Free Some Gave All by Nancy Holder Page A

Reynolds’ private assassin. Soldier and monster were united; that was what the supersoldier program had been designed to create. Not mindless killing machines, but thinking men housed inside enhanced warrior bodies.
    But he could not fan out. He was paralyzed. Then an ice-cold certainty yanked a roar from his throat.
    Enemy approaching.
    The interior of his brain was a blaring siren; it was exploding bombs; it was the imperative to
kill kill kill
.
    But beast-Vincent still could not move. Something wafted around him, something in the air, which rendered him inert. The messages that were screaming in his brain to act were simply not being received.
    Kill kill kill
    No part of him acknowledged the order even though the threat was advancing. Blurring toward him. Almost on him.
    Digging deep, fighting for survival, beast-Vincent’s primal instincts sizzled and snapped, arcing in an effort to make connections, to get his body moving. To save his life.
    Kill kill kill
    His heart was rocketing toward a heart attack. Sweat washed down his face. He was shaking so hard he was beginning to seize.
    The enemy was here.
    Kill kill kill
    But beast-Vincent did not kill.
    Like Aliyah Patel in interview room A, he collapsed, limp and helpless, to the floor.
    * * *
    “Walker?”
    Bleary eyed from sleep and wrapped in a sheet from her bed, Heather peered into the hall. She’d figured maybe Walker was taking a shower, but she didn’t hear the water. She shuffled into the living room, taking pains to be modest because Vincent might be there. She was glad Cat had a sweetie and all, but it certainly did make life more… complicated.
    Wow, had they left a mess. She grimaced and checked the digital clock on the microwave. It was past eight. No wonder she was starving. And where was Cat?
    More to the point, where was Walker? Had he at least left her a note?
    “Hey?”
    Nothing.
    She shuffled back into her room and put on an oversized T-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms. It was chilly in the apartment so she added socks and her bathrobe. A quick search of the rumpled bedclothes revealed no note. She did find one of Walker’s business cards on the floor, though—W ALKER C HASTAIN , V ISUAL A RTS AND P HOTOGRAPHY —with the letter L written in ink on the back, and then a local phone number. Who was L? She felt a pang of jealousy as she set it on her dresser. She checked her phone for a message. Nothing.
    She started to call him, decided that could become just too embarrassing, and concentrated on cleaning up the living room before Cat got home. Heather knew that Cat was keeping track of the messes and resenting them, which wasn’t fair. Cat knew full well that surrounding yourself with the stuff you needed was part of the creative process. Look at how she had set up Mom’s murder board and gotten out all those clippings when Vincent had appeared in her life.
    Yeah, and it was enough to make me move out
, Heather thought.
All I’ve got is fabric. And wine bottles. And a few cracker crumbs. And some cheese under the couch.
    She was finished cleaning at a little before nine, and her sister still hadn’t returned home. She was just about to call her when her own phone rang. For a second she couldn’t locate it, but then she realized it was on the nightstand under her dress and corset. As she moved them, something registered about the garments—that something about them was different than when she’d set them down—but she didn’t know what it was. Probably her imagination, and anyway, she’d just been, um, very active on her bed and of course they’d been a little disheveled.
    “Hel—”
    “Is Vincent there?” Cat whispered on the other end of the line.
    “No.” Massively disappointed that it wasn’t Walker, Heather carried the phone as she scooted down the hall in her socks and opened Cat’s bedroom door. “No,” she repeated, more firmly. “Why are you whispering?”
    “Has he called you?” Cat kept