Powerless (Bird of Stone Book 3) Read online

  POWERLESS

  Bird of Stone Series

  Book Three

  By Tracey Ward

  POWERLESS

  Bird of Stone Series

  Book Three

  By Tracey Ward

  Text Copyright © 2017 Tracey Ward

  All Rights Reserved

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except as used in book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events, or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Max

  “You suck at geography, SB.”

  Alex glares at me. “Maybe you suck at giving directions.”

  “Maybe, but not likely. Here was my direction: Slip me to Algiers. Pretty straight forward. Am I right?”

  “You always seem to think so.”

  “Prove me wrong and we’ll have that conversation.” I point to the strait of water next to us. To the continent on the other side. “Do you know what that is?”

  “Alaska?” she asks sarcastically.

  “Spain.”

  “How do know that? I Slipped us here and I don’t even—“

  “I know because I’m good at geography,” I interrupt impatiently. “That water, that’s the Strait of Gibraltar. It runs between two countries; Spain and Morocco. That’s Spain,” I tell her slowly, enunciating carefully. I point to the sand under our feet. “This is Morocco. Algiers is in Algeria, not Morocco. But I think you know what’s in Morocco, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

  She flexes her jaw. “Tangier.”

  “Tangier. Not Algiers, Tangier.”

  “In my defense—“

  I hold up my hand to stop her. “Don’t say they sound similar. That’s not a defense. That’s a hearing problem. A problem that’s yours but you’re pawning off on me.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest, her long hair whipping angrily in the wind. An auburn lock is strung across her forehead, a soft line over the hard crease in her brow. “I’m gonna remind you that I’m doing you a favor right now. I didn’t want to come here. I have zero interest in being your drug mule, but you’ve somehow convinced Nick to look the other way and he somehow convinced me to help you, so maybe quit with the attitude, give me your hand, and let me Slip us out of here.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “What’s the point in staying? Do you have another drug dealer in Morocco?”

  “I could easily get one. This place is crawling with hashish.”

  “Is it as illegal here as it is in Algiers?”

  “Probably more so.”

  “Then let’s go!”

  “You’re always in such a hurry.” I frown, blinking wide and innocent eyes. “Do you not like hanging out with me, SB?”

  She groans, letting her head fall back limply. “Stop calling me SB,” she scolds the sky.

  “Stop being so pretty when you’re passed out, Sleeping Beauty, and I will.”

  “That’s so creepy coming from you.”

  “We can’t all be Carver. And I think it’s funny that you’re giving me a hard time for illegally buying and selling hash while, on the same trip, you’re illegally buying and selling herbs.”

  “Yeah,” she deadpans. “It’s so funny.”

  “Did I say ‘funny’? I meant hypocritical.”

  Alex doesn’t answer. We’ve had this fight before. A few times. I always start it because I’m an instigator. It’s in my blood. My mom’s a born button pusher and my dad’s a lawyer. We Campbells live to argue.

  I wonder sometimes what they would say about my life right now. I went from being an elite American soldier to a fugitive drug dealer in the UK. My mom would say I’m doing what I need to do to survive. She’d demand to know why I stopped at cannabis and wasn’t telling Alex to Slip me to Columbia to grab some cocaine, where the real money is. But as blasé about buying and selling as I am, I’m not ready to make that leap. Mary Jane is one thing. It’s a Schedule I drug that doesn’t even deserve to make the DEA hit list. Cocaine is Schedule II. It’s addictive, a life ruiner, and while I don’t get high on anything but my own awesome self, I don’t judge the people I sell hashish to. But I’d feel dirty pushing powder. And I know my dad would too.

  If I had a moral compass, which I don’t, his name would be Maxwell Campbell, Sr. I love my mom, but I love my dad more.

  Almost as much as I love myself.

  “Are you ready to go or what?” Alex insists irritably.

  I shake my hands out, rolling my head on my shoulders. Prepping.

  The reason I’ve been laying into her like I have isn’t because I’m that annoyed that she’s a hypocrite or that we landed in the wrong place. We’re actually not that far off course, plus it takes two seconds to Slip us somewhere else. It’s no big deal. To be honest, I’m down to see new places. To stamp my imaginary passport. What I’m not down for is losing my lunch. She’s getting better at the Slipping thing, but ‘better’ doesn’t translate to ‘perfect’ in any language. The ride is still rough. My stomach is rolling drunkenly in my gut, my head pounding, my mouth slowly filling with saliva. I need a minute to let it settle itself, and what better way to use that time than by berating her?

  Carver will come at me for it later if she rats me out, but she probably won’t. She rarely does. I’ll hand that to her; Alex has got a spine of steel. She fights her own battles, even when she knows she’s losing. It’s a relief to know she’s got a harder side, because on the regular she reminds me of Walters. Pleasant. Kind. Naïve. A victim waiting to happen.

