Time Rider (Rise of the Skipworths) Read online

  He closed his eyes, fighting the nausea and anguish made worse by the compelling image of her touching him.

  She had no idea that tanks were the lowest of the low. Convicted felons, murderers, traitors, whose only choice, other than death by lethal implantation, was to agree to enter the TAINCC, to be turned into killing machines for the government.

  Because, where he came from, the imprint of the dagger made him an outcast. The dagger told anyone who got close enough to him that he was a tank. And tank meant murderer.

  Murderer. Something in his brain rebelled at that name. He wasn't a murderer. He hadn't been conscripted, he'd volunteered.

  He was the only volunteer in the program, and the only tank with a college degree, an IQ above 140 and a personality profile without any major aberrations.

  They'd considered dogged determination and a fascination with games that offered impossible odds as assets, not liabilities.

  No wonder they'd sent him back as soon as they'd thought it was even marginally safe. He had two unbeatable qualities. Brains and a very good reason for wanting the Deviants dead.

  He was no murderer. He was an avenger. The Deviants were the murderers. Anger and hatred bubbled up in him until he thought his blood might literally boil. He didn't even stop to wonder why the anger was hot and not cold.

  Deviants. Depraved mutants who penetrated your brain, leaving you soiled and violated. Deviants, who stopped at nothing to attain their ends, not even the murder of an innocent woman.

  A vision of a tall, blonde woman sent a pang through him harsher than the ache of his broken ribs. His wife—murdered by the Deviants.

  He was shaken by the strength of his anger and grief. Was this why the other two tanks had failed? Had their conditioning broken down, allowing dangerous emotions to get in the way of their mission?

  Well, emotion wouldn't get in his way. He had an advantage they hadn't had. They had been condemned criminals. Their hearts weren't in it. He, on the other hand, had a personal motivation. The Deviants had killed his wife. He didn't know why they'd wiped his memories of her, but they'd left the important thing—they'd left his determination to avenge her death. All he had to do was get out of here, find and eliminate his target.

  It should be easy.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kristen brought the veggie pizza into the exam room, but her patient was sound asleep. She sat in the wooden desk chair, the smell of the cooling tomato sauce pungent in her nostrils, and watched him.

  He was an enigma, this man who wouldn't tell her his name, who had some sort of implant in his right eye and a strange tattoo on his thigh, who got inside her head like no one ever had except her brother.

  She rubbed her temples, thankful he was asleep. He'd fallen asleep about fifteen minutes ago. She knew, because until then, she'd been assaulted with more anger and hatred than she'd ever experienced in her life. Anger strong enough to muddle her brain, hatred so deep it was like a cancer growing inside him.

  Right now he wasn't even dreaming. Kristen rolled her head, stretching the tendons in her neck, welcoming the respite. She didn't need his feelings intruding. She was having enough trouble with her own.

  Feelings unbecoming a doctor.

  She'd never in her life experienced what she'd felt while examining him, preparing him for the IV. Thank God he'd been unconscious and Moira had been busy with the Medicaid files.

  Catheterizing him had shaken her faith in herself as a doctor. Despite her determination, despite her training, she'd found it impossible to remain detached while she performed that most intimate of procedures. His steel-banded belly, his magnificent thighs, his overwhelming maleness, had affected her like she'd never been affected before. Ever. She'd been jolted to her toes by the tremors of raw desire that had rocked her when she'd touched him.

  She'd never reacted that way. Not in all the years of internship and residency, not in hours of emergency room work. The human body was a smoothly functioning machine, and she was fascinated with its function. Her life's work was to repair that machine when it quit working properly.

  She had always been proud of the fact that her empathic response to people didn't affect her professionalism. When she slipped into the role of physician, the empathy that made it so hard for her to simply walk down a street became a tool, an asset, which aided her in diagnosis and therapy.

  How disgusting that all her control, all her training, could puddle into a fiery pool of lust when she performed a mundane procedure on a dirty, battered refugee from the streets, a procedure she'd performed dozens if not scores of times in her career without a blink.

