From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of something flying past his position. His gaze drawn by the movement, he turned his head to see a small, fist-sized black disk adhering itself to the wall beside the Cerberus guards.

  The Illusive Man dropped to the floor and curled up into a ball, covering his head with his hands just as the grenade exploded. The concussive blast tossed the guards like rag dolls, bouncing them off the wall and sending them ricocheting out into the center of the hall. Any chance of their surviving was immediately snuffed out as their twisted bodies were riddled with turian bullets.

  The Illusive Man knew his pistol didn’t have the firepower to keep the turians at bay. But he was damned if he was going to let them take him alive. Rolling out from behind the covering beam, he grabbed for the nearest guard’s assault rifle.

  Wrapping his fingers around the weapon, he mentally braced to feel the impact of the enemy rounds as they overwhelmed his kinetic barriers. He came up on one knee and raised the weapon, but never fired.

  The scene before him was a masterpiece of brutally efficient mayhem.

  In addition to the turian shot by the guards, two more were already on the floor. One’s throat had been slashed from behind, the cut so deep it nearly severed the head. The back of the other’s head had been blown off, the result of someone’s firing a pistol jammed against the back of his skull so the kinetic barriers couldn’t protect him.

  The remaining three were engaged in close-quarters fighting with Kai Leng. Despite not wearing a combat suit—he wasn’t even wearing a shirt—Cerberus’s top wet-work operative made short work of the heavily armored turians.

  At melee range the heavy turian assault rifles proved to be a disadvantage; they were too slow and cumbersome to be brought to bear on a target as lithe and mobile as the human butcher attacking them. Kai Leng’s weapons presented no such problems.

  He stabbed his knife in an upward thrust toward the head of his nearest opponent. The sharply ascending angle brought it in beneath the turian’s protective visor, impaling him through the underside of his chin. The blade penetrated up through tissue and bone and into the brain, resulting in instantaneous death.

  The weapon was stuck fast in its victim, but Kai Leng had already released his grip on the hilt. One of the turians had thrown down his own ineffectual weapon and grabbed Kai Leng’s wrist with both hands in an attempt to break his arm, or at least wrench the pistol from his grasp. But his combat suit made his movements clumsy and awkward, and the thick gloves prevented him from getting a proper grip.

  Kai Leng slipped free and dropped to the ground, his leg sweeping out to knock the turian off his feet even as his partner fired a round from his assault rifle at the space where his human target had been standing upright an instant before.

  Crouched low to the floor, Kai Leng shoved the nose of the pistol against the back of the still standing turian’s knee. The joints of the combat suits were less protected to maintain flexibility; the thin mesh material did nothing to absorb the projectile when he squeezed the trigger. With a scream the turian fell to the floor, the assault rifle slipping from his grasp.

  It had all taken less than a second. By the time the Illusive Man processed what was happening and dropped the Gorgon to reclaim his pistol, Kai Leng had grabbed the injured turian’s helmet. One hand slipped beneath the chin, the other braced itself against the crown. The corded muscles of the tattooed human’s bare chest flexed and he let out a grunt as he wrenched the turian’s head at an impossible angle, breaking his neck and severing the spinal cord.

  As the last turian was scrambling back to his feet, the Illusive Man shot him in the back. The first five rounds from the auto-repeating Harpy were deflected by the kinetic barriers. The next five were absorbed by the heavily padded layers of the combat suit. The final five pierced the flesh, damaging several vital internal organs.

  The turian dropped to his knees, then slumped forward onto his face. Kai Leng added a final round to the back of the head from point-blank range for good measure before standing up.

  “Is it clear the way you came?” the Illusive Man asked as he, too, stood up.

  Kai Leng shook his head. “Our only hope is to get to the escape pod back in sector three.”

  The Illusive Man nodded. “Dr. Nuri’s already there.”

