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Prologue

The lab was dark.

Doctor Atticus Meinard never worked in the dark.

At least, not unless he was peering through a lighted microscope or handling light or heat-sensitive samples.

But that sort of work wasn’t on the agenda that day—not according to the schedule he’d passed to her two days earlier, handwritten in his notoriously sloppy scribble, which apparently she alone could read.

Incredible as it was, Doctor Meinard was finished. The product of decades’ worth of research and experimentation sat distilled in ten small vials of yellow-brown liquid—ten vials that could very well change the lives of millions.

And this was the day it would begin.

Calls with important people were scheduled: universities, world-famous laboratories, investors. Even heads of important government agencies would soon hear the news.

It was time for the world to learn about Doctor Meinard’s discovery. Hope for countless suffering people was, most assuredly, on the way.

Oh, there was still a long way to go, bureaucratic hoops to jump through, trial cases to arrange and so on before it was ready for the masses. But Atticus’s successes thus far were well documented, and the science was rock solid.

The cure was on its way, and Delaney Morrison was proud to have played a role in the process—though admittedly a very small one.

The shadowy lab was tucked beneath the sprawling branches of four enormous oak trees on the west side of Kaldermine Institute for Science and Technology’s campus. Delaney fixed her eyes on the front entrance as she parked in her usual spot and turned off the engine.

Doctor Meinard’s old Chevy was also in its typical spot. So why in the world did the place look abandoned?

Though unquestionably one of the most brilliant biochemists in the world, Atticus had more than his fair share of quirks—one of which was a strong preference for working late in the afternoon and evening. He claimed it took at least twelve waking hours for his prefrontal cortex to reach optimal functioning capacity. His words, not hers. As a first-year graduate student majoring in biochemistry, Delaney knew anatomy. Despite his brilliance, the scientific evidence backing up his claim was more than a little dubious. But that’s the way he liked it, and when one was as accomplished as Doctor Meinard, one tended to get one’s way.

Quirk number two?

Atticus Meinard didn’t much like people, and people didn’t much like him.

Before she became his assistant, he went through five others, all graduate students like her. Each smart and capable but unwilling or unable to tolerate his… unique personality.

Demanding, grumpy, impatient, and quite full of himself, Atticus was a lot to take. Though adequately accomplished—both academically and professionally—Delaney wasn’t as impressively credentialed as some of his prior employees. In fact, after being away from academics for a few years, she was struggling to keep pace with the demands of the rigorous postgraduate program.

But what she lacked in brains, she apparently made up for in patience, which was why, six months later, she was still working there—four evenings a week, doing whatever the mad scientist requested.

She and the doctor had a rapport—an understanding. She didn’t let his prickliness provoke her, and he didn’t expect her to comprehend the vast majority of what he said or did. Because, indeed, there were only a handful of humans on the planet who could. The man was in a league of his own, his brain manipulating numbers and data in ways few could track.

When the breakthrough came, Delaney wasn’t all that surprised. It took only minutes of being in his presence to recognize that a mind that insightful and complex was destined for greatness.

Through the months, as she’d listened to him mumbling, she became familiar with the pathways his thoughts traveled, even if she couldn’t match his pace. And yet, as smart as he was, the man couldn’t remember basic things like eating, sleeping, or even putting on fresh clothes each day.

With amusement, Delaney considered that working with Atticus wasn’t all that different from caring for her seventeen-year-old brother—well, half-brother—who also had no respect whatsoever for the virtue of clean laundry.

Yet, despite both men’s shortcomings—maybe even because of them—the scientist as well as the unexpected sibling had weaseled their way into her affections.

What could she say? Delaney was cursed with a soft heart toward those no one else seemed to understand—maybe because she was content to simply let people be who they were.

Perhaps her analytical mind allowed her to see patterns where others saw only chaos. Or maybe her own life had been sufficiently thorny to grant her empathy for those similarly burdened.

At the thought, a face from long ago pushed its way to the front of her mind. Few days passed without a thought of him, yet the memory never failed to tighten her chest.

How could a human being just vanish into thin air? Especially one so young and so… tender.

In desperation, she’d tried to find him. But he was a ghost, a wisp of memory she dared not cling to, because doing so had wreaked havoc on her heart.

