Legend of Michael (15 page)

“Migraine,” Cassandra explained as the buzzer on the metal detector went off again.

“Wand check!” yelled the guard by the metal detector.

“Oh hell,” Brock complained rather loudly. “I’m army. We
protect
the nation, not blow it up.”

“Sir,” the guard said. “I don’t make the rules. I just follow them. Please step to the side.” He walked to the plastic trays and motioned to Brock’s computer and bag. “Is this yours?”

“Yes,” Brock said grumpily. “Now can we get on with this?”

The male guard picked up Brock’s bag and with a quick shift of his body to block the view, snagged Cassandra’s computer rather than his. Adrenaline rushed through Cassandra’s blood as she toed on the shoes she held in her hands and then stuffed Brock’s computer, rather than her own, into her bag and zipped it closed. Shoving her purse and briefcase over her shoulder, she turned to find Brock’s back to her, his arms outstretched as he endured the wand inspection. No doubt this would be when the guard would put her computer inside his bag so he wouldn’t know there was a mix-up.

“I’ll meet you at the gate, Brock,” she called out. “I’m going to the restroom.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said as the wand buzzed near his knee, indicating a need for further inspection. “You have got to be kidding!”

“Please raise your pant leg, sir,” the guard said.

Cassandra didn’t wait to hear more. She was already rushing toward the restroom sign, unzipping her purse as she did and retrieving the flash drive. Twelve minutes. She needed twelve minutes.

Rounding the corner of the restroom, Cassandra quickly noted the line of six stalls and went to the handicapped one, shoving the door shut and hunching over against the churning in her stomach as she unzipped the computer bag. She shoved the baby changer down and opened the computer, but a sudden need to throw up had her yanking away her sunglasses and leaning over the toilet. Thank God the toilet and floor were clean. Dry heaves followed, her empty stomach wrenching in hard spasms that felt like they were tearing her inside out, her hand still clenched around the flash drive. Finally, the nausea subsided.

Cassandra hooked her glasses on the top of her blouse and unrolled some toilet paper to dab her mouth, her hand shaking as she did. The flash drive slipped from her grip. Cassandra watched in dismay as it hit the ground and bounced under the door.

Inhaling a calming breath, she yanked the stall door open only to be greeted by a short, gray-haired woman, wearing a badge and holding a cleaning rag—clearly this was the restroom attendant. She was also far more attentive than Cassandra wanted her to be right now.

“Is this yours, honey?” she asked, holding the flash drive up between two fingers and peering over Cassandra’s shoulder at the computer open on the changing table.

“Yes,” Cassandra said, snagging the stick. “Thank you.” She shut the stall door, hating that she had to be rude, but she had no time for politeness. She quickly inserted the stick into the computer, and it started showing progress.

The announcer’s voice came over the speaker. Her flight was boarding. “Damn it!” she murmured. She was never going to have time to finish. Minutes passed like hours as she watched the computer tick off progress, but not nearly fast enough. Think Cassandra, think.

She looked at the toilet paper in her hand and placed it over the latch on the computer, so it couldn’t fully close and power off. She shut the lid over the paper and then shoved the computer back into the bag. She’d go straight to the airplane restroom when they boarded and then remove the paper and the stick before she took a seat.

Cassandra put the sunglasses back in place, wishing she had time to inspect her eyes. She grabbed her things and half jogged toward the exit.

She rounded the restroom entryway and came toe-to-toe with Brock, all but barreling into him.

“You have my computer,” he said. “I need it back.”

Her heart jackknifed. “I do not have your computer,” she said, trying to step around him.

Brock moved in front of her. “Yes,” he said. “You do. The security guard remembers mixing them up.”

She motioned with her hands in defeat. “Okay, well, maybe they did.” She patted her briefcase. “It’s not going anywhere.” She motioned to the gate. “And boarding call has already been issued. Besides, I’m way too sick to deal with this right now. You can switch them on the plane where I can sit down, before I throw up yet again.”

He clenched his jaw, ignored the announcement and her suggestion, then he looked suspiciously at her glasses. “Since when does a migraine make you throw up? I thought it was a headache.”

“It
is
a headache,” she ground out between clenched teeth, thinking how offended her mother, a sufferer of migraines, would have been at that comment. Brock just dug himself deeper into jerk territory every second. And knowing that he wanted to take her to bed, she’d hate to think how he’d treat her if he did not. “Migraines are the volcanic eruption of headaches.”

His probing attention continued, his stare so deep she thought he might see through her glasses. “I have a confession to make,” he said finally. “After you declined meeting for a drink last night, my ego was a bit wounded. Then, this morning with the headache again, I was convinced you were faking a headache to get out of dinner tonight. I apologize. Male egos really can be monsters.”

His apology reeked of insincerity. “No one fakes being this sick,” she said. “Or looking like ‘walking death.’”

He grimaced. “Sorry for that, too. Again. The ego monster.” Last call to board sounded over the intercom, saving her from further argument. “We better get going.” He reached for her bag. “Let me carry that for you.”