  The two of them ran down the corridors of the doomed space station, knowing they could come across another turian patrol around any corner. The only reason they’d survived the last engagement was because Kai Leng had been able to sneak up on the turians from behind while they were focused on the Illusive Man and his guards. If they ran into another patrol, the ending would be much different.

  Fortunately they didn’t come across any enemy troops, though less than fifty meters from the escape pod they found grisly evidence that the turians had passed by earlier. Dr. Nuri’s body was sprawled across the floor, her lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling, a gaping shotgun wound in her chest.

  Neither man made any comment as they stepped over her and continued on their way. A few seconds later they were in the escape pod. The vessel was capable of holding four passengers, but they weren’t about to wait around and see if anyone else showed up.

  Kai Leng sealed the door; the instant he was done the Illusive Man slammed his fist down on the button that jettisoned them to safety. As they shot clear of the station, the older man slumped across the padded seat, panting heavily in an effort to catch his breath.

  It had been a long time since he’d seen any action; his body wasn’t used to the intense physical exertions of combat. As he gasped for air, he was acutely aware that Kai Leng wasn’t even breathing hard.

  After a few minutes he had recovered enough to speak.

  “You eliminated Grayson, I assume,” he said.

  Kai Leng shook his head. “There wasn’t time. It was kill him or save you. I chose you.”

  The Illusive Man almost replied, “You made the wrong choice.” Instead, he bit his tongue as he realized he could just as easily have asked Kai Leng the same question back on the station, while there was still a chance to do something about it.

  The encounter with the turians had rattled him. He had thought he was going to die. Faced with a glimpse of his own mortality, he had decided not to ask Kai Leng about Grayson because he didn’t want to know the answer. Not if it could cost him his life. He was a patriot, but deep down he wasn’t ready to be a martyr.

  He also had to accept the fact that this was all his own fault. There had been no need for him to come to the facility to oversee the experiments in person. He could have stayed on his secure station and received regular updates. But he’d wanted to watch Grayson suffer. He’d let his desire for vengeance override his common sense, and it had almost gotten him killed.

  The truth wasn’t pleasant, but the Illusive Man had made a career out of facing unpleasant truths. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. And he wasn’t about to chastise one of his best agents for doing something he had tacitly approved of.

  “That operation was too well planned to be a one-off mission,” he informed Kai Leng. “Get on the secure channels. Find out who else was hit.”

  Damage control had to be his first priority. He needed to evaluate the situation, take stock of his resources. After that, he could turn his attention back to Grayson.

  He couldn’t be allowed to live. It wasn’t about revenge anymore. They’d turned him into a monster, an abomination. Grayson had become an avatar of the Reapers, and now he was on the loose. Finding him and destroying him was the only way to protect humanity.

  ELEVEN

  Grayson woke when he heard the alarms. More precisely, when his cybernetically enhanced senses detected the distant sound of sirens echoing from somewhere outside his cell, the Reapers in control of his body caused him to sit up and open his eyes.

  He was once again trapped inside himself. He could see and hear everything acutely, his senses relaying information along the network of synthetic synapses coursing through the gray matter of his brain. He could feel the temperature of the air, cool against his skin. The stench of his own flesh—unwashed in weeks—filled his nostrils. Even his sense of taste was heightened to preternatural levels: the spicy sauce from the rations he had devoured last night still lingered on his tongue.

  But though he was fully aware of his surroundings, it was all somehow distant, as if it was filtered before being processed. This wasn’t the pleasant fog of a red sand high, though he could feel that the effects from the last dose of drugs Cerberus had given him had yet to clear his system. This was something else. It was almost as if his consciousness had been removed from the equation, the inexplicable link between the physical and mental self severed.

  The Reapers were growing stronger: it was the only explanation. The thought caused his heart to pound as adrenaline released itself into his system. The instinctive fight-or-flight response gave Grayson hope. His fear had triggered the reaction; if his emotional state could still exert any kind of influence over his body, then perhaps all was not lost.