Sighing, Delaney shoved the image back into its shadowy corner, grabbed her bag from the passenger seat, and headed for the lab.

Not a soul was around, which wasn’t unusual. Doctor Meinard’s lab sat off the main path. No one but the two of them worked there during these unconventional hours.

Closer now, through the two front windows, she confirmed that the lights in the lab were off. Still, she could make out a faint stream of indirect light. Was it coming from a small lamp or…

A computer screen!

That had to be it. It had that telltale, bluish-white tint.

But why would Atticus sit in the lab with all the lights off, staring at his computer? That certainly didn’t fit with his normal pattern of behavior. And Doctor Meinard rarely deviated from his routine.

A warm August breeze played with her long, dark hair, carrying the subtle scent of lavender.

But even it felt wrong somehow.

Goosebumps rose on her arms and her pulse quickened. She scanned the lab’s front door.

Securely closed.

Yet, just to the right of the handle, something dark streaked the beige paint. Something dark… red.

Blood?

Surely not. Her imagination was getting the better of her.

In the shadows, the mark was almost invisible. If her senses hadn’t been on high alert, she wouldn’t have noticed it.

Holding her breath, she stepped closer and twisted the knob.

Unlocked.

Another red flag.

Atticus always locked the door. He didn’t want someone walking in unannounced if sensitive experiments were underway. Slight temperature changes or a sudden gust of wind could spoil a day’s work.

Delaney had a key but always knocked first to announce her arrival. And, of course, he knew exactly when to expect her and planned accordingly.

The door creaked in protest as it swung open. Had it always done so? She couldn’t recall.

Stepping inside, she pushed the door closed and leaned her back against it.

To her right was a small reception area where she did most of her work when not directly assisting Atticus. File cabinets and a credenza holding a coffee pot and a few stained mugs lined the wall behind a narrow desk.

Three or four steps beyond the desk and a sharp turn left led one directly into the lab, with tile floors, stainless-steel work benches, and rows of humming refrigeration units. Glass-fronted cabinets held neatly labeled reagents, and pipettes rested in orderly racks beside digital centrifuges. The faint scent of ethanol and chilled air clung to the space, clinical and precise.

The glow from the active screen spilled into the entryway, yet the place was eerily silent.

No footsteps.

No whisper of the doctor’s characteristic mumbling.

“Atticus?” The word came out choked, as though she wasn’t sure she wanted to say it.

Every ill-tuned instinct screamed at her to run. Get out. But her legs refused to move.

Then she heard it—a faint, rhythmic dripping, as if a faucet had been left slightly open.

The lab had two large stainless-steel sinks, but the plunk of droplets didn’t sound like water contacting steel. The sound was shallow—sharp.

“Doctor Meinard?” Delaney tried again, slightly louder.

Silence, save for the dripping.

Swallowing the bile that was rising in her throat as panic twisted her insides, Delaney took five unsteady steps and peered into the lab.

Even with the screen’s glow, the room remained cloaked in shadow. Retreating to the front door, she reached for the light switch, wavering, as she wasn’t sure she wanted a clear view of whatever awaited her.

The scientist was there; she felt sure of that.

Lights off.

Door unlocked.

A smear of something red near the handle.

She might not be the genius Atticus was, but she didn’t need to be to follow the evidence.

Something bad had happened, and she was about to come face to face with it.

But she would not do it in the dark.

“Courage, Della,” she chided herself, using a nickname she hadn’t heard or uttered in years. Yet somehow it brought her comfort. “You have no choice. He might be hurt, might need medical attention. The longer you stand here, the worse off he could be.”

Pulling in an uneven breath, she closed her eyes and flipped on the lights. Then she forced her unwilling feet to move.

Chapter 1

Twenty-four hours earlier.

Callan Rook pressed his back against the wall, his sharp eyes and tuned ears missing nothing: the deep hum of the air-conditioning system as it gradually lowered the room’s temperature from sixty-nine to sixty-seven; the faint footsteps of the housekeeper passing the closed door, keeping exactly three feet four inches away; three drips of condensation sliding from Keegan Rutherford’s whiskey glass onto the clear glass top of his desk, the third landing precisely nine—now ten—seconds ago; Rutherford’s middle finger tapping the desk’s surface. Three taps. Pause. Two taps. Pause. Then three again. Not his normal pattern.

