CHAPTER 8

Screams pierced Sam’s ears, jerking him out of a deep sleep. The sound of a mindless animal in excruciating pain. Long, dreadful wails. Pleading, incoherent cries. He leapt up and sprinted down the long hallway. The stark white hall was narrow and stretched out before him for seemingly miles. The screams grew loud, more agonized, the begging unintelligible, but clearly pleas, the voice taking on the pitch of a child.

His heart pounded as he passed great glass windows. He peered in as he ran and his blood went ice cold. Room after room was empty, but the aftermath of the butchery was everywhere. Blood was splattered up the walls and dripped steadily from steel tables to form dark puddles on the floor. White hospital coats had been carelessly tossed aside along with trays of surgical instruments, all stained a murky wine red.

His mouth was dry and he pushed himself to greater speed, using blurring speed, but still the hallway extended on and on. The screams began to wane, trailing off into a gasping hoarse plea that wrenched at his heart. He found the last room, still filled with men in bloodstained coats and small masks bending over a cold surgical table. Great drops of blood dripped steadily from a patient he couldn’t see. The child writhed and moaned and pleaded, the tone filled with horror and pain.

A guard posted at the door leapt at him, coming out of the shadows fast. The blade of a knife glittered bright, caught in the light from the surgery room. He slapped the knife hand down, controlling the wrist with his palm while he slammed his fist hard into the guard’s throat. Choking, the man fell backward and Sam kept moving, rushing forward, kicking open the door to the surgery. Glass shattered around him, exploding into the room, showering the nearest bloodstained coats with long splinters and lethal shards.

He threw the nearest man into the wall, wading through them as if they were nothing more than paper dolls. He shoved them out of his way, reaching the stainless steel table and the child strapped to that cold metal. Blood ran from her body, her chest ripped open. Her eyes were wide-open, staring at him, filled with horror, with terror and pain. She had Asian features, but her hair was as white as snow, a thick cap of cornsilk.

“It’s all right now, baby,” he whispered, his throat closing on a terrible lump. He’d never seen such a thing, a mere child dissected like an insect. “I’ve got you. I won’t let them hurt you ever again.” Tears burned in his eyes as he reached for her. “I’ll take you to someone who can help you.”

He found the ties binding her to the table. The ties bit into her soft skin, digging deep so her wrists and ankles bled as well. Cursing, he turned to face the faceless monsters who had done such a thing.

“Why?” he demanded, taking a threatening step toward them. For the first time in his life he wanted to kill another human being.

“Science of course.” The disembodied voice sounded reasonable and not in the least afraid of him. The surgeon removed the bloody gloves and tossed them carelessly into the sink. “She’s a throwaway. I’ve given her a useful purpose for her life. She understands.”

Sam took a step toward the surgeon, his fingers itching to wrap around that neck and strangle until there was no more breath in the body. The surgical mask was removed with that same careless precision, and Sam found himself looking at Dr. Peter Whitney. With an oath, he took a step toward the monster. The child’s breath rattled in her chest and Sam swung quickly around to see her cat-shaped eyes glazing.

“No, baby,” he whispered. “Stay with me,” he coaxed. “Stay with me.”

He stared down at that baby face. She looked so familiar. That silky white hair that made no sense, the dark eyes fringed heavily with black lashes, the soft skin. He recognized her face and yet her name eluded him.

“Please,” he pleaded, afraid to lift her into his arms. She was like a broken doll, and anywhere he touched her would hurt. “Stay with me,” he repeated.

“Open your eyes,” she answered softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sam blinked. Above him, that same face swam into view, older now, no longer ravaged, but serene and composed. He blinked again, trying to understand. The child had white hair, this woman had hair as black as midnight.

“Sam, look at me. Wake up. You’re having another night-mare.”

“Azami.” He breathed her name, more breath than sound. His heart jumped at the sight of her. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

She brushed at his hair with gentle fingers, barely a touch, just that whisper of movement against his skin, but he felt it right through to his bones. “You were having a night-mare.”

He caught her hand. She instantly curled her fingers into a fist and took a step back, shaking her head. He pried open her fingers one by one and pressed her palm over his heart. His gaze searched hers. Her eyes didn’t drop. She let him see who she was. His breath caught in his throat and he lifted a hand to her cap of black silk.

“Your hair was white,” he whispered. “The child in my nightmares was you, but your hair was white.”

Azami pressed her lips together and then slowly nodded. “I prefer to allow you to believe that I’m beautiful. I suppose sooner or later you’ll have to know that isn’t true at all.” Her smile was brief and a little wistful. “You made me feel beautiful.”

Sam sat up, and then waited a moment for the room to right itself and the flash of pain moving through his abdomen to fade. He tugged on her hand to pull her close to the bed until she either had to tip over or sit on the bed. “You are beautiful, Azami.”

She raised a tentative hand to her hair. It was the first time she looked truly vulnerable. “It isn’t real.”

He sank his fingers into the thick mass of hair, his fingers curling into a fist, crushing strands in his palm. “This is no wig, honey. I can tell the difference between real hair and a wig.” Her hair felt like pure silk.

