Countdown

have the right kind of money, and have a hell of a lot of luck. Even with 40 percent of the population no longer breathing, mat still leaves three billion people looking for a ticket off this dying world. That would be a pretty damn big shuttle.

Finding out more about that shuttle and how the hell I could get myself on it was my biggest dream. So far, no dice, though. Apparently I didn't travel in the right circles to get any solid information on the subject. Big surprise.

'Kira! Stop!' I heard Rogan yell from behind me, but I didn't look. I was out of there. Away from there and away from him. I didn't need any more problems in my life, and that man was one big problem from head to foot.

Maybe I'd use this bizarre 'countdown' experience as a catalyst to turn my life around. I mean, I was almost twenty-three now. Not a kid anymore. I could get a job. A real job. Make a real living. Contribute to society instead of stealing from it. Give up the dream of going to Offworld and just find a nice guy and settle down over on Paragon Avenue. Maybe pop out a couple kids of my own. Maybe I could be happy if I let myself. Forget about my past. Run away from it like I was running away from the metal room and the dangerous-looking man with those hypnotic blue-green eyes.

If it just wasn't for all the damned beeping I might feel like a new woman.

'Kira!' Rogan shouted again. I looked over my shoulder. He was running after me. Well, actually it was more like a speedy shuffle. The man was injured, possibly dying, and yet he was still trying to catch up to me.

I ignored the rush of empathy that thought triggered.

What the hell was he chasing after me for?

And then I knew. It was the pain that clued me in. The stabbing pain through my head that stopped me dead in my tracks. The beeping was so loud now I couldn't think, couldn't concentrate. I fell to my knees and pressed my hands hard against my ears to block out the blinding, fast beeping-it was like an endless train roaring over the tracks-but it wasn't going to do any good.

The noise was coming from inside my head. And it was getting faster. And faster. I looked to my far left. Rogan had stopped running and was holding his head.

And then I remembered what the voice told us.

Your implants have been activated and tuned to each other's frequency.

And what else? I racked my tortured brain.

To separate more than ninety feet from your partner will lead to immediate disqualification.

I started to crawl on the pavement toward Rogan, trying to ignore the blinding pain as much as I could. It wasn't easy but I finally made it. The beeping decreased the closer I got to him, as did the pain. He had collapsed on his side; the only thing moving was his chest going up and down with erratic breathing.

'Rogan …' I grabbed his shoulder.

He blinked his eyes open and looked at me. 'That hurt'

'Tell me about it.'

He frowned. 'You run really fast for a girl.'

'Faster than you.'

'I have an excuse. I'm mortally wounded.'

'So you keep promising.' I let out a long sigh, but it wasn't from relief; it was from frustration. 'This disqualification and elimination that bastard was talking about in there? He means death, doesn't he?'

His throat worked as he swallowed, and he propped himself up on one elbow. 'Smart girl.'

'If I was that smart I wouldn't be here, would I?'

'Touche.'

I licked my lips and gave him a good look now that we were outside. The light wasn't all that great It was overcast It seemed to always be overcast these days. Something to do with global warming and pollution levels. I never really paid much attention to the news. All I knew was that it had been years since I got a really good suntan.

Yeah, the world was dying. Tell me something I didn't know.

Despite his hard-to-ignore rock-hard build under those dirty clothes, at the moment Rogan barely looked strong enough to harm a fly. But there was still an undeniable aura of danger that surrounded him. Something in those pretty eyes that made me think that I shouldn't turn my back on this guy if I could help it. I didn't trust him. Not now. Not ever.

I would never trust a murderer.

But apparently we were partners. That is, if I didn't want my head to explode.

'I'm not going to beg,' I said softly. 'But you're going to tell me everything you know about this … this countdown.'

He nodded and tried to get to his feet. He failed. I stood and offered him a hand. He took it, and I helped him up. He didn't let go of me immediately. His hand was as dirty as the rest of him, but firm, with long fingers that warmly wrapped around mine. I didn't pull away.

I considered using my ability on him, but I'd had just about as much pain as I could deal with for one day.

Back when I was still a teenager, I realized that I had a very special talent. If I touched somebody skin-to- skin and flexed my mind in precisely the right direction, I could get a read on them. As I've gotten older, my talent has gotten better and better. It's a very useful tool, actually.

The only thing I could compare it to was those Magic Eye posters that were popular years and years ago. It just seemed like a jumble of pattern and color unless you looked at it just right. Looked just beyond it and then suddenly the true picture appeared as clear as day.

I wasn't really psychic, I didn't think. It wasn't like I could actually read minds or anything. I knew that. But it scared the hell out of me, and I used it as little as I possibly could, but I did have it, quite literally, at my fingertips.

I could tell who somebody really was in their-it sounded stupid-but in their soul. If they were honest or if they were lying. If they were hiding something. Not exactly what they were hiding, but I'd know if there was something just waiting to be found.

Every now and then, when I was very desperate, I used my ability, my flex, as I liked to call it, to pick my marks. If there was any doubt in my mind that the men I was about to steal from were scum, I'd do the flex and find out for sure. I didn't like stealing from nice guys. Lucky for me, and unlucky for them, I hadn't met a nice guy in a really long time. I figured they'd all gone to Offworld.

The only side effect was a wicked headache. The scummier the guy was, the worse the pain was. Not something I needed right now.

Besides, I already knew that Rogan wasn't a very nice guy. I didn't need the migraine to prove it.

And knowing that, why the hell didn't I want to pull away from his touch? What was wrong with me?

I didn't like to be touched if I could help it. But this.. this wasn't touching, really. It was just a helping hand.

To a convicted mass murderer.

With that thought, and another flash of my family's faces, I yanked my hand away from him as if I'd had it submerged in a vat of piranha.

His expression shadowed, and he stuffed his hands deeply into the pockets of his torn, dirty jeans.

'I'll tell you everything I know, sweetheart. But we need to get a move on.'

'There are ten minutes remaining in this level of The Countdown,' the voice said from out of nowhere.

When I didn't immediately start moving, Rogan raised an eyebrow at me.

'Let's get going,' he said. 'I'm not in good enough shape to keep running. Better make it a brisk stagger, so we need to move now.'

I frowned and tried to recall the map. Shit. I should have paid more attention. I felt fingers of panic dig into my stomach.

As if he had read my thoughts, he forced a grin. 'Don't worry, sweetheart. I know where we're headed.'