Enhanced muscles spasmed as the LINK connection between mind and body was severed. I was propelled back into my own consciousness with an almost physical snap.
"Grk," was the most intelligible sound that came from the mouth of the advancing agent. I shook my head to clear it and saw the agent stumble mid-stride. She plummeted facedown onto the floor. Dorshak and the FBI agent who had interrogated me were also silent.
I was stunned. That wasn't how the LINK was supposed to operate. Normally, it took several seconds, an eternity LINK-time, to connect two or three individuals to one agreed-upon frequency. Even cops and FBI agents usually operated on separate bands, while maintaining only a loose connection to the official channel. Not to mention the fact that my command was more of a desperate request than any real code. If something so simple as "stop" could do this kind of damage, I certainly wouldn't have been the first fugitive to use it.
"Did I kill them?" I whispered. I didn't trust my voice in the eerie silence.
Michael shrugged. He seemed uninterested, as if he were used to federal agents dropping like flies every time he entered a room. "Doubtful."
I looked to the fallen agent. Her eyes had rolled up into her head, and a string of drool escaped from her trembling lips. Her hands made useless grasping motions at the air. Breath came in ragged spurts, but at least she seemed to be taking air in on her own. Before I could get too close to the still-quivering agent, Michael laid a hand on my shoulder. "What have I done?" I murmured, horrified. "We can't just leave them here like this. They could die."
"They could live." Michael's voice was quiet.
"I can't take that kind of risk with people's lives."
"I understand. Call for an ambulance." He sighed. "But while we run, eh? Every second is costly."
I nodded. I patched into the emergency police frequency and sent out a code thirty-eight. I logged off before the dispatcher could capture my ID. When I returned my attention to the present, Michael was crouched over Dorshak. During the same blast that downed the agents, Dorshak slumped against the floor. Most of his body was still hidden by Michael or the table, but I could see his face.
No one would have ever mistaken Dorshak for a handsome man, but now his features took on a frightening cast. His face was covered in blood and gore. An eyelid drooped unnaturally over a damaged cornea. My heel had punctured his eyeball. Bile rose in my throat. I had seen violence in the line of duty before, but never anything this gruesome. "Oh, Ted."
Michael grasped Dorshak's trembling arm. Michael held Dorshak's wrist stiffly away from his side to expose the holster.
"What are you doing? Leave it," I heard myself say. "It's an old .45. He doesn't even have laser sights on it."
With his other hand, Michael quickly removed the gun. Then, unceremoniously, he released his grip, and Dorshak's arm fell to the floor like a deadweight. "We need a weapon, and the antique is the least likely to have a homing device. Your compassion is notable, Deidre, but there's no reason to be foolish."
Tucking the .45 into his belt, he said, "We've wasted enough time. Let's go."
I wanted to protest, engage in a philosophical discussion about compassion, but he was right. I grumbled a barely civil, "Fine."
I hadn't moved since downing the agents, so I took the remaining steps that separated me from the door. It opened to chaos. In the hallway, a leather-clad punk sprinted past, nearly knocking me backward. Uniforms followed close on his heels. "No good," I whispered, and shut
the door. "Can't go that way."
I turned around and leaned my back gingerly against the door. I took a deep breath and tried to think. An agent quivered at my feet and Dorshak's dead eye seemed to stare at me. Tearing my gaze away, I looked up at the gaping hole in the mirror. The jagged edges formed an angry cavern of darkness.
Michael stared at me anxiously. I watched him track my gaze. "Through there? You know a way out through there?"
"Maybe," I murmured. Dorshak lay just under the window.
"Well, come on then," Michael insisted. Stepping over a chair, he made his way to the mirror. Glass crunched under his boots. Pulling the cuff of his leather jacket tight, Michael swept the remaining glass from the mirror's base. Glittering shards rained down on Dorshak, but he never flinched.
I did.
"I'm barefoot," I said, unable to drag my eyes away from Dorshak. My voice sounded distant and hollow in my ears. "I can't ..."
Michael laughed unkindly. "A second ago you were fighting tooth and nail, now you're worried about your feet?"
I swallowed my disgust. I didn't want to say what was on my mind how horrified I was at the terrible ease with which I destroyed the minds of the FBI agents, or how I couldn't stomach the idea of stepping over the cadaverous, blinded Dorshak. Instead, I just stared at Michael and said, "You're the one in a hurry. Cut feet will slow me down."
Reaching under the table, Michael found my bloody shoe. "Here."