Page 27 of Fuse

But other than that silent show of commiseration, Reece maintains his outward mien of clipped efficiency. “What the actual fuck has happened?” he finally challenges in a vicious snarl.

Foley pumps out an equally rough breath. “Not what,” he counters. “Who.”

At once, the leap of Reece’s fury explodes the impact of his aura on the air—a whomp of energy so powerful, even my stare pops for a second. With discernible effort, he ramps it back, only to let it go once more as he snarls, “Faline.”

Sawyer’s exhalation is heavier now. “She’d probably be our preference…compared to this,” he mutters.

“Excuse the fuck out of me?”

Reece has barely spit it before being handed his answer—and his figurative heart, still beating on a symbolic platter—via the new image consuming the screen. It’s taken from a TV camera at street level, where a horrifically familiar figure stomps toward the lens with sweat-drenched hair, wild eyes, and lips pulled back to reveal a full seethe of locked teeth…

And a hand, closing into a downward fist, so the tattoos emblazoned across the grimy knuckles are pushed together to form a complete image.

A scorpion.

“Holy…shit.” Reece grates it out in two disbelieving bursts. I’m not sure my mind has caught up to even that level of shock yet. Am I really watching this? Is this really happening?

As the questions explode through my senses, the creature on the screen finally lowers his hand. Replaces it with the bulk of his face.

A face I can’t believe I’m staring at right now. Not against the backdrop of the city he’s just torn apart. Not with all that vicious purpose in his stare and that smile quivering at the edges of his lips. Not like this. Nothing like this.

Because just four weeks ago in Paris, he looked very different. Totally different.

I was watching all those features dissolve in grief as he signed the release forms for the body of his fallen husband.

“Christ.” Reece walks forward while stabbing a hand through his dark waves. That doesn’t prevent a shock of them from falling forward again at once, blocking the silver flashes in his glare as he grits, “Jesus Christ…”

“Wrong dude wanting to change the world,” Sawyer mutters. “Or in this case, a major metropolis.” He exhales as if the entire top of the US Bank tower has fallen on him. “Though I definitely prefer my friend Jesus over Kane fucking Alighieri.”

Reece doesn’t get a chance to respond to that—because on the screen, Kane has pulled in a breath and starts to speak.

“Well, hello, LA. How are you all enjoying this afternoon’s entertainment?” The second he proclaims it, I’m sure my jaw collides with the floor along with Lydia’s. Reece and Sawyer grit theirs so tightly, their teeth could be buzz saws. Either way, the shock is tangible. The creature on the monitor looks like Kane and moves like Kane, but nothing about his talk show host pleasantry is anything close to the strong, sedate warrior we’ve all come to know and like.

We came to know and like.

What the hell did those bastards do to him?

I’m about to ask it aloud, but the pseudo-Kane on the screen sweeps his other hand up, instructing the cameraman to pan toward the Wilshire Grand’s teetering spire. When the lens dips back down to him, he goes on. “As you can likely tell, this program is not brought to you by your friendly neighborhood Bolt Man—though the Scorpio cartel is thrilled to invite him on our show as a special guest star, should he be in the neighborhood and wish to drop in.”

“Mon dieu.”

None of us looks away from the screen, seeing as how the new arrival to the room—my damn bedroom—has invited herself in, despite how we can hear everyone else watching the same broadcast down in the living room. But right now, the only boundary I’m going to stress is keeping my hand firmly fixed to Reece’s. Keeping him strong for this. Keeping him grounded for this.

Probably because I sense exactly what’s about to happen with this.

Starting with the blaring ring of Sawyer’s phone.

He picks up and answers tersely but instantly clicks the device into speaker mode. “He’s right here, Mr. Mayor.”

For a second, the connection is dominated by the static from a violent huff. Reece slices into it by barking, “Troy. I guess ‘good afternoons’ are out for now.”

“Where the hell have you been?” the mayor bellows. “I’ve been trying you for the last hour, damn it!”

Reece’s lips flatten. He flashes a lightning-flared look at me, but in that split second, his message resonates to the bottom of my heart. No regrets. Ever. Not when it comes to one damn moment of being with you.

“Who—what—the hell is this thing?” the voice from the phone charges. “And why does it want to tear apart my fucking city?”

Sawyer leans in a little. “We’re not certain yet, but I’ve already got a team working on it.” He makes a gesture to Reece, indicating he’s already sent Wade, Fershan, and Alex to the command center for that exact purpose. “Trouble is, this guy is formerly one of ours.” He leaves out that it was literally as recently as a month ago and that Kane is fully capable of leading a lot of bad guys past the ridge’s security perimeter and straight to the gates of our home as well. “Though we’ve got a strong hunch the Scorpios are now controlling him via some sophisticated Consortium technology.”