Bonds of Justice

CHAPTER 43

Sophia felt painfully exposed, as if her skin had been rubbed off to bare her insides. Whimpering low in her throat, she opened her eyes. The lights stabbed and the voices, they were too sharp, too piercing.

“Sophie.”

She turned her unseeing, dazzled eyes toward that voice. And when he wrapped his hand around hers, she held on. Because he was quiet. He made everything else quiet, too. Gulping in a breath, she tried to think, tried to focus. “What . . . happened?”

“They’re using other drugs to counteract the narcotics,” he said, and she knew then that his name was Max. “Medics say you’re beginning to respond well.”

Images, broken, disjointed, fell into her head. “How long?”

“Twenty hours,” he told her, deep grooves in his face that she knew hadn’t been there earlier. “I was starting to worry you’d never wake up.”

Her brain fought to slough off the lingering effects of the drugs, driven by what she felt for this man with his dark male beauty and his tenderness. “My body shut down to deal with the drugs.”

“That’s what the M-Psy said.” He glanced to his right.

Following his gaze, she saw the M-Psy beyond the glass, standing at a monitoring station. “I’m in a Psy hospital.”

“It’s a private one,” Max told her. “Nikita’s certain of the loyalty of the staff.”

But no matter their loyalty, Sophia thought, they had to know she’d broken Silence. By the sheer fact that she was gripping Max’s hand, they had to know. “They’ll—”

“Shh.” Leaning in, he lowered his voice. “I told them my natural shield seems to help anchor you.”

She thought of that, pulling aside the cobwebs that threatened to suffocate her. “It’s true.” He was acting as a psychic wall, keeping everything at bay.

“Good.”

But along with that understanding came another. “I can’t spend my life holding your hand.” Her fingers clenched around his strong, capable grip. “My telepathic shields . . . I can’t quite focus enough to test them. There’s no way they could’ve survived Bonner and the drugs.”

His expression was grim. “You’re not giving in on me, are you?”

“No,” she said, and meant it. He was hers, the only person who’d ever been hers. And he needed her, this cop who held his pain so close, his scars hidden deep. “I’m not giving you up.”

His eyes blazed. “Good girl.”

She knew from the way he looked at her that he wanted to press his mouth over hers, meld them so closely that nothing would ever again tear them apart. It took everything she had not to beg him to act on the desire. Because when Max touched her, she became alive, became human. “I need you to know something,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “No. Tell me on our wedding day.”

Her mind swirled again, but this time, it was a different kind of a dance, inciting an odd breathlessness. “I once testified in a case where the prosecutor showed a video taken at a Greek wedding”—because the accused had been seen there in the company of the woman he’d eviscerated an hour later, but she didn’t want to focus on the darkness then—“and there was a part where they all threw plates on the floor.”

Max laughed, the lean dimple she so loved coming out of hiding. “You want to throw plates on the floor at our wedding, baby, I’ll buy you a damn crate of them.”

“No.” She wanted to echo his laugh, trace her finger over his lips. “I think I’d like to get married within the walls of the place we decide to call home.”

Max’s expression changed, becoming savagely masculine. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

With the counteragents acting with remarkable speed, Max intended to take Sophia home later that day so she could heal in privacy, but the M-Psy refused to release her. “Look,” Max finally snapped, his temper hanging on by a thread so thin, it was close to invisible, “she’s got no physical injuries aside from a few cuts and bruises, and the side effects from the drugs are all but gone.” In spite of his wrenching need to hold her, he’d never have suggested taking her home otherwise. “Why does she need to remain here?”

The M-Psy looked at Sophia. “I need to discuss that privately with Ms. Russo.”

“She’s my partner.” Max was going to have trouble leaving Sophie alone for a long time coming. “And she’s already been subject to attack while in a supposedly secure location.”

“Let go of her hand,” the medic said.

Max squeezed Sophia’s fingers. “Are you insane?”

“No.”

Sophia looked at the M-Psy, then back at Max. “Do it slowly,” she said. “I’ll be able to tell if there’s a problem.”

Protective instincts rebelled. “Sophie.”

“I must know.” Her eyes said far more than her words.

Sweat broke out along his spine as he released his grip until only their fingertips touched—then Sophia broke even that contact. He was ready to clasp her wrist at the first sign of trouble but she stared at him before turning her attention to the M-Psy. “I should be dead. The voices should have crashed into my mind—but I can’t hear even a whisper.” The jagged, splintered thoughts that had stabbed into her mind when she first woke were held far at bay, her mind a clear, pristine pond.