  Even as she berated herself, she found her eyes traveling over his naked torso yet again. The sheet had slipped down and the slight curve of one muscled hip was exposed where the fabric slanted over his loins. As many male patients as she had seen in various stages of undress, none had ever made her feel this way.

  Her fingers curled, wanting to touch his smooth skin that hid tendon and muscle as her gaze slid downward. A few more inches and the tattoo on his thigh would be exposed. Her mouth went dry and her body thrummed with an unfamiliar aching need.

  A colorful, stylized dagger, its steely point aimed right at—with an effort, she tore her gaze away from his pale flesh and her thoughts away from his body. She focused on his face.

  His lips were relaxed and slightly open and Kristen could hear his shallow breaths. His nose was thin and straight. His startling eyes were closed, his lashes thick and long against his cheeks. He had a high forehead, and his hair, still dirty but dry, was a light brown with hints of gold.

  His face wasn't classically handsome. It was too angular, the planes too harsh. His cheeks were almost gaunt. His mouth, though wide, was almost too thin. But all his flawed features together made up the most beautiful face she'd ever seen. She fought the urge to smooth out the lines that ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth. She clenched her fists to keep from touching his lips.

  As she watched, his nose twitched and his eyes opened. She steeled herself against his intense blue gaze. When he focused on her face, his wary confusion wafting toward her, she smiled. "The veggie pizza is here. Think you're ready for some solid food?"

  "Yeah." He sat up gingerly, his brow furrowed, his jaw clenched.

  "Amazing! Another yes!"

  He looked at her sidelong and she shook her head as she handed him a slice of pizza and a napkin. "Never mind. If you keep that down, I'll take the IV and the—catheter out."

  "Keep it down?"

  "If you don't regurgitate, vomit, throw up."

  "I get the picture," he muttered as he nibbled a tiny bite of the pizza, his expression reflecting wariness. His eyebrows shot up. "Not bad. Is there any more of that juice?"

  Kristen fetched him a glass of juice, delighted that he was acting more human, thrilled that the food hadn't caused his empty stomach to rebel. As he polished off the wedge of pizza and drained a second glass of juice, she ventured another question. "You want to tell me your name now? Or is it still a state secret?"

  He shot her a glance filled with suspicion and fear, and shook his head. "No."

  Fine. He could refuse to talk, but she wasn't going to make it easy for him. She didn’t know what he was so afraid of, but she was going to do her best to find out and help him conquer it if she could. "No, you won't tell me your name, or no, it's not a state secret?"

  His mouth quirked so slightly she wasn't sure she could really call it a smile, but it gave her a peculiar satisfaction deep inside.

  "Rider."

  "What?" Her heart leaped. What had he said? Rider? Was that a name?

  "Rider."

  "Rider? Your name is Rider?"

  "Yeah."

  "Great! I'm so glad to meet you, Rider." Kristen sat up just a little straighter. How much more did she dare to ask at this point? His gaze was still wary, but she thought he'd relaxed a little. He was obviously feeling better after having eaten some solid food. "Well, Mr. Ride
r?"

  "Just Rider."

  "Well, Rider," she amended quickly, "do you think you could tell me a little about your eye?"

  Dropping the last crust of pie back onto the plate, he frowned at her. "What about my eye?" he asked, easing back onto the table.

  He sounded confused, but he'd sounded confused about most things since he'd awakened. She pressed on. "Come on! I've never seen anything like it. I've never even heard of anything like it. Did you have a detached retina? Is it some sort of optic muscle replacement? I've never seen a prosthetic like that in the eye. Where did you have it done?"

  His arms were rigid at his side and his eyes were closed, but as she finished speaking, he opened them to narrow slits and squinted at her. "I don't have any idea what you're talking about. I've never had anything done to my eye."

  It was Kristen's turn to be confused. He sounded sincere, but she was so sure there was something there. She shrugged. Maybe she'd get Bill to look at it. He'd had more experience in eye surgery than she had. She'd only done one rotation in ophthalmology.

