Riding the Storm (7 page)

We've
never been able to substantiate reports that Petty Officer Begnaud has ever
directly affected the weather, because meteorological proof other than
localised damage his never been found.

Now
she understood what her boss at the Agency for Covert Rare Operatives—ACRO—had
tried to tell her. If Remy affected storms, he did it… invisibly.

Which
was utterly absurd. She'd seen a lot at ACRO, enough to turn her conceptions of
what was possible and what wasn't upside down, so while she couldn't rule out a
form of telekinesis that controlled the weather, she couldn't wrap her brain
around phantom storms that didn't appear in satellite photos.

Not
so ridiculous, however, was the theory that weather affected Remy's behavior.

Atmospheric
pressure, sunshine, humidity… those elements and more had forever influenced
human, animal and plant life in ways not completely understood by the science
community. Some could be rationalized, some couldn't. As a parameteorologist,
it was her job to explain the unexplained. Or at least prove the unexplained
does, indeed, exist. Mysterious phenomenon like ball lightning, a controversial
subject that sat solidly between two camps—believers and disbelievers—was a
personal favorite. Remy, however, might just top ball lightning as her new
fave.

The
power-that-be at ACRO would be disappointed if Remy couldn't control the
weather, but they'd find a use for him even if some lesser connection existed.
What they planned to do with him wasn't her concern; her career was, and her
future depended upon her ability to learn the truth.

Learn
the truth in any way possible, something ACRO's chief of operations, Devlin
O'Malley, had made clear.

"Mr.
O'Malley, I have a few questions," she said.

His
fingers traced circles on the oak desk that separated them. He wore the same
black BDUs every operative with an exceptional talent wore when they walked the
halls of the main ACRO compound, and though he was the big boss, his white ID
badge identified him as no one more important than

an
operative assigned to the Medium department in the Paranormal Division.

Haley
fingered her own tag, bearing the light blue of the Science Division. As a
"civilian " with no special abilities, she wore what she wanted,
which usually meant pantsuits, but today she'd opted for a skirt, which left
her feeling strangely vulnerable in front of this blind man whom she'd spoken
with only twice, very briefly, before now.

"It's
Devlin. Mr. O 'Malley was my father, "he said finally.

She
nodded. His name suited him. Strong, mysterious, sexy. As dark as his short
brown hair that was always spiky, like he couldn't keep his fingers out of it.

"Devlin,
I've got some problems with the assignment I was given."

"Such
as?"

"I
don't want it, " she said bluntly. "I don't have the kind of training
your other operatives do. And I'm not a first contact person. I'm a
scientist."

A
scientist who was being asked to take a crash course in first contact
procedures, which meant boning up on self-defense maneuvers, learning covert
operation techniques, and studying the psychological art of seduction. She'd
gone through months of initial operative training when she first joined the
agency, but it hadn't been the extensive military-type instruction the field
operatives with special abilities received. Now, suddenly, ACRO wanted to
remedy some of that.

"Not
all first contact personnel have special abilities. More importantly, you're
the only person at ACRO with the knowledge and background necessary to
determine Remy Begnaud's talents. You're the only one we need, " Devlin
said, his own military background more than clear in his don't-interrupt-me tone
as he stood, then paced, outlining his plan for her. "You have plenty of
weapons, Haley. Brains, beauty. The whole package. Don't be afraid to use it
the way you were taught."

His
sightless blue eyes bore into hers as though he could see into her soul if he tried
hard enough.

"You
don't believe it yet, but sex is all about power and control. It's always been
an underrated tool, and one that's fully at your disposal as an ACRO
agent."

"Underrated,
my ass," she whispered as she glanced over at Remy's sleeping form, at the
way the fly of his pants had peeled back to reveal his sex that lay heavy and
thick against his belly. Her body flushed with warmth, something the ice water
she'd been gulping by the gallon to counter the sticky heat couldn't ease.

The
reddened bite mark on her shoulder ached, but it was a good pain, the same good
pain that made her sex tender from Remy's powerful thrusts. Oh, yes, she'd have
fun uncovering the truth. And if the truth revealed no link between Remy and
Mother Nature, he'd go on his way none the wiser, but she'd have indulged in
the best sex of her life.

Her
blood pooled and simmered in all her erogenous zones, as though her hormones
were rebelling at the idea that she'd never experience his hands on her body
again. Then he moaned in his sleep, and she forgot everything but the way he
looked in slumber, strangely alert, but almost innocent, much like he must have
looked as a boy.

She
tried to picture a young Remy sleeping on the couch, probably for as long as
he'd lived here, since the house had only one bedroom.

Why
had Remy Senior even taken on the responsibility of a kid? He couldn't have
known what Remy might be capable of, even as a baby—or had he?

Had
any woman ever been around to help raise Remy? To bake him cookies and praise
his macaroni art and pick up after him? She glanced at his muddy shirt, which
she'd found outside the door when she'd been tossing out debris, and made a
mental note to wash it once the power came back on and the washer wouldn't suck
up the juice from the generator.

And
then she wondered when she'd turned into such a domestic goddess, because any
desire she might have had to take care of a man had been squashed years ago by
her mom's unnatural devotion to her father. A devotion returned just as
fervently, and one she'd resented and had never fully understood.

Her
laptop dinged, and she shoved aside the thoughts she had no business thinking
to scan an e-mail from ACRO. Both Dev and the Science Division director wanted
a status report. After sliding a glance at Remy to make sure he was still
sleeping, she brought them both up to speed, said she'd contact Dev if she
determined that they needed to send in the Convincers.