From his position five feet behind and three feet to the left of the man’s shoulder—a vantage point that gave him a clear view of the closed office door and the twitching muscles in Rutherford’s back—Callan watched a bead of slick sweat slide from just below Rutherford’s hairline toward the stiff collar of his white dress shirt.

Rutherford was nervous. His pupils were slightly dilated, his skin too pale, and the whiskey in his glass was draining twice as fast as usual.

Several months into the assignment, Callan knew Rutherford’s moods and habits well, which conveniently made his assumed role more convincing. After all, no one wanted an inattentive bodyguard. The entire point was vigilance in case trouble came gunning for his “boss.” Ironically, that same boss had no earthly idea the greatest threat wasn’t likely to come through the front door. Rather, it was standing exactly five feet behind him.

Okay, so that might be an exaggeration. Callan posed no physical threat, nor would he be the one delivering whatever justice might eventually come his way. That job belonged to someone else. He had two purposes: observe and document. Others would act. And that suited him just fine.

Spying, as many might call it, was his specialty—part natural inclination, part years of training and experience. Since childhood he’d had a knack for noticing details. Not in a savant sort of way, but certainly sharper than the average person. He noticed the color of someone’s socks, the direction of a hair part, the tiny posture shifts people rarely realized they made. When something changed, he asked about it. Occasionally people were impressed. More often they were irritated, as if he were prying into their private lives.

While the quirk hadn’t offered much advantage growing up, the military, and more recently his current employer, had discerned the value in it. It had made him an excellent forward observer, and subsequently, a skilled undercover agent. Paired with his aversion to direct confrontation and violence, the skill enhanced his appeal for a very nuanced type of work. The entity he presently worked for needed cool heads, men and women comfortable playing quieter roles in the larger fight between good and evil. There was no shortage of hotheads eager to burst through a villain’s door with fists flying and bullets whizzing. That was the celebrated role, the one glorified whenever and wherever stories were told.

But the real work lived in the quiet middle pages—no flash or glamour. Yet that patient labor determined whether the gun-toting hero ended up being hailed as a villain or a knight. The difference could be razor thin, hinging on evidence, strategy, patience, and timing. One reckless move could ruin everything.

And that was a burden Callan had no desire to carry again.

The phone six inches to the left of Rutherford’s tapping finger rang, making the nervous man flinch.

“Yeah,” he rasped into the receiver. “Got your message—loud and clear… No, I don’t want the details.” He spat out a curse. “I don’t want any part of whatever this… thing is.”

Another bead of sweat slid down the man’s neck, and the fingers of his left hand curled slowly into a fist.

Callan folded his arms and subtly pressed a button on the side of his watch. Something big was unfolding. The tension had been building for days—strange messages, nervous energy throughout the house, and a mysterious visitor the previous day while Callan was off duty and another guard shadowed Rutherford. Yet that guard had been ordered to remain inside while Rutherford met the stranger alone, an unusual move for a man as paranoid as Rutherford. He rarely went anywhere without protection, even posting a guard outside his bedroom door each night. The proximity required by the role was exactly why Argent had chosen this position—and why Callan had been handpicked to fill it. He was the only agent in their employ with a chance of pulling it off.

“Now just hold on,” Rutherford protested, lifting a hand as if the person on the other end could see him. “The guy’s practically a household name. If you drag me into this and the authorities catch wind—or track him here—”

He slammed his fist down onto the desk. “Twenty-four hours is plenty of time if they’re motivated. And they will be. The guy’s supposedly a genius. One of a kind. It’s rumored he might have discovered the damn cure for cancer, for crying out loud! You think the cops will just shrug it off if he goes missing?”

At that remark, Callan’s mind began turning over possibilities. During the mission briefing he’d learned Rutherford’s name had surfaced repeatedly in money-laundering investigations, most involving medical or pharmaceutical fraud. Publicly, Keegan Rutherford was known as a wealthy philanthropist who ran a lauded charitable organization aimed at helping impoverished patients obtain life-saving medications.

