Rebecca York (32 page)

Nothing in Jordan's imagination could have prepared him for the image that leaped into his mind. The same image MacArthur saw on a television screen below the level of the desk.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

TO HIS UTTER horror, Jordan saw Lindsay strapped to a chair with a man in a white lab coat standing over her.

The man slapped her hard across the face, and she screamed. Not in his ears. In his mind, and somehow— incredibly—even when she was in pain, she lent him her strength and her determination.

Don't let him know!

Her silent words and her strength were the only things that kept the shock from showing on his face.

He didn't know how she projected such iron resolve— right into his brain. But he knew without doubt that she had decided she wasn't going to give in to the bastards who had taken them captive. Because she believed what he had told her. If they let MacArthur know about their long-distance connection, they were dead. And if she could keep that information to herself, he had to try to do it, too.

Against every savage impulse raging through him, he sat quietly in the office of Crandall's director, pretending he didn't know anything about the horror downstairs.

In his mind he was screaming, but he made the scream into a mantra and flung it at the bastard sitting across the desk, looking down at a small television screen hidden from view.

I can't hear her. I can't see her. You believe I can't hear her. I can't see her. I don't have a clue about what you 're doing to her.

As he chanted, he fought to keep his expression from changing. MacArthur's gaze flicked from the hidden screen to him as though he expected a reaction.

"What?" he asked. To his own ears, his voice sounded like a coarse croak.

MacArthur said nothing.

"I guess I need some more water," Jordan said, starting to stand.

"Sit down," the director growled, and Jordan obeyed.

I don't have a clue about what's happening to Lindsay. I'm just sitting here wondering what's going on.

"You wanted to ask me more questions?" he offered.

"In a minute," MacArthur snapped. The phone on his desk rang, like he'd arranged for it to interrupt, and he picked up the receiver, listening, answering with a clipped "yes." And Jordan knew he was talking to the man with Lindsay.

She was downstairs, in a small, colorless, windowless room. Bound to a chair. He saw her, and he needed to focus all his attention on her. He needed to figure out how to free her.

No. We can't do it yet.

Her warning was sharp and clear in his mind.

I'm fine. I'll be fine. You can't let him know you're with me.

The man standing over Lindsay leaned down.

She tried to flinch away, but she couldn't move.

Using both hands, he casually ripped her blouse open.

She made a whimpering sound, but her voice in his head was steady. He's testing you. Don't let him know you can see this. Don't let him know a damn thing.

He wanted to grit his teeth. He wanted to scream. All he could do was sit there and pretend he wasn't in agony, watching as the bastard pulled down the cups of her bra, took her nipples in his fingers and twisted.

She cried out as though she were terrified—and humiliated. But he didn't sense fear. He sensed iron resolve. He understood that only part of her consciousness was in her body. The rest was with him, telling him to be strong. Adding her power to the message he aimed at MacArthur.

I don't know what you're doing to her, I don't have a clue. I don't know what's going on. I'm wondering why you don't continue this damn interview, since you called me up here. So why don't you tell your guy that there's no point in going after Lindsay again.

He focused on that thought, even when the room around him blurred. He fought not to strike out with a bolt of mental energy. Instead, he shifted in his seat.

Over the buzzing in his ears he heard MacArthur say something into the phone. He wasn't sure what.

But the man downstairs threw a blanket over Lindsay's ruined blouse, and she breathed out a sigh of gratitude.

He unstrapped her, hoisted her up, led her out of the room, and down the hall to the cell where she had been earlier.

She flopped onto the hard bunk, waiting until the door was closed before she allowed tears to leak out of her eyes.

I'll kill him.

No. We're winning. Don't blow it now. I have an idea.

When she told him what she was thinking, he bit back a smile.

"What?" MacArthur demanded.

"Actually, I'm in a very unique position. A very good position."

"Oh, yeah?"

"You're interested in developing inimitable weapons."

