13
The machine was the first thing I was aware of. It beeped and buzzed and made it impossible for me to sleep. I frowned. I didn’t have any sort of machine in my bedroom, other than my old clock radio. Had it suddenly gone haywire?
My eyes fluttered open. A blurry haze covered my vision. Slowly, the tile ceiling came into focus. The harsh fluorescent lights made me squint. I frowned again. My bedroom ceiling wasn’t tiled, and I didn’t have fluorescent lights. A muscle in my arm twitched. Pain shot up my shoulder.
The pain brought back memories of the battle between the Fearless Five and the Terrible Triad. Frost had shot me with some sort of dart before his gun had produced that horrid noise. I recalled lots of fire and trashcans flying through the air. Everything else was a bit foggy. Had the Fearless Five defeated the Terrible Triad? Or had it been the other way around? Did the bomb go off? I couldn’t remember.
I sat up on my elbows and realized I was in a hospital bed. An IV dripped some sort of clear fluid into my arm. Another machine sounded out my heart rate and blood pressure every few seconds. Still more machines burped out information.
Several microscopes and other medical paraphernalia perched on a nearby table. Latex gloves peeked up out of a box. A large metal sink ran along one wall, and a long window with thick glass looked out onto an empty hallway. A set of hydraulic double doors sat at the far end, leading out to . . . where?
I wasn’t in a hospital or doctor’s office. Although the room had the antiseptic feel of an infirmary, it was too large to be your average hospital room, and the equipment seemed far too advanced. I couldn’t see anything beyond the doors, and I couldn’t hear anything except the whines and chirps of the various machines. No nurses, no doctors, no other whimpering patients. A ball of fear formed in my stomach.
Where the hell was I?
I threw back the bedsheets. A pair of white pajama pants, socks, and a loose T-shirt covered my body. Not your typical backless hospital gown. Who had put the clothes on me? And why? I looked like a rat ready to be dissected in a lab. Perhaps this was Frost’s lair, the place where he readied his test subjects before he experimented on them. My alarm grew.
I tumbled out of bed and started toward the door, but the wires from the various machines yanked me back. I ripped the IV out of my arm. Blood trickled out of the small wound. I tore off the heart monitor and other patches attached to my body, silencing the annoying machines. I staggered over to the double doors.
“Hello? Hello!” I beat my hand on the door. “Can anyone hear me?”
No one answered.
I looked for a button or switch or trigger for the door, but the only things that greeted me were the smooth, blank walls. I cupped my hands together and peered out the long, narrow windows. A hallway branched off in both directions, and I spotted a ten-digit keypad outside. A red light blinked on the device, indicating the door was armed or locked or whatever. Somebody didn’t want me to leave this room.
I was a prisoner.
Well, not for long.
I scoured the room, opened the metal cabinets, and looked for anything useful, anything that could help me escape, anything I could use as a weapon. I didn’t know who exactly was waiting outside the doors or what they might have in store for me, but I wanted to be prepared no matter what.
The cabinets contained medical supplies—gloves, syringes, bandages. I also discovered a box full of packets of brown pills with the initials RID on them. I squinted at the tiny print. Radioactive Isotope Diminisher. Interesting, but not helpful. I threw the pills back in the box and kept searching, but the cabinets held no other secrets.
I turned my attention to the odd machines in the room. Most of them were squat, square, metal contraptions with all sorts of knobs and controls and wires. I had no idea what they did, and after I determined that they were of no use to me, I didn’t care.
I searched the rest of the room but found nothing that would help me escape. I plopped back on the bed. Frustrated, I kicked the IV stand with my foot.
Not smart.
My toes hit the unyielding metal with a loud crack. A strangled cry of pain escaped my lips. I leapt up off the bed and hopped around on one foot.
Once the throbbing subsided, I hobbled over to the IV stand, a tall metal pole with four legs. I took the bag of fluid off the hook at the top and unplugged the various wires that anchored the stand to the bed. I hefted it in my arms. It would make an excellent battering ram. I took a long hard look at the locked double doors, held the stand out like a lance, and ran toward the doors as fast as my socked feet would let me.
The stand skidded off the door.
I bounced back. My feet slipped sideways. I barely caught myself before I busted my ass on the hard, slick floor. Once I regained my balance, I picked up the stand and tried again.
And again . . .
And again . . .
And again . . .
After ten minutes, all I had succeeded in doing was putting a few scratches on the metal doors. I wasn’t going to get out that way.
I turned my attention to the window and chewed my lip. I’d avoided the window until now for a number of reasons. First of all, I didn’t want to get a face full of glass trying to get out, not to mention the noise it would make when I shattered it. Still, it was my only way out. I didn’t want to be in the room when my captors came back for me, whoever they might be.
I yanked the sheets off the bed, ripped them into long thin strips, and wrapped them around my hands. I wound more strips around my head and face until I looked like a mummy come to life. I took hold of the stand and went over to the window. I closed my eyes a moment, gathering my thoughts. Then, I picked up the IV stand, raised it high, and turned my head away from the window. I shoved the metal stand through the glass with all my might.
It didn’t shatter.
I frowned and rammed the stand through the window again.
It still didn’t shatter.
I tapped on the window. It was made of some sort of thick substance more like plastic than glass. I peered at the surface. Tiny cracks ran out from the spot where I’d hit it.
Well, it was a start.
