Page 32 of Fuse

Someone I knew?

And as for value…

I wince as my gut wrenches—and my mind whirls. In the last year, I’ve been able to accept that the man I love was kidnapped by crazy scientists, kept hidden from the world for six months, and then transformed into an electric super being, while a global crime cartel funded the effort. But this is somehow harder to grasp, despite knowing that Kane took up with the Scorpios with the full understanding that he might end up in the hive, locked in the Faline Fun House of Horrors.

But did Kane expect it all to go this far? Would he have launched his plan to avenge Mitch if he’d known he’d be Faline’s instrument of biblical destruction over Los Angeles? Responsible for a swath of civilian deaths and turned into the bait to draw Reece into this treacherous showdown? Or did he sign up for this gig with full consent, offering himself to the bitch as her ready and willing mutant for hire?

Holy shit.

Could that really be possible?

Did Faline talk Kane into liking his Consortium-style lightning jolt so he could have this chance to kick Reece’s ass—or worse? Does Kane hold Reece responsible for Mitch’s death?

He did let us all think he’d gone off to Tibet, when he was actually launching a solo campaign to take down the Consortium. His heart and mind could have really been so twisted and vulnerable, they might have truly become the putty of Faline’s psycho treachery. In fully turning Kane against us, she’ll have delivered a double blow to Reece…to the entire team. The physical defeat that Kane looks more than ready to mete. The emotional crush of his angry retribution.

Of knowing our former teammate has been driven to this.

Of realizing that in so many ways, we won’t even be able to blame him.

How is this happening? How is this right?

I’m unable to answer that except with the words that do tumble out, riding the waves of my disbelief, anguish, and confusion.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

Chapter Two

Reece

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I grit it out while whipping my hands away from Kane’s neck, though I already know the image will be branded on my memory for a long time to come. My fingers locked beneath his ears. My thumbs aligned atop his windpipe.

My instinct, raw and raging and unthinking, telling me to crush it.

To kill a guy who helped me save the love of my life. Who watched the love of his life die in the name of our cause.

Who, because of that, may or may not turn around and try the same goddamned move on me.

Thoughts best left for another time. As in, perhaps, the next second.

“Fuck!” I’m on my ass now, dragging a quaking hand through my hair as I stare out over the city that’s come to call me its own, with streets and stores and windows that should be bustling and sundrenched, now dismal with smoke, screams, sirens, and destruction.

But I freeze as terror yanks me down like sand in a riptide. As I fully comprehend just how deep Kane’s brain has been fucked over by Faline—and what all the implications of that could be. As clearly as if it’s happening in front of me…

I see the top of our ridge, drenched in darker smoke than all of the shit surrounding me. Then I see the pile of rubble into which Faline has turned our home. Then I see the harpy herself, accompanied by her goons, discovering the bunker under the command center. I watch them blasting back the door and then dragging out Joany, Mom, and—

“Fuck.”

With hardly a shout of warning, I lurch off my ass and launch myself like a Mack truck shot out of a hurricane at Kane. Somewhere during the strike, I’m conscious of raucous whoops off to my right, too damn close for comfort. Already knowing it’s a mistake, I look up and over and try not to be even more incensed at whatever dumbshit let that news crew up here.

“Yeeeaaah!” One of them pumps a fist as I smack Kane back down. “Get him, Bolt Man!”

The guy next to him, with the camera on his shoulder, cheers, “Way to go, big guy!”

“Feed that fucker his own dick!” And there’s the real kicker. Not many days—as in none—can I claim hearing that line from the mouth of a pink-haired pixie in full Lolita regalia. Next to her, the pseudo-preppy anchorwoman simply adds an eager nod, her face betraying the thousand-and-one questions she’s already got pulled up on her tablet.

Kane doesn’t give me another second to be concerned about them. He connects a punch to my jaw that I feel in every hair follicle. Christ on a cracker. Either the fucker’s been holding back on me in sparring practice or part of his stay at the Consortium Spa included some finesse on his close-quarters battle work.