  “What are you shopping for today?” I ask. “What’s hot on the Black Market?”

  “Saffron.”

  “Edgy,” I chuckle.

  “It’s the most expensive spice on Earth,” she informs me, turning her eyes to mine. They’re round and full. Open and enduring. “Six tiny pieces of it in a bottle at Walmart costs almost a hundred dollars.”

  “Get real. You could buy out a Walmart for a hundred dollars.”

  “Either you’ve never actually been to a Walmart or you have a very loose understanding of how money works.”

  “Right on both counts.”

  “How is that possible?”

  I shrug. “Rich family. I was spoiled rotten.”

  “Shocking.”

  “I’ll surprise you again – I’m an only child.” I grin, spreading my arms proudly. “Mama’s Little Miracle Baby live in the flesh.”

  “In what world are you a miracle? I see you more as a plague.”

  “In the world where m
y mom had three miscarriages before me.”

  Alex’s mouth falls open, her eyes going tight around the edges. I can read her like a children’s book, she’s that transparent. She feels guilty. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Why? You didn’t kill them.”

  “Jesus, Campbell!”

  “Buddha, Mills!”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. I thought we were screaming deities at each other. Is that not what’s happening?”

  She pauses to a take a deep breath. I’ve seen her do this a lot over the past five months. Living in a house with four guys is taking its toll on her, especially since she says I count as three guys on my own, and ‘not in a good way’.

  “Give me your hands,” she demands quietly. Calmly.

  “Where are you getting your saffron from?”

  “I get it at the source, buy it for a song, then sell it for a fortune in the States and England.”

  “I asked you where you’re getting it from. Not what you do with it once you have it. I can figure the chain of sale myself.”

  “Usually I get it from Greece.”

  “’Usually’. Okay. So where do you get it ‘unusually’?”

  Alex looks away, just for a second. Just long enough to telegraph her discomfort with the topic. “I’m getting it from Iran,” she mumbles vaguely.

  I lean forward. “I’m sorry, I’m hard of hearing. Where’d you say we’re going today?”

  “I said I need to get it from Iran,” she repeats more clearly. Defiantly.

  “That’s what I thought you said.”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “It’s a war zone,” I argue hotly.

  “Half the world is a war zone.”

  “That’s absolutely untrue. Not half the world is bordered by Afghanistan, Iraq, and friggin’ Syria.”

  “I don’t think Syria is on its border.”

  “Look who’s been paying attention during our study sessions!” I shout, throwing my hands in the air. “And here I thought you were sleeping through them considering this slip-up today. Pun intended.”

  Alex’s ability is lit – she can Slip anywhere in the world at any time. I love it. I want it. But it’s hamstringed by her vague knowledge of the world. She spent most of her life avoiding any information about the anywhere beyond her front door because the more she thought about other places, the more likely she was to accidentally Slip there back when she didn’t have control of her skills. It was dangerous and terrifying. I actually get why she sheltered herself. But now that she has control, her accuracy when Slipping is approximate at best. I got sick of days like today being every day, so I started teaching her. She hates it on a lot of levels but she sits down with me three times a week pouring over maps and facts and photos from around the globe because the results speak for themselves. She’s getting better. Not great, obviously, but better.

  “You’re seriously the worst,” she grinds out.

  “And you’re seriously not Slipping us to Iran today.”

  “What are you so worried about? You’re dealing with drug lords in Morocco!”

  “I’ll take a drug lord over a war lord any day. Their motivations are much more pure.”

  “They’re angels, I’m sure,” she snaps sarcastically.

  “And I’m not dealing with anyone in Morocco. Algeria, remember? Tangier. Algiers.” I stomp my foot on the sand. “Tangier.” I point to the east, behind her. “Algiers.”

  “Yeah, I get it.” Alex impatiently offers me her hand. “Are you ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.” I take her hand in mine, my long fingers enveloping hers. I hold onto her firmly, casting her a winning smile. “Be gentle.”

  The world begins to shimmer and shine around us, light bending to breaking. Our surroundings turn fuzzy, unfocused and colorful in ways my eyes can’t understand. In the midst of it, just before my stomach lurches nearly straight out of my body, I catch a glimpse of Alex’s face. Of her lips – smiling and vicious.

  She is not going to be gentle.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NICK

  They’ve been gone for three hours. It’s too long. Longer than it should take considering Alex’s ability to pass through the ether like walking through an open door. They should have been back by now and I should be starting my day, but I can’t. Not until I know they’re safe.

  It used to be I’d go with them. First, because Alex needed the extra boost of power she can pull from me to make her Slips more accurate. Second, because the areas she and Campbell go to aren’t exactly friendly. And third, because those two don’t play well together. At all. I was a battery, a bodyguard, and a chaperone in one. It was a system that worked, right up until it didn’t.

