A Reaper's Love (WindWorld) Read online

  “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 u
s. 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.

  “I left my breakfast in there too,” Fallon told him.

  Shaking, heaving, the older man clung to the safety bar beside the toilet and barely felt the cold washcloth that Fallon pressed to his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut and his knees buckled. Had it not been for the Reaper, he would have hit the floor. Instead, Fallon helped him to sit on the bench inside the tiled shower.

  “My God,” the Supervisor whispered, sagging forward.

  “Yeah,” Fallon agreed. He hunkered down in front of the Supervisor and once more placed the wet cloth to the older man’s head.

  They remained there until the orderlies came in to wheel Reynaud to one of the operatories for the Transference. It wasn’t until all sound had left the room that the Supervisor raised his head and the Reaper tossed the washcloth into the sink. The Supervisor looked into the amber eyes of Mikhail Fallon.

  “You were right,” he said in a choking voice.

  “About what?” Fallon asked.

  “I’ll never be able to unsee that.” He looked down at the floor.

  “And that is why I didn’t want his Extension to see him.” At the older man’s nod, Fallon put a hand on the Supervisor’s knee. “The hellion will heal his body. He’ll look no different than he did three years ago when they bring him back here to his room.”

  “Heal his body,” the Supervisor repeated. “What of his soul, Misha?”

  “Aye, well,” Fallon said on a long breath. “That’s another story now ain’t it?”

  Chapter Two

  Pain. So much pain. His mind was steeped in it. Not his body, but his mind, he thought. The pain of his flesh had ceased long ago when the nerve endings had died. Not for the first time could he not move but this time was different. This time he sensed—though he could not feel—gentle hands touching him, lifting him, keeping him immobile on a much softer platform than the one to which he had grown accustomed. He dared not hope he had been rescued from hell. He could only pray he had finally succumbed to the torment that had been heaped upon him and had finally shuffled off his mortal coil. He would not miss his god-awful life but there was one thing he would miss with all his broken heart.

  “Laci,” his mind whispered.

  Her name was a talisman to him. It had become the single-word litany that had kept him alive, had sustained him, kept him halfway sane, and had given him a slim margin of comfort in the long hours when physical pain had all but destroyed his mind. As he had done for years, he pictured her smiling face in his mind’s eye and stood there basking in its warmth. Only in his dreams could he touch her, hold her, breathe in the sweet scent of her perfumed body. Only in his dreams could he hear her soft voice and feel the gentle sweep of her fingertips gliding over his body.

  “Laci,” he silently sighed. It was a prayer that had kept him going.

  Then physical agony came rushing over him so unexpectedly, he screamed, and for the first time in the gods only knew how long, he heard the sound of that scream. He snapped his eyes open, drew his lips back over fangs that had suddenly exploded from his gums, and he began to feel the muscles in his body stretching, the bones cracking and elongating, the fur rippling over his body.

  “Conversion!” his mind screamed at him. “You are Converting!”

  For just a second or two he knew the surge of immense, deadly power from the Conversion before his mind shut down completely.

  Dr. Dupree appeared in the doorway of the surgical waiting room. The Supervisor got up from his chair and Fallon pushed away from the wall where he’d been leaning.

  “Well?” the Supervisor asked.

  “His body accepted the hellion and he Converted,” the surgeon told him. “It was a particularly violent Conversion—very painful for him I believe—yet he survived it.”

  “But?” Fallon demanded.

  “He is in stasis.”

  “He’s shut down his mind,” Fallon said.

  The surgeon nodded. “That would be my guess. I think the pain was too great for him.”

  “I can relate to that,” Fallon said.

  “He’s most likely been without his hellion for quite some time,” Dr. Dupree said. “Suddenly going into Conversion would have come as a shock to him.”

  “And he couldn’t deal with it,” the Supervisor suggested.

  “Sensory overload,” Fallon put in.

  “Precisely,” the surgeon agreed. “The sensations that suddenly appeared after so long simply pushed him over the edge and in order to cope with what he was feeling, he shut down.”

  “Has the Conversion subsided?” the Supervisor asked.

  Dr. Dupree nodded. “Yes, and you will be happy to know the damage done to Agent Reynaud’s body is fast being healed by Misha’s hellion.”

  The Supervisor slowly closed his eyes. “Thank God,” he whispered.

  “Physically healed,” Fallon said.

  “What of mentally?” The Supervisor’s voice was filled with strain.

  “We won’t know that until he wakes and we can talk to him,” the surgeon replied. “You should
know that all too well, Misha.”

  “Aye,” Fallon said. “I do.”

  “Can we see him?” the Supervisor inquired.

  “Of course.”

  “I think you should send for his Extension now,” Fallon said. “Let her sit with him, talk to him, reassure him. Hearing her might bring him out of stasis.”

  “After I’ve seen him,” the Supervisor insisted.

  “Suit yourself,” Fallon mumbled. “You always do.” That said, he walked out of the waiting room and down the hall—stopping only long enough for the locked doors to open for him.

  “He’s been there, sir,” the surgeon said. “He—”

  “Take me to Reynaud,” the older man interrupted. “I’ve no desire to discuss Fallon or what he went through. My concern is with our present Alpha.”

  Striding angrily down the corridor Fallon clenched his jaw to keep from growling. He had been assigned by the Network—not John Doe or whatever his real name was—to the medical facility. Because of the ordeal he himself had lived through after the Martiya all but destroyed him, he was in a unique position to help other agents who had been traumatized while on assignment. He knew he could help Taylor Reynaud but the best medicine to heal the man lay in the hands of his Extension. The first face the Panthera needed to see when he opened his eyes was Laci Albright’s. He hoped that would be the case and the Supervisor wouldn’t park his wrinkled ass in Tay’s room until the Alpha came out of his self-imposed exile from reality.

  “The bastard will do more harm than good,” he muttered.

  Laci put a hand to her forehead and rubbed. The physician had given her a mild dose of tenerse to ease the crushing pain between her temples and a heftier dose of an anti-nausea drug. He’d wanted to give her more but she didn’t want to take a chance of being under the influence of the powerful drug when word came she could see Tay. As it was, she was slightly numb, her thought processes somewhat dulled.