Chapter Thirteen

Cutler Steen stood on the wide deck of the big house, clenching the railing with both hands. The warm California sun shone down on the calm waters of the cove and sparked diamond-bright on the vast expanse of the Pacific beyond. He was always uneasy when he left the security of his island fortress but this time the sensation of hypervigilance was worse than usual. He had become an insomniac.

He refused to consider the possibility that he was fighting off panic. He was a survivor. He did not panic.

He had done his best to secure the house here on the Southern California coast but there was no avoiding the fact that he was far more vulnerable than he was on the island.

He traveled as infrequently as possible because the risks were many and varied. A man in his business accumulated dangerous clients, competitors, and enemies. The safest place from which to operate his global security network was his headquarters on the island. There he was in control of everything, including the local government and the police.

Here on the California coast his control was far more limited. Yes, he had sophisticated security tech installed inside and around the walled-and-gated compound that surrounded the cove house, and yes, he was accompanied by a small contingent of his carefully selected security team. But whenever he left the island he was acutely aware that he no longer exercised the power he wielded at home.

He’d had no choice but to risk the journey. Time was running out. The entire project was in danger of blowing up in his face—all because of three women, three failures —who had launched a fucking podcast.

He had been assured that Amelia Rivers, Pallas Llewellyn, and Talia March had failed to respond either positively or negatively to the formula. Yes, they had survived a dose of the drug, but there had been no indication that the enhancing serum had been successful, no sign that they had developed any strong psychic senses. Instead, their personal lives had fallen apart. Their relationships had soured. Their careers had gone off track.

According to the medical records he had hacked into, they had sought help from therapists for complaints ranging from amnesia and sleepwalking to nightmares and hallucinations. Luckily, their memories of their lost night had not returned. But they had managed to find others who had been used in the trials.

When they fired up the Lost Night Files podcast it was as if the three witches had put a curse on him. His expensive, carefully planned projects had started to disintegrate.

In hindsight it had been a mistake to entrust the drug trials to his three offspring. It was rapidly becoming evident that they were failures, too.

He had never thought of Benedict, Celina, and Adriana as his children, but rather as his longest-running experiments. Each was the product of a different union, their mothers selected because they appeared to exhibit some genuine psychic ability.

He had hoped that his own talent—a gift for strategy coupled with the ability to manipulate others—would be enhanced genetically in his progeny if he mated with females who also possessed a sixth sense. Each woman had conveniently disappeared shortly after giving birth. He had taken care of that part of the process personally to make certain the bodies would never be found. And then he had proceeded to place his three infant test subjects into the hands of nannies, tutors, and the best private schools.

Until recently he had been satisfied with the results. His offspring had, indeed, inherited some paranormal talent from him as well as from their mothers, although it had manifested in different ways in each individual—nothing extraordinarily powerful, but enough to give each of them an edge against the competition in a tough world.

And then, a little over a year ago, the directors of a small offshore pharmaceutical lab had approached him with an offer to provide him with access to a drug they claimed enhanced the psychic senses. There was, of course a catch. The drug was in a highly experimental stage. Results were dangerously unpredictable. Human trials were needed to fine-tune the formula and determine a profile of the ideal candidates—those who could both tolerate the drug and benefit from it.

The directors had guaranteed him access to the final version of the formula provided he arranged for the drug trials to be conducted. He had jumped at the opportunity. A drug that could generate or enhance paranormal sensitivity promised incredible potential. So much more efficient than trying to breed for strong paranormal senses.

He had envisioned expanding his elite mercenary forces with psychically talented spies and assassins. Their services would be for sale to dictators, warlords, and others willing to pay top dollar for discretion and efficiency.

And then there was the dazzling prospect of being in a position to market the promise of genuine psychic talent to those who could afford the astronomical prices he would charge.

But mostly he was obsessed with the prospect of enhancing his own natural talent. He would found a dynasty. His name and his bloodline would become legend.

Now three women threatened his dreams of an empire. Rivers, Llewellyn, and March should not have become a problem, but here he was—with a problem. The fucking podcast was getting too close.

“Falcon is here to deliver his report, Mr. Steen.”

Cutler flinched violently, startled by the sound of the voice. He immediately regained control but he was aware of the ominous tremor that flickered at the edge of his awareness. Not panic , he assured himself. A searing jolt of fury shot through him. He wanted to yell at the guard, fire him on the spot. Hurl him over the railing onto the rocks below the cliff.

You’re overreacting, Steen.

He pulled hard on his control and managed to rein in his temper.

He turned to look at the armed man in the black uniform standing in the doorway. “About time he showed up. Send him out here, Twitchell.”

“Yes, sir.”

Twitchell inclined his head and went back across the great room of the big house. A moment later Falcon walked out onto the deck.

“Nice day,” Falcon said.

Cutler ignored the pleasantry. Until two months ago Falcon had been properly respectful. A loyal subordinate who would take a bullet for his employer. When Cutler had hired him, Falcon had been on the run and pathetically grateful for the opportunity. But his attitude had begun to change after he had been given the first dose of the new version of the drug. He was starting to assume a certain equality between the two of them. Acting as if they were business partners, not employer and employee.

