Instinct: A Chess Team Adventure - By Jeremy Robinson Page 0,22

it didn’t ease the effects of the disorder. Her senses were not only hypersensitive, they would get mixed up. Smells could give her blinding headaches. She could feel sounds. Rain, cursed with manmade chemicals, caused her to break out in hives. The sun, which most people felt as a blunt warmth, felt as a thousand pinpricks on her skin.

She’d managed to find her own coping mechanisms for most of the everyday challenges, and much of her work as a disease detective for the CDC kept her in familiar territory, even while in the field. But this mission, with its vast numbers of unknowns, new people, new experiences, and totally new surroundings was wreaking havoc with her senses faster than her mind could keep up. Her only defense was distraction . . . and that was hard to come by when she was being ignored.

While lost in her frustration, Sara hadn’t noticed her clenching hands, her reddening cheeks, or her pulsating jaw muscles. But King had. He was quite aware that Sara was about to lose her cool, and all it took was a few seconds of ignoring her. She needed some work. A lot of work. He hopped off the operating table, picked up some clothes from a nearby stool, and said, “Did you say something?”

Sara felt close to popping, but swallowed her words upon seeing King’s back. Not only was the musculature perfectly sculpted, but it was covered by a large, purple . . . something. A tattoo?

“It’s called a port-wine stain. It’s a birthmark.”

“A vascular malformation.”

King chuckled.

“They’re genetic. Connected to the RASA-one protein activator. You probably had a grandparent with one. They’re caused by dilated capillaries, usually on the face.”

“Not this one. It runs down my ass and around to my inner thighs.” King turned around with a smile as he donned a black, moisture-wicking long-sleeve shirt. Sara caught a glimpse of his chiseled stomach and blinked as the words that had been on the tip of her tongue dissolved into the recess of her mind. “Wanna see?”

“What? No. Absolutely not.” Sara continued to blink as her mind began to catch up with her distracted senses. Then she remembered: Pawn. “My code name—”

“You’d like something else?”

Sara began to respond, but was quickly cut off.

“Like it or not, you’re part of the Chess Team now, and the other names are already taken. Any time we take someone else on, they become Pawn. That’s just the way it is. If you want to rename yourself RASA-one, go for it, but from now until we debrief in Limbo, you’re Pawn.”

The room fell silent except for the wind rushing by the aircraft and the roar of its engines. Sara sighed with the realization that she was picking the fight to vent the anxiety caused in part because of the impending thirty-thousand-foot jump, but also from her assaulted senses. It was a stupid fight to pick. “Fine.” She turned to walk away and added, “At least I know I’m the expendable piece.”

King snatched her shoulder and spun her around. He glared into her eyes and said, “No one is expendable on this team. Including you. Especially you.”

He held her gaze and in that moment she felt the powerful sincerity of his words. His voice carried the passion of a man in love—though he was not. Still, his words stirred something in her and kept her from replying.

He noticed her forehead and shoulders relax. She’d be okay. “Of course, you’re working for the military now. We’re all expendable.”

Sara’s laugh was cut short as the door to the makeshift operating room swung open. Rook’s head poked in. “Hey, quit dry humpin’ and get your shit together. We’re an hour and fifteen out. Time to get geared up and start prebreathing.”

King smiled at Sara as Rook ducked out. Despite his insistence on designating her Pawn, he couldn’t stop thinking of her as Sara. And he felt it important he didn’t. Just a second’s worth of believing she could take care of herself might be enough for her to wind up dead. They might call her Pawn . . . one of the team . . . but she was really Sara, the sitting duck. “You heard the man, quit dry humpin’ me and get ready to jump.”

Sara began to respond, but a flicker of color on King’s wrist caught her attention. He saw her frown and looked at his arm. The outbreak meter had gone from green to yellow. Lewis’s test signal had transmitted. It was