Scarlet (6 page)

Not even their love.

*    *    *

Morgan's emotions were in turmoil as he walked away from Gina. It felt as if he were being ripped in half, but there was no turning back. The faces of Sarah and Joshua flashed in his mind. The pain of their deaths hit him like a blow again, doubling him over.

He remembered that day like it was yesterday. They'd sent his unit out to scout the area for rebel forces. He'd left Joshua and Sarah at the house he'd built for them. An agreement had been reached between the factions to avoid further civilian casualties. It was supposed to be safe in town.
They
were supposed to be safe.

He'd only been gone five hours when the air sirens filled the sky, deafening the birds squawking in the trees nearby. There were no other targets in the area, or so Morgan had been told. No one had known about the ammunition storage units hidden in town. Not even him.

His heart had nearly exploded in his chest as he raced back to the small Colorado town nestled in the mountains. By the time Morgan reached the valley, the town had been leveled.

It took him five minutes to orient himself. With all the street signs and buildings reduced to rubble, everything looked the same. If it wasn't for the fresh blood flowing into the roads, he wouldn't have known he was in the right place. Bodies were strewn about the alleys and sidewalks where people had been strolling only moments before.

Mangled, ripped, charred, and shredded. The lifeless corpses looked more like mannequins than real people. At least
it was easier to think of them that way. A few minutes later, Morgan found his house and immediately began digging.

There was a chance they'd survived. Or so he'd told himself over the hours it took for him to uncover his family. He'd found Joshua first, his small body crushed beneath the collapsed wood beams. His little face was bloody and pale and his blue eyes were lifeless. Morgan roared in impotent rage
as he clutched his dead son to his chest and wept for the first time in his adult life.

He'd taken off his jacket and gently placed Joshua on it, then continued digging, his knuckles bloody from the repeated knocking. Exhausted and numb, he'd found Sarah two hours later. She wore a faded pair of jeans and a shirt he'd given her for her last birthday. She'd complained about the expense, but he'd caught the glee in her lovely eyes. Sarah had worn the shirt every chance she got.

Scratches covered her fingers and face. He picked up her hand, marveling at the dainty size before pressing a kiss to her cool palm, then gently holding it to his chest. Her long nails were broken and bleeding, which told him Sarah had at least survived the initial attack and attempted to dig herself out. If only he'd gotten there sooner she might have lived.

Morgan had scooped her up. "I'm so sorry," he murmured into her soft hair. It still smelled feminine and light despite being covered in debris. Part of him had died that day with his family. A part of him he thought he'd never recover. Until he'd met Gina. She'd showed him what he'd been missing. Made him want to love again, even though the prospect terrified him. Morgan knew he wouldn't survive another loss of that magnitude, yet he couldn't stop himself. The decision had been made for him.

And now he was about to leave Gina to go in search of a past Morgan thought he'd buried long ago.

*    *    *

The cage was dark and musty, a windowless prison that could be easily forgotten. The chains holding the man had rusted, but not enough to weaken them. His brown hair was dirty and reeked of sweat, blood, fear, and desperation. Sores covered his wrists and scratches dotted his pale skin where he'd tried to break his restraints. Fresh feces and urine splattered the floor in a massive pile of human suffering. A cloud of ammonia floated in the air, choking off any chance of a deep breath.

How long had the man been down here? Roark Montgomery couldn't quite recall as he stood with his arms crossed, staring at the pitiful thing in disgust. His eyes watered from the stench, but he wasn't about to clean it until he got what he'd come for.

Roark had had him picked up after he'd been spotted wandering in the desert. An
unknown
without papers or family. The fact the man wasn't registered with any of the republics made it so very easy. The man had come here from no-man's-land to have a better life—or so he'd said when he first arrived. Roark eyed him. That hadn't worked out so well for him, but it was perfect for what Roark had in mind.

"Are you ready to get out of here?" he asked.

The man didn't move, not even a twitch from his limp limbs. Roark stepped forward and kicked the cage. The sound reverberated in the room, then quickly dampened due to its underground location. He hated coming down here, but the place served its purpose.

"I said, are you ready to get out of here? If you're too far gone, then just say so and I'll find another."

The man's head rolled to one side as he fought to raise it. "Yes." He coughed. "I'm ready," he croaked out from behind split, dried lips.

Roark smiled. "I thought as much."

The man tilted his chin up until he could look at Roark. One eye was sealed shut from the beatings, but the other glared with the fire of hatred, letting him know that despite the man's diminished capacity there was still some fight left in him.

"I have a job for you," Roark said, meeting his gaze. "If you do this right, you'll never see me again."

The man licked his lips. "And if I don't?"

Roark's eyes narrowed. "Then you can rot down here, for all I care. Your choice. There are plenty more where you came from."

The man's head slumped forward in defeat, then he forced it up once more. "What do you want me to do?"

"That's more like it." Roark's grin returned. "I need you to take a little trip."

The man frowned. "Where?"

"After being in this place, does it really matter?" Roark asked, astonished at his gall.

"No, I guess not."

