The Lost (Sin Hunters) Read online

  Turning on a different camera, Adam observed as the lightning brightened the inky night sky over the ocean, blinding white silver bursts racing down to midnight sea.

  With the storm gone, he checked the readings on the batteries, smiling with pleasure as he noted they had not only finally picked up a substantial amount of the charge but were also retaining it. Tonight’s crucial success storing the energy meant he would finally be able to proceed to the second part of his experiment.

  The personal part of his research.

  He removed his shirt and sat on a stool by his work-table. Carefully he wired himself to an EKG unit, a pulse oximeter, and a computer, which would monitor his vital signs while a second workstation was set to track any fluctuations in energy within his body.

  In the event of any drop in his vital signs or dangerous electrical surges, he had programmed the system to engage various safety overrides to prevent any damage to him or the battery array.

  Running a quick check of the networked peripherals, he nodded in satisfaction and issued a series of short mental commands to the computer. Before him the monitor flashed off and on as the image of the sea at night with the fading storm was replaced by the program showing the energy levels in the batteries.

  He engaged the vital sign checks, and a third monitor provided information from the various wires he had stuck onto himself. Assured that all was in order, Adam picked up the leads connected to the bank of batteries and started a video camera to record the experiment.

  With a deep breath, he braced himself and thought, Computer, engage batteries tenth power.

  A tingle immediately commenced in his palms, like the sensation of holding a small hand massager. Within his gut came a sympathetic vibration, but Adam was uncertain if it was truly power gathering within him or wishful thinking.

  The power levels on the battery meter dipped, but his vital signs and energy flow remained normal. The latter was a disappointment, since even during the earlier experiment with the foxglove he had detected a spike of power in his body as he had sucked the plant’s vitality.

  Determined to see some change happen, Adam rose from his desk to the open space behind it to push the experiment to the next stage.

  Computer, engage batteries half power, he commanded silently.

  There was no denying the stronger force pulsing against his palms. It danced up his arms from where he held the leads and coursed through his body, creating a dense ball of heat with more intense pulsations deep in his core.

  He glanced at the monitors and watched as the battery levels dimmed, but those within his body steadily increased. His pulse and other vital signs jumped slightly as his core accepted and stored the energy taken from the lightning. As he glanced at his hands, the tendrils of power were visible, encircling his wrists and the leads, writhing and dancing in a vivid display of royal blue and silver light along his hands and up his forearms, like a string of flashing Christmas lights wound around his extremities.

  Adam had to find out just how much more power he could absorb, and he instructed the computer to ramp up the delivery to 75 percent.

  The surge yanked him off his feet, charging every cell in his body. The heat that had solely been at his center moments earlier raced through his body and overtook him completely. Wired from the power pulsing through him, Adam could barely focus on the data before him. As had been happening with the unexpected bouts lately, his mind became filled with static from the forces zooming along his extremities and core as he became part of the electrical current circulating from the batteries. Before his eyes, rays of light danced across his vision and he followed them, watching as they swirled around his body and into him, like tree roots digging deep into the soil, their colors almost iridescent against the blinding brightness creeping into his vision.

  Have to get control, he thought, and mustered enough cognition to see the rapidly draining power levels on the array and the dangerous spikes of energy in his body.

  His vital signs were jumping erratically now.

  Heart, breathing, and pulse were all reaching critical levels, or at least he thought so; the waves of power were clouding his eyesight. Noise filled his brain and pressure built until he thought his skull would explode.

  In the distance, because he felt disconnected from the world around him, Adam heard a warning alarm from one of the units connected to him.

  Have to shut down, he thought.

  Fighting against the power searing through him, he tried to speak and instruct the computer, but couldn’t. The muscles in his body were spasming uncontrollably from the current racing in and out of his being, passing through him as if he were insubstantial or maybe because he was now a part of the circuit. One with the power.

  Let go of the leads, he thought, as lightning brightness obliterated what he could see, but his body refused to cooperate. Summoning the last of his fading consciousness, he managed one final word.

  Release.

  CHAPTER

  9

  The energy streamed through them like a tsunami crashing across the shore. Kellen and Selina braced themselves, absorbing the flood of power that the humans in the area would not even notice. But the energy would be felt by all the Hunters within several miles, awakening them to the existence of a great presence—another Quinchu, and a powerful one at that, considering the size and strength of the energy wave.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Selina asked, covering her husband’s hand with hers. The wave of energy had touched her deep inside, rousing memories of Kikin and how his aura felt as he nestled beside her. Inside her as a baby, she thought, laying her hand over her belly as she experienced a phantom kick.

  Kellen nodded, wanting to believe the power had emanated from their son, but uncertain, given the earlier reports from his cadre captain and sergeant. “If it is, we must act quickly. If the Shadows arrive—”

  “We will lose him.” Again, Selina thought, but couldn’t say so out loud. For so many years her husband had blamed himself for the loss. She would not add to his misery.

  They would not lose their son again.

