A Reaper's Love (WindWorld) (2 page)

The Supervisor scrubbed a hand over his
face. “He’s alive, Laci.”

Her world suddenly spun off its axis. She
slowly turned her face toward him. “Sir?”

“Taylor,” he said. “They found him. He’s
alive.”

Laci stared at him. “Where?” she asked.

“Outside Mogadishu at a Dhaween camp.”

Her blood ran cold. “Sharif? Sheik Sharif
Hassan had him?”

“A team of Navy SEALS got word from a
Burundian informer that there was a Westerner being held at the camp. They
thought it was Jack Donnelson, the missing news reporter. They had no idea who
it was they rescued. Once he was identified, the CIA contacted us. The Network
sent a retrieval team on a medevac transport to Ramstein yesterday.”

“Is he…?” She swallowed. “How long was he
held by Sharif?”

“We won’t know until he wakes up. The
medics put him in an induced coma to relieve the swelling in his brain.”

“My God,” Laci whispered. She put a hand to
her mouth. “How badly is he hurt?”

“They excised his hellion,” he hedged. “As
you well know Pantheras have only one hellion. Thankfully we have lupine and
canine fledglings in the vault on the Island to replace his. He is scheduled
for Transference tomorrow.”

“Why not now?” she asked, twisting around
in the seat to face him. “For that matter, why didn’t they do it as soon as he
landed on the Island?”

“They weren’t sure he would survive the
Conversion,” he replied. “Him being a Reaper is a moot point under the
circumstances. Without the revenant worm to protect him, heal him, he is as
vulnerable as a human male. In his weakened condition, the trauma of shifting
would put a massive strain on his system.”

“How badly is he hurt?” she repeated.

“Bad enough that he may not survive if we
wait much longer to transfer the fledgling.”

The flight was the longest four hours of
Laci’s life. By the time the wheels touched down on the Island airstrip, she
had a brutal headache that was fast becoming a migraine. Nausea lurked at the
back of her throat and she was strung as tight as an eighty-pound compound bow.
When the Supervisor reached over to lay his hand atop her clenched fist, she
flinched, surprised by his compassion.

“Don’t beat yourself up over this, Laci,”
he said softly. “You couldn’t have known he survived the blast. I didn’t.”

“How did I
not
know he was alive?”
she asked. “
Why
didn’t I know?”

“My guess?” he said. “He didn’t want you to
know so he blocked you. Like Fallon, he has the capability of throwing up a
mental block as tight as the hatch on a submarine. You wouldn’t be able to read
or sense him unless he allowed it.”

“But the bomb,” she said. “We thought…”

“Obviously he wasn’t in the building when
it detonated,” he told her. “They could have tranqed him full of
triso
—you
know what that does to Pantheras—maybe even
trastacáin
or
pairilis
.
He would have gone down without a fight. They extracted him, set the bomb off
and expected us to come to the conclusions we did.”

“Three years,” she said and a tear tracked
down her cheek. “They had him for three years.”

“But we have him now and everything is
being done to ensure he survives.” He squeezed her hand. “He’ll need you now
more than ever.”

She understood that as she never had
before. An Extension was an operative who was assigned to magnify, sharpen and
augment the psi powers of another agent with similar or complementing
abilities. Female Extensions were almost always interceptors, primary
channellers who could use their abilities to strength and amplify those of
their male partners. If she and her partner bonded—as she had with Taylor
Reynaud—the connection between them was unbreakable. Which made her inability
to detect him all the more upsetting.

“I must caution you, though,” he said.
“Fallon gave Keenan a run for her money when he was recuperating. He was a real
prick at times but he’s a Hell-hound. Pantheras are a little less volatile than
their canine cousins, a little more reserved even if just as mean as the
Lupines. Perhaps Tay will be more receptive to your help than Fallon was to
Keenan’s.”

She nodded, perceiving the unspoken message
her employer was giving her. Chances were good Tay would be traumatized. The
things done to him during his captivity would take time to heal. Images of men
and women she’d seen tortured by Sharif flitted across her mind and she had to
bite her tongue to keep from whimpering. At the very least Tay would be suffering
from the same malady as Fallon, PTSD.

