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Of course, the eyeless eyes were on him, inside him, above and behind and through him. Their attention tempered his giddiness. They were a constant reminder that human power, even Rockborn human power, was a product of some far superior intelligence.
What did they want, those Dark Watchers? What did they gain from this? Was it all some needlessly elaborate ruse to destroy humanity? But if that was the goal, surely they could have engineered the rock virus to simply wipe people out.
Drake had said it was all TV. But Drake, while clever enough in his own vile way, did not even have a high school diploma, let alone an advanced degree. Of course Drake would seize on a simplistic analogy.
Well, he would make short work of Dillon Poe, save the day, then humbly offer his services to the army. The army might now be more open to a giant fire-breathing reptile than the contemptible DiMarco—if she had even survived the attack on the Ranch.
And then? Return to his family?
That thought stabbed him in the heart. He had barely thought of his wife or kids because, well, he’d been . . . what? He’d been sitting in a torture chamber with Drake Merwin?
He had avoided thinking of his family, Peaks knew, because it hurt. For all the—in his mind necessary—ruthlessness he’d shown in building the Ranch, for all the violence he had committed as Dragon, he did still love his kids.
Tom Peaks, fifty feet tall and breathing fire, still conjured up images of kissing his kids good night. Right about now they would be in bed. Had they brushed their teeth? Had they done their homework?
Was there anything he could do, ever, that would allow him to see his family again?
Saving the day. Being a hero. Redeeming himself. Somehow.
Somehow.
Here I come to save the day, Tom Peaks thought as he marched toward the lights.
They could no longer see the action from the window of the suite at Caesars. What they had now was just what came from the news chopper, and whatever video the networks picked up. Jerky, choppy videos that might be minutes old.
“This isn’t good,” Dekka said.
“No,” Shade agreed.
Cruz was not so sure. She was relieved to have the horror farther away. If she never saw another human being crushed beneath a tank, it would be too soon. She was sickened by it all, sickened by the violence and the pure malice that must fill the mind of Dillon Poe. What kind of a human being did this? What kind of human being thought he had a right to take over people’s lives, to use them like puppets? To send them to their own deaths with murder on their consciences and innocent blood on their hands?
“We need eyes closer up,” Dekka said. Cruz glanced at her and felt something off. Dekka was carefully not looking at her. Too carefully. Shade, too, did not look at Cruz. The two of them let the silence stretch.
“Oh,” Cruz said.
Now they turned sad eyes on her.
Cruz nodded slowly. “Oh,” she said again. Feeling like she was announcing her own death sentence, she said, “I can do it.” The words weighed tons. She had to push them out.
Neither Dekka nor Shade wasted time pretending to disagree.
“How should I . . . how should I look?” Cruz asked, wishing she didn’t sound so scared. But, dammit, who wouldn’t be scared?
“Like anyone but yourself,” Shade said. “But not someone famous, that might get his attention. But, come to think of it, why be visible at all?”
Cruz nodded, too fast, a nervous gesture that went on for too long.
“You’ll be fine, Cruz,” Shade said gently. “You were amazing at the hospital. You can do this.” She took Cruz’s hand and squeezed it. Shade had once felt an almost parental affection for Cruz, automatically seeing herself as the leader and Cruz as the led. Malik had changed all that. Malik was the living, breathing, unmistakable proof that Shade was not as clever as she’d thought. Malik’s existence was a big finger of doubt pointed straight at her. With the arrival of Dekka, Shade had felt herself willingly assuming a subordinate role. It was a relief not making every decision.
A part of Cruz—a big part—appreciated Shade’s kind words. But another part was silently screaming, You got me into this, you crazy, obsessed head case!
“Okay, so . . . now?” Cruz asked.
“Listen,” Shade said. “You’re going to have your phone connected to me, all right? I’ll be downstairs, and I’ll be ready. Anything goes wrong and I’m on you in a heartbeat.”
Cruz nodded again. “Yep.”
Can you outrun a bullet, Shade?