I stabbed the window with the stand over and over and over again. Ten minutes later, small cracks and fissures dotted the surface like the delicate threads of a spider’s web. I wiped the sweat off my face. Escaping was hard work. I studied the lines and cracks. A couple more good, strategically placed whacks should do it.
I picked up the metal pole again. On the fifth whack, the stand punched through the window, which exploded outward. It sounded louder than a sonic boom in the enclosed space. The flying glass shredded my makeshift gloves. A few pieces stung my arms like small, angry bees.
An alarm blared to life.
Uh-oh.
I threw down the stand, stepped over the broken glass, climbed out the window, and started running.
Ten minutes later, I slumped against the wall, gasping and panting for breath. I felt like I’d been running for hours and hours. My lungs ached and burned with the effort, and a throbbing stitch pulsed in my side. I pushed away from the wall. I didn’t have time for such weakness. I had to escape.
Somehow.
It was proving to be more difficult than I’d imagined. The first hallway I’d run down had branched off into another hallway. That hallway had branched out into another hallway. The place was huge. It reminded me of some medieval castle, complete with a labyrinth in the dungeon that poor prisoners like me never escaped from. And the blaring alarm was giving me a killer headache.
I walked as fast as I could. No more running blind. I had to think, get some direction. I came to another branch in the hallway. I went left and kept going left at every new intersection.
Finally, I reached a large set of doors, yanked one open, and slipped into a massive kitchen. I squinted in the semidarkness. Pots and pans and big spatulas hung from metal racks. Gleaming knives and other cutlery sat in thick wooden blocks. Rows of refrigerators and freezers flanked the walls. Another dead end.
A door snicked open at the other end of the room. I grabbed a frying pan from an overhead rack and ducked behind one of the refrigerators, which was roughly the size of a humpback whale. Soft footsteps whispered. A black shadow pooled on the floor, growing larger and larger. I tensed, ready to strike. My heart hammered against my ribs. Blood roared in my buzzing ears. My breaths came in shallow gasps.
A figure strolled into view. I leapt out and swung the frying pan at its head. Too slow. The figure turned and grabbed my wrist, bending it downward. I dropped the pan, and it skittered off into the darkness. I lashed out with my free fist. The figure caught that hand too. A body pinned me against the refrigerator and pressed into mine. Visions of the almost-rape flooded my mind. I shrieked and struggled, trying to get away from my assailant.
“Carmen! Carmen! Calm down! It’s me.”
Striker’s deep voice cut through my panic. I quit fighting. My senses flared to life, and I realized what a cozy position we were in. His leg rested between mine, spreading them apart. I could feel the sleek leather fabric of his suit through my thin pajama bottoms. He shifted his stance, and a heavy wetness gathered between my thighs at the intimate contact. Striker’s gloved hands held my wrists against the refrigerator. His arms brushed the sides of my breasts, which swelled in response. My nipples hardened, and I panted for breath once more.
Electric blue flecks sparked to life deep in Striker’s silver eyes. For a moment, I thought he might lean forward and kiss me, capture my lips with his. I wanted him to. Oh, how I wanted him to. I burned for him to do that and much, much more.
Striker hissed. He let out a long breath, pulled back, and dropped his arms. I bit my lip.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said. “Why did you break out of the infirmary?”
“I didn’t know where I was or who had me. I figured I didn’t want to stick around to find out.”
“Don’t you remember what happened at the park? That we defeated the Triad?”
“Not really. It’s all kind of a blur.”
The alarm stopped. The silence seemed strange after the constant blaring.
“How are you feeling?” Striker asked, concern evident in his voice.
“Not too bad, I suppose. Got my morning walk in today anyway.” A sudden chill swept over me. My head throbbed. The veins in my eyeballs twitched. “Actually, I’m kind of cold. Do you think you could—”
I pitched forward headfirst.
In addition to his other superpowers, Striker had excellent reflexes. He caught me before I hit the floor.
My eyes fluttered open. For the second time that day, I found myself staring at a tiled ceiling.
I sat up, back in the same room I’d woken up in. The same machines beeped and chirped and hummed, and an IV dripped into my arm. A piece of cardboard covered the shattered window. However, there was a new addition to the room.
Striker.
He sat in a chair in the corner, staring at me. “How are you feeling?” Striker asked, his silver eyes bright.
“Okay, I suppose.” My throat felt like it had sand in it. “Can I have some water, please?”
Striker walked over to the sink, his stride fluid and graceful, and turned on some sort of fancy-looking filter. I eyed his backside while he filled a glass. Even his ass was perfect. He handed the water to me, and our fingers brushed. A tingle shot up my arm, and I gulped down the cool liquid. Some of the sand cleared out of my throat, but my body still burned.
“How long have I been unconscious?” I asked.
“This time, only a few hours. Before that, almost three days.”
“Three days? What the hell did Frost shoot me with?”
“We’re not sure, but we think it was some kind of tranquilizer. Evidently, it had some residual effect as well, which your journey through the manor didn’t help. That’s why you passed out again.”
“Oh.”
I tilted my head. Striker looked rather silly wearing black leather in the all-white hospital room, especially with the two swords peeping up over his back. Sexy, but silly too. What was going to attack him in here? A nasty microbe? I felt a sudden urge to giggle.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
I smoothed my face over. This was no laughing matter, and I knew it.
“You know, you can take off that costume. I know who you are,” I said in a quiet voice. “I’ve known for a while now.”
Striker froze.
I gathered up what was left of my courage. “So why don’t you take off the mask, Sam? Or should I call you Mr. Sloane?”