By now, Crichton had awakened and was sitting up in his bed, hand reaching out toward a bellpull that hung from the ceiling. He froze as Ryan turned the SIG-Sauer toward him.
“Look,” Trader said, pointing toward a smaller table. On it lay, in a jumbled pile, a Smith amp; Wesson M-4000 scattergun, an Uzi, a Smith amp; Wesson double-action 640, a .357 Magnum, a Czech revolver and a couple of other big handblasters.
“Useful.” Ryan turned to Crichton. “What have you done with our friends?”
“Where is Professor Gibson? Have you murdered her like you’ve murdered many of our men?” Crichton was trying to put on a brave face, but his head was trembling like someone with an ague. “Tell me.”
Ryan felt the familiar surge of anger, the deep scar that ran from his right eye to the corner of his mouth starting to pulse.
“We haven’t even started the chilling yet,” he snarled. “Wait till we get into our stride. Then you’ll see something worth the seeing.”
“Can I go now?” Buford whispered.
“No. I want you right here at my side. Just in case any traps start springing closed.”
Trader stood over the trio of huddled sec men, the Armalite ready.
Crichton had a violent coughing fit, his face turning a bizarre shade of purple for a few moments before slipping back to its normal ivory hue. “Just what do you want? I suppose you expect me to surrender the institute to you?”
Trader answered before Ryan could speak. “No, shit-for-brains, we expect you to die.”
Ryan sniffed. “We want Krysty Wroth back, safe and untouched. And all our friends” he pointed to the table, “with their weapons. Safe passage through the sec barrier on the blacktop out of here. No pursuit. That’s all.”
“All?” Despite the threat of the guns, Crichton was still defiant. “You are at the heart of our complex, with literally dozens of armed men within call, and you try to set terms to me?”
Buford had been standing nervously, shuffling his weight from foot to foot. “They aren’t like any of the other outlanders we’ve taken over the years, Dave. They’ve got this far. Who’s to say they can’t go further?”
The question was destined to remain forever unanswered.
A small door, partly hidden by a geometric Amish quilt, swung open and in came Krysty, followed by the rest of the group of friends.
“Hi, Dad,” Dean chirped. “You all right?”
“Fine. Questions and answers come later.” Ryan smiled at Krysty. “Hello, lover.”
She walked toward him with that familiar stride, her green gaze fixed to his face, ignoring Buford who was standing close to Ryan, between them.
It was the little crippled scientist who broke the sudden silence. “No, Krysty,” he yelped in alarm. “Don’t do it. Negative conditioning instruction.”
“What?” Ryan started.
Krysty ignored the whitecoat, ignored everyone else in the room, all of her attention focused on Ryan.
When she was only five paces away she reached inside her dark blue jacket and pulled out a black-hilted knife with a ten-inch steel blade.
“You dirty bastard, Ryan Cawdor,” she hissed, and lunged at his face with the knife.
Chapter Thirty-Five
It was a waking nightmare for Ryan.
The one person in his entire life that he had truly loved, the woman that he’d given his heart to, was coming at him, spitting abuse, thrusting toward him with a carving blade in her right hand. Her mouth was curled in psychotic hatred, her beautiful eyes narrowed in vicious rage, her whole face distorted by murderous madness.
He had the SIG-Sauer in his hand, and it would have been the work of a moment to level it at Krysty and blow her head from her shoulders.
But his finger froze on the trigger, paralyzed by total blind disbelief.
He even tried to call out to her, but his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth and he couldn’t make a sound.
Ryan had always known since he was a young boy that death comes calling for all men.
Now it had come for him.
Ladrow Buford made his move.
With Krysty right on top of him, he thrust out his hand in front of her, like a predark traffic cop.
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