“The next few days will be crucial,” he
continued. “I don’t know the full extent of his injuries and won’t until I see
him but I was told they are severe.”

Laci winced. “He’s a strong man,” she said
as the jet’s engines powered down and the flight attendant opened the door.

“That he is.” He unbuckled his seatbelt. “I
want you to hold off seeing him until I have made an assessment.”

“Assessment?” she repeated.

“An evaluation of his condition,” he
replied, getting to his feet. “I want to talk to Fallon, as well, before you’re
allowed in to see Taylor.”

With his evasion she knew the situation was
very bad. Her life-mate’s physical state was worse than the Supervisor wanted
to admit. That she could not sense Taylor even though she was so close to him
was telling.

“You don’t want me to see him,” she said.

“Not just yet.”

She sat where she was as he exited the jet.
The flight attendant gave her a sympathetic look but did not speak. He stood to
the right of the open door with his hands clasped loosely in front of him.

John Doe—as the Supervisor signed all
formal documents—took a deep breath as he neared the entrance to the large
medical complex. Guards flanked the double doors leading into the building and
he was required to stop, put his eye to the portable retinal scanner extended
toward him. He said nothing as the doors clicked open and he strode inside. Two
more guards stood just inside the doors and another two were stationed at
either end of the table where a smiling young woman sat.

“Welcome back, Supervisor,” she said. She
handed him a coded badge. “Please wear it at all times.”

The Supervisor nodded. “I assume he is in
the trauma unit,” he said.

“Yes, sir. Just follow the yellow line. Dr.
Dupree and Agent Fallon are waiting to brief you.”

“Director Albright will be in shortly,” he
said. “Under no circumstances is she to be allowed in the trauma area until I
give permission. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

There were four different colored lines on
the terrazzo floor. The green line led to the north wing. That was where the
staff and visitors were quartered. The blue line directed visitors to the wing
where the shops, gym and entertainment facilities were located. Following the
red would take a visitor to the west wing which housed the clinics, patient
rooms, rehabilitation center and cafeteria. To reach the trauma bays, operating
suites and critical long-term care facilities he headed down the yellow line
that would take him to the south wing.

Cleared for entrance into the medical
complex, Laci knew from the wary look on the gatekeeper’s face that it would do
no good to ask where Taylor was in the building. Instead she greeted the woman
then asked if rooms had been provided for the Supervisor and her.

“Indeed, ma’am. You are in Quarters C-9,”
the woman said, handing Laci a badge and giving her the same instructions about
wearing it that she had the Supervisor. “If you would like, I will have one of
our staff escort you.”

“Not necessary,” she said. “Just tell me
which line to take. I assume I’ll be called when I’m needed.”

“I would think so, Director,” the
gatekeeper replied. “Would you like to eat lunch in the cafeteria or would you
prefer room service?”

“I’m not hungry,” Laci said. “Which line?”

“The green line, ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

Laci took the designated line. Everything
she would need while on the Island would be provided for her but there was one
thing she needed immediately. She stopped and turned, walked back to the desk.

“Yes, ma’am?” the woman asked warily.

“I have a savage migraine and I don’t have
any meds with me. Is it possible to see one of the clinicians?”

“If you like, I can have one sent to your
room,” the woman replied.

“That would be great. Thanks.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

Such politeness, Laci thought as she
started down the green line once again. She wondered what would happen if she
followed the path the Supervisor had taken. The residual energy the Shadowlord
gave off still shimmered along the corridor with the yellow stripe. One look at
the stern face of the guard she passed told her it would be a mistake to take
that path.

The yellow line stopped at a set of double
doors the Supervisor knew were locked tighter than the depository at Ft. Knox.
Although there were no guards flanking this door, there were dual cameras above
the portal. He knew one camera was authentic and was recording his approach.
The other camera was a laser weapon tracking him and aimed straight at his
heart. He stopped—looking up at the cameras—and gave his name and title.

“John Doe. Supervisor of the Exchange.”

