Hope snorted. "Yeah, like how you masterminded Scott's beating. You were definitely caring for him, all right. Your motives are totally off the charts."

The woman rose, walking away. "You're not meant to understand my motives."

Hope felt a tingling begin in her extremities, a sign that sensation and movement were starting to return. "Tell me you won't kill him. It won't help a damn thing if he dies back in there."

Kryn leaned whisper-close, bending over her. "Harper, you're in no position to ask for special favors right now."

J
ake Tierny watched as the
transport bearing Colonel Peters and Chris Harper docked for landing. With their flight capabilities it had only taken approximately two hours since Jared's confirming phone call for the men to arrive here on base.

What must they be thinking now? he wondered, grinning despite himself. He'd always admired Chris Harper, a tough spitfire with an angry streak, but one who could always be relied upon when the stakes were high. Besides, his brother-in-law loved Hope almost as much as he did. They'd been brothers in every sense of the word. For a while.

The bizarre thing in this instance, of course, was that Chris had no reference point at all for Jake, and not even much of one for Scott Dillon. Whereas here Jake stood, waiting to meet Chris all over again, owning years' worth of complicated memories that his brother-in-law simply did not possess.

The craft hovered low as it eased through the open hangar door, made a half turn, then put down its landing gear. Jared stood beside him, a bit stiff and formal in his demeanor, but only Jake would know that. It was a major step for them all, bringing outsiders into the base, and even though the security situation now demanded it, Jake knew it was ultimately a positive move.

In his own future, they'd spent too long delaying a meeting like this one, and he'd always wondered if having joined forces with the humans might have averted Earth's ultimate devastation. But Jake was encouraged for the first time in years, knowing that Warren's missiles hadn't been lost to their enemies. Everything kept spinning out differently back in
this
past, and it led him to believe that maybe—just maybe—all the toying with time had turned out to be a good thing.

The craft's door opened and lowered to the ground with a soft swooshing sound of released air, and both Jake and Jared assumed a parade-rest stance. Jake was in uniform now, his buttons shined and his jacket tightly pressed. He might as well have been in his own skin again; he felt as if he could tackle any enemy—in his own future, it had been years since they'd been able to wear the neat and sharp uniforms that he remembered so vividly.