Scorched

slammed a foot into the back of his knees, sending him flying forward. The other clubbed him across the face, hot blood splattering as his nose burst open. A third drew his gun, shoving the barrel up against the back of his head, execution style. Connor cringed.

“No!” The leader wrestled the gun away from his buddy, giving him a scolding look. “Darius says we have to make it look like a heart attack.” He peered down into Grandpa’s terrified eyes with a mocking grin. “You’ll be a good old fart and come along quietly, now won’t you?”

“Why are you doing this?” Trinity’s grandpa cried, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks, mixing with the blood.

The Dracken mercenary didn’t answer. But Connor didn’t need him too. In fact, it all made perfect sense. Grandpa was Trinity’s only family—the only tie she had left to the outside world. Cut that tie and she’d have nothing left except them and the dragon and their empty promises to save the world. She’d be completely under their control.

It was the perfect plan except for one thing. He wasn’t about to let them get away with it.

His mind raced for a plan. This is what he’d trained for, why they’d sent him here in the first place. But he hadn’t bargained on being so weak—practically out of spark. Group pushes were tricky at best, even at full energy levels, and he was running on empty. But he had to try. He couldn’t take on five armed men by himself. Closing his eyes, he pulled deep within, drawing up all his reserves, not holding anything back.

You’ve got the wrong guy.

He opened his eyes, scanning the group, praying they’d heard him and would obey. But they were busy dragging Grandpa to his feet and shuttling him to a nearby van with blacked-out windows. His push hadn’t affected them at all.

Connor tried again.

The cops are on their way. You need to leave. Now!

Icy pain stabbed his skull and he nearly passed out from the effort. But when he opened his eyes, he realized it was all for nothing. The men kept at their tasks, as if nothing had happened.

He gripped his head in his hands, trying to think past the pain. This was not going well. A few more minutes and they’d be gone—Trinity’s grandpa never heard from again. He watched, helpless, as the old man struggled uselessly against his captors. From this close proximity, he could feel Grandpa’s terror and confusion as if it were his own. He certainly was a strong sender. Maybe one of the strongest Connor had ever met, save for Trinity herself.

That’s it! The idea struck him like a lightning bolt. If he could get Grandpa to help him, maybe their combined spark could complete the push. He didn’t know if the old man could focus past his injuries, but he had no other options and they were running out of time.

To me! he sent out. I need as much spark as you can spare!

He watched, praying for some reaction, some clue to tell him Grandpa had heard him and would obey. For a split second, he thought he saw something in the man’s eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. Still, he had no time to send again. He had to hope for the best.

Pushing past the pain in his skull, he closed his eyes one more time. Drawing his energy into a tiny, bright white ball and thrusting it as hard as he could.

You’ve got the wrong guy. Walk away now. The cops are almost here.

He fell back, seeing stars, unable, for a moment, to even move. His legs and arms were Jell-O and his stomach swam with nausea. Still he watched, waiting. Praying. They’d almost reached the van. If this hadn’t worked, it was all over. It was too late to try again.

For a moment, he saw no sign. Then one of them looked up.

“I don’t think we have the right guy,” he said.

“What?” the leader lashed at him. “What are you talking about? Of course it’s the right guy.”

“No,” his buddy agreed, looking at Grandpa, his face awash with confusion. “I don’t think it is.”

“Do you hear sirens?” added the third man. “I think the cops are on their way.”

The leader’s face twisted in rage. “You morons. What’s wrong with you? There’re no sirens. And no cops either. Now get him the hell in the van and let’s get out of here.”

But the men had already released Grandpa, the old man collapsing unceremoniously down onto the pavement. They looked at one another, fear clear in their faces, then rushed to the van, jumping in and closing the doors behind them. A moment later the engine roared to life.

“What are you doing?” screamed the leader. “Get back out here! Get him in the van!”

But his cries were for nothing. And the vehicle soon sped away. Connor let out a silent cheer. Now it was one on one. Even in his weakened condition, he liked those odds. Too bad his gun was back in the car—that would have made it almost easy.

“Aw hell,” the leader was growling, watching the van disappear around a corner. Then he turned back to Grandpa. “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pistol. “Guess I have no choice now.”

This was it! Connor dove in, throwing himself on top of the man. The gun went off with a loud bang and for a split second Connor thought the guy had missed, that the bullet had rang out into thin air. But then he felt a warmness soak his arm, followed by a stabbing pain. No such luck.

But he had no time to consider the extent of his wound. Instead, using his good arm, he managed to wrestle the gun from the mercenary’s grip, tossing it away. Then he clamped his fingers around the man’s neck, squeezing as hard as he could. The man struggled, kicking and gasping, but Connor had him well pinned.

“This is for Trinity!” he growled, digging his thumbs into the man’s sunken flesh. “This is for my dad!” He dug in harder, finding himself oddly enjoying the terrified bulge in the man’s eyes.

“Connor, stop! You’re going to kill him!”

He felt a hand grab his injured arm and he screamed in agony as the pain exploded all over again. But the jolt was enough to break the spell. He loosened his grip, looking up to see Trinity’s grandfather looming above him, a scared but determined look on his wrinkled face.

“Come on,” he hissed. “We have to get out of here.”

“Wait,” Connor said, his soldier training conquering his raging emotions. “I need to get information from him first.” Ignoring his throbbing head, he plunged into the unconscious man’s mind, gasping at what he found inside.

It was ugly—black and decrepit and rank. Smelling of death and decay. The Dracken had evidently chosen their mercenaries well. There was no pity in this man, no sense of humanity. If he had ever lived and loved and hoped and dreamed, all of that had died out a long time ago.

The ugliness made Connor’s stomach turn, but still he pressed on, crawling through the darkness until he finally reached the small nugget of information he needed. He yanked hard, grabbing it and securing it into his own consciousness. Only then did he allow himself to pull back. Once he was out, his stomach wrenched and he vomited, the ugliness spewing out in black pools onto the pavement.

He looked up, staring blankly at Grandpa, all his energy expended. The old man grabbed his good arm. “Come on,” he pleaded. “I can hear sirens. You’ll be no good to her if they lock you up.”

Connor forced himself to his feet. He glanced at his arm, horrified at the blood soaking through his shirt. Cradling it against his chest, he ran after Grandpa, back toward their car and away from the scene of the crime.

When they reached the outskirts of town, Connor finally allowed himself a much-needed breath. His arm throbbed, his head felt thick and dizzy. He was losing too much blood, he realized vaguely.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” Trinity’s grandfather said, glancing over at him with concerned eyes. He didn’t look in much better shape than Connor felt. His nose had swollen to twice its size and blood had crusted on his unshaven chin. They made quite a pair, he thought grimly.

“I’ll be all right,” he assured the older man, reaching into his bag and pulling out his precious burn salve. In addition to soothing burns, it did a good job of closing wounds and preventing infection. He winced as he forced himself to smear the salve over the spot where the bullet had hit him. Thankfully, it appeared to have gone right through. He wouldn’t have to dig it from his skin.

“I’m sorry, Connor,” Grandpa said, watching him with dismay clear on his face. “I should have never taken