Heir of Ashes (The Roxanne Fosch Files #1)

Chapter 4

The little jolt of fear that zinged through me was skillfully hidden under a blank facade.

“Get in,” he snapped tightly. His shoulders were tense, and his eyes held annoyance and irritation, but no anger or hints of crazed triumph. I gathered two things in that instance: one, if he was going to shoot me, he would have done it the moment the door opened and two, that meant he didn’t want me dead.

I eyed him and was proud my gaze didn’t waver. My hesitation only seemed to irritate him more, although I guessed his crankiness stemmed from following me around for the past few days. I weighed my options. I had this curious hunch and was tired and aching enough to not think better of it, so I turned my back on him and walked—shuffled—away, even as my body begged for the warm comfort the Range Rover could provide for a few hours.

He cursed under his breath, muttering something that sounded a lot like “stubborn twit” before cutting the engine and slamming his door shut.

“Don’t force me to shoot,” he growled.

I ignored him until I heard the safety of the gun click off. Slowly, heart hammering with belated adrenaline, I turned to face him. His irritation had morphed into anger, tinged with resignation. Maybe I had misjudged him. Maybe the bounty was more substantial if I was caught alive. Why was he using a gun? Why wasn’t he trying to overpower me?

I eyed his aura and wondered if I had misread it.

“In,” he barked. There was a dark bruise under his left eye that hadn’t been there when I met him in the food court.

“I don’t think you want me dead, or else you’d have killed me already,” I pointed out—maybe too boldly.

“You’re right. I don’t want you dead,” he conceded. “But I won’t hesitate to disable you. In fact, if you’re not able to walk or run …” He shrugged a shoulder, lowered the gun, and aimed at my leg. “Now, get in.”

I looked at him, at the car, and wondered if I could strike him while he drove. Then I could push him out and hijack it.

Mmm, that was actually an appealing idea.

As if reading my mind, he cocked his head to the side and said in a much softer tone, “You take the wheel.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “What makes you think I’m not going to ditch us at the first sinkhole?”

His eyes flashed with a dangerous glint, reminding me I was dealing with a predator as well as a mercenary. He motioned with his gun for me to move, saying nothing.

I complied, passing him with an indifferent air, shoulders back—though the posturing cost me. With clenched teeth, I pushed my duffel onto the back seat, then stiffly climbed inside. I was already regretting not taking the passenger seat by the time he opened the door. Adjusting the seat to accommodate my shorter legs increased the throbbing in my ribs. I bit my lip to keep myself from gasping out loud. I didn’t want him to realize how badly I was hurt. Weak prey didn’t live long. It was the law of the jungle.

I remembered when I was still young and just “plain human”, unable to defend myself against the PSS’s brutal experiments. The first time when they dragged me kicking and screaming down to the lab, I remembered feeling my first betrayal, the shocking realization that they had been going easy on me during earlier tests. I had considered Dr. Maxwell an ally back then, the only friend I had made in the eight months since I’d arrived. I’d understood his gesture of goodwill—chocolate, ice cream, gossip magazines—had been nothing but bribes to ensure good behavior. But I was a social creature, dependent on interactions for survival. Dr. Maxwell had known that, understanding that my confinement and forceful experiments were mentally killing me, deteriorating the quality of his research.

As the head of the Scientists’ team assigned to me, Dr. Maxwell had taken it upon himself to bring me all the comforts an ex-popular thirteen-year-old had deemed necessary. By then, I’d been so sick of fighting and rebelling—though in no way broken—that I’d stopped resisting the tests in exchange for a nice suite with a king-sized bed, a laptop—without wireless connection—books to fill my time, and a bathroom with a large tub. It had been my weakness, letting them know how much I needed those material comforts and Dr. Maxwell’s company in the evening, a sympathetic ear to listen to my complaints.

I remembered the shock that horrible day when I was locked inside a metal cage like a feral animal, with Dr. Maxwell standing nearby in the lab ignoring my protests, taking notes as if locking me in the cage after all the nice things he had done for me was the most natural thing. It was only after I’d escaped that I learned from Dr. Maxwell’s stolen journal that the vaccine he had given me the night before had been an amplifying spell, given to uncooperative subjects. I remembered the dreadful buzzing sound the lock mechanism made when engaged, the vibrations through the bars when I grabbed them to scream louder at Dr. Maxwell. After the events of that night, I was no longer able to touch the bars without being severely burned. Three sides of the cage were made of thick, reinforced metal bars, but the fourth—the back side—was just a metal sheet, which I also learned that day served as a door, a partition wall to the next cage.

