Free Fatal Strike by Shannon McKenna Page A

with you two. What progress have you made on the formula?”
    “Not a great deal,” Anabel admitted reluctantly.
    “Have you taken Lara up to twice a day, as I directed? Upping the doses by three percent daily?”
    “Her blood pressure dropped when we jumped from seventy micrograms to seventy-three,” Hu said. “I dialed it back. I’ve been increasing it in increments of .5 percent. Her sleep cycles are disordered, so we’ve been dosing her at night, and sometimes in the early morning, since that seems most conducive to—”
    “Next time, do exactly as I direct you,” Greaves said. “To the letter. Do not second-guess me again.”
    Hu gulped, his eyes darting down to the table. “Yes, sir.”
    He turned to Anabel. “Do you continue to lose contact when she ranges?”
    “Her ability to shield seems to be growing,” Anabel admitted. “I hang onto her for a while, but I always lose her at some point.”
    “Odd,” Greaves mused. “I had no problem at all monitoring her on the day that she first-dosed. It seems your abilities as a telepath are dwindling. As your other abilities seem to have done, as well.”
    She turned mottled red at his reference to her neglected talent for sexual magnetism. “My talent is as strong as ever, but it’s like I told you, sir. Her shield is impenetrable. If she gets behind it, I get nothing, and neither do the other telepaths. I don’t understand how she—”
    “There is a great deal that you don’t understand, Anabel.”
    “Sir, I—”
    “Shut up. I’m done with you for now. Levine, Houghman, Chrisholm, Mehalis. Have any of you had better luck penetrating this momentous shield?”
    The other four telepaths on his staff exchanged nervous glances, and shook their heads. Greaves ground his teeth. Lily-livered idiots, all of them. Anabel was the strongest of the lot, and even she was falling short. He was so sick of hand-holding, micromanaging.
    “Very well,” he said, through his teeth. “Let’s discuss the telepathic surveillance project, then. How is that proceeding?”
    “Fine, sir,” Levine said. “We take six-hour shifts, as you directed. We haven’t detected anyone yet, except in the staged test runs.”
    “Sir,” Silva piped up. “I wanted to speak to you about that. It strikes me as a poor use of resources, considering their limited range. They can’t detect anyone beyond, say, forty meters, and—”
    “It is an exercise, Silva,” Greaves explained patiently. “One does not extend one’s range unless one is forced to push oneself. Are you familiar with the concept of pushing yourself? Because I am beginning to wonder.”
    “Of course, sir, but I think that using just the infrared and motion detectors rather than staff who could be concentrating on complex—”
    “I ask you to trust me on this, Silva,” Greaves suggested gently.
    Silva subsided. An intelligent decision on his part.
    “Continue with the rotations,” Greaves directed. “Has anyone noticed any increase in range?”
    He looked around, tapping his fingers. No one would meet his eyes. Disappointing, but at least they had better sense than to lie to him. “Very well,” he said crisply. “Moving on.” He flipped through the brief that laid out the research team’s latest results and projections.
    “Lewis.” He addressed the team’s head researcher. “You released the aerosolized toxin into the air ducts of the correctional facility for men in Chikala, Utah, six months ago. Summarize what you have observed since then.”
    Lewis consulted his notes. “Put briefly, there was no perceivable change in the first two months, but in the third month, incidence of violence went down fourteen percent. By the fourth month, it was down thirty-three percent. Fifth month, fifty-seven percent. The sixth month, sixty-eight percent. There were sixty percent fewer visits to the infirmary this past month, and it appears the inmates’ overall general health has improved, as well. Colds,