But Argent suspected his ties to major pharmaceutical companies—some of the largest in the world—had far less noble motives. Confirming or disproving that suspicion was the reason Callan was there, though the latter possibility was beginning to look unlikely.

In the month he’d spent inside the plush estate, he’d already witnessed plenty of criminal activity. None of it directly proved Argent’s primary allegation, but it painted a clear picture of the man who owned the house.

Keegan Rutherford was a twisted, heartless man, as were most of the cohorts he surrounded himself with. The documentation Callan had gathered so far would interest some of Argent’s sister organizations, particularly the Seraph Initiative, which specialized in rescuing victims of trafficking.

Sadly, despite a recent wide-reaching victory, which all but dismantled one of the worst trafficking rings worldwide, crimes of that nature still happened with alarming frequency, especially in the homes of the wealthy and powerful.

Even worse, the men hired to serve the tyrants often joined in on the debauchery rather than reporting it. Indeed, the not-so-subtle invitation had been extended to Callan within a week of his arrival. Fortunately, experience had taught him how to decline that particular “perk” without raising suspicion—mostly.

Despite the rampant misdeeds infecting the house, no proof had yet surfaced which matched Argent’s specific criteria. But Rutherford’s present phone conversation piqued Callan’s interest.

“That’s not our arrangement,” Rutherford grumbled, his face reddening. “I don’t get involved in such matters.”

Jaw tight, Rutherford listened, shoulders eventually sagging in defeat. For a man who rarely showed hesitation, the demand clearly rattled him. Whatever they were asking carried real risk. Knowing what he did about the man, Callan was certain that the danger, not the morality of the act, was what troubled him.

“That’s right. And if he wants to keep benefiting, he’ll leave me out of this.”

Interesting. But still not enough.

Give me a name, Callan inwardly coaxed.

Rutherford exhaled heavily. “Fine. Twenty-four hours. Not a second more. And my men don’t get involved. We’ll lock him in a room until then. But if your people screw this up—”

A long pause followed.

“Right. Understood.”

From the defeat in his voice, they had threatened something Rutherford could not afford to lose.

Exposure? Money? Influence?

Rutherford stabbed a finger at his phone screen, tossed the device angrily onto the desk, and crossed the room to refill his whiskey from a crystal decanter.

After a loud gulp and several irritated huffs, he turned toward Callan.

“Care for a drink, Pearson?” he asked, using Callan’s alias.

That was new. Rutherford tolerated drinking after hours but had never offered Callan alcohol while he was on duty. He preferred his bodyguards sober and alert.

“No, thank you, sir.”

“You know,” Rutherford said, studying him. “You’re too stiff. Too… polite.”

Callan kept his expression neutral. “Would you prefer a drunken loudmouth guarding you, sir?”

Rutherford threw back his head and laughed. “So then, there is a bit of fire in you, after all.”

More than you’ll ever know, Callan thought. Aloud he said, “I wouldn’t last long in this profession if I were timid, sir.”

Amused, Rutherford looked him up and down. “True enough. Still, you might consider loosening up, Pearson. Maybe enjoy some of the… privileges that come with the job.” He lifted his glass. “A drink now and then, for instance.”

The whiskey was not what Rutherford was referencing. Those so-called privileges served a purpose. Any employee willing to indulge proved he wasn’t squeamish about breaking the law—and conveniently provided Rutherford with leverage if loyalty faltered. Surveillance cameras covered nearly every square inch of the house. Callan had no doubt each and every compromising act was carefully recorded.

Undercover or not, Callan had lines he refused to cross. The mission required discipline and skills related to putting on a convincing performance, but it did not require him to sell his soul. The day that changed would be the day he walked away from the work for good.

But Keegan Rutherford didn’t need to know that.

“So far,” Callan said evenly, “none of the proposed privileges have caught my eye.”

“Is that so?” Rutherford smirked. “Particular tastes, then. We’ll have to watch for something that does catch your eye.”

The man’s crooked smile turned Callan’s stomach, though his own face betrayed nothing. He had no desire to dignify Rutherford’s crude insinuation with a response.

Returning to his desk, Rutherford set down the whiskey and dragged his fingers through his mostly gray hair. “Tomorrow, about this time, we’ll have a… guest. When he arrives, I want you on duty, and you’ll stay that way for twenty-four hours, until someone comes to escort our guest to his final destination.”

