didn’t answer her she glanced down and saw he’d slipped back into unconsciousness. “All right, that’ll work, too.”
Chapter 3
A ndrew Riordan parked his rental car on the street across from the marina and watched the cops taping off the access turn to the parking lot. A forensics team surrounded the abandoned ambulance, working silently as they removed plastic bags of evidence and dusted the surfaces for prints.
Earlier that day Drew had been sitting in his apartment in a small northern California town, sipping instant coffee and checking news reports, when he’d caught the live coverage of the shooting on the Golden Gate Bridge. The moment he’d learned that Samuel Taske had been taken hostage by the gunman, he’d dressed, grabbed his go bag, and left, making the necessary calls from his car as he drove south toward San Francisco.
Samuel Taske was ranked by Forbes as the seventh-richest man in America, something that made him a very attractive prospect for kidnapping. What the public didn’t know about the antiques dealer was that he was part of the Takyn, a very private, select group of people who had been genetically altered in infancy to become superhumans with extraordinary psychic abilities. Samuel, known by most of the Takyn as Paracelsus, was the second-oldest and probably the wealthiest member of the group, and had the ability to read the history of objects simply by touching them with his bare hands.
At first Drew had known Samuel only through the Internet site the Takyn used to communicate with one another, but over the past winter they had become close friends. The antiques dealer had spared no expense in helping Drew track down Rowan Dietrich, another member of the Takyn, after a motorcycle accident had left her stranded in New York City.
Now Samuel was in trouble, and Drew would do whatever it took to get him back safely.
He put on his wireless mike and speed-dialed a number in Tennessee on his encrypted satellite phone. “It’s Drew,” he said as soon the man on the other end answered. “I’m in Monterey. They’ve recovered the ambulance, but there is no sign of the shooter or the hostages.”
“We have received no word yet from Paracelsus,” Matthias told him. “Zephyr is at the hospital watching over the driver, but he is still in surgery. We will move him as soon as he is stable enough for transport.”
“Why the rush?” Drew asked.
“Genaro left Atlanta by private jet this morning,” Matthias told him. “His pilot filed a flight plan for San Francisco.”
“Great.” Drew took a penny from the change niche in the dash and rubbed it between his fingers. “This doesn’t feel like a GenHance operation, boss. For one thing, they’d never want this kind of publicity.” The penny in his hand rose in the air above his palm and spun in a slow circle. “What about the EMT?”
“We know a little, mostly from the news,” Matthias said. “Her name is Charlotte Marena, twenty-nine, the daughter of Mexican immigrants. She is single, a graduate of UCLA, a licensed emergency care practitioner, and employed by the city fire department.”
“So she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Drew didn’t believe it for a second. “Ask your lady if she would take a good look at Ms. Marena.”
“Jessa has already begun the background investigation.”
“Excellent. I’ll contact you when I have news.”
After ending the call, Drew reached under his seat and took out a large zippered case from which he removed a folded tie, a gun and shoulder holster, and forged credentials identifying him as an FBI special agent. Once he had switched out his fake IDs and strapped on the weapon, he turned and grabbed the jacket he kept on the backseat and got out, sliding on his sunglasses before donning the jacket and heading toward the patrolman manning the barricade.
“Officer.” Drew showed him the phony ID. “Agent Frasier from San Francisco. Who’s in charge of the
Chapter 3
A ndrew Riordan parked his rental car on the street across from the marina and watched the cops taping off the access turn to the parking lot. A forensics team surrounded the abandoned ambulance, working silently as they removed plastic bags of evidence and dusted the surfaces for prints.
Earlier that day Drew had been sitting in his apartment in a small northern California town, sipping instant coffee and checking news reports, when he’d caught the live coverage of the shooting on the Golden Gate Bridge. The moment he’d learned that Samuel Taske had been taken hostage by the gunman, he’d dressed, grabbed his go bag, and left, making the necessary calls from his car as he drove south toward San Francisco.
Samuel Taske was ranked by Forbes as the seventh-richest man in America, something that made him a very attractive prospect for kidnapping. What the public didn’t know about the antiques dealer was that he was part of the Takyn, a very private, select group of people who had been genetically altered in infancy to become superhumans with extraordinary psychic abilities. Samuel, known by most of the Takyn as Paracelsus, was the second-oldest and probably the wealthiest member of the group, and had the ability to read the history of objects simply by touching them with his bare hands.
At first Drew had known Samuel only through the Internet site the Takyn used to communicate with one another, but over the past winter they had become close friends. The antiques dealer had spared no expense in helping Drew track down Rowan Dietrich, another member of the Takyn, after a motorcycle accident had left her stranded in New York City.
Now Samuel was in trouble, and Drew would do whatever it took to get him back safely.
He put on his wireless mike and speed-dialed a number in Tennessee on his encrypted satellite phone. “It’s Drew,” he said as soon the man on the other end answered. “I’m in Monterey. They’ve recovered the ambulance, but there is no sign of the shooter or the hostages.”
“We have received no word yet from Paracelsus,” Matthias told him. “Zephyr is at the hospital watching over the driver, but he is still in surgery. We will move him as soon as he is stable enough for transport.”
“Why the rush?” Drew asked.
“Genaro left Atlanta by private jet this morning,” Matthias told him. “His pilot filed a flight plan for San Francisco.”
“Great.” Drew took a penny from the change niche in the dash and rubbed it between his fingers. “This doesn’t feel like a GenHance operation, boss. For one thing, they’d never want this kind of publicity.” The penny in his hand rose in the air above his palm and spun in a slow circle. “What about the EMT?”
“We know a little, mostly from the news,” Matthias said. “Her name is Charlotte Marena, twenty-nine, the daughter of Mexican immigrants. She is single, a graduate of UCLA, a licensed emergency care practitioner, and employed by the city fire department.”
“So she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Drew didn’t believe it for a second. “Ask your lady if she would take a good look at Ms. Marena.”
“Jessa has already begun the background investigation.”
“Excellent. I’ll contact you when I have news.”
After ending the call, Drew reached under his seat and took out a large zippered case from which he removed a folded tie, a gun and shoulder holster, and forged credentials identifying him as an FBI special agent. Once he had switched out his fake IDs and strapped on the weapon, he turned and grabbed the jacket he kept on the backseat and got out, sliding on his sunglasses before donning the jacket and heading toward the patrolman manning the barricade.
“Officer.” Drew showed him the phony ID. “Agent Frasier from San Francisco. Who’s in charge of the
Similar Books