When the wall of the cage behind me had opened with a sliding whoosh, I’d given it no thought. But when I’d heard the guttural growl behind me, my voice had stuck in my throat. Dr. Maxwell had turned to watch, and only then did I notice I had an audience.

I remembered the sensation of rubbery muscles, how my stomach had fluttered and plunged, the tremors that ran down my spine all the way to my toenails—the horror of the second growl, closer, the way the hairs on the back of my neck had stood at attention. Frightened, scared shitless, I’d been too terrified to turn and find the monster inside with me, and my knees had buckled, sending me onto the cold bottom of the cage. I remembered registering in a humiliated part of my brain the acrid stench of urine. My heart had beat too fast, too erratically, and I remembered wondering if I was having a heart attack. I remembered wondering that first time if they were serving me for dinner to a hideous monster for failing to meet their expectations. The terror, the humiliation of begging deaf ears. I remembered it all, every second, every heartbeat.

That day, eight months after they had kidnapped me, I exhibited the first of many signs of abnormality. I had become the monster they had suspected I was all along. My talons had manifested first—it had saved my life—and my ability to read auras the very next day. Only after a handful of similar episodes did I learn they’d been ready to shoot the animal before they could fatally injure me. It had taken me over five years of misery, hurt, and resentment to accept the fact that no one was coming for me. And then it took three more years of meticulous planning for the right opportunity to present itself so that I might escape.

Now this man intended to drag me back. For what? A meager few thousand? Was that the sum of my worth? A tightness gripped my chest, a familiar blend of fear and anxiety. I closed my eyes, forgetting my aches and agonizing over my predicament instead. I needed a plan—fast. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—return to that hell. I doubted I’d survive it again.

The piercing screech of a blaring horn and a tug at the steering wheel jolted me back to reality. My eyes snapped open in time to be blinded by the oncoming headlights—just in time to avoid colliding with another vehicle, with mere inches to spare. The Range Rover skidded and squealed to a halt on the shoulder.

I braked, breathing hard. I had dozed off behind the wheel. My God, I’d fallen asleep while driving. My hands clenched the steering wheel so hard, it gave a faint rubbery squeak. I could hear Logan’s harsh breathing above my thundering heart.

“Get. Out,” he growled before I could dredge up anything to say.

I looked at him in disbelief. Was he going to just throw me out? Had he decided I wasn’t worth the trouble anymore? The hard set of his jaw told me he was furious.

“I said out,” he repeated through gritted teeth.

A glance out the window told me there was nothing but the unforgiving, endless road and desert ahead. Not that I had expected to find a PSS base close by. But I’d been wrong before. While I didn’t relish being alone in the cold and dark, I’d rather take my chance with the rattlesnakes than keep trying to hitchhike, and risk the Bad Boy Team picking me up next. I opened the door, unbuckled my belt, and gritted my teeth against the pain that assaulted my senses. All the while, I could feel the heavy weight of Logan’s gaze on me.

Suddenly, he let out a curse, opened his door, and circled the hood to my side. What? Did he think I wasn’t doing the job fast enough? As if I had wanted to come with him in the first place. I was about to get out when he shook his head and closed in, effectively blocking me. “Just … just scoot over.”

“No, no.” I waved for him to move back. “I’m good. I can go on from here.”

“Go?” Logan’s eyebrows lowered, and I realized my mistake. He hadn’t been booting me out; he had meant to switch places.

“How bad are you hurt?” he asked, his tone surprisingly gentle.

What kind of game was he playing? Whatever it was, I had neither the will nor the power to play it.

“Do you need help?” he tried again, and there was no sign of mockery or condescension in his face and tone. His concern sounded genuine, but I didn’t trust it.

Jaws still clenched, I moved sideways. Logan reached out to help, only to drop his arm halfway. Clever man. A groan almost escaped my lips when I reached for the seatbelt. Again, I felt rather than saw Logan watching me. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, deciding the belt was too much effort. Despite my aches, I fell asleep instantly.

I slept fitfully, waking every now and then with a start. It was still dark, but dawn wasn’t far off. On the horizon where desert met sky, there was a shifting of colors, a deep bruise in the sky, as if sunrise hurt the dark before it gave in to daylight.

I shifted stiffly, stretching as much as my aches allowed. Somewhere along the drive, Logan had fastened my seatbelt. I grimaced at the stabbing pain in my side and wondered if it would ever go away. How long would my ribs take to heal? Were they cracked or broken? I could block the pain, but pain was a good reminder of limits.

“Which base are we going to?” I asked groggily.

Logan didn’t answer and I didn’t ask again. A few minutes later, we pulled up to a lonely stone building with a huge lit sign that read “La Estrada”. Not a PSS base, but a hotel.