That very well could be the break Callan had been waiting for, the one he had spent a month in hell, making nice with demons, to secure. Eyes and ears on the situation might finally produce the evidence Argent needed and get him out of that place.

Rutherford might not be entirely comfortable with the lack of blackmail-worthy material he had on Shane Pearson, yet when he felt vulnerable, Callan was still the man he wanted nearby.

“Understood, sir.”

Rutherford waved toward the door. “Send Knox in. And get some sleep while you can. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

That night, as he slept, Callan suffered a familiar nightmare, one that hadn’t invaded his subconscious in months.

Shattering glass, followed by a woman’s scream.

Jerking out of bed, a boy barely seventeen stumbled down a narrow flight of stairs, wearing nothing more than a bleached white T-shirt and boxers. At the bottom stood a giant of a man clad in black, a ski mask concealing his identity, a gun pressed to the woman’s head.

“No!” the boy screamed. Acting on nothing but adolescent fear and rage, he lunged, arms outstretched.

Twisting in the intruder’s grip, she wrenched free, but instead of moving aside, she stayed where she was, even as the boy’s name spilled from her lips in a desperate cry.

Time slowed.

A bullet burst from the gun’s barrel, the flash appearing a fraction of a second before the deafening crack of the shot. The sharp scent of gunpowder burned through the air.

It struck flesh. Hard. Final. Fatal.

Blood covered the boy’s hands, soaking through the white cotton of his shirt, turning it red. The metallic scent filled his nose as he pressed his palms against the wound, his fingers slick and shaky.

With a laugh as sinister as any devil’s, the masked man turned cold eyes on the youth.

“This is by your hand, hero. Without that impulsive act, which forced fate’s hand, would I ever have done it?”

He raised the gun, aiming it dead center at the boy’s forehead. Then his lips twisted into a malevolent smile.

“No. I think leaving you alive to ponder that question will be a far worse torment than death.”

Then the gunman turned and fled into the night.

Callan shot upright in bed, panting and drenched in sweat. The phantom smell of gunpowder lingered in his lungs, and a dull ache throbbed in the center of his chest, a wound torn wide open.

In the darkness, his mind groped for an anchor. Where was he?

Gradually sanity returned, and with it the crushing weight of past, present, and future, with the lines between blurring in a disorienting fog of regret, dread, and emptiness.

For despite attempts to counter their power by sacrificing much in service of a noble good, the words spoken into his young soul still ominously echoed.

And being held captive by them was, indeed, a fate worse than death.

Callan threw back the sheet and crossed the room to the en suite bathroom. After splashing water on his face, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He assuredly looked the part he was playing. Rough and cold, like a man without a beating heart left in him. It was why Argent had recruited him—that and his towering size and muscular build. On the basis of appearance, he looked no different than the other reprobates Rutherford employed.

But years of practicing wickedness wasn’t what had hollowed him out. Despite the venom injected into his life that fateful night, enough good remained in him to abhor evil and cruelty.

And something else lingered too, its presence, both a thorn and an anchor, a broken heart, which, though long overdue, had yet to heal.

With a familiar ache, a vision of her face filled his mind; dark flowing hair, soft, pale skin, and a heart as fragile as glass.

They sat in the place exclusively theirs, a grassy hilltop overlooking the rushing river that ran through their backwater town.

She laughed at something stupid he said as a cool breeze played with a lock of her hair. When she shivered, he wrapped his coat around her shoulders. The sparkle in her eyes hypnotized him.

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” She dipped her chin and cast him a smile that would never cease to haunt his dreams.

Then they sat in silence. Sometimes for hours. He was her shelter, the one place she was always free and safe. She was his north star, the thing that kept him good—because that’s who she needed him to be. Even now, it was the memory of her that steadied his feet in dark places.

They had been young, yet even now he had no doubt he had loved her. Not the shallow adolescent variety, which was little more than selfish lust. For though Callan had dreamed of her every night—both while awake and asleep—he’d never so much as kissed her. Only a handful of times during the five years they’d lived for their daily rendezvous had he held her in his arms, always for comfort. What they had was too sacred to risk, too important to chance losing to the complications that far too often came with romance.