  A muscle jumped along Kellen’s jaw, vibrating with anger. “We will find him. We will take him back.”

  The continuation of their clan depended on locating their missing son. Kikin should possess the ability to gather energy to feed those in the clan who could no longer replenish their life forces. At fifty-two, Kellen and Selina were into the last decade of their second triad and could no longer meet all the clan’s demands. Their powers were gradually diminishing, and because of that their Hunter clan declined in number as illness and time eroded their life forces.

  While Hunters were stronger than humans in many ways, they had their weaknesses as well. Lately it seemed as if those debilities were taking the forefront, necessitating the infusion of energy from a Quinchu like their missing son.

  But the safety of the humans also depended on keeping the Shadow Hunters away from Kikin, especially now that he was close to the Equinox. With such power, the Shadows would multiply in number and would need to drain more humans in order to keep the smallpox from ravaging their bodies.

  “What if they find him before we do?” Selina asked, mirroring his own concern.

  “Then it’ll be war once again.”

  War. It had cost them so much last time. So many lost lives, both human and Hunter, he thought.

  But there was no choice. They had searched for far too long not to accomplish their mission.

  Kikin had to be found and brought back into their fold, no matter the cost.

  How do you explain the unexplainable?

  Avoidance, Bobbie thought later that night as she left a voice mail message canceling the physical therapy sessions she had scheduled for the rest of the week. She wasn’t ready to deal with giving reasons to her therapist for her sudden and seemingly miraculous recovery. Rotation, strength, sensation, and responsiveness in her left arm and hand were almost all back to normal. She wasn’t going to comp
lain, but she was going to try to find out what had happened.

  There was only one place to start: Adam Bruno.

  She could have asked Tony for Adam’s private number, but she wanted to speak with him face to face and check out whether the weird connection she had felt this afternoon had been real or a byproduct of the adrenaline pumping through her body because of the attack. That meant she had to find out where he lived.

  She assumed an Internet search would be a bust, but people were sometimes careless about their privacy, especially with the proliferation of sites such as Twitter and Facebook.

  Snap off a photo with your cell phone and post it and you could inadvertently be providing more information than you thought. A license plate in the photo or business in the background could give away your location. During her stint as a sergeant in Iraq, she had been forced to caution more than one unsuspecting soldier about such risks when they were snapping photos during their downtime. Plus, she had limited options for where else she could get more information about Adam, so she might as well give the Internet search a shot.

  Easing into a chair at the dining room table, she typed “Adam Bruno” into Google and, just for kicks, hit the “I’m feeling lucky” button. No personal info, and as she had expected, the first hit was for the SolTerra website. Interestingly enough, Adam did a regular blog. She read through the first few entries, enjoying his easygoing style and the passion for his work that was evident in his posts.

  The blog had a number of photos; the pictures were recent and shot by him personally, according to the information embedded in the files.

  In a photograph displaying a series of solar panels, one of the buildings in the background looked familiar. She blew up the image and confirmed what she thought—it was an active adult building in nearby Spring Lake.

  It made sense that he might be a local boy, considering that the SolTerra offices were in Neptune. But that still didn’t put her any closer to tracking him down, and Bobbie didn’t think she could sleep if she didn’t at least try to speak to Adam tonight. She was too wired, her brain processing dozens of scenarios for all that had occurred during the attack and its aftermath.

  As a Marine, she had been taught to consider all variables and plan for the future, and that training didn’t just poof off because she was no longer on active duty.

  She surfed for more info, and as she drilled through the pages that came up in the search, one caught her eye. A fancy home and garden magazine had done a photo shoot of Adam’s digs. She recognized the house, sporting solar panels like those in the blog photos, immediately—she and her older brother Mick used to jog right past the home on Ocean Avenue in Spring Lake.

  She shut down her laptop and grabbed a lightweight jacket. The weather had cooled, thanks to that night’s earlier storm. Hurrying as much as she could, she took the elevator down to street level and was soon on her way southbound along Ocean Avenue. It was a longer way to go, but she didn’t want to risk that she would somehow pass the house.

  Keeping a cautious pace, she drove through the various shorefront towns for several miles. She slowed at the border of Spring Lake to look for his house, but realized it was quite some distance away yet.

  She continued past her sister’s family’s multi-million-dollar beach-style home. The porch lights cast a welcoming glow on the front steps, but beyond that the downstairs was dark. Brightness in the front bedroom hinted at where her very pregnant sister Liliana and newlywed husband might be. She pushed away the pang of loneliness and regret that she would never have the same joy, choosing instead to rejoice in Liliana’s happiness.

  Pressing onward, Bobbie soon spotted Adam’s house just up on the right. Lights blazed beside the front door and all along the first floor, alleviating any concern that she might be waking him with her visit. But no car was visible in the driveway or in front of the home. Probably in the garage, she thought, as she pulled up to the curb.

  Nervous sweat erupted along the palms of her hands as she sat there, slightly more hesitant now than she had been earlier. But she wasn’t someone who let fear control her. Ever.