She'd
never had to deal with ACRO's last resort crew, the team called in to deliver
"difficult" potential recruits to the New York compound. Haley's
recruitment had come via a first contact person doing much the same job Haley
was doing now with Remy. She just hoped the Convincers wouldn't be required.
Out of necessity, their methods weren't nearly as gentle as Haley's.

As
the e-mail winged through cyberspace, she considered her next move. The ACRO
reports she'd been given detailed complaints by Remy's superiors and military
team members that his mere presence seemed to cause electrical equipment to
fail. Remy's father had claimed the same thing. Her own equipment had
temporarily malfunctioned, but then, power surges provided the most likely
explanation.

Tapping
her chin, she watched Remy for a moment. If Remy affected equipment, how? And
when? Was his effect on equipment related to whatever relationship he had with
the weather? Remy wouldn't answer her questions, but she knew someone who
might.

She
just hoped Annika was in a good mood, because if Haley thought Remy was touchy,
Annika make him look like a kitten.

ACRO
Special Operative Annika Svenson was in a great mood. She might be alone in a
haunted house whose electrical energy topped the limits of her modified
multimeter's ranges, but she liked being by herself, and besides, she had her
iPod and her own personal electric-shock security system that no one—ghost or
human—was getting through.

So
no, she wasn't afraid, but she was, however, cold. Even though it was only late
September, Syracuse, New York, hadn't gotten the memo that it was fall and not
winter.

Although,
come to think of it, she didn't remember being
that
cold outside.

Whatever.
She'd been on-site for two days, would spend the next few nights here,
recording what she could and then reporting her findings back to Dev. An easy
enough assignment, though she'd much rather be on the Louisiana job. Bringing
in a man who could supposedly control the weather would be much cooler than
sitting in some dusty old mansion recording electrical fields.

But
Dev had grown up in this house, and it was special to him. And he, in turn, was
special to her, so he could ask her to walk through fire and she'd do it
without question. No questions, but probably a lot of cussing.

Her
cell rang, and she thought about ignoring both it and whoever was dumb enough
to call her after midnight, but when Haley's Op code popped onto the screen,
she gave in. Haley was the one person at ACRO besides Dev she could stand.

"Make
it quick, Hays. I have to get back to my extreme boredom."

The
connection sucked, and the fact that Haley was speaking in a low, hushed voice
didn't help. Annika could barely hear the other woman ask if Annika was capable
of shorting out electrical equipment.

"If
I intentionally send a pulse into something, yes. But I don't kill projectors
during movies, if that's what you mean."

"Could
a person short out electronics without knowing it? Just by being in the
room?"

The
lights in the overhead chandelier dimmed. Nonchalantly, Annika stepped out from
beneath the gaudy thing. If something wanted her attention, it would have to do
more than conjure up cheesy parlor tricks.

"The
existence of electromagnetic fields around every known object in the world is a
fact. In humans, the energy varies in both strength and manageability. Some
people can't wear watches because they short out the batteries. Others draw the
dead with their energy. So I wouldn't rule out someone having enough energy to
short out equipment when they do nothing more than walk by."

"But?"

Annika
grinned. Haley might be uptight, but she wasn't stupid. "The thing is,
they couldn't maintain that level of power without burning themselves out or
someone noticing. If your weather guy shorts shit out, he probably can't
control it."

"You
can."

"I'm
special." She ran a current of electricity across the surface of her skin
just because she could. "If he's got some sort of electrical thing going
on, it might be related to his weather ability. Have you established the
existence of that talent?"

"Not
yet. I'm trying to determine if the equipment failures are even related to
him."

"If
he affects equipment, it probably happens during periods of extreme emotion—piss
him off or get him horny or something. Those are triggers for most
uncontrollable powers."

Most
powers, but not Annika's. She'd been in control of hers since the age of twenty
months, when, at the height of a temper tantrum, she'd shocked a babysitter
right into a Swedish hospital's burn unit. Since then, she'd identified the one
switch that made her power unruly, and she avoided tripping it unless she was
alone.

Annika's
ears popped. "Shit. Haley, I gotta go."

She
hung up. An unnatural stillness fell over the house, and then an electrical
ribbon she could sense more than see snaked across the great room where she
stood. God, she hated this supernatural bullshit. ACRO employed more than
enough mediums to handle this—heck, psychics outnumbered people with rare
talents like hers ten to one. Why she got stuck with this crap was beyond her.

The
ribbon floated up the grand staircase. She reached for the volume on her iPod,
prepared to blast her brain with Green Day as she followed the energy, but the
sound of footsteps froze her to the floor. Slipping into battle-mode, she
crouched low, crept silently to the room entrance. She flooded her body with
electricity. She feared no one, living or dead; she did, however, fear capture
by the enemy, and she'd die before she was taken again.

Of
course, anyone who had the balls and skill to take her wouldn't be clomping
across the marble tiles like a Clydesdale horse.

She
loosened her Beretta in its ankle holster, but rarely, if ever, did she need a
gun. She was a walking close-range weapon, preferring the personal touch. Which
cracked her up when she thought about it like that.

If
she needed to shoot, though, her target didn't stand a chance. With the
exception of one man, a sniper with extraordinary eyesight, reflexes and ego,
she was the best shot at ACRO. Not that she bragged. Much.

Her
knife, secured at her other ankle, saw even less action. If she was close
enough to her opponent to use the deadly blade, she was close enough to use
hand-to-hand combat or her gift.