Without a word or a glance my way, Logan climbed out, grabbed my duffel bag, and surprised me by opening the passenger door for me. Mmm. A gentleman or an impatient asshole?

“We’ll rest here for a few hours,” he said as he guided me into the warm interior.

The redheaded receptionist openly scrutinized Logan’s shiner and then my bruised cheek. She didn’t even try to be discreet; she probably thought we’d beaten each other up. She handed him a key with a cheerful smile. “Would you like some help with your bag?”

“I got this,” Logan replied politely. “Thank you.” Then he guided me away, his hand pressed firmly against my lower back.

We made our way to the bank of elevators in silence, emerging on the sixth floor, and headed to the right. The corridor stretched ahead, brightly lit, ten doors to either side. The third door to the right creaked open, and Logan shifted half in front of me, blocking my view. His hand disappeared inside his coat, no doubt where his pistol was concealed. Then his shoulders relaxed, and his empty hand returned to the middle of my back.

A brunette woman clad in a pink satin robe emerged from the third room to the right, pushing out a cart laden with empty dishes. Without acknowledging us, she stepped back into the room and shut the door with a soft click. We continued to the end of the corridor, pausing in front of the last room on the left.

I waited for Logan to unlock the door and made a beeline for the bathroom. After I relieved myself, I unbuttoned my jacket and began to undress. It was the first chance I had to fully take inventory of my injuries. I couldn’t help the gasp of horror that escaped my lips at the first sight of my bruised and scabbed upper half. The Bad Boy team had done a number on me. My skin was mottled with purple, green, and yellow splotches, along with angry, raised, red scars. It looked like someone had dropped a gallon of rainbow paint on me. I knew the beating had been severe—the constant pain had been a clear indication—but I hadn’t realized, or imagined, how ghastly it really looked.

The swelling on my face had gone down, leaving behind a bruise the sickly color of green and yellow. Even though that bruise was the least severe, it bothered me the most. Maybe there was still a piece of that vain teenager inside me.

I left my clothes where they fell and started the shower, turning the water to hot. As steam began filling the stall, I eased in and shut the glass door. The hot spray alleviated some of my aches, and I let the water soothe my abused muscles for a few minutes before washing my hair with the hotel’s shampoo and conditioner. I also used the small bottle of lotion I found by the sink—even though the strong rose fragrance overwhelmed my senses. I only considered putting my bloodied clothes back on for a second before dismissing the thought and reaching for the plush bathrobe hanging on a peg behind the door.

Without another glance at the mirror, I emerged from the bathroom to the wonderful aroma of coffee and an array of breakfast items on a small table. Logan occupied one of the two chairs, a mug of coffee steaming between his large hands. He glanced up, giving me a clinical once-over, before getting up and pulling out the second chair for me. Surprised, I hesitated for a beat, self-consciously aware that I had nothing underneath the robe. He didn’t comment or wait for me to sit but resumed drinking his coffee. Well, at least I was in no danger of being ravished by him. Still, I looked around for my duffel, but it was nowhere in sight.

“My bag?” I asked.

“In the closet,” he said, nodding toward the slightly open closet door.

After I dressed in jeans, a red sweater, and running shoes, I joined Logan at the table, watching as he poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me. I nearly salivated at the aroma. Next, he slathered cream cheese on a bagel and passed it over. After an awkward pause, I took it and ate with gusto. He prepared the remaining two bagels, gray eyes sparkling with humor at my famished state. I devoured everything, then wolfed down all the mango and strawberry slices, not caring if I looked like a slobbering pig. It wasn’t every day that I got to enjoy a fulfilling meal. In fact, it had been weeks since I had.

“I’m not going to let you take me back, you know?” I said after my second cup of coffee.

He sipped from his cup, his gaze assessing.

I clenched my jaw. “I’d kill you if you tried.” I was proud of how firm and confident my voice sounded. Logan’s eyes sharpened with interest, as if just now realizing I was a wolf dressed in a doe’s skin. I managed not to squirm under his intense scrutiny, and I didn’t back down. I raised my chin defiantly and added, “I didn’t warn the others, but I owe you for saving my life back at the motel.”

He nodded once, acknowledging the truth in my words, got up, and went to the bathroom. I didn’t realize how tense I’d been until the shower started. I exhaled a sigh of relief. I debated escaping while he showered but decided against it when I couldn’t find the key to the Range Rover. On foot, even if he took his time in the shower, he would be on me within minutes, and I needed a head start if I didn’t want to get caught again. Besides, I needed rest to recharge my energy before trying to run. Every instinct and piece of common sense I possessed told me to wait for better odds. Rested, I’d be stronger and have a better chance at success, and my wounds would be better healed. And I bet he knew that too.