A faint smile curved her mouth even as she swallowed hard. Sam kept one anchored in her hair, the other pressing her palm to his chest.

“Tell me.” Clearly she didn’t want to. Her revelation had to be a matter of pride with her. A woman’s pride, not a samurai warrior’s pride. He understood that very clearly just by the way her gaze wavered for just a split second. She was Azami Yoshiie, a trained samurai, and she didn’t falter long, but he caught the tiny hesitation just before her chin lifted and her eyes locked on his.

“The color, I dye it. I’ve already gone gray, or at least, in my case, white. My hair turned white when I was a child—around three.”

Rage burst through him, hot and bright, a volcanic emotion that shook him as nothing else ever had. Three years old.

“How long did that monster have you?” he asked, his voice low because it was the only way he could control it.

Azami didn’t deny the obvious. She shrugged. “I was eight when my heart gave out and he threw me out. He put me in a box and shipped me to Japan. His men took me to an alley in a part of the city where the sex trades were and they tossed me out like a piece of garbage. I suppose to Whitney I was. He always said I was useless, and eventually my body just refused to hold up to his experiments.”

He wanted to drag her into his arms and shelter her, just as he had the small child she’d been. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” He meant it too. “Is that when your father found you?”

She nodded. “I was skinny, my body a mass of ugly scars and my heart trying to decide if it would function or give up.” A tiny smile broke through, an affectionate memory she found amusing. “My father shaved my head in the hopes my hair would come back black. It came back streaked. I look a bit like a skunk unless I dye it.”

He found the memory more heartbreaking than entertaining, but he smiled just the same because he could see she needed him to feel that same delight in her reminiscence of her father. “I’ve always found skunks to be quite beautiful,” he admitted, sincerity lending his voice a solemn tone. He inhaled. “And you smell amazing, unlike a skunk.”

Genuine laughter reached her eyes. “I don’t know, Sam. I think a skunk’s smell might be pretty amazing.”

He ran a finger down her face, lingering on her soft lips. “Why didn’t you tell me about Whitney?”

“Lily. I wasn’t certain if she was working with her father.”

“Did you come to kill her?”

She pulled back, frowning at him.

“I could understand if that had been your intention, Azami,” he admitted. She hadn’t tried to lie about being that child to him and he was fairly certain she wouldn’t lie about this.

“No, she wanted to purchase one of our satellites. I had turned down her father. I had to meet her and decide whose side she was on.”

Sam believed her. “Has Whitney contacted you since he . . .” He trailed off, not wanting to say the words. It had to hurt, being discarded, even though Whitney was a monster. He was the only parent the orphan girls had known. He’d collected them from orphanages when they were mere infants.

“Threw me into the streets?” she finished for him. There was no bitterness in her voice. “It was the best thing that could have happened to me. My father loved me and taught me how to believe in myself—and believe in the world again. He gave me an honorable code and a way to make a difference. I had nearly fifteen years with a man who respected life and fought evil. He gave me every opportunity and showed me that, although many doors might be closed to me, there were other honorable paths for me to follow.”

Sam frowned. He heard that hurt, wistful note in her voice when she’d said, “many doors might be closed to me.” What did she long for?

The pad of his thumb slid over her lips. “How can any door be closed to you, Azami?”

That threw her—just for a moment he saw that sudden insecurity and it shocked him. Azami was a woman of confidence. She was intelligent and a skilled warrior. What could she long for that could be unattainable to her? Every protective instinct he had welled up. His hand curled tighter in her hair. White hair? What would that be like for a child of Asian descent? To be so traumatized that even the hair on her head betrayed her?

“Azami, I want to know. Show me the worst you have.” He could only hope his expression stood for him, the sincerity of his voice. He leaned forward to press his forehead against hers. “I don’t know your world or your cultures. I know this is too fast and you don’t trust it, but we fit. You and me. We fit together perfectly. When you’re in my mind, there’s no loneliness, only warmth and security. We have this one chance and everything around us doesn’t matter. Together we can do anything at all. Accomplish anything. I know it. I can’t explain it, but I know it to be truth. Show me. Let me be the one to show you that you can have everything you want with me.”

“You don’t know me, Sam. I’m not the woman you think I am.”

He lifted her head with his fingers beneath her chin and looked her in the eyes. “I attended a meeting today with my team. There were three people connected to Whitney’s pipeline to the White House who supposedly died in accidents. I don’t think they were accidents. You have every reason, just as we do, to try to stop Whitney. You can teleport, you’re highly skilled with weapons, including a blowgun, and if someone told me to take a shot in the dark as to who might be responsible for those deaths … Well, honey, my money would be on you.”

She didn’t blink, and he admired her all the more for that expressionless serenity she faced adversity with. She reached out with both hands and framed his face, all the while looking him in the eyes. “Do you wish to know the truth for yourself or for your team?”

“My team will figure things out without my help. They’re already close. You have to make the decision whether or not we’re your enemy. We’re not and have never been your enemy, but you need to know that for yourself. You have to know that I’m with you all the way, Azami. I don’t give my word lightly and I know you’re the one. The only one for me.”