"What's your point?"

"It appears that Todd Hamilton and Glenn Barrow developed a weapon, but they didn't really think through what they were going to do. What if Lindsay and I could do something similar? What if you could use us for some important job?"

"Can you do something similar?" MacArthur snapped.

"Not yet. But we can work at perfecting our new ability— under your supervision." You like that idea.

You want to be able to use us. You want to present the Pentagon with the scientific triumph that you set in motion thirty years ago.

"How would I supervise you?"

"I don't know. Lie detector tests? Observation by a psychologist?" This guy's trying to be helpful. He wants to work with you.

"And what guarantee do I have that you wouldn't turn a weapon on me?"

"I guess you'll have to work out how to control the experiment."

MacArthur considered the plan, then nodded.

Jordan slowly let out the breath he was holding. "And while you're mulling it over, I'd appreciate not being stuck in a dungeon. Do you think you could get me a decent room? And I assume Lindsay is downstairs, too. I'd like her to be as comfortable as I am."

MacArthur stroked his chin. "If we're going to be working together, I guess that's a fair request."

Jordan didn't have any illusions. The director still hadn't decided what to do.

Limit the way they can touch. Have a barrier between them and an interior partition you can drop between them in a split second if it looks like they 're trying to pull anything funny.

The director's expression turned thoughtful. Jordan hoped he was considering the idea that his prisoner had planted in his head. And he was thinking he'd come up with it on his own.

Jordan prayed it would buy them some time. Because the alternative was attacking a house full of armed guards with no idea of success.

But if MacArthur gave them a few days, that was better than nothing.

The man behind the desk reached for the phone again and gave terse orders—for the prisoners to be brought to rooms on the top floor.

Not the presidential suite, Jordan assumed, but better than the basement.

And he was picking up something from the man now. His computer password, Jehovah 101. Maybe that would come in handy.

"Come on," one the goons ordered.

Jordan got up and followed him out of the room.

* * *

KURT waited until the door had closed behind the prisoner.

Leaning back in his contour chair, he tried to ease the tightness in his shoulders.

"Sit down," he said to Swift.

His most trusted aide came around the desk from where he'd been observing the session and took one of the guest chairs—not the one where the prisoner had been sitting.

"So what do you think about Jordan Walker?" Kurt asked.

"I think Walker is lying through his teeth."

"Why?"

"He was too cool. Too calm. He thinks he has an edge."

Jim had a point, although Kurt was inclined to be less judgmental.

"The man's in a jam. Of course he's willing to cut a deal."

"That doesn't make him reliable."

The door opened, and Frank Wainwright came in. He was the man who had put his hands on Lindsay during the interview with Jordan.

"We were discussing Walker," he said. "What do you think about the broad?'

"She acted like I'd expect. She was frightened. She was in pain. She tried to distance herself from me.

We have her on video. Want to see it?"

"Yeah."

Frank crossed to the television, inserted a tape in the VCR, and rewound it.

They all watched with interest as Lindsay was strapped into position in the chair.

"She's scared," Kurt pointed out.

"But determined not to give up anything," Swift countered.

Kurt nodded, watching as Frank slapped the subject, then ripped her blouse and manhandled her breasts.

She looked sick. Terrified. Withdrawn.

"What I'd expect," he repeated.

"Too calm," Swift argued.

"Like Frank said, she's withdrawing mentally. You don't have to be a telepath to do that. That's the way a lot of rape victims handle the abuse."

Kurt considered the video. "I don't think Walker could have known about what was going on downstairs and stay so cool."

"Unless he had some kind of pact with her," Swift suggested.

"I don't buy it," Kurt murmured.

"Since when are you so trusting?" Swift asked.

"Since I think we have a chance to use these people," he shot back. "Maybe they can help us find Greenwood."

"He could be hundreds of miles away. How would they know where to find him? I don't think keeping them around worth the chance," Swift said.