The truth was, Callan had loved her so fiercely that if he’d ever allowed himself to kiss her, he would never have survived their parting. He would have wanted her as his forever, to protect her, to shield her from all that haunted her. And that was a dream unlikely to come true.

So he offered her what he could—and all of it at that—until the day his world shattered. After that, he could not chance being around her, afraid that what was burning inside him could transform him into what she feared most.

And in some ways, it had. Still, the echo of the true love he’d left behind had preserved his humanity.

Continuing to study his reflection, he shook his head. “If we met on the street, would she recognize me?” he muttered aloud. “Doubtful.”

Yet somewhere in a quiet corner of his heart, a place where a wisp of hope still lingered, the seed of the boy she had befriended remained. His confidence arose from the truth that, in that same shadowed recess, an unrelenting ache throbbed. Twelve years had not dulled its potency.

Why couldn’t his heart let go of her memory?

Tightening his jaw, he abruptly turned away from the mirror. “Move on, Rook,” he said aloud, his voice resolute.

Surely by now she was happy, settled with another man, a family of her own. Even if by some miracle she wasn’t married, he had far too much baggage to contend with. It wouldn’t be fair to ask any woman to share the load of it, much less someone who’d already suffered her own sorrows.

Besides, the way he lived—embedded in the dark dregs of humanity—would never afford him the opportunity to encounter her, even by accident, nor any other decent woman, for that matter.

Still, he was doing worthwhile work, and that had to count for something, even if it did very little to quiet the inner turmoil.

Holding on to what he couldn’t have was foolish. It was long past time to accept reality, to do what he did in his work—stay detached.

Returning to bed, he closed his eyes and, with a forceful exhale, let that last ember of hope die.

And in his dreams, when she called his name again, he turned his back and walked away.

***

Delaney’s quivering knees locked just inside the lab, her lungs refusing to inflate as heat rose from her toes to the top of her head.

“Atticus!” she whispered, staring in horror at the man’s limp body sprawled on the floor.

He lay face down in a pool of crimson, limbs unnaturally splayed. Splatters of blood stained the countertop, the fronts of cabinets, even the keyboard of the laptop, whose eerie glow had been the only visible light through the lab’s front window. Shattered glass and broken plastic were scattered across the floor, and spilled fluid dripped from the edge of the counter onto Atticus’s white lab coat.

Drip. Drip.

An urgent pull to rush to his side and check for a pulse seized her. But she resisted it, because in her gut she knew the truth. She was far too late. Doctor Atticus Meinard was dead.

Mind reeling, her eyes darted around the lab. The glass fronts of several refrigeration units were cracked. Five feet from where Atticus lay, a cart had tipped on its side, its contents—mostly gloves, face shields, and sterile wipes—had spilled onto the tile floor in a disorderly scatter, as if someone had tromped through the mess. There could be no doubt about it. Atticus had fought for his life.

But why? Why would anyone want to kill him?

The man was abrupt, perhaps a little obnoxious at times, but as far as she knew he had no enemies, just rivals—geniuses who sought to beat him in the race for the next grand scientific breakthrough. But he had already won, though few knew it yet.

“Rivals.”

She spoke the word aloud a second before turning and rushing into the small alcove that held the precious vials containing the fruit of a lifetime of dedicated research and tireless work—a few ounces of precious liquid that would change the world.

Gone. They were all gone.

A rattling sound coming from the direction of the front door set Delaney’s pulse racing again.

Backing into the corner of the alcove, she pulled out her phone and tapped the contact at the top of the screen.

More rattling.

Had she locked the door behind her when she came in? She couldn’t remember. But if she hadn’t, surely whoever was there would already be inside.

If she had and these were Atticus’s killers returning to the scene of their crime, she’d assuredly given herself away, as they had left the door unlocked.

On the second ring, he answered.

“Yo, sis. What’s up?”

“Tyson, listen to me,” she whispered, cupping a hand over her mouth.

“Dee? Why are you whispering?” he asked, sounding more amused than alarmed.

“Listen. Something’s happened. I think… I think I might be in trouble. If you don’t hear from me in the next fifteen minutes, get in your car and go to Poppy’s. Go straight there. Don’t talk to anyone or stop anywhere. Do you understand?”