  In the old cottage we’re renting in Mullion, England, we’re broken into two teams. We sleep in shifts, one team awake at all times. We haven’t had an attack from the outside yet, but that doesn’t mean it won’t ever happen. And Campbell and I have been trained to be ready for anything at any time.

  In the beginning, Alex and I were on the same shift. We shared a room. We ate every meal together. Made every Slip together. We were in each other’s space constantly, something that started to wear on both of us. I’ve never had a steady girlfriend before, and living with one was more than I bargained for. I needed space, and in a house with five people and three bedrooms, that was hard to come by. Things got tense. Then they got angry.

  “Alex, why are your bras everywhere?!”

  “I don’t know, Nick, why is your face everywhere?!”

  Things got ugly from there.

  I can calmly parachute behind enemy lines in the dark of night in the middle of a firefight, but having a heated discussion with my girlfriend triggers the flight response in me like nothing else ever has before. I almost walked out after that one. It went on for half an hour before Brody shouted through the wall that some people were trying to sleep. People with super-senses who could hear every barb we threw at each other.

  It killed the fight in both of us, snapping us to our senses. We took a walk to the cold ocean and had a long talk under the stars. Being by the water like that, it was coming home for us. It was the dreams we shared by the lake. It was the way we fell in love. It was where we decided we needed to get on separate shifts. Alex swapped out, going on shift with Campbell and Marcus. It was a relief in a lot of ways, but I also felt anxious about being away from her. Like she was in danger, because let’s be real, we all are. All the time.

  It took a few weeks before I calmed down about being separated from Alex, reminding myself that Campbell is a trained PJ too. He’s just as good at the job as I am, and Beck would die before he let anything happen to her. That guy has the strength to break a car in half. I couldn’t ask for a better bodyguard than that.

  And that’s what has me worried today. He’s here in the house, sick as a dog, and she’s God knows where with Campbell, only half-protected.

  “I’m gonna throw up,” Beck moans from the couch.

  Brody and I share a wary glance across the kitchen table. I know what we’re both thinking – who’s going to clean that up when he doesn’t make it to the bathroom. Again.

  “You okay, buddy?” Brody calls to him, the dread on his face at odds with his casual, concerned tone.

  Beck rotates on the couch. The ancient wood creaks dolefully under his small frame. “I hate the flu.”

  “I hear ya.”

  “You want some ginger ale?” I offer, thinking that’s what Alex would do. She’s my go-to gauge on human kindness. My default instinct is to let people take care of themselves. It’s not that I don’t care if people are suffering or not – I’m a PJ after all, trained to risk my life to save others – but I’m not a nursemaid. I’m no one’s nanny. In my mind, if you can get up and get it yourself, then do it.

  “Where’s Alex?” Beck asks groggily.

  “She’s still on a run with Campbell.”

  He hesitates, checking the clock on t
he mantle. “They’re late.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter into my coffee cup. “I know.”

  “I should have gone with them.”

  No shit, dude, I think irritably.

  “They’ll be here soon,” Brody assures us both. “They’re fine.”

  I look at him critically, trying to decide if he believes that or not. It’s impossible to tell, and when I ask myself the same question, I get the same answer.

  It’s impossible to tell.

  “Where did they go today?” I ask Marcus.

  He grunts thoughtfully. When he speaks, his words are thick. Slurred with sleep. “Algiers and Iran.”

  I pause, my coffee cup hovering just at the edge of my lips. “Iran?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Campbell’s buying product in Iran now?”

  “Not Campbell. Alex.” He pulls his blanket high up over his thin shoulder. “She needed saffron.”

  Across from me, Brody sits back hard in his seat. “Is that a new thing? I thought she was getting it from Greece.”

  “Her supplier had a bad harvest. Crickets or something. It’s all gone. She’s switching to a different seller in Iran.”

  “When?”

  “Today.”

  I set my cup down heavily.

  The room falls silent under its weight. Under the weight of the situation.

  I’m opening my mouth to lay into Beck for letting them go alone to a new deal in a new place when I spot a familiar shimmer outside the kitchen window. The green hills roll like water. Like a current in the deepest depths of the sea where man has never been. I feel the hair on my arms stand up, my body responding to the charge swirling outside the backdoor. The immense energy inside me instinctively rising to meet it. The air bends with light and electricity, finally going still.

  Across from me, Brody sits rigid as a statue. He’s listening to sounds I’ll never hear. To the press of feet on the ground. The beat of hearts in their cages.

  He frowns at me unhappily.

  It’s not Alex and Campbell.

  I rise silently, my hand going to the gun always holstered on my shoulder. I don’t pull it out, but I keep it close. I keep it ready.