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He ended the call before she could respond and headed back toward Talia’s apartment tower. One thing was clear: he was not the only psychic assassin on the planet.
That begged the real question.Did someone send you to terminate me? If so, why?
The answer was obvious.Because I’m a failed experiment. I went rogue.
And now he had dragged Talia into the line of fire.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Shivering from thetoxic cocktail of biochemicals unleashed by the combination of focusing at full power followed by a failed kill, the assassin dumped the rental car in a parking garage and hurried toward the safety of an anonymous hotel room.
It was difficult to believe that the target had been able to repel the strike. Rand was a lab mistake. A fucking failure. The fact that he had not gone down tonight was disturbing.
Taking Rand out should have been a simple, straightforward job—maybe not quite as easy as terminating the homeless men who had served as target practice, but still, a routine hit.
Using the homeless men as targets had allowed the assassin to calibrate the new paranormal power and run some basic experiments. Psychic talent, it turned out, had to be fine-tuned. When used as a weapon it required practice to work out range and limitations. There was a learning curve.
Upon reflection it was obvious that Rand had been too far away tonight. But distance was not the only problem. There had not been sufficient time to acquire a solid fix on the right wavelengths. Next time would be different.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Energy stirred Luke’ssenses. It wasn’t the ice-cold sensation he had experienced last night when he was attacked in Seattle. This was different. Primal. Vital. For a nanosecond it raised the ghost of a dream. In the next instant the memory vaporized into nothingness.
He leaned against the railing of the small chartered ferry and watched Night Island, a natural fortress of forbidding rock crowned by a dark, seemingly impenetrable forest, draw closer. Another frisson of awareness flashed through his senses. It was gone in an instant, but it was accompanied by an adrenaline spike. There was something important about Night Island. He and Talia were not wasting their time.
“Where is the lodge?” Talia said. “I don’t see any buildings—just a dock.”
She was right. There was a cabin cruiser tied up at the dock and a van parked nearby, but there were no other indications that the island was inhabited.
“The lodge and cabins are probably up there at the top of the cliffs,” Luke said. “We can’t see them because of the greenery.”
“The island looks very rugged, doesn’t it?” she said.
The uncertainty in her voice made him glance at her. She was standing next to him, bundled up against the damp November chill in a down jacket, scarf, and wool cap.
He thought about the night he had spent in her spare bedroom surrounded by the trappings of her podcast studio—a high-quality microphone and a stand, a computer, headphones, a desk, and a chair. The walls were covered with enlarged photographs of the ruins of the Lucent Springs Hotel. Arrows and labels were neatly arranged to indicate the various spaces and rooms—lobby, ballroom, old sanatorium lab. It looked like a crime scene storyboard, which, he reflected, was exactly what it was.
There was a notebook on the desk filled with details about a recent series of episodes involving a murder at a sleep clinic. He had paged through it before climbing into bed. It was clear he was not the only one obsessing over a lost night. The realization that he was not alone in his quest had finally hit home.
He had slept surprisingly well, right up until the dream struck.
He had slammed awake, pulling himself out of a dreamscape in which he gripped a scalpel and walked through the blood of the two dead men on the floor. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, wondering if he had called out or made some noise that might have awakened Talia. He relaxed a little when he heard no sound from her bedroom. No footsteps in the hall.
He had eventually gone back to sleep. The next time he had awakened it was to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. After showering, shaving, and dressing he had walked cautiously into the main roomand sat down at the dining counter. He hadn’t been sure of what to expect by way of a morning greeting.
Talia had seemed—not exactly anxious—but uncharacteristically unsure of herself as she poured coffee and placed the mug in front of him. When he met her eyes he knew she had heard him during the night.
“Sorry,” he said. “Bad dream.”
“I understand. I’ve had a few myself.”
“Did I scare you?”
“No.”
“I scared you.” He grimaced. “I can tell.”
“No, damn it. You did not scare me.”