“Dee. What the heck?”

The rattling had ceased, but the tap of footsteps—more than one pair—was rapidly approaching.

“They killed him. Someone killed Atticus.”

“What?” Panic mingled with confusion.

“Just do it,” she ordered, tucking herself behind the refrigerator unit farthest back in the alcove. But it was useless. There was nowhere to hide. The minute whoever they were stepped more than two feet inside, they’d see her.

“I love you, Tyson. Please, just go to Poppy’s. You’ll be safe there.”

Hands trembling, she ended the call, then tapped out 911 and shoved the phone into her back pocket just as two elongated shadows began to creep across the floor just beyond the alcove.

In desperation, she scanned for a weapon, something she could use to fight, but there was nothing but refrigerators, which were too large and heavy to lift. Besides, Atticus had obviously fought back and that hadn’t gone well for him.

“Maybe she went out the back,” said a deep male voice.

“No. She’s here. She’s hiding,” another answered with a mocking chuckle.

Delaney’s entire body shook, and she held her breath, too afraid of the sound it might make even if she could force air in or out of her lungs. Like Atticus, she was going to die, right there in the lab. What would happen to Tyson? He was still too young to be on his own, and he had no one else—except Poppy, but that wasn’t—

“Alright, miss,” came the second voice again. “I know you’ve probably summoned the authorities, so here’s the deal. If I have to find you, I’m going to kill you—quickly, as too much time will have passed to allow other options. However, if you come out by the count of three, I’ll spare your life. But don’t fight me. Understand? The good scientist made that mistake, and well, I don’t need to tell you how that turned out—do I? You have three seconds to choose.”

Delaney’s mind swirled in a fog of panic and confusion. How could she possibly trust these monsters, the same ones who, by their own admission, had already committed murder? But if she remained where she was, they would find her. And if she tried to fight back, she would surely suffer Atticus’s fate. If there were even a slight chance they’d keep their word—at least not kill her immediately—maybe the authorities would get there in time to save her.

“One.”

Delaney pulled her phone from her pocket and slipped it behind the nearest refrigerator.

“Two.”

On legs barely solid enough to hold her, she stepped out of the corner.

“I’m here,” she announced weakly.

For a handful of heartbeats, silence fell.

Then, before she knew what was happening, a hand grabbed her arm, and a black hood was yanked down over her face.

“What… what are you doing?” she asked in desperation, her voice muffled by the thick fabric.

Another hand seized her other arm, strongly enough to leave her bruised. One on each side, the two men began dragging her forward.

“Don’t worry about it,” the man who had counted down answered casually, as if this were the most natural circumstance in the world. “You made the right choice. If you prove useful, maybe you live, though in the end you may wish you had died here today instead.”

His words and the roughness with which they manhandled her sent waves of hot nausea through her body. Bile rose in her throat and she gasped for air. But the hood was suffocating.

“Can’t breathe,” she muttered as she heard the front door open, then close.

One of the men jerked the hood up slightly, just above her bottom lip. It was enough to allow better airflow into her lungs. They prodded her forward as she stumbled, blind, and more afraid than she had been in a long, long time.

When they finally stopped, her wrists were forced behind her back and taped together.

They searched her, sticking their hands in every pocket and running them over her body as tears wetted the hood. She was glad she’d followed her instincts and left the phone behind. The thugs wouldn’t have access to her contact list—to Tyson or Poppy—and with any luck, the 911 operator had captured much of what had happened over the last few minutes. There might be enough clues there to identify her kidnappers.

Another door creaked open and she was lifted off her feet and thrown through the air. She fell hard on her right shoulder and cried out in pain and terror. But at least now the hands were gone.

A door slammed shut, and seconds later an engine roared to life. They were taking her somewhere… to kill her? No. If they had wanted to do that, they already would have. The heartless man had said, “if she proved useful.”

What did they want from her?

Whatever it was, she was sure she didn’t have it. Which meant she had likely only bought herself time. If they were after Atticus, after his formula, she couldn’t help them. His genius was far beyond her comprehension.

Trying hard to keep from hyperventilating, she whispered a desperate prayer. Not for herself, for likely her fate was already sealed, but for Tyson—that he had listened to her and run for his life.