"Now listen carefully." Roark filled the man in on the details of what he wanted him to do. "When you're done, wait in the valley to the north. Do you understand the instructions I've given you?"

"Yes. Find the woman." the man said. "I'm free to do as I please afterward. Right?"

"Of course," Roark said. "That was our deal."

The man stared at him, searching for signs of deception. He wouldn't find any. Roark made sure. He'd had fifteen years in politics, giving him plenty of time to perfect the art of lying. The man finally nodded in agreement.

"Good," Roark said. "My assistant will be down in a moment to get you cleaned up. Do try to behave yourself. He's not nearly as patient as I am." With that Roark left. The elevator carried him from the bowels of the basement up to his office on the fifth floor, which overlooked the west side of the Republic of Missouri's biodome.

He found his assistant, Michael Travers, waiting in the hall for his return. He was a meek man with pale skin and slick black hair that moved like a second skin on his head. His lips were overly full, almost feminine, and tended to smack when he talked. Deep down, Roark despised the man, but he'd always done good work. Until now.

Lately, he'd changed. Michael had taken to asking more questions than was necessary when Roark gave him an assignment. He talked back often. And there was something else in his dark eyes that hadn't been there before—defiance. Roark didn't like it one bit, but until he found a suitable replacement, he was stuck with the man.

"What do you want?" Roark asked.

"I've finished all the reports and sent them to their respective departments. The officers are waiting in that room," Michael said, pointing to a door on the right. "Is there anything else you'd like me to do before I bring them in?"

"As a matter of fact, I have a little errand for you to run."

Michael frowned. "An errand? But I thought you wanted me to stick around for the interviews."

"There's been a change of plans," Roark snapped. "I have a package down in the basement, room number seven. Get it cleaned and patched up. Regenerate it, if necessary. I want it in top shape by the time it leaves here. Once that's done, I'd like you to drop it off outside of Nuria."

"Why Nuria?" Michael asked.

"Because it's the closest town to the boundary fence." Roark's gaze narrowed. "And because I asked you to." He blew out a frustrated breath. "Your insubordination is getting tiresome. One of these days you'll go too far. Now do as you are told."

"Yes, sir," he said, scurrying off.

Roark waited until he was out of sight, then stepped into his office. With Michael out of the way, he could begin phase three of his plan.

chapter five

Metal chairs elbowed each other for space in the small, cramped room. A lone fluorescent bulb flickered endlessly, threatening to plunge the area into oppressive darkness. Hot air filled with influ-gas seeped in through an antiquated air-filtration system. The gas held neither scent nor taste as it drifted onto the two occupants waiting to be summoned.

Roark Montgomery steepled his fingers under his chin and leaned closer to the monitor. The petite, shaggy redheaded female sat a chair away from the steely eyed, blond bruiser. Their crossed legs faced away from each other. You didn't have to be a body language expert to know that there was no love lost between them. Roark tilted the screen and zoomed in.

The man reminded him a little of himself twenty years ago. Same ambition, same skill as a tactical team member. The only difference was Roark had always thought for himself, which was something he couldn't say about this man. Pity.

By now the gas would be permeating their skin, filling their pores, landing on their tongues if they spoke. In a few more minutes, they'd grow sluggish and forget why they were here. Eventually they'd pass out and then he'd start the subliminal messages. It was important that his voice be the first thing they heard.

Any interruptions could ruin all his hard work and shatter the connection he planned to forge with these two people. That's why Roark had sent his assistant out to take care of the package. He was becoming more and more unpredictable and Roark couldn't afford to screw this up.

Roark stared at the screen. The woman had started to perspire. The man wouldn't be far behind. He had to time things right. Roark needed to make sure that Lieutenant Bannon Richards and Private Catherine Meyers were under completely or the subliminal implantation wouldn't be successful.

As it was, his suggestions would only last a month or two. The influ-gas wasn't made for long-term use. It had a tendency to kill the subjects if they were dosed too often.

Not that Roark was worried about killing either of these International Police Tactical Team members. By the time they finished carrying out his plans, the tactical team would do that for him. Roark grinned. There would be no more mistakes. He was done trusting outside help. From now on, he'd force cooperation through any means necessary.

Roark saw Catherine's lips move and decided to turn up the volume so he could hear what she had to say.

"Why do you think he called us here?" she asked. "I mean I've heard of the guy. Who hasn't? He's practically a hero. But it's not like our paths have ever crossed. There's no way he could've known about me. I'm nobody at headquarters."

Bannon turned his buzz-cut blond head toward her. The vein in his neck bulged and his blue eyes narrowed to icy slits. "You're right. You are a nobody." His gaze raked her, confirming his words. "I have no idea why he wanted
you
here. You haven't even finished training yet." He shrugged. "Maybe he needs a charity case for his next campaign stop. As for what I'm doing here, I suspect he contacted me for a job."

"What kind of job?" she asked, perking up. "Do you know the politician personally?"

His lip curled into a sneer. "Yeah, we go way back," Ban-non said, the lie slipping easily from his mouth.