“Ms. Yoshiie?” Tucker stepped closer.
The scent of blood was overpowering. It was so difficult to breathe, but she made herself stay still. “Please call me Azami.” Thank God her voice didn’t shake as her insides were. She could feel sweat trickling down the valley between her br**sts. “My brothers and I have adopted a more Western approach than some of our fellow countrymen. It doesn’t offend me to have you use my given name.”
“I’m Tucker then, ma’am,” the large man replied.
Like Sam, he was dark-skinned and brown-eyed. He looked like the kind of man you wanted at your back in a fight. He flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Although he didn’t appear to be watchful or suspicious, she knew that he was every bit as alert as the soldier in the background. Every bit as alert and on guard as she was.
Thorn needed a few minutes of solitude to push back the memories of a child’s terror. She glanced into the tent and knew the moment she’d done so that it was a mistake. Bright lights shone down on Sam. She could smell blood. She could see a bloody scalpel in Lily’s blood-covered glove. The lights blinded her eyes until all she saw was that terrible sharp blade coming toward her chest, slicing through her skin, muscle, and tissue, digging for her heart.
She was cold. So cold. Ice had invaded her veins. Everywhere she looked the lights stung her eyes and exaggerated the monstrous features of the masked figures bending over her. The doctor, with his reptilian-cold eyes, reached for a shiny metal instrument with two handles connected by a bar in the middle.
It is nothing to fear, Thorn. Simply an instrument to spread your bones to get to your weakened heart. Surely you want me to fix it for you.
He moved the paddles closer together and leaned over her. She bit back a scream, sweat pouring from her body, her heart hammering so loud it echoed through that cold, sterile room.
Azami. The voice was more slurred than ever. Male. Brushing over the memories of a terrifled child. Soothing. Warmth pouring through all that terrible ice-cold.
Thorn stiffened, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth. Father? Oh, God, she was truly losing her mind. She couldn’t pull back and there was nowhere to run and hide, to be alone in order to gather herself and push those memories back behind that steel door she kept closed in her mind.
“What’s wrong with you, Kyle?” Lily’s voice snapped out. Imperious. Demanding. “Keep him under. Do you think I can do this when he’s awake? We’re going to lose him to shock if he doesn’t die from blood loss.”
“He’s fighting it,” a man answered. “I swear, I’m afraid to give him more. He might not come back. He won’t go under. I’ve never had a patient react like this before.”
Through the netting, Thorn saw Lily bend over Sam. “Don’t fight it, Sam. Go to sleep and let me take care of you. Don’t fight me.”
Azami.
There it was again. Her name. But it was Sam, not her father calling to her. It was Sam, still connected to her mind, reading her memories of childhood. That child who had been used for experiment after evil, bloody, torturous experiment. Her body sliced open—usually without anesthesia so the doctor could gauge her ability to withstand pain. So many experiments from depriving her oxygen, forcing her underwater into a cold pool to see how long she could hold out and if they could bring her back. The enhancements that Whitney believed were complete failures. Her DNA tampered with. Forcing the other girls to use their gifts on her to perfect their abilities.
I will not have you destroying my record, Thorn. You are such a disappointment to me and I’ve given you every opportunity—far more than anyone else.
She knew even if she clapped her hands over her ears, she would never stop that voice from telling her that her brain was useless to him, but at least he could dissect her body and examine her so he could avoid inadvertently creating other useless subjects like her again. If she would only behave and cooperate, he could test new medicines and procedures before trying them on his more valuable subjects.
He had operated without anesthesia many times to judge the body’s ability to withstand pain before it gave out. He’d stopped and restarted her heart just as many times. Her heart had grown so weak Dr. Whitney had believed she would die anyway, so he’d finally thrown her away—into the alley of one of the worst streets where human trafficking and sex traders plied their slaves.
Sam knew too much. He knew who she was. If she could hear Whitney’s voice echoing through her mind, so could Sam. He was sharing her mind, her memories, every horrid detail. She swallowed hard, sweat beading on her skin. It never once had occurred to her, when assessing all the risks to her coming to the GhostWalker compound, that someone would share her mind and uncover her childhood shame. Those terrible years of torment and vulnerability.
“You’ll have to give him more. I’m going to lose him.” This time there was desperation in Lily’s voice.
“He’s turning his head, Lily, trying to look . . .” The voice trailed off.
Thorn looked up to see both Lily and the other man looking toward her, following that slow head turn Sam made even in his barely conscious state. They knew he was looking at her. To warn them? They’d probably think that, but he was trying to reach out—to help her. He was every bit as selfless as her father had been.
Mamoru Yoshiie simply appeared from the darkness, a small, almost thin man in a gray kimono and wide leg trousers, split-toed socks, and sandals. Behind him were two young boys, one thirteen, the other ten. Yoshiie had stood over her, shaking his head at the small group of thugs who had begun to gather close to see what he would do to her. Later, she learned, the thugs were the feared yakuza, who ran the sex and drugs in this part of the city. They bowed slightly to Yoshiie and slowly gave way as he bent to lift her into his arms.
Thorn had been so frightened. She was tiny, her weight no more than a feather to the older man. He stared into her eyes and peace descended. She had never felt like that again with anyone—until Sam.
She closed her eyes. She should let Sam go. She should be glad he was slipping away. Her heart slammed hard in her chest. The scars burned like fire. The little girl wouldn’t stop screaming. Even her fingernails hurt where she’d torn them off trying to get out of the small box they’d stuffed her into on the trip back to Japan.
She forced air through her lungs. There was no letting Sam go, not even to save her own life. There might be no chance for them, but Sam Johnson needed to be in the world. She rejected Dr. Whitney’s assessment that he wasn’t worth anything. She wouldn’t throw him away, not when she’d been inside of him and knew he was worth all the gold in the world. Her father would never have thrown him away. Just as he’d saved Daiki and Eiji and his beloved daughter, Azami, he would have plucked Sam from any danger and raised him to know how to take care of himself.
Don’t, Sam. Not for me. It was a long time ago. Let them work on you. Just go to sleep.
I can feel such pain in you.
She took a breath and deep inside, she stilled.
His voice swamped her. Brought her warmth, but she felt that terrible loneliness that echoed through his tone. Sadly she knew how he felt. He’d been in her, all that heat and strength, and when he was gone, she’d been aware of just how alone she’d been for too many years. She didn’t know how it would ever be possible to have him in her life—not when she had no choice but to complete what she’d set out to do—but with him alive there was always a chance. In any case, the world needed a man of compassion and strength and duty such as Sam Johnson.