Exhausted, I crawled under the sheets and vaguely wondered if he was going to rest as well or keep watch while I did.

***

I woke up to a dark room. For a disorienting moment, I had no idea where I was. Then it all flooded back with a shock, like a bucket of icy water had been dumped over me.

The sound of even, low snores came from beside me. The question of whether Logan planned to rest was answered. And apparently, he had decided the bed was big enough for two. My outrage at his audacity quickly gave way to urgency—this was my chance to escape. I eased out of bed, aware that I, and likely Logan, had slept through the day. Creeping to the bathroom, I grabbed my denim jacket and shrugged it on. I had slept dressed in jeans and shoes that sank into the thick carpet and muffled my steps. I hurried for my duffel next, took the wallet that contained my rapidly dwindling emergency money, and Dr. Maxwell’s journal. I placed the latter in the inside pocket of my jacket and promised myself I’d burn it the first chance I got. I had already memorized it letter by letter, and I didn’t want anyone getting hold of it. The thought of leaving my belongings behind was painful, but I knew sooner or later I’d have to.

I was ready to leave when Logan stirred and sat up. I cursed and moved to the window as if it had been my destination all along. Had he been aware of what I was doing, feigning sleep to see what my next move would be? The fucker.

I parted the curtain and peered out at the inky night, acting as if I hadn’t yet noticed he was awake. If only I’d woken up earlier … I berated myself, feeling the weight of his eyes on me.

The window overlooked the hotel’s front, and I watched as a black sedan parked by the entrance. I couldn’t discern auras from afar, but the telltale bulges beneath the jackets of the three hulking men climbing out were unmistakable. I stiffened. The sheets rustled as Logan slid off the bed, joining me at the window just as the men disappeared inside. Their brusque pace and stiff posture were all too familiar. I’d seen the combination so many times, I’d recognize it anywhere.

I grasped Logan’s arm. “I gotta get out of here. Now.”

His eyes studied my face, then he peeled my fingers off his arm and began moving. For some reason I’d question later, he put on his shoes and coat, then followed me out of the room without asking me to explain. He called both elevators, but before I could object, he guided me toward the stairs at the opposite end of the corridor.

I opened the heavy door slowly. We both listened for sounds of footsteps coming up before proceeding. On the landing of the third floor, we heard footsteps ascending at a fast clip. Logan pushed me out of the stairwell and into the corridor, wrapping his knuckles on the first room we came across.

“Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered under his breath and tried the doorknob. It was locked, of course.

I was about to suggest we try another room when I heard it: footsteps inside the room. Logan’s senses must have been sharper than mine. The moment the door opened a crack, Logan pushed inside—my forearm held firmly in his grip—and locked the room behind us. He halted the man’s protest with a glare and a hundred-dollar bill that appeared like magic in his hand. He searched my face, then bent to whisper in my ear, “You okay? Can you run if you need to?”

I straightened my shoulders and smoothed my grimace, setting my expression into a stoic mask before giving a small nod. Whatever happened next, this man had an agenda that involved me being well and rested.

“There are three of them,” I murmured. Because I knew what these men were capable of, I would need Logan if I wanted to get rid of them. Maybe if I was at my best … or maybe if there was only one of them … but I wasn’t, and there wasn’t.

Logan fumbled inside his pants pocket and handed me the key fob to the Range Rover, surprising me. “If I have to distract them, I want you to go ahead and start the car. Turn it around and keep it idling. Be ready to go. Can you do that?”

Of course I can. I hoped he took a very long time distracting them. Before I could give him a reassuring response, we heard footsteps going up to the fourth floor. But it was only one set. Logan took out his gun and held it at the ready. The other man backed away, heading for the phone on the stand. He was probably going to call security. The dollar note, though, was nowhere to be seen. The cautious opportunist.

Logan cracked open the door, scanned the corridor, then ushered me out of the room. I followed him down, both of us moving as quietly as possible. We veered left at the lobby and spotted the man blocking the entrance at the same time. He stood guarding the door, his head lowered, one hand pressed to his ear, the other hovering near the bulk of his unbuttoned suit jacket, his eyes scanning ahead. A wire spiraled down from his ear, disappearing inside the lapel of his suit where three golden, starry buttons were arranged in a triangle pattern.

A PSS Elite guard.

The type who had guarded me my entire stay at the PSS. A tremor ran down my spine and I clenched my fists. I was no longer a victim, a prisoner, a freak. I would fight back and, if necessary, I would not hesitate to kill. I was no longer that frightened and disoriented teenager. They didn’t play by the rules, and I had vowed that neither would I. They had forged me into the monster I was today.