“No, no,” she said, trying to hold onto it. “Really. It’s fine.”

His hand remained on the bag. “I insist,” he said, refusing to let go. “You’re sick, Cassandra. I’ll carry the bag. It’s what any gentleman would do.”

Cassandra reluctantly let him pry the bag from her hands, aware she’d just been well manipulated. He wasn’t going to let her take that bag to the restroom, so how the heck was she going to get the flash drive out of the computer without him knowing? She was more than sick. She was drowning in trouble.

Chapter 13

Cassandra followed Brock onto the plane managing to maintain a remarkably calm façade. Relaxed even. As if she were not about to be found out by her wannabe murderer. If she couldn’t get to a phone and call Caleb, Michael would save her. Of course he would. He’d know the flight she was on. He’d wind-walk to her arrival airport and be waiting. He’d be pissed, but he’d save her. And if she was going to deal with two hundred pounds of pissed off, macho man, she was going to have something to show for it. She was going to get that copy of the hard drive. So think. Think! There was a way out of this.

She passed an enclave where a flight attendant greeted her when a plan hatched in her mind.

“Hi,” Cassandra said, stopping to chat with the woman. “I’m battling a migraine, and it’s really making me sick. Any chance I could talk you into bringing me a Sprite before takeoff.”

The twenty-something female was quick to help. “Oh, my sister gets those, and they are hell. We’re running late, so let me give it to you now so you have time to drink it.” She motioned Cassandra out of the aisle so people could pass. She then popped some ice into a glass and filled it with Sprite. “Make sure it’s empty before liftoff. What seat are you in? I’ll check on you once we’re in the air.”

Cassandra searched her ticket and showed it to the attendant before accepting the drink. “Thank you very much,” she said and then rushed after Brock, praying she got to him before he managed to open that briefcase. She arrived at her seat just as Brock buckled himself up, her computer case at his feet, ready to open.

With a silent prayer that this was going to work, she moved to sit, and accidentally, on purpose, dumped her Sprite in his lap. He cursed and jerked in shock, ice and cold liquid all over his pants and shirt.

Cassandra reacted with instant shock. “Oh no! Oh Brock, I am so very sorry. I am really not myself.” She handed him the glass. “Put the ice in this.” She reached for the computer bag. “I stuffed some tissue in here while I was in the airport restroom in case I got sick.” She partially unzipped the bag and fumbled around, removing the flash drive and trying to conceal it with the tissue.

“Miss,” a flight attendant said, stopping beside them. “The bag needs to go under the seat for takeoff. Oh no. Do you need help here?”

Brock crammed the ice into the glass and handed it to her. “You can take this and bring us some napkins.”

Cassandra discreetly maneuvered the tissue and the stick to her lap and used the briefcase as cover as she slipped the stick into her pants pocket. “Here you go,” she said, offering him the tissue as she zipped the case closed and then slid it under the seat. “I’m really sorry.”

He accepted the tissue and started wiping down his shirt. “It’s fine,” he said, his tone saying it really wasn’t. “I guess we can change the computers once we are in the air.”

“I guess so,” she said softly, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. She’d dodged a bullet. Now, if she could get away from Brock without getting herself killed.

***

With Chin by his side, Powell stood in one of several private PMI labs, their location highly secret. Together, they overlooked a dozen willing soldiers strapped to hospital beds, still several injections from completing their conversion to GTECH. All receiving the original GTECH serum—Grade 1—while Chin perfected a newer, faster-acting Grade 2 version. “You’re certain we cannot use the Grade 2 serum to speed up their conversion?” Powell asked.

“Grade 2 is not ready, and to mix the two versions of the serum would mean certain death,” Chin replied, hands in his lab coat. “There is no rushing the process. They are two weeks from being Red Dart ready and impatient to be liberated from those restraints.”

“They’ll be free when they are under Red Dart control and not a minute sooner.”

“From what Jocelyn has told me this can happen twenty-four hours after the final injection,” Chin assured him. “She seems quite certain she’s found a way to overcome the immune function of the soldiers, but only once their bodies have stabilized in their new condition.”

Yes, his little Jocelyn was quite the prize. “It’s time we find out for sure. A dozen soldiers ready for battle two weeks from now is no longer enough. Not with the entire GTECH population trying to stop Red Dart from happening. We have no idea what they might do to stop us. Use the GTECH2 serum. I need an army of GTECHs, and I need them now.”

Chin objected instantly. “General Powell, I must remind you that the GTECH2 serum is a conversion that is rapid and potentially lethal. Those that survive will not only be positive for X2, but the aggression will be magnified times ten. You are talking about a highly volatile soldier. One without a mind for anything but violence. I need time to alter this reaction.”

“Will the GTECH2s be stronger and faster as you promised?”

Chin hesitated, “Yes.”

“And at least half of those dosed will survive?”

“General—”

“I take that as a yes,” he interrupted. “Both Adam and Caleb Rain are after Red Dart. Do you wish to see our country fall to the GTECHs?”