The doors opened to admit him and the smell
of antiseptic and something far more unsettling wafted under his nose. He
disliked hospitals for they brought back memories of unpleasant times he’d
spent confined within one after his long stay in the Hanoi Hilton. The smells,
the quiet, the sterile environment made him uneasy. Squaring his shoulders, he
headed for the two men he saw standing at the far end of the corridor.

Mikhail Fallon turned to face him and when
he did, the Supervisor felt queasy. The look on Fallon’s face was one of worry
and things that worried the former Alpha were few and far between.

“How is he?” the Supervisor asked without
preamble.

“Hanging on by a thread,” Fallon said.
“This is Dr. Dupree. He’s the trauma surgeon here.”

Having no doubt been apprised of the
Supervisor’s disdain for shaking hands, the surgeon merely nodded. “Would you
like to see him first or would you prefer I briefed you on his condition?” he
asked.

“Tell me what’s wrong with him from head to
toe,” the Supervisor said. “All I got from my EA was that he had been tortured
and was in very bad shape.”

“Tortured doesn’t begin to describe what
they did to Tay,” Fallon said.

“When I want your input, I’ll ask for it,”
the Supervisor snapped without looking at Fallon.

“La-di-fucking-da,” Fallon said under his
breath. “I’ll keep my mouth shut then.”

“One can only hope,” the Supervisor said.
“Go on, Doctor.”

“Let me preface this by saying we suspect
most of his injuries have been repeated over the course of many months,
possibly years. There isn’t a bone in his body that hasn’t been broken at least
once. His spleen has been removed and there is no indication in his medical
records that this was done by us. That tells me his captors were responsible,
most likely because it was severely damaged at some point. One kidney was
removed. I am assuming that was to extract his hellion. There have been
surgeries performed on his liver as well as his small intestine. My guess is he
was stabbed after the hellion was removed and they needed to repair the damage
but…” The surgeon glanced at Fallon.

“But what?” the Supervisor demanded.

“I believe the bowel perforation was not
done with a blade.”

The Supervisor winced. “No need to go into
detail regarding that.”

“When he was brought to us, we were told he
had a traumatic brain injury and there was marked swelling and some
intracranial bleeding. This is the reason he was placed in a drug-induced
coma.” He glanced at Fallon. “Although the injuries he has sustained are
similar to those Agent Fallon had when he was hurt, what was done to Agent
Reynaud was much worse. It’s a miracle he’s still alive.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” the Supervisor said.
“I’d like to see him now.”

“He’s in there,” the surgeon said,
indicating the room behind him. “Sir, I would like to go ahead with the
Transference. Frankly, I don’t think he’ll last the night if I don’t.”

“Do whatever needs to be done,” the
Supervisor told him. “Whatever it takes.” He put his hand out to push open the
door to Reynaud’s room. He stopped when Fallon laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t let his woman see him like this,” he
said. “I wouldn’t let Keenan and you damned sure shouldn’t let Albright. If he
doesn’t make it, don’t allow her to see his body. Cremate him as soon as
possible.” He searched the older man’s eyes. “Do you understand what I’m
saying? Once you see what they did to him, you can’t unsee it.”

“It’s that bad?”

Fallon nodded. “I wish to God I hadn’t seen
him.” He removed his hand from the Supervisor’s shoulder. “I only met him a few
times but I liked him. He’s a good man.”

“A better man than you,” the Supervisor
said.

“Not going to debate that,” Fallon said.
“Most men are.”

That said, he shoved his hands into the
back pockets of his black pants.

Taking a deep breath, the Supervisor pushed
the door open. With Fallon following, he walked a few feet into a brightly lit
room then stopped. Around the bed where his agent lay were IV poles from which
hung several solution bags. A nurse was injecting something into one of the
tubes that fed into Reynaud’s left arm. She smiled politely at the Supervisor,
checked the Foley catheter hanging on the side of the bed then came toward him.

“Talk to him,” she said softly. “He’ll hear
you.”

The Supervisor nodded. Once she was out of
the room, he drew in another long breath and walked quickly to the bed—not
giving himself time to change his mind. What he saw brought him up short. He
slapped a hand to his mouth, turned and barely made it to the toilet in the
small bathroom before he puked.