  Bravado gave her the impetus she needed to ease from her Sebring. She approached the door slowly, not that she could rush if she wanted to, determined to confront him. She pressed the doorbell and it rang. She waited, but no one answered.

  Strange, she thought, and glanced through the sidelight on the door. Every light in the house was on, so where could he be?

  Walking back down the steps and toward the garage, she stood on tiptoe and peered through the intricate glass panels near the top of the doors. A car was inside the garage: a very sweet merlot-colored Bentley convertible. Maybe there was room for playfulness in the workaholic Tony had described.

  As she turned to head back to the front door, headlights caught her attention. Someone was pulling into the driveway, illuminating her as she stood by the garage. Snagged, she thought, and hoped that whoever was visiting was friendly.

  The driver of the car shut its engine off, but kept the headlights on, placing Bobbie at a distinct disadvantage. She could barely see past the glare of the twin beams as the driver stepped out, keeping behind the protective cover of the door.

  “Who are you?” the man called out.

  “Roberta Carrera,” she answered, shielding her eyes with her left hand to try to get a glimpse of the new arrival.

  The headlights snapped off and the person eased from behind the door. He was an older man, late forties, she guessed, powerfully broad across the shoulders, but thickening at his waist to a middle-aged paunch. His dark hair showed signs of emerging gray at the temples.

  As he took a step toward her, he reached into the jacket pocket of his dark suit and Bobbie tensed, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet in anticipation of an attack. She was relieved when the man only pulled out a badge, which gleamed dully in the illumination from the lights along the walk.

  “Special Agent Bruno,” he snapped precisely.

  Adam’s father, although the two men did not look alike in any way. Adam’s face was all sharp angles, while this man’s was rounded and more indistinct. His eyes were a muddy brown compared to Adam’s stunning emerald. Even their hair color set them apart, as this man’s was much darker than the sun-streaked dirty blond of Adam’s.

  When Adam’s father reached where she stood, he asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see Adam, but he’s not home,” she said, and motioned to the front door.

  Worry furrowed the lines of his brow. “I spoke to him right around dinnertime, and he said he was staying in to do some work.”

  Brushing past her, he mimicked her previous action of checking the garage and muttered, “His car’s here.”

  Before she could say anything else, he was racing up the walk to the door. Bobbie followed, leaning on her cane heavily as she rushed.

  Bruno didn’t ring. He had a key, it seemed, as he reached into his pocket and unlocked the door. He stepped into the foyer and paused, Bobbie slipping in to stand beside him.

  “Adam?” he called out, and when there was no answer, he reached behind his back and pulled out a nine-millimeter pistol.

  “Do you have a cell phone?” he asked.

  Bobbie nodded and motioned to her pocket.

  “Stay here. If I’m not back in two minutes, call 911,” he commanded. Gun drawn, he entered the house and did a quick sweep of the floor before heading up the stairs.

  Bobbie waited, impatient and feeling useless. She was familiar with the procedure for securing a location. She had done it dozens of times in Iraq and during an assortment of training sessions.

  Since the first floor seemed secure, she walked farther into the house and realized why some fancy home and garden magazine would want to feature it. Expensive tan leather sectionals filled the large space of the living room and were offset with recliners in deeper shades of cocoa. Here and there was a splash of color in some throw pillows and a large abstract painting.
On a nearby wall hung an immense plasma television, and beneath, cabinets displayed a wealth of audio/video equipment behind smoky black glass doors. Carefully selected accessories in black and silver completed the décor.

  The room struck her as cold. Impersonal. More of a showcase than a place where someone lived.

  But the neatness of it eliminated some of the worry about Adam’s seeming disappearance. A burglar would have trashed the place or taken the pricey electronics. If another attack had occurred, she had no doubt Adam would have put up a fight and the space would not be as orderly as it was.

  As she inched down the hallway, she heard something. She worked her way toward the sound coming from a door adjacent to the kitchen. She stopped and pressed her ear to the thick wood.

  Voices, or rather, a voice. Artificial sounding.

  She cautiously opened the wooden door and immediately detected the smell of burning plastic and metal. Like an electrical fire. And the voice again, not quite human, repeating one word.

  Release.

  Release.

  Release.

  “Special Agent Bruno,” she shouted, and his footsteps pounded heavily on the stairs as he hurried from the floor above. When he noted the smell that had wafted out to the hall, he wasted no time in rushing past the door and down to the basement level.

  Bobbie followed, hop-skipping down the stairs as fast as she could, cursing her injuries and the cane that knocked against the wall, rebounding and almost causing her to trip.

  At the foot of the stairs was a small landing and, ahead of them, a glass door leading to what looked like a laboratory. As Bruno opened the door, the odors hit them, much more powerful than at the top of the stairs—burning plastic and a faint chemical smell.

  They raced in and stopped dead. Bruno stood beside her, gaze locked on the scene before them, apparently unsure what to do.