"Sid Becker, Greenwood's cousin, contacted her. She may know something."

Swift shifted in the chair. "One other thing you should consider. Maybe Walker is trying to sell you a complete bill of goods. Maybe he's a lot more powerful than he's letting on. Maybe he planted the idea in your mind that you should trust him."

Kurt kept his expression neutral.

"Just do me a favor and consider that possibility," Swift said. "Study the tape you just made of Walker.

And keep an eye on them."

"Do you know something I don't?"

Swift swallowed. "No."

"Spit it out!"

"I have a bad feeling about her. Just watch them. See how they're behaving. Her in particular. Nobody's interviewed her. She had to be frightened. She has to be wondering what's happened to Walker. Unless he's communicated with her."

Before they could argue further, he turned and left.

* * *

LINDSAY lay curled on her side, her arm across her face and her mind turned inward as she huddled on her hard bunk. The bastard who had torn her blouse had thrown her a man's shirt to wear. She had put it on because being covered was better than being exposed. But buttoning the shirt had sapped all her energy. She didn't have the will to reach out to Jordan. She didn't have the energy to do more than lie like a mindless lump of flesh, trying to steady herself.

She'd put up a brave front with Jordan. But she hadn't been prepared for this kind of captivity.

A shiver raced over her skin. What if those horrible men came for her again? What if they did more than strip off her blouse and grab her breasts? She wasn't sure she could take that. And she didn't want Jordan to see her weakness. So she had turned away from him. Turned away from this horrible place—inside herself.

Outside in the hall she heard footsteps.

Her heart leaped into her throat, and she clenched her fists, bracing for another assault.

She sensed Jordan struggling desperately to get back into her mind, and she tried to fight him off. But he forced his way past the barrier.

Lindsay, stop. Let me in. I have to tell you something important.

It felt like he was shouting inside her head. And she was too weak to fight him off. He came into her mind, sweetly, swiftly.

It's all right. The men who are coming for you won't hurt you. I convinced MacArthur to put us in better rooms. They're just moving you upstairs. That's all. They're not going to hurt you, he repeated, then went on, I want you to know that. But you still have to act like you're afraid.

She pressed her knuckles against her lips.

That won't be hard.

Lindsay, you were magnificent when he had you in that torture chamber. You gave me your strength.

You made it possible for me to pretend I didn 't know what was going on downstairs. Don't let them get the better of you now.

She swallowed. He was right. She had scored some important points. She had to keep scoring them—to stay alive.

Yes.

We're going to get out of this. We're smarter than they are. And together we're stronger, too.

The voice in her mind rang with conviction, and she wanted desperately to believe him. But she knew she couldn't trust the assurance. Neither of them had control of this situation, and it could turn very bad—very quickly.

The lock clicked, and Lindsay tensed.

Ask them about me. As far as they know, you have no idea where I am.

Yes. Right.

Jordan had asked her to act frightened. Despite his reassurance, there was no need to pretend. When two men stepped through the door, she felt her heart start to thump inside her chest as she cowered on the narrow bed.

"Come on," one of them said in a gruff voice.

"Where?" she asked, unable to hold her own voice steady.

"To a room you'll like better."

"Where's Jordan?" she asked in a voice that came out high and shaky. "What's happened to him?"

"He's upstairs."

"Are you telling me the truth?"

"Yeah. Come on."

"Don't touch me. Please." Stiff-armed, she pushed herself up, wavering on her feet, staying as far as she could from the guards.

They won't hurt you, Jordan reassured her.

One of the men stood behind her, the other in front, and she felt her chest constrict as they proceeded down a dark hallway, toward the room where she had been tortured for Jordan's edification.

She couldn't breathe until they had walked past that door. Then she gasped out her relief. Some of the tightness in her chest eased as they started up the stairs. They kept climbing, past the first floor—to the upper reaches of the building.

The men led her to the end of another hall, unlocked the door, and ushered her into a small bedroom.