Titanium (Bionics) (6 page)

When I finally touch her lips with mine, the moment is not sweet and my touch is not gentle.
It’s an outright assault. I’ve waited too long to even think about going slow with her. I need her to feel what I haven’t been able to say with words. She stiffens against me for a fraction of a second, but I’m not having that. By the time my hands come up to her waist in a brutal caress, my fingers digging into her skin as I skim them upwards toward her ribs, she’s melting into me in submission.

She might as well have laid out a goddamn welcome mat.

She gasps when I jerk her closer, my hands roaming down to her hips, kneading, caressing,
feeling
—fulfilling every desire I’ve had since the first time I held Blythe in my arms. A sound like a primal growl comes from between us, and I’m faintly aware of the fact that it is me, but I’m too far gone to care. I want her to hear my sounds of possession as I slide my tongue into her mouth, finding hers and tasting it for the first time, drunk from the feeling of pleasure that the simple act gives me.

Blythe responds in a way I never expected, her hands coming up to the back of my neck and her fingernails making tiny half-moons in my skin as she digs in and holds on for dear life. It hurts, but I welcome the pain as it mingles with the pleasure, racing down my spine in a combination that leaves me weak in the knees.

When I lift her, she wraps her legs around my waist without hesitation and within seconds, I’ve got her laid across a gleaming, steel table. Comm. devices, batteries and various other odds and ends find a new home on the floor. I lean down to kiss her again, suckling her lower lip between mine before biting down on it gently. She gasps as if surprised and then moans when my hands find their way beneath her shirt. The feel of her bare skin against my fingertips has me so cranked up, I hardly notice the sound of the door opening behind us.

The shocked gasp of the person who catches us registers, though, and Blythe and I leap away from each other as if we’ve been burned.

“I’m so sorry,” Laura says softly. “I need to speak with you when you have a moment,” she adds before the sound of her boots and the closing of the door tells me she is gone. Blythe is still on the edge of the table, though she’s scooted as far away from me as she can get. I’m not far from where I was a moment ago, my hands braced on the table’s edge as I fight to catch my breath.

Kissing Blythe was like drowning in an ocean of sensations. My senses are in overdrive and I swear I can practically smell her from across the room. I can’t even look at her, because I know her face is flushed and her lips are swelling from my less-than-gentle kiss. The sight of her alone is enough to set me off right now.

Once I’m sure I’ve gotten my impulses under control, I force myself to look at her. She slides off the edge of the table and turns to face me, though her eyes aren’t really reaching mine. She’s staring at some point over my shoulder.

She clears her throat. “You should go see what it is they want,” Blythe says hoarsely.

I nod. “Yeah, but I—”

“Now’s not the time,” she interjects. Damn, I hate when she’s right. We’re in the middle of a situation that could
turn dangerous at any moment. We don’t know where the reinforcements are, but we’ve dealt with the M.P.s enough to know that they’re coming and that they are pissed. We need to be on our toes and this other stuff—no matter how important it might feel to me—can wait.

“You’re right. Talk later?” I ask.

She finally looks up at me and tries to smile, though I can see through it to her uncertainty. She’s nervous now, and maybe even a bit frightened of me. Good. I’m sick of being dependable ole Dax, loyal and faithful friend. I have always wanted to be more to her and now she knows. She can’t hide from me any longer.

Dax Janner and Blythe Sol

Resistance Hideout in Memphis, Tennessee

August 18, 4010

1:30
a.m.

When Blythe and I rejoin the others in the cafeteria, a deadly silence has fallen over our group and it immediately sets me on edge.

“Something’s wrong,” I say to Laura, who’s standing there watching me with a grim expression on her face.

She nods. “You two should come with me. You’ll want to see this.”

What is she talking about?
There I go being impatient again. As Blythe and I follow her toward the living area of the large, open space, my mind is reeling with the possibilities. Whatever has gone wrong, it’s enough to make people get the hell out of our way as we cut a swath through those gathered in front of a small, flat television panel. It’s an older unit, but the picture’s clear. Two news anchors are delivering a report, as white letters scroll across a red bar through the center of the screen. The sound is too low but I can see the words as clear as day as two chairs are vacated for our use.

RESTORATION RESISTANCE TERRORIST CAPTURED IN WASHINGTON D.C.

In the corner, a picture of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and very battered Olivia McNabb stares back at us, her eyes wide with fright. Blythe gasps, and my hands clench into fists as Laura steps between our chairs with a remote in her hand. As the volume increases, I force myself to swallow the bile building up in the back of my throat and still the roaring of blood in my ears. I sneak a peek at Blythe and her usually deep, caramel-colored skin is now tinged green. I want to reach out and comfort her, but I don’t know if the gesture will be misconstrued as something else after our kiss in the control room.

I return my focus back to the perfectly groomed and starched news anchor reading from a teleprompter.

“This just in ... an attack on the Stonehead facility in the nation’s capital, where several Bionics were scheduled for execution in just a few hours, resulted in a standoff that lasted through the night has now ended, according law enforcement. The terrorist group known as Restoration Resistance, reportedly sent in a group of militants to free the prisoners in what has been described as a well-planned and tactical offensive strategy. The terrorists were said to be in possession of specialized EMP signal, which they used to cut power to the entire facility, without causing harm to their own hovercraft or weapons. Officers say they eventually were able to restore power to their weapons, but not before some of their own were killed in the fray. The scene at Stonehead was eerily dark during the standoff, but night vision cameras captured the footage we are bringing to you now.”