At a glance, the Elite possessed blue auras just like every ordinary human, but a closer glance revealed them as blurry. I already knew they were stronger and faster than the ordinary guard, and suspected there was more. And the bulge under their jackets still gave me nightmares. Instead of live bullets, they had tranquilizer darts, and God only knew what they did to an unconscious, uncooperative subject. If they saw us, they would shoot first. No questions asked. Since they were faster than the average human, we wouldn’t be able to disarm them before being shot. Although adept in hand-to-hand combat, they were instructed to avoid it.

We quickly ducked and backed away, moving in the other direction, going for the back entrance. Past a set of double doors and down a narrow corridor, a maid pushing a cart stopped us.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said sternly.

Logan gave her a lopsided smile. “The receptionist said we could hit the parking lot from the back entrance,” he explained. “I have a skin condition, and the employee’s exit is closer to where we parked.”

The maid’s frown cleared. If she had paused to process his words, she’d have known the lie for what it was, considering it was dark outside.

Logan continued with the charm, “But I guess we misunderstood the directions.” He made a frustrated gesture, and I watched, vaguely amused, as the maid expression moved from disapproving to friendly and then sympathetic. She motioned us to the end of the hall and indicated a set of double doors on the other side.

“That’s the kitchen. If you go that way, you’ll find a back door for the kitchen staff, but you’ll probably get in someone’s way.” She pointed a brightly painted red fingernail to the left. “But if you follow the hall on the left and take the door to the right, you’ll exit between the employee and guest parking lots.”

Logan thanked her with a sheepish expression before taking my hand in his. As soon as she was out of sight, we hurried our steps to the end of the hall and veered left. There were three doors at the end. The one to the left was unmarked. The one directly across had a small plaque that read “Janitorial” and the one to the right read “Exit”.

We spotted the third guard at the same time he saw us. He stood by the exit door, slightly angled so he could watch both the exit we emerged from and the kitchen’s entrance farther down. Logan moved fast, almost in a blur, kicking the man’s hand away before he reached his gun. If we had emerged from the kitchen door, he’d have had time to draw and shoot us. Logan followed with a punch to his stomach, not giving the man time to recover.

The guard doubled over, and I thought the fight was over, that Logan would either knee the guard in the head or punch him unconscious. Before he could deliver either move, the guard straightened, producing a long knife seemingly out of thin air and slashing at Logan’s stomach. Logan jumped back, touching his stomach through his split shirtfront. If Logan hadn’t moved out of the way, that would have been a fatal wound. As it was—I noticed with a jolt—his front was rapidly getting soaked in blood.

The guard retreated a few paces, putting some distance between them, his knife at the ready. When he switched the knife to his other hand, I knew what he was going to do. Without thinking twice, I jumped in and headbutted the guard, sending him staggering back. And just in time too—a stray tranquilizer dart whizzed by, in Logan’s direction. Even before I had fully straightened, Logan tackled the guard to the ground.

I took a step forward to help, but Logan shouted for me to go, and after a brief hesitation, I went. I sprinted to the black Range Rover and for a precious moment, just sat there blankly. Why was Logan fighting The Elite Team if he worked for them? Did the time limit of his contract expire? Or was it an elaborate scheme for me to trust him and … and what? There was the possibility that Logan wasn’t working for the PSS, but that possibility didn’t give me any comfort.

I pressed the ignition button and pushed the gas pedal too hard. The car jumped once and died. I took a long breath for a clearer head before trying again. This baby wasn’t the tough case Thunder had been. I started the engine again, the smooth purring like an alien sound between my hands. My ribs gave me frequent pangs with each press of the pedal, but adrenaline was a wonderful drug. I caught a glimpse of Logan and the guard still grappling on the ground, and the beginning of a crowd by the kitchen’s entrance. I backed out and drove away.

I kept a vigilant eye on the rearview mirror for any pursuing vehicles but found none. I didn’t relax. I had to keep telling myself Logan would be alright, that he was capable of taking care of himself. I was feeling guilty, and I didn’t like it.

“Don’t be a fool,” I muttered to myself. Whatever reason he had to help me, I reminded myself, that man had an agenda. The telltale lights of a nearby city illuminating the horizon also helped with the guilt. So far, I had passed a few establishments, some hotels and restaurants, and a few fenced-in private driveways that hid fancy mansions from prying eyes.

I drove fast, slowing only when I spotted road signs, a feeling of wonder beginning to replace the guilt. Because, voilà! I was entering Las Vegas.