“You know I do not,” Chin replied brusquely. “I need a human test subject.”

“You’ll have Brock West,” he replied, pleased with Chin’s agreement. “I’ve sent orders to have the several hundred recruits scheduled for next week report two days early. We’ll have hundreds of test subjects in forty-eight hours.”

“You do realize that West and anyone we dose before I perfect the serum will be little more than an animal on a leash?”

“The Zodius are animals, Chin,” he said. “I
want
an animal who can face them and win, who is both powerful and in control of my troops,” he said. “And in case you’ve forgotten, Red Dart is my leash. It’s my method of control.”

“Very well then,” Chin agreed. “I assume I will have the Red Dart application immediately available?”

Powell gave a short nod. “Jocelyn is in the lab next door running final tests even as we speak. We’ll bring West in tonight when he returns from Washington.”

Soon this country would know it was safe and that he alone had kept it that way.

***

After a long delay in Houston, it was early afternoon when Cassandra finally stepped off the plane in Nevada. She immediately tried to ditch Brock. “I need to drop by the ladies’ room, and since I’m under the weather, I’m going to call it a day. No dinner for me tonight.”

“Understood,” he said. “But I’ll wait. You’ll need help with your baggage, and I should probably give you a ride home.”

Not going well. Especially since she’d come to the realization she didn’t have the phone Michael had given her and had no idea how to reach Caleb without the call being traced. Nor did she have her own phone. It had been on the nightstand in the hotel. Which explained why Michael hadn’t been calling to yell at her. But neither had she felt so much as a tingle of awareness of him nearby. She could really use a tingle right about now.

“I’ll be fine to drive,” she said. “If you can just get my bags.” She started walking toward the escalator.

“I thought you needed a restroom,” he said suspiciously.

“Changed my mind,” she said. “Rather just get home.”

Twenty-minutes later, Brock settled her bag into the trunk of her new red Beetle that had replaced the fancy German car. He grabbed his duffel bag, which was leaning against the bumper, casting a critical inspection over what Cassandra knew to be an appearance worthy of that “walking death” comment that still made her cringe.

“You sure you can drive?” he asked, though he didn’t seem particularly interested in doing so.

Cassandra guessed he hadn’t made any plans to kill her yet. Comforting thought, so she clung to it. “I’m fine,” she said. “See you in the morning.”

He offered her a two-finger salute and sauntered away. She watched him and frowned. Why had that been so easy? Didn’t the man want to kill her? She turned to her car and got in, uneasiness in her stomach as she slipped the key into the ignition.

***

Brock dialed his voice mail as he left Cassandra, hoping to find instructions from Powell regarding his first injection, but stopped short when his Chevy Blazer came into view. Lucian was leaning against it, all nonchalant, as if contact with a member of Zodius Nation wasn’t a major fucking problem. Cassandra could drive by at any minute.

Brock charged forward. “Are you crazy? I can’t be seen with you.”

“That’s not a very friendly welcome,” Lucian chided.

Brock ground out between his teeth, “Get in the damn truck before someone sees us.” He clicked the locks open with his key chain and rounded the bed of the truck, lifting the tarp along the way to toss his bag in the back.

Lucian didn’t move. “It was Michael who followed us last night,” he said. “His unfortunate involvement demands aggressive actions. We’ve set plans in motion—Cassandra Powell will be dead within the next hour. I’ve arranged for the secretary of state to pressure Powell for Red Dart during his grieving. You will volunteer to deal with Red Dart and the government while Powell is mourning.”

Brock’s heart thundered in his ears. “Powell told me to look out for his daughter. If anything happens to her, he’ll blame me. I will be the last person he trusts to take care of things while he buries Cassandra.”

“That’s why it will be a car accident,” he said. “Just like her mother.” He made a fist and twisted it in unison with his words. “That should twist Powell in the gut extra hard. And there is no way you could prevent such a thing.”

“You can’t be sure a car accident will kill her,” he argued, trying anything to shut this down.

Lucian smiled. “You underestimate me, Brock. There’s a little alien something we call ‘Stardust’ in her exhaust. It will cause a brain aneurism. It is undetectable in human testing. Her car will crash. She’s dead regardless of cause. I suggest you get to work so you can be there by Powell’s side when he gets the news. Be ready to take control.” The wind lifted, and he was gone.

Brock stood there all of three seconds before he started running toward Cassandra’s car as fast as he could. If anything happened to Cassandra, he didn’t care what the cause, Powell would go ballistic. He wasn’t taking any chances of losing his injections or even delaying them. He ran ten parking rows and one level up. By the time he got to her car, he was panting, finding her stupid little Beetle sitting where it had been with Cassandra nowhere in sight.

He let out a breath of relief. She must have forgotten something inside. He’d wait. He didn’t want to risk missing her. Thirty minutes later, no Cassandra. Brock lifted the hood of her car and disabled the battery. Then, for good measure he pulled a pocket knife and discreetly sliced two tires.

He had to get to her house before Lucian found out she was alive and decided to kill her some other way.