the light high-tech silver survival blanket and thinking about— her . What was it about her that appealed to him? He’d slept with many beautiful women. Seduced them. Used them. Took the information essential to what he was working on, and then in some cases disposed of them if it was needed.
He wasn’t capable of emotion. Emotion got in the way, and by the time he was twelve, he’d learned not to let himself feel anything for anyone. There were moments of weakness and this was one of those moments. It would pass. He was tired, hungry, cold, and had no idea what the hell had happened to him. His mind simply blanked when he tried to remember what he’d been working on. Who he’d been after. Who was after him.
His life was a game of cat and mouse. Survival was always the prize. If he didn’t know what the hell was going on, he was already down. He needed the woman. She was a tool for survival. His wanting to stay with her had nothing to do with her eyes or mouth. Or her fiery temper. Her absolute passion. What would it be like to feel passion? To have someone with those eyes look at him and no one else? Look at him for no other reason than because she thought he was hers?
He pressed his fingertips to his temples and applied pressure. He must be really weak and sick to be thinking like this. There was no belonging. No home. No hers . There couldn’t be for someone like him. He was a machine. He wasn’t human. He’d lost his humanity nearly forty years earlier in a school where children were taught to kill. To serve. To be robots—no more than puppets. He frowned. What in the hell was going through his mind? One didn’t question service, or who or what they were— but , he’d been programmed from his childhood. There was no deprogrammer for someone like him. Only a bullet in the head at the end of the day. Odd that he could remember details of his past yet not the why of it or what the hell had happened to him.
He’d tracked a preacher once, one who liked boys and often visited Thailand. His appetites were insatiable. Right before Lev had shot him, the man had told Lev that he had no soul. At the time he hadn’t even thought about it. Why now? Why was he suddenly contemplating the truth of that? The woman had looked at him with her large, heavily lashed eyes, dark as midnight. Suspicious. But she’d looked at him. Into him. She saw him. And for one moment, while she’d looked at him—he had seen himself.
His heart thudded, and for the first time since he’d been a child, fear gripped him hard. She’d seen inside of him. No one could see him. He’d built a fortress, strong and powerful, surrounding that one small broken piece inside of him that he’d never been able to harden. She’d seen it—he was certain she had. His fist hit the side of the boat, hard. He had to kill her. He had no choice. She couldn’t live, not if she knew he was vulnerable.
He forced air through his lungs. It would be easy. Cut her air line. Leave her down there. Take the boat and sink it somewhere. She’d vanish in the ocean like so many fishermen did. It was the smart thing to do—the logical thing. He didn’t move. Not one muscle. He just crouched there, waiting for her to come back. Waiting to see her eyes again. And that was just about the stupidest thing he’d ever done in his life.
He thought he might have been unconscious for a short while. The boat creaked and rocked, and the motion would have been soothing if it hadn’t been for the nausea and the ever-present headache. His skull felt like it was about to explode. He was thirsty, but it was too much effort to lift the water to his mouth.
He sat there and tried to piece together his life. It came to him in images, jagged pictures, all violent. Scraps of boyhood memories haunted him with blood and pain. Bullets slammed into his body, piercing flesh and bone, shattering his insides. He felt the blade of a knife, stabbing at him over and over, cutting deep.
He wasn’t capable of emotion. Emotion got in the way, and by the time he was twelve, he’d learned not to let himself feel anything for anyone. There were moments of weakness and this was one of those moments. It would pass. He was tired, hungry, cold, and had no idea what the hell had happened to him. His mind simply blanked when he tried to remember what he’d been working on. Who he’d been after. Who was after him.
His life was a game of cat and mouse. Survival was always the prize. If he didn’t know what the hell was going on, he was already down. He needed the woman. She was a tool for survival. His wanting to stay with her had nothing to do with her eyes or mouth. Or her fiery temper. Her absolute passion. What would it be like to feel passion? To have someone with those eyes look at him and no one else? Look at him for no other reason than because she thought he was hers?
He pressed his fingertips to his temples and applied pressure. He must be really weak and sick to be thinking like this. There was no belonging. No home. No hers . There couldn’t be for someone like him. He was a machine. He wasn’t human. He’d lost his humanity nearly forty years earlier in a school where children were taught to kill. To serve. To be robots—no more than puppets. He frowned. What in the hell was going through his mind? One didn’t question service, or who or what they were— but , he’d been programmed from his childhood. There was no deprogrammer for someone like him. Only a bullet in the head at the end of the day. Odd that he could remember details of his past yet not the why of it or what the hell had happened to him.
He’d tracked a preacher once, one who liked boys and often visited Thailand. His appetites were insatiable. Right before Lev had shot him, the man had told Lev that he had no soul. At the time he hadn’t even thought about it. Why now? Why was he suddenly contemplating the truth of that? The woman had looked at him with her large, heavily lashed eyes, dark as midnight. Suspicious. But she’d looked at him. Into him. She saw him. And for one moment, while she’d looked at him—he had seen himself.
His heart thudded, and for the first time since he’d been a child, fear gripped him hard. She’d seen inside of him. No one could see him. He’d built a fortress, strong and powerful, surrounding that one small broken piece inside of him that he’d never been able to harden. She’d seen it—he was certain she had. His fist hit the side of the boat, hard. He had to kill her. He had no choice. She couldn’t live, not if she knew he was vulnerable.
He forced air through his lungs. It would be easy. Cut her air line. Leave her down there. Take the boat and sink it somewhere. She’d vanish in the ocean like so many fishermen did. It was the smart thing to do—the logical thing. He didn’t move. Not one muscle. He just crouched there, waiting for her to come back. Waiting to see her eyes again. And that was just about the stupidest thing he’d ever done in his life.
He thought he might have been unconscious for a short while. The boat creaked and rocked, and the motion would have been soothing if it hadn’t been for the nausea and the ever-present headache. His skull felt like it was about to explode. He was thirsty, but it was too much effort to lift the water to his mouth.
He sat there and tried to piece together his life. It came to him in images, jagged pictures, all violent. Scraps of boyhood memories haunted him with blood and pain. Bullets slammed into his body, piercing flesh and bone, shattering his insides. He felt the blade of a knife, stabbing at him over and over, cutting deep.
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