“Exactly.” The M-Psy put down the electronic file in his hand. “According to the records I’ve accessed, your shields were a cause for grave concern—to the point where you were on a rehabilitation watchlist. Yet according to my scans, those shields are now airtight.”

Max sucked in a breath beside her, his tall frame held taut. “Is he right?”

“Take me outside, Max,” she said, curling her fingers into the bed beneath the sheets when they would’ve reached for her cop. “I need to be certain.”

A cool breeze stroked its way across Sophia’s face as Max wheeled her onto the roof of the private hospital. It was tinged with the salt of the sea and the living beat that was the population of this vibrant city. A thousand smells lingered in the air, from the sweetness of cotton candy to the briny tang of fish, to the wild spice of some exotic restaurant. Noises, too, rose up from the ground. The smooth shush of vehicles, the heavy pulse of conversation flowing between thousands of people, the odd siren as emergency vehicles went about their tasks.

“It’s all outside,” she whispered, unable to believe it. Nothing crashed against her skull, or if it did, her shields were so incredibly strong that she didn’t feel even an echo. “Take me farther, Max.”

As he pushed the chair forward, she dared try and manipulate whatever it was that was protecting her, opening the steel walls a mere fraction. Fragments of noise, slivers of thought. She snapped the walls shut. “There’s no question—I have functional shields.” Gripping the chair arms, she rose out of the chair. “Highly functional shields.” Better than she’d ever had, even as a child.

Max had his hand out to catch her even as the M-Psy remonstrated with her. She didn’t care. Standing shakily on her feet, she took a deep, deep breath . . . and let the beat of the city flow around her. “I’m free,” she said, though she knew it wasn’t as simple as that. The J Corps wouldn’t release her, not now that she was useful again. But—“And I’ll fight to keep my freedom.” No more acid on her soul. No more.

Max’s expression held mingled joy and determination, and she heard the words he didn’t say, even as the M-Psy spoke. “You should sit back down, Ms. Russo.”

Since her legs felt a little unsteady, she didn’t argue. “Do you have any idea why my shields have regenerated?”

The M-Psy shook his head. “That’s why I want to keep you here longer—shields as badly damaged as yours shouldn’t regenerate. I’ve looked through all our archives without finding another case. I’m concerned the shield will fail again as quickly—”

“In that case,” Sophia said, looking back out over the city, “I’d rather use this time as wisely as I can. Not many Js get a second chance.”

The M-Psy glanced at his chart. “I can only release you if you’ll have someone with you at all times over the next twenty-four hours. The drugs could rebound, trigger a blackout.”

“I’ll make sure she’s never alone,” Max said, his tone implacable. “Sign her out.”

Ten minutes later, Sophia found herself in the passenger seat of Max’s car, being driven back to the apartment. “I’ve lit a fire under security,” he said, his jaw set in a grim line. “Nobody reaches you without having being cleared by me.”

“Max, I know you said to wait for our wedding day, but I really want to tell you something.”

Max’s hands tightened on the wheel. “You’re always in a rush, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

With Max, yes, she thought, she was both impatient and greedy. “I love the way you smell.”

A startled look. “That’s what you wanted to tell me?”

“Yes.” Smiling, content, she closed her eyes and gave in to the slumber that had been pushing at her ever since they entered the vehicle.

She had no awareness of reaching the apartment building, no awareness of being carried up to her bedroom and laid down in bed. Nor did she feel the kiss pressed to her forehead or hear the low, shaken whispers of a man who told her she was his everything.

Max sat on Sophia’s sofa, able to think about Nikita’s case for the first time since the nightmare of the abduction. After what Nikita had done to save Sophia, he owed the Councilor far more than what was obligated by his position as an Enforcement detective.

However, though Nikita had been in touch with him on and off over the past day, he’d withheld the information about Ryan Asquith’s attendance at a Pure Psy meeting—gut instinct said the boy was no killer and he’d probably splinter under Nikita’s version of a “chat.” At most, the intern was a mole, one who might lead them to the kingpin.

But Max had told Nikita about Quentin Gareth, warned her to watch her back until they could determine where the prematurely silver-haired man had been for those unaccounted-for months in his past.

“Quentin’s in Jordan for business,” Nikita had told him. “He won’t be back for three more days, so we have time to unearth the truth—I’ve already begun deep-level PsyNet scans in relation to this issue.”