  Rider was still watching her. "I ate my supper, doctor," he said. "You going to keep your promise? I want to be awake for the withdrawal of the catheter, since I missed the insertion."

  Kristen gasped at the embarrassed thrill that rushed through her at his words. Her face burned and she stiffened. "You know, Mister Rider, I could make that experience very unpleasant if I wanted to."

  He grimaced and laid a fist on his belly. "Yeah?" he growled. "And you could make it very pleasant, too, I'll bet. Couldn't you, Doc?"

  She recoiled. "You're despicable! I'll have Doctor Maxey take care of you when he gets in. I'm almost sorry I found you."

  His face darkened ominously and he muttered something too low for her to hear.

  "What?"

  "I said you should be. Never mind. I apologize for the crudity." He laid his head back and closed his eyes. "Why do you think there's something wrong with my eye?"

  "There's something in there, it could be scar tissue, I guess, but it looks more like some kind of implant. Are you sure you haven't had surgery?"

  "Surgery?"

  She studied his face. It didn't reflect his feelings. He was good. He'd obviously had a lot of practice hiding his true emotions from the world. But he couldn't hide them from her. He was afraid, deathly afraid of something, and overlaying the fear was sadness and a chill emotion she could only describe as hate. "Sure. You could hardly have forgotten it."

  "Yeah, well, I must have."

  His voice held a note that Kristen couldn't quite identify, but as she laid her hand on his arm she had no doubt about his feelings at that moment. No doubt at all.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered, suddenly overwhelmed by the depth of pain and grief and paralyzing fear rippling up her arm and into her heart.

  "For what?" he demanded, shifting restlessly and grunting when his sore ribs stabbed him.

  "I didn't mean to bring back painful memories. I was just interested in the technology."

  "Memories?" He gazed at her, his eyes as hot as blue lasers burning into her soul. He made a sound like a laugh, but his mouth grimaced as he pressed on his midsection. "There are no painful memories, Doc. None at all. No memories. No feelings. Nothing."

  "That's not true," she whispered, wanting to cry, wishing she could take away his anguish. How would she bear it? She wanted to help him, but she was afraid she couldn't stand under the weight of his pain.

  Still, she had to try. There was something there, something inside him that called to her. He needed his memories, distressing as they were. He needed his emotions—his anguish, his anger, even his fear. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she knew.

  "The memories are there, Rider," she whispered. "And the emotions. They're just buried awfully deep."

  His anger slashed through her and the shock made her jerk away.

  "What the hell do you know about it?"

  She picked up the pizza plate and the wadded napkins, anything to avoid looking into those eyes again. She made her voice deliberately light. "I'm the doctor. I'm supposed to know these things."

  He grabbed her arm, pulling her close, assaulting her with his anger.

  "You don't know a damn thing, Doc. Not a damn thing! And that's too bad. Because if you knew what was good for you, you'd keep your nose out of it. Now, I've got to get out of here, so get me untangled from all this stuff!"

  His grip sent spasms of fear and rage through her nerve endings. She felt like a convicted felon must feel when the executioner throws the lever, sending electric current gushing through the wire leads to destroy him. "Let go of me, Mister. I can call for help and you'll be in jail for assault."

  He spoke through clenched jaws. "Yeah, right. Me lying here injured and trussed up, and you standing there all cute and pouty. Just get me untangled!"

  "Fine! It's none of my business if you want to walk out of here half dead." She welcomed the surge of her own anger, a candle-flame next to his inferno, but still something she could focus on.

  "Damn right it's not. Anyhow, I walked in here half dead."

  "Three-quarters, and you didn't walk, I carried you."

  "You? Hah!" A moue of bitter amusement twisted his mouth, but his eyes still burned with rage.

  "I did! Ask Moira!" Kristen couldn't keep her voice from quivering. "In fact, I'll send her in here to get you untangled." As the image crossed her mind, she couldn't help but chuckle. "That'll serve you right!"

  "Wait! What do you mean?"