The situation was annoying but Cutler was aware that he could not afford the time it would take to get rid of Falcon and find someone else who could tolerate the drug. One of the things he had discovered in the course of the research trials was that many people could not handle the serum. They either died immediately or spiraled rapidly into insanity and death.

“What the fuck went wrong this time?” Cutler asked.

“There was an unexpected twist,” Falcon said. He lounged against the railing. “The target hired a PI named Sweetwater. Took me a while to put it together. Yesterday I followed her to his address. I checked him out. He’s licensed. But I didn’t think he would be a problem until last night. No homeless guy could have taken out Hurnley. Must have been Sweetwater. Probably had some martial arts training.”

“Sweetwater?” Cutler frowned. He had memorized every name on the list. “Gideon Sweetwater?”

“Yeah.” Falcon’s brows rose. “You know him?”

Cutler shook his head. “Never met the man, but he’s on the list of potential candidates for the drug.”

Falcon’s expression hardened. “Did he receive a dose?”

“No. I considered him briefly at one point but I put him at the bottom of the list.”

“Why?”

Cutler pulled up memories of the background checks he had done on each of the names on the list. “The family business is a security consulting firm. Government contractor. If something happened to Gideon Sweetwater, people with some serious connections would probably start asking questions. I don’t want that kind of attention if it can be avoided.”

“This particular Sweetwater operates a small-time, one-man investigation agency, but he managed to interfere in the pickup. He took Hurnley by surprise. Knocked him down. Hurnley hit his head pretty hard. He’s still unconscious. Weaver says he thinks Hurnley is in a coma. Says he needs an ER.”

“We can’t risk it.”

“You said the drug doesn’t show up on blood tests.”

Cutler grunted. “Because no one outside the need-to-know circle is aware the serum exists. You can’t test for what you don’t know about. But if Hurnley wakes up in a hospital there will be a lot of questions. He’ll be confused and disoriented. If he’s questioned he might talk.”

“You think he’s a security risk in his current condition?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Cutler sighed. “Fucking shame. He was a valuable asset. It won’t be easy to replace him.”

“Because he was one of the few who could handle the drug,” Falcon said. He gave it a beat before adding, “Like you and me.”

There it was again, a subtle reminder that Falcon no longer viewed himself as a subordinate. Cutler told himself to let it go. He needed to keep Falcon close, keep him loyal. For now.

In the wake of the Carnelian disaster and impatient with the slow progress of the trials, Cutler had decided to experiment on someone he knew possessed a degree of paranormal talent—himself.

He had been thrilled with the results initially. His natural ability for strategy and manipulation had been greatly enhanced. He could identify an individual’s strengths and weaknesses with astonishing accuracy. Talk about knowing what buttons to push. He could pinpoint weaknesses and exploit them with ruthless precision.

That was just the beginning. As the weeks went by and he had settled into his heightened talent he had learned how to identify and short-circuit vital wavelengths in an individual’s aura. When he had taken out one of his competitors at a cocktail party hosted by a warlord, leaving no evidence, he had realized he could kill with his enhanced paranormal senses. The discovery had been intoxicating.

That was when he had decided to risk another dose of the drug. He had not only survived; he had become even stronger.

He had repeated the experiment with Falcon. The results had been equally satisfactory. Falcon’s natural speed, physical coordination, strength, and keen eyesight combined with a ruthless, sociopathic personality had made him a lethal human predator. The serum had turned him into a superb assassin.

On the basis of that success Cutler had given the drug to a few more of his most trusted security people.

It was only after they had all been injected with the second dose that they had begun to experience the side effects. Some were tolerable—night sweats, insomnia, bad dreams, short-term fevers. But those had been followed by a disturbing restlessness and agitation. In the past his three offspring had never questioned his decisions, but now he caught them studying him covertly. He knew that look. They were searching for signs of weakness.

When the new talents began to fade and he and Falcon and the others had started to deteriorate he had demanded an explanation from the directors of the pharmaceutical lab. They had concluded that continuous boosters were required to maintain peak efficiency of the serum.

So now they were all on a three-week schedule. That meant they were dependent on an offshore lab—location unknown—for a continuing supply of the drug. It was intolerable.

“By the way, I’m almost due for another booster,” Falcon said.

Cutler shot him an irritated look. “We all are. Don’t worry, I’ve got the next round of doses. I’ll give you what you need for yourself and the others. Hurnley won’t be needing his.”

“We can’t go on being dependent on that fucking lab,” Falcon said. “We’ve got to get our hands on the formula and set up our own in-house facility.”

“I’m working on it.” Cutler grimaced because he could feel the acid of his frustration eating up his insides. “But we need a stable version of the drug and the only people who have the knowledge required to create it are the directors of that lab. Grabbing the current formula would leave us in the same situation we face now.”

Falcon grunted. “I know.”

“Meanwhile, we have another priority. Pick up Rivers. No more mistakes.”

“What about Sweetwater?”

“If he gets in the way again, get rid of him. We’ll have to risk it. Try to make it look good. I’d rather not attract attention but I’m running out of time. I can’t afford to stay here in California a minute longer than necessary.”

“Understood.”

This time Falcon sounded a little more subdued. That was good, Cutler thought. Evidently the man had remembered that his boss was the one who had access to the directors of the lab and, therefore, access to the boosters.

One thing was certain. Whoever controlled the serum was the one with the power.