Read Online Beneath the Skin by Adrian Phoenix - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Adrian Phoenix
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never rested easy with him, not even when he worked with dedicated vamp agents like Goodnight.
Just what was project Bad Seed? And how the hell had a True Blood become part of a joint special ops program, anyway? From what Gillespie had heard, True Blood vamps were rare and elusive beings. If Prejean was a tagged and observed subject in a study devoted to sociopaths, why in God's name had he been allowed to remain loose?
Just how many things were wrong with this picture?
Underwood's words replayed through Gillespie's mind.
If Goodnight is told that Prejean is a True Blood, she might hesitate at a crucial moment and allow him to escape.
The SB is her life, ma'am. She's a dedicated agent.
So was Wallace. And Lyons. Until they met Prejean.
Since Prejean seems to have such a strong effect on humans, ma'am, it sounds like Thibodaux, not Goodnight, might be in more danger of letting Prejean slip away. If I warned them--
No. Prejean's status is classified. Your agents only need to know that they are to capture a dangerous killer -- make him an enhanced one, given his speed -- and two corrupted feds.
Ma'am, I'd prefer to tell my agents the truth--
Underwood laughs, the sound as warm as flannel on a cold day. Amused. When she speaks again, her voice remains warm: The last time you disregarded instructions, three agents died. I'm sure you don't want to add to that tally.
Tension ratcheted his muscles another turn tighter. Gillespie wasn't sure who he was angrier with--Underwood for rubbing his face in a big, steaming pile of shame, or himself for creating that big, steaming pile in the first place.
Gillespie downed his beer, then went to the kitchen and fetched two more. He paused by his desk long enough to scoop up his laptop. Time to do a little research on one Dante Prejean, SB classified subject, rock front man, and sociopath. He wondered what the feds and local Louisiana law had on the bloodsucking bastard.
Just as he slouched back down onto the sofa, one cold, moist bottle in hand, the other bottle on the coffee table creating a new ring in the dust, the laptop resting against his thighs, his cell phone trilled.
Snatching it up, Gillespie hit the TALK button and said, "Gillespie."
"Sam?"
Gillespie sat up straight, his heart kicking his ribs, pulse thundering in his ears. Even though her voice sounded sleep-fogged, he couldn't imagine her calling at this hour unless ... "Is something wrong? The kids?"
"No, no, I had a dream, and ... Are you okay?"
Gillespie closed his eyes and pressed the cold beer bottle against his forehead. "I'm fine." He wanted to ask her about the dream, wondered what it meant that she still dreamed about him and cared enough to risk waking him to make sure he was all right.
"Since you answered on the first ring, you must be up already," Lynda said with a soft sigh. "Or maybe you haven't been to bed yet. You drinking, Sam?"
"Nah, just up early. Busy day today."
"Well, if you're okay--"
"Hey, I made an appointment with that therapist your sister recommended," Gillespie said on reflex, looking for a way to keep her on the phone, a way to keep her sleepy, warm voice in his ear. He hoped she didn't hear the lie in his voice.
"Great, that's, uh, good news. I hope it works out. It wasn't your fault--"
Gillespie's phone clicked, interrupting Lynda's words. He opened his eyes and lowered the beer bottle to the cushion beside him. Call waiting. With a low groan, he said, "Babe, I gotta go. Got another call."
"That's fine. I gotta go too. Bye."
The relief in Lynda's voice curdled his thoughts, and for an instant he caught a flash of what he must look like to her: a man eaten so lean by guilt that guilt was all that held him together--sinew and tendons. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He switched to the incoming call.
"Sir?" The surveillance tech's voice curled into his ear. "I've run the coordinates two more times and the result was the same both times."
"Send me the images." Gillespie placed
Just what was project Bad Seed? And how the hell had a True Blood become part of a joint special ops program, anyway? From what Gillespie had heard, True Blood vamps were rare and elusive beings. If Prejean was a tagged and observed subject in a study devoted to sociopaths, why in God's name had he been allowed to remain loose?
Just how many things were wrong with this picture?
Underwood's words replayed through Gillespie's mind.
If Goodnight is told that Prejean is a True Blood, she might hesitate at a crucial moment and allow him to escape.
The SB is her life, ma'am. She's a dedicated agent.
So was Wallace. And Lyons. Until they met Prejean.
Since Prejean seems to have such a strong effect on humans, ma'am, it sounds like Thibodaux, not Goodnight, might be in more danger of letting Prejean slip away. If I warned them--
No. Prejean's status is classified. Your agents only need to know that they are to capture a dangerous killer -- make him an enhanced one, given his speed -- and two corrupted feds.
Ma'am, I'd prefer to tell my agents the truth--
Underwood laughs, the sound as warm as flannel on a cold day. Amused. When she speaks again, her voice remains warm: The last time you disregarded instructions, three agents died. I'm sure you don't want to add to that tally.
Tension ratcheted his muscles another turn tighter. Gillespie wasn't sure who he was angrier with--Underwood for rubbing his face in a big, steaming pile of shame, or himself for creating that big, steaming pile in the first place.
Gillespie downed his beer, then went to the kitchen and fetched two more. He paused by his desk long enough to scoop up his laptop. Time to do a little research on one Dante Prejean, SB classified subject, rock front man, and sociopath. He wondered what the feds and local Louisiana law had on the bloodsucking bastard.
Just as he slouched back down onto the sofa, one cold, moist bottle in hand, the other bottle on the coffee table creating a new ring in the dust, the laptop resting against his thighs, his cell phone trilled.
Snatching it up, Gillespie hit the TALK button and said, "Gillespie."
"Sam?"
Gillespie sat up straight, his heart kicking his ribs, pulse thundering in his ears. Even though her voice sounded sleep-fogged, he couldn't imagine her calling at this hour unless ... "Is something wrong? The kids?"
"No, no, I had a dream, and ... Are you okay?"
Gillespie closed his eyes and pressed the cold beer bottle against his forehead. "I'm fine." He wanted to ask her about the dream, wondered what it meant that she still dreamed about him and cared enough to risk waking him to make sure he was all right.
"Since you answered on the first ring, you must be up already," Lynda said with a soft sigh. "Or maybe you haven't been to bed yet. You drinking, Sam?"
"Nah, just up early. Busy day today."
"Well, if you're okay--"
"Hey, I made an appointment with that therapist your sister recommended," Gillespie said on reflex, looking for a way to keep her on the phone, a way to keep her sleepy, warm voice in his ear. He hoped she didn't hear the lie in his voice.
"Great, that's, uh, good news. I hope it works out. It wasn't your fault--"
Gillespie's phone clicked, interrupting Lynda's words. He opened his eyes and lowered the beer bottle to the cushion beside him. Call waiting. With a low groan, he said, "Babe, I gotta go. Got another call."
"That's fine. I gotta go too. Bye."
The relief in Lynda's voice curdled his thoughts, and for an instant he caught a flash of what he must look like to her: a man eaten so lean by guilt that guilt was all that held him together--sinew and tendons. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He switched to the incoming call.
"Sir?" The surveillance tech's voice curled into his ear. "I've run the coordinates two more times and the result was the same both times."
"Send me the images." Gillespie placed
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