Healer

13

     Reynolds tried to memorize the various turns they took, but that soon proved hopeless. The ride went on and on. They couldn't see much out of the windows from their position in the cage. The two men riding up front didn't say anything the entire trip. With nothing to see, nothing to hear, and no real chance at escape, Reynolds eventually allowed himself to fall asleep. He figured wherever he was being taken, there was a chance he might need the rest.

     The sound of the side door being opened roused him from his sleep. Startled, Reynolds saw a couple of men opening the cage. Pzinski, who had been pressed protectively against him, snarled, kicking at them when they reached for him. Reynolds twisted himself to do the same, yelling in protest when he saw the other recruit dragged out and thrown roughly to the ground. Then he cried out again when he saw the hands reaching for him.

     "Don't touch him!" Pzinski roared. "Leave him alone, motherfuckers!"

     "Unfortunately, this bastard is right," another man called, even as he aimed a kick at Pzinski, making the recruit grunt and writhe in pain. "You saw what he could do. Apparently, it happens any time someone touches his skin."

     "That's why he's all covered up?" another man asked.

     "Probably, so try not to touch his skin."

     "Not much chance of that," grumbled the first man trying to catch hold of a thrashing, kicking Reynolds. "This fucker's completely covered from his toes to his neck except for his hand, where he took his glove off. What is this, a onesie? What the hell kind of operation are they running in that lighthouse anyway?"

     Reynolds grimaced, even as he kept fighting. Over and over, the fact that Hunters never told non-Foundation personnel that weren't being brought in anything about Artifacts had been stressed in their training. He'd already broken that rule when he'd healed Pzinski. It was a bad, bad mistake. The only thing he'd done worse was running back to heal instead of getting to Clemens. If they ever got back to the lighthouse, Reynolds knew he'd have an awful lot of explaining to do.

     Meanwhile, they were dodging most of his attacks. He got one good kick in, got a punch in the gut for his trouble, and was lifted between them by his right arm and his ankles. Still grumbling, the irritated duo carried him out of the van, taking him past Pzinski. Pzinski was still on the ground. He'd rolled into a sitting position and watched with wide, scared eyes. Reynolds could only look mutely back at him. Apparently, he'd been right that Reynolds had been the target. But now, what would happen to Pzinski?

     Reynolds looked ahead. The two men were still moving, carrying him toward a large, elaborate mansion. It looked a little like a southern plantation house, although the wheelchair ramp seemed oddly out of place. His kidnappers ignored it, using the stairs to carry him into the house. They went through a door held by another man. The doorman, unlike his kidnappers, was unmasked. That was not a good sign. The kidnappers likely kept their faces concealed to avoid identification. The fact that those in the house did not indicated they had no fear of discovery. Reynolds prayed they were badly mistaken.

     His captors continued to carry him through the house to a large staircase and into the elevator installed next to it. Once again, the elevator looked out of place among the general decor. Reynolds noticed this only in passing. The way he was being carried was causing the cuffs to dig into his wrists, even through the skin protectors on his arms. Knowing that any request he made would most likely be ignored, Reynolds could only grit his teeth and bear it.

     Another long hall, another servant at the door with a blank expression, and they were in a large office. Reynolds was lifted and deposited roughly into a fancy leather chair before a massive mahogany desk. Blinking, he looked around. The office was lined with bookshelves groaning under the weight of countless books. One shelf was filled with what appeared to be first editions. Another shelf was loaded with books on law, and a third with financial tomes. But the bulk of the space was occupied by medical books. At a glance, it appeared most of them were dealing with neurology and neurosurgery. Despite the massive collection of books, the office was open and airy. Large old-fashioned windows behind the desk and off to one side let in bright natural light. The side window was open a little, permitting a faint breeze carrying the scent of flowers, damp earth, and the tang of fertilizer. Beyond the windows, the only other way in or out of the room was the door he'd just entered. His Hunter training had taught him to always check for exits, anywhere he could escape in an emergency or an enemy could come through. With his hands and feet still restrained, there was little chance of escape. But he tracked the footsteps of his kidnappers as they exited the room. The door behind him closed with a click. Alright. That reduced the chances of anyone coming in. Now, he could focus on the sole occupant of the room.