Wondering if she’d had any luck, he picked up his cell phone and put through a call. However, the office comm line, her private line, the cell, they all went to voicemail. He was about to try her assistant when his phone rang in his hand. Glancing at it, he raised an eyebrow. “Ryan.”

“Detective Shannon, as you kept our previous discussion confidential,” the intern said without any lead in, “I feel I can trust you with this.”

Max waited.

“I was approached by an individual associated with Pure Psy after my reconditioning last year—they believed I would be open to their message.”

“Good way to pick up recruits.” Ryan had killed when his powers went out of control, would’ve been—on some level—searching for something to make the world seem right again.

“Yes.” Ryan paused. “At first, I went along, but I soon realized my goals didn’t match theirs. However, just as I was about to resign my membership, I got the internship with Councilor Duncan.”

“You’re spying for her?”

“Not officially. She doesn’t know.” A long breath. “I wanted to bring her something that would make her more inclined to keep me on after this internship ends.”

Either the boy was honestly pinning his hopes of survival on Nikita, or he was a very good liar. “What did you find out?”

“Nothing concrete . . . but there was an ‘atmosphere’ at the last meeting I attended, a sense of anticipation. I believe that while the members aren’t aware of the details of what’s about to take place, something is.”

Hanging up after it became clear the intern could tell him nothing more, Max began to check the myriad of messages that had come in during the time he’d been in the hospital with Sophia, his hand locked tight around hers.

There was an e-mail from Dorian.

Found a cached note on an old server saying that Gareth won a 6 month internship at KTech Inc. (London). Matches with the time period you’re looking at. All legit. But someone went to a hell of a lot of trouble to hide it.

A second message showed up as coming in only ten minutes ago.

Cop, I hope your girl is okay. Call me.

Max input the code. Dorian picked up on the first ring. “How’s Sophia?”

“Good, really good.” His heart twisted, part of him still unable to believe his Sophie was safe. “So, what’ve you got?”

“I’m sorry this is coming in late,” Dorian said. “A motorcycle slid in the rain, broadsided a couple of our soldiers a few minutes after I sent the first e-mail.”

“They okay?”

“Broken arm, broken leg, but they’ll be fine. I’ve been covering their shifts.” A pause, the rustle of paper. “Anyway, I just did some more digging on this KTech Inc. It’s owned by a shell company, which is owned by a shell company ad nauseum. But behind it all, KTech is part of Scott Inc.”

“As in Henry and Shoshanna,” Max completed, all the pieces clicking into place. According to the confidential file Nikita had given Sophia, Henry was the Councilor most involved with Pure Psy. It wasn’t quite a smoking gun when it came to the murders, but it was close enough to put Gareth squarely in the crosshairs. “Thanks, Dorian.” Hanging up, he was about to try Nikita again when he noticed a piece of paper by his foot, as if it had fallen off the coffee table.

Picking it up, he saw Sophia’s handwriting.

Gareth. Rumor. Pr

There was nothing else. She’d clearly been interrupted before she could finish the thought. Fighting a rush of possessive protectiveness when he realized it had to have happened the morning of her abduction, he glanced into the bedroom, saw that she was sleeping peacefully. There was, he thought with a wrench deep in his heart, no need to disturb her. Except . . . it had to be important if she’d left the milk unopened on the counter to write it—and his Sophie, the gutsy woman who’d refused to give in to a sociopath, was strong enough to handle this.

Going to kneel beside the bed, he cupped her cheek, the thin lines of her scars a familiar pattern. “Sophie?” He couldn’t help tracing the lines with a string of tender kisses.

She stirred, her eyes obviously heavy as she opened them. “Mmm?” Beside her, Morpheus—who hadn’t left her side since she came home—shot him a jaundiced look.

“You heard a rumor about Quentin Gareth.” He dropped little kisses on the corners of her mouth. “What was it?”

Another small sound, and she snuggled closer.

“Report from Prague,” she muttered, as if in her sleep. “Vague rumor.” She turned toward his mouth, a kitten seeking more affection.

“What about the rumor, sweetheart?” He brushed her hair off her face, petting her with more kisses. “Sophie?”

“Gareth might’ve killed a student four months ago.” It was a crystal-clear statement. “Student was on a Center short list.”

“He was considered flawed,” Max murmured out loud.

“Hmm.”

If the rumor was true, Max realized, Quentin wasn’t simply a calculating, high-level mole for Henry Scott, he was a fanatic who believed absolutely in Pure Psy. And that kind of an individual could snap if he sensed any type of a—

The doorbell chimed.