The rape of Planet Earth.
So, fuck ’em. He was through pulling political strings, hoping the assholes would do the right thing. The time for talking had come and gone. Nothing left to do now but find the perfect superbug. The incurable disease that would infect them one by one when released into the wilds of human society. Mass genocide via supervirus on a global scale. The perfect plan.
Flicking the lock with his mind, Ivar gave the cell exit a mental push. The glass panel slid out and to the side. Hauling Hamersveld with him, he crossed into the central corridor of cellblock A. The door closed behind him with a suctioning hiss. He barely noticed. Bare feet brushing over concrete, his focus was on one thing. The lab. He wanted to get back to his superbugs. With his pack out hunting—and his new friend practically asleep on his feet —he’d get in a few hours before dawn threatened and his soldiers arrived home.
If he hurried. And Hamersveld decided to cooperate.
Hoping beyond hope, he muscled the male through a complex series of doors. Steel dead bolts clicked, releasing only to reengage behind him. Sharp sounds echoed, the clang of doors closing along deserted corridors. As he turned into the main hallway, the male he held up twitched.
“Ivar.”
“Yeah?”
“Want more.” Chin bobbling, Hamersveld tried to open his eyes. His blond lashes fluttered. Ivar glimpsed the blue rimming his black irises a second before the warrior gave up and let his lids fall again. “Give me another.”
“No chance of that, my friend. You’re already topped up.”
“Are we?”
Laboring under the Norwegian’s weight, Ivar frowned. “Are we what?”
“Friends.”
“After the last few hours? Hell, we’d better be,” he said, only half joking. “Otherwise I’ll KO your ass, scrape you into an ash bucket, and toss you into the nearest trash bin.”
Hamersveld snorted. “Nah. We’re friends now. Definitely. Kind of strange, though.”
“Why’s that?”
“Never had a friend before.”
“You and me both,” Ivar said, even though it wasn’t true.
Lothair had been his friend—an impulsive one, sure—but a close companion nonetheless. Well, at least until his murder a few months ago. Ivar’s chest went tight as he muscled Hamersveld along the corridor. God, he missed the male. Much more than he ever expected. Missed the early morning bullshit sessions. Missed having someone who shared his goals and worked hard to see them realized. Even missed making the crazy-ass SOB sandwiches after coming home from a successful raid. The bigger problem, though? No matter what he tried, he couldn’t find a way around the grief. The pain remained, getting in his face, refusing to abate, damning him with each passing day.
Now, he hurt whenever he thought of Lothair.
Ivar shook his head. The result equaled a total mind-fuck. One he didn’t need, never mind want.
“You sure I can’t have another?”
Ivar’s lips twitched. Persistent with a slaphappy helping of “ah, come on,” the warrior clearly didn’t have an off switch. Three females in as many hours. A record by anyone’s standards, but unheard of inside the complex beneath 28 Walton Street. His new lair hadn’t seen that much action. Ivar liked it that way. Only males he trusted gained entrance to his new home, and even fewer to cellblock A, where he housed his HE captives.
“How about another salt bath, instead?”
Hamersveld grumbled but shook his head. “Bed. Sleep.”
Thank God. It was about time. “Just a bit farther. You can crash in my room until yours is ready.”
His new friend nodded, and Ivar upped the pace, turning right toward his bedroom suite and into the main corridor. Still under construction, bare lightbulbs cast shadows across walls marred by splotches of joint compound. Soon, though, his worker bees—the forty-odd humans he’d imprisoned—would complete the project, leaving glossy wood floors and no dust behind. A minute later, Ivar stopped in front of his door. Hamersveld sagged in his arms. With a grunt, he swung the door wide. The lights flicked on, illuminating the space Ivar called his own. A place of solace for him, he loved it here. The sea grass wallpaper and bamboo floor blissed him out, helping him relax in the arms of organic cotton and eco-friendly feather-down every day.
Crossing the threshold, he flipped the duvet back with his mind and settled Hamersveld on pale sheets. Belly down, the male sighed and threw his arms wide. Pillows went flying, rolling over the side of the king-size mattress as the warrior burrowed in. A quick flick of the coverlet and…
Fantastic. Mission accomplished.
The newest member of the Razorbacks was covered up, bare ass no longer waving in the breeze. Good thing too. With Hamersveld sleeping it off, he could get back to business. The next superbug waited inside his laboratory, its nastiness caged inside liquid nitrogen. Pressing his chin to his chest, Ivar rubbed the back of his neck. The knots left by tension and fatigue loosened as he turned toward the door. A couple of hours… that’s all he needed. Maybe if he played with the viral load—tweaked the dosage, upped the incubation-to-infection rate—virus number three would prove more—
A blue light flashed in his periphery.
Ivar glanced toward the flat screen TV mounted on the wall opposite him. The video chat blinked on and then off, a name written in neon at its center.
“Ah, Christ.”
Lacing his fingers on top of his head, Ivar blew out a long breath. Just what he didn’t need. Rodin skyping in from Prague. He’d called every week for the past month, demanding an update. Denzeil usually fielded the calls, leaving Ivar to avoid the prick along with the fallout. But with his warrior out hunting, answering the phone fell to him.
Ivar sighed. First Hamersveld, now Rodin. The night kept going from bad to worse.
Annoyance mixing with dread, he skirted the end of the bed. His bare feet brushing over bamboo planks, Ivar crossed to the laptop sitting on the marble-topped bar. A quick flick opened the computer. He tapped on the mouse and…
Terrific. Rodin in all his glory.
“Ivar,” the male growled, dark eyes narrowed on him. “About time you answered my call. Denzeil and his trucker talk annoy me. Where have you been?”
Good to know. Another reason to keep his warrior around. “In the lab working out the viral load sequence.”
“Any progress?”
“Some. I’m still unsatisfied with the results. I’ll be testing another bug soon.”
“Good.” Fingering an expensive Mont Blanc, Rodin picked up the pen and turned it in his hand. “And the breeding program?”
“Underway on our end,” he said, watching the older male closely. Rodin was after more than just an update. Sure, he asked all the right questions, but something about the way he held himself warned Ivar. The leader of the Archguard might be an ally now, but one never knew about tomorrow. “Yours?”
“We’re on the hunt. I’ve got a dependable crew searching the city for HE females,” Rodin said, the pride in his tone telling.
“Keep looking,” Ivar murmured. “If you find one, you’ll find more. HEs gravitate toward one another. They tend to be related or live together.”
Rodin grunted and changed the subject. “How’s your cash flow?”
“I could use more.”
“You always want more.”
Ivar shrugged. “Science is an expensive sport.”
“A bloody one, I hear.”
“It’s better that way.”
The male huffed. “I knew there was a reason I like you.”
