his guts, thinking him a backstabbing traitor, than be forced to watch him die trying to save her. Much rather.
How many more pieces of her heart were going to be torn out of her chest and stomped to death before her eyes? There was no end to it.
At least Novak was down. Maybe Rachel had gotten her miracle. Then again, maybe not. András had her, and András loved to hurt just for hurting’s sake. And Georg was walking toward her, Tam, his face a tight mask of lust. Her body recoiled. Her ordeal had only just begun.
Imagine. The man was turned on by a woman hanging from a hook, a woman with a broken arm. She shook with a mix of tears and hysterical laughter. What was it about her and sadistic madmen? Why were they so attracted to her? She must have been a bad girl in a past life to deserve this insanity. Not once, not twice, but repeatedly.
When András came back with Rachel, bullets would start to sing again with her baby right in the middle of it. Val was immobilized, a gun to his head. She was hanging up like a cow in a meat locker—helpless.
Except for one thing. She rolled the tongue studs in her mouth as Georg touched her breasts, eyes shiny and rolling with hot excitement. His hands were stickily damp as they clamped over her breasts and squeezed. He groped at her crotch. Gripped it painfully hard.
She marshaled her self-control to put a look of heavy-lidded longing on her face. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Please. You saved me. Kiss me before you do it. I have been dreaming of your kiss.”
He jerked her toward him, pulling her off balance again. The arm, oh God, the arm… she clamped down on a shriek of pain to not waste spit.
His face came closer, filling her field of vision, distorted, grotesque in every lurid detail. His breath was sour and damp, pulsing wetly against her face, stealing all the air.
She placed the poison capsule between her molars, estimating distance, velocities, counting seconds, crunching data. Cold and sharp. Robot Bitch. Not yet…not yet…three…two…one…crunch.
The capsule broke.
Her mouth filled with a granular, metallic bitterness. His lips touched hers, hideously slippery with mucus. His mouth yawned.
She spat the poison wad into it.
Georg reeled back, spitting, pawing at his mouth and tongue as the corrosive burn began to spread. He lunged forward, slapped her. She did not feel it. He slapped her again and again. Her cheek was numb. He was screaming, bellowing, but she could not hear his voice.
The calculating machine in her head reminded her that she had less than fifteen seconds…thirteen…twelve, before it was too late to bother with the antidote, but she couldn’t coordinate her jaw muscles to bite again. She’d gone limp, spent her strength…nine…eight…seven…the icy tingle, the numbness of impending death crept through her…five…four…blood trickled from her nose…
Rachel.
She bit down on the other capsule. The antidote was bitter too. She needed more spit to swallow the stuff, but she was dry, her mouth full of sand and dust. She flung her head back so that the blood streaming from her nose would run down her throat.
Come on, Steele. You’re good at swallowing bitter pills.
Georg was falling, writhing, twitching. She saw it as if through the wrong end of a telescope. She could not enjoy her victory. It was too far away, too long ago. It had happened to someone else.
She gulped her own blood and fought the darkness.
It was Imre who saved him, in the end. Imre, who had taught him to use his brain like the high-functioning machine that it was.
Val cut loose from the fear battering at him like a hurricane wind. He took the three steps back and floated free. He still smelled Henry’s sweat. Still felt the cold circle of steel the other man pressed against the pulse point of his throbbing temple. Still felt the burning agony of his wounded arm and shoulder.
Still saw Georg, slavering and groping the woman Val loved.
But he floated apart from it. Waiting in the vast stillness inside his mind for his opportunity. There was always a split-second opening, if the mind was wide open and soft enough to sense it, flexible enough to recognize it for what it was. And quick enough to exploit it.
…he’s kissing her, fucking pig rapist…
No. That thought would shatter his focus. He let the thought go, wrenched his concentration back to the matrix. Wait. Just…wait.
Georg reeled back and began a strange dance, screaming and pawing at his mouth. He slapped Tamar, once, twice.
“What is it? What is it? Where’s the antidote?” he bellowed. “What is the antidote, you fucking bitch?”
Antidote? Poison. Oh, God, no. Tamar. No.
The shocked gaze of the man holding the gun on him skittered over to the spectacle. Val felt the relentless pressure of the gun barrel against his head waver for an instant—
Val flung himself backward against Henry, ignoring the flare of pain, forcing the man to shift his bulk, brace himself—
Now!
Val ran up the wall in three big steps, and flipped his body over Henry’s head. Henry shouted, and tumbled backward. They crashed to the ground together. The impact knocked Henry’s grip loose.
He grappled for Val, flipping him over with a roar of rage, and pinned Val beneath his huge, muscular bulk. Val heaved, struggled…and pushed with his thumb against the stone on the ring he wore, Tamar’s ring, that released the spike. Short, but razor sharp and wickedly pointed.
Henry’s grip slipped on Val’s bloody wrist. Val wrenched it loose with a shout—and stabbed the small spike into Henry’s carotid artery.
Gouts of hot blood splattered him, rhythmically. Henry choked, convulsed, stared down into his face, a look of betrayal in his eyes.
Val crawled out from under him, grabbed Henry’s gun, and clambered to his feet, blood-drenched and swaying.
He pointed it at the man whose job it had been to hold the gun to his head and asked a silent question with his eyes.
The gunman shook his head in reply. His wide eyes darted, from Georg’s corpse to Henry’s, to Tamar, and back to the gun in Val’s hand. The place was silent, but for Val’s breath sawing in and out of his mouth, and the moaning whisper of the wind. Heavy brocade drapes billowed and swirled. Candle flames leaped and flared.
He lifted his hands, pointing his gun in the air, and began to back warily toward the door, boots crunching and sliding on the broken glass. He stumbled over his colleague’s dead, bloody body. Caught himself, without even looking down.
“I’m gone,” the gunman said. “I’m out of here. I was never even here at all.”
Val nodded, and waited until the other man had slunk out the door. His running footsteps retreated. The silence was absolute.
Val turned to Tamar. She sagged in her ropes, eyes closed, face deathly pale. Blood streamed from her nose. More trickled from the