The
prison video camera feed fills the screen and we watched as Olivia, Gage and the other members of our team fought for their lives. I watch Olivia become a blur as she races from cell to cell, using one of the M.P.s laser guns to blast the locks before sliding the iron gates open and freeing the prisoners. Gage uses his body to block those running to escape, firing back at the M.P.s cloistered at the end of the hall in formation, hiding behind their riot shields as they fire back.

Blythe gasps
as one of the glowing red beams strikes Olivia, causing her to fall to her face, stunned. Without missing a beat, Gage rushes forward and throws Olivia over his shoulder, careful to keep his weapon trained on the M.P.s, who are slowly inching forward with their riot shields in place.

“They t
hink he’s one of us,” I murmur to myself. Otherwise, the M.P.s wouldn’t be tiptoeing around Gage the way they are. They could see that Olivia was fast, but they don’t know what, if any, tricks Gage has up his sleeve. He’s in deep shit when they find out he’s got nothing but a gun and a set of huge balls. The other members of the team close in around him, forming a protective barrier as they fire back at the M.P.s and I realize that something has gone horribly wrong. Agata’s EMP signal should have knocked out the M.P.s’ weapons. That they are still able to fire on Gage and the others has me worried about the little girl. Gage disappears into the circle of bodies and I wonder if this is the moment when he called Jenica for backup.

The video fades as the reporter comes back on screen, the picture of a beaten Olivia taking up the entire right side of the screen.

“Because of the darkness and chaos of the moment, the male accomplices shown in the video have yet to be identified. They are said to have made off with half of the prisoners, but were forced to leave the others behind in favor of making an escape. However, M.P.s were able to detain ten of the prisoners, along with this young woman pictured here. She has been identified as Olivia McNabb, formerly of Los Angeles, California.

"
McNabb was a participant in the Restoration Project, in which she received a bionic prosthetic hand to replace one lost in an accident caused by the nuclear attacks of August 15, 4006. She reportedly re-entered the program one year later to receive a set of bionic adrenal glands to replace those lost to cancer due to radiation poisoning. She was said to have gone missing when the President issued his ban on bionic prostheses and ordered all Bionics to report to the nearest Restoration Project facility for decommissioning. She has not been seen or heard from since, but her recent involvement in last night’s attack shows that she has indeed found refuge with the terrorist organization known as the Resistance.”

“Goddamn it!” The expletive falls from my lips unchecked as I pound my closed fists against my thighs.

“Forensic experts are now combing the scene in search of DNA evidence that could shed more light on those unidentified accomplices from the video. Captain Rodney Jones, leader of the elite Military Police corps known as The Enforcers, has vowed to lead the manhunt in search of every member of this terrorist group.”

Olivia’s picture fades and another video feed shows the Captain at a press conference. The audio switches over and as I look into the cold, dark eyes of the man leading the hunt against the people I call my family, I feel an overwhelming urge to go on a little hunt of my own.

“Good evening citizens of the United States of America,” the Captain begins. He’s lifted the face-shield on his uniform, but is every bit the soldier from the neck down. He is flanked by two other officers who have decided to keep their faces hidden. The reporters standing by have gone silent, hanging on to his every word. “At approximately ten o’clock this evening, Stonehead was attacked by a group we all know to be against the best interests of our great nation. President Drummond has worked tirelessly to restore peace and order to our lives ever since the devastating attacks on many of our nation’s largest cities four years ago. I want you to know that I have spoken with the President personally, and he wants you all to be assured that justice will be served.”

"
The press didn’t want us to release any information about the victims, whose lives were lost tonight in the standoff at Stonehead … they want to hold the faces of the so-called Resistance up and cause us to forget the real heroes here. Private First Class Marcus Jones, Private April Jennings, Specialist Dirk Hanover, Sergeant Davis Marx, and Lieutenant Lexi Sorenson … those are the names of the true heroes tonight. Those are the names I want you to hold in your memory as you shake your heads over this senseless attack. Olivia McNabb is no hero, and neither are Professor Hinkley or his accomplice in the leading of the Resistance, Jenica Swan. They are known terrorists and will be punished within the full letter of the law.”

"
Now, as for Olivia McNabb and the remaining prisoners here at Stonehead, we fully intend to carry out the execution, but will push it back until tomorrow morning at 9:00 am. Each prisoner is to be killed by firing squad, an event that is slotted to air live. President Drummond is adamant about sending a message to Professor Neville Hinkley and the other members of this rag-tag squad that calls themselves The Resistance. We will not rest until each and every one of you has been decommissioned or executed, as is your punishment according to the law. I will uphold it as my personal mission to ensure that Americans sleep safely at night without fear of half-human, half-machine
monsters
terrorizing our streets.”

“That’s enough!” Blythe exclaims. Tears are running down one side of her face, unchecked. I know that grief; it is slowly uncoiling itself in my gut and spreading
through the rest of me. By 9:00 am tomorrow, Olivia will be dead.

Laura obliges and turns off the television with a click of her remote, casting the room into complete silence.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly to the two of us. “I didn’t want to upset you, but I thought you’d want to see this. I am sorry about your friend.”