  Confusion and fear commingled within him as she turned away. His mobile face didn't show it, but inside he seemed lost, bewildered by his surroundings and by her. She frowned. She really had to quit picking up strays. If any one of them were ever dangerous, it was this one. "Good night, Rider, I've got to go."

  "Doc! Wait a minute." She turned around to see him sitting up gingerly, breathing shallowly through his mouth to keep his ribs from aching. "I told you my name, but you never told me yours."

  Kristen stared at him as she felt the anger and fear that boiled inside him, fear of something so dreadful she couldn't imagine it, anger that he couldn't control the fear. Pity suffused her.

  "Come on. I got a right to know who saved my life, don't I?"

  Kristen shrugged, choosing to ignore his sarcasm, and walked back to the table. She held out her hand. "I'm Doctor Kristen Skipworth."

  Hot adrenalin streaked through him, leaving his limbs quivering, his mouth dry. He felt the blood drain from his face, felt his fingers and toes grow numb as his body pulled the blood into its core, trying to protect itself from the shock.

  Kristen Skipworth. The name hovered in the air like a storm cloud, echoed down the corridors of his brain like footsteps in an empty chamber. His gut twisted in revulsion.

  He recoiled from her outstretched hand. Kristen Skipworth, the latest best guess of the best researchers had traced the problem back to her. The entire problem.

  Somehow he'd known all along that she was special. If he'd been paying attention, he'd have realized what his battered brain had tried to tell him.

  It was in her eyes. Those amber and blue and green-shot jewels should have warned him who she was. All the Deviants had those peculiar eyes. The electric charge whenever she touched him should have told him she was doing things to him no human being should be allowed to do to another.

  Why hadn’t he recognized her? The blow on his head must have screwed up his brain's wiring or something. Yeah, something like maybe he didn't want his angel doctor to be the ultimate enemy, the target.

  "Rider?"

  Her trembling voice buzzed in his brain like the temple leads in the TAINCC. He should have known. How had he been so lucky? So lucky, and so damned unlucky! He forced himself to focus on her Deviant eyes.

  "Rider? Are you okay?"

  A wisp of cloud brushed his forehead. No, it was her hand. He jerked his head away, welcoming the searing pain the movement caused him. He needed the pain to keep his
focus, to keep his mind off her angel face, her gentle soothing hands, her trusting, treacherous eyes.

  "Talk to me!" she demanded, and he made himself listen to her, made himself look at her. The Mother of all the Deviants.

  He had trouble focusing. Her image kept fading to another fainter one. Another beautiful face, this one framed with blonde hair. Mari. His wife. His throat contracted and his eyes burned.

  This woman had killed his wife. Her descendants were murderers. Slowly his wife's image faded and he was staring at the Mother of All the Deviants again.

  Hot blinding hatred sucked the last dregs of strength from his quivering limbs. He stared helplessly at her, digging deep inside himself for the protective cold resolve, for the conditioning, hating himself for the fear and pain he couldn't block.

  He had a job to do. He wasn't supposed to react with heated anger. A shudder racked him and he drew a long breath, trying to ignore her scent, concentrating on his mission—his reason for being here.

  He could do it right now. He could kill her. She was close enough for him to wrap his fingers around her pretty neck and snap it with no more effort than snapping a twig.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Rider Savage stared at the Mother of All the Deviants. Something wasn't right. Something in her amber-shot eyes paralyzed him.

  He flexed his fingers slowly, willing them to move, willing his body to act like the weapon it had been conditioned to be. His fingers weren't cooperating, though. They moved like old, arthritic fingers, creaking, the joints rubbing together agonizingly.

  The eyes watching him clouded with worry. He tore his gaze away from her. She was a Deviant. She'd get inside his head if he let her.

  A violent wave of nausea hit him like a tsunami and he welcomed it. It was a relief after the confusing emotions she evoked in him. He'd kill her all right. But killing her wasn't enough for him. First he wanted her to know why she was dying, wanted her to feel all the pain her descendants had caused down through the centuries.