Fear by Francine Pascal Page A

The new, improved Heather.
    Is this what it’s like to be Gaia?

Like a cold shiver
    Everything was moving in little jerks and starts. As if the whole world was being lit by some monster strobe that blinked on and off, on and off.

Sharp Smell of Ozone
    THE SWELLING ABOVE HIS EYE felt as big as a baseball. Tom knew that the bump wasn’t literally large enough to feature in a Yankees game, but it felt enormous. He groaned as he got to his feet. He couldn’t remember much about how he had gotten to his cell. But from all the aches and bruises on his body, it was clear his jailers had been none too gentle.
    He tipped back his head and looked up. Chicken wire. They had put chicken wire over the opening in the ceiling. It wasn’t much of a barrier, but combined with the fact that they had also removed the bunk, there didn’t seem to be much chance of making another escape through the roof. It was dark up there. How much time had passed since that first attempt? Was it the same night? Was Natasha safe? He had to get out and get some answers.
    A clatter at the door drew Tom’s attention. He stepped to the left of the door and held his arms ready at his sides. If the jailer moved cautiously, Tom would drag him into the cell and attack. If he came in quickly, Tom would attack as soon as he cleared the door.
    But it wasn’t one man that came into the room. It was three. The first two men through the door came in side by side. They were both tall—as tall as Tom—and both heavy with muscle through the shoulders and arms. Both had brown hair cut so short that it was little more than a shadow on their heads. They might have been brothers. Or clones. Only their weapons were distinct. One man carried a square-sided semiautomatic pistol. The second carried a weapon that was less lethal, but just as threatening—a long, black shock stick.
    The third man limped in behind the other two. He was also big and well muscled, though not nearly as heavy as the first two. Thin. An athlete. He had dark wavy hair, tanned skin, and a strong jaw. Ordinarily he would have been regarded as quite handsome. Except for the stripe of white bandage across his nose and the circle of deep purple bruise around his left eye. “Well, hello there,” said Tom. “How nice to see you again. How’s the foot?”
    â€œThe name’s Carlo,” broken-nosed man said as he scowled at Tom. “There is an infection.”
    â€œHow terrible. Damn shame if the whole thing was to rot off. Maybe leave you with a little case of gangrene. Maybe you’ll lose the whole leg.”
    â€œI don’t think this is a good time to have fun at my expense.”
    â€œI don’t know why not,” said Tom. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the weathered stone wall. “I assume you’re going to kill me no matter what I say.”
    â€œWe don’t have orders to kill you,” said Carlo. “But you’re going to wish we did.” He waved his hand, and one of the muscle guys stepped forward. The man waved the shock stick toward Tom and pressed the trigger. Lightning snapped and crackled on the end of the stick. The damp odor of the cell was replaced by the sharp smell of ozone.
    Tom raised his hands. “Not very sporting. Why don’t you have these fellows step outside so we can talk?”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œOh, come on,” said Tom. “A little private chat and I can promise you’ll never have to worry about that bad foot again.”
    Carlo sneered at him. “Yes, I think we’re going to talk. Or at least, you will.” He gave a wave of his hand, and the man with the shock stick lunged forward.
    Tom jumped back, but not fast enough. A brilliant blue spark jumped from the end of the black stick and caught him on the upper arm. It didn’t hurt. It was past hurt. It was more like being hit by a bus. Tom spun around and staggered across