  He tried to reassert control, his battle against the enemy within temporarily making him ignore the distant sounds of battle coming from somewhere far away. As he pushed against the Reapers, he felt them push back. They were aware of him and his efforts, just as he was aware of them on a far deeper, more intimate level than before.

  Horrified, Grayson tried to sever the link by flooding his mind with raw emotions: fear, hate, desperation. He hoped the primitive, animalistic thoughts would somehow disrupt or disgust the machines controlling him from beyond the edges of the galaxy, but it was immediately apparent that was not the case. He realized he was powerless; in this fight, he had no effective weapon to use against them.

  The same could not be said of the Reapers. The sensation of a thousand red-hot needles piercing his skull made his mind scream in anguish, the suffering so brutally intense he instantly broke off his efforts to try and regain control of his body.

  His enemy’s victory was not absolute, however. In his torment, Grayson’s physical shell had responded with a barely audible moan … further proof he was not yet entirely under their control. The memory of the searing pain was too fresh for him to try and resist them again, at least for now. Instead, he let his consciousness retreat, falling back into itself and leaving the machines unopposed for the time being.

  Relegated to the role of observer, he was witness as the Reapers moved him over to the cell door until his ear was pressed up against it. He felt the alien technology focusing its energies on his ears, and amazingly his hearing became so acute he was able to discern sounds beyond the constant whooping of the alarms. He could pick out gunfire and even yelling coming from both near and far, punctuated with the occasional explosion or scream. The Reapers took it all in, desperate for information, using the auditory clues to try and construct a probable scenario of what was happening outside.

  Grayson didn’t know what was happening, either. He had a few theories, but he was afraid to consider them in detail. He didn’t think the Reapers could actually read his thoughts—not yet—but he didn’t want to chance it.

  They held the position for several minutes, ignoring or not caring about the cramp forming in Grayson’s neck and shoulders from the awkward angle necessary to keep his ear plastered tightly to the door. Eventually he felt the muscles seize and spasm, bitterly cursing the twisted irony that even though he couldn’t control his body, he still suffered when it was harmed.

  A few minutes later the gunfire tapered off, then ceased altogether. Soon after, he heard multiple footsteps as a small group approached the door. A second later they were fumbling with the electronic locking mechanism on the other side.

  He thought the Reapers might brace for a desperate lunge for freedom the instant the door opened. The muscles in his legs trembled slightly as the option was considered, then quickly discarded. Instead, his body took several steps back so as to present less of a threat to whoever was about to come through.

  Grayson was intently focused on everything his enemies did, on everything they had him do. Carefully studying his foe was his only hope of discovering any weakness they might have. The simple act of stepping away from the door told him the machines were rarely impulsive. They applied cold, unassailable logic to each situation, analyzing it for the most likely successful outcome. More often than not, he realized, they would choose to proceed with patience and caution.

  The door slid open a few moments later to reveal three heavily armed turians. Discovering him inside the cell, they all took a step back and raised their weapons at Grayson’s wild appearance.

  His hair had grown back to cover his scalp, just as the scraggly, unkempt beard now covered his face. But he knew that wasn’t what startled them. Completely naked as he was, the cybernetics weaving their way beneath his skin would be plainly visible; he suspected he barely looked human anymore.

  “Who are you?” one of the turians demanded.

  From the voice, it was obvious she was female. A long white scar ran across her chin, visible through the visor of her combat helmet along with the dark red markings painted on the bony carapace covering her face and skull.

  “I’m a prisoner,” the Reapers replied. “They tortured me. Experimented on me.”

  Grayson’s voice rang hollow in his ears, like listening to a recording of himself.

  “What’s your name?” the turian demanded, keeping the gun leveled at his chest.

  On some level Grayson was hoping she would shoot. She was obviously repulsed by the synthetic hybrid he’d become. Maybe she could sense the alien presence inside him. Maybe some finely honed self-preservation instinct would compel her to simply pull the trigger and end it.

  The Reapers shook his head. “I … I don’t know my name. They drugged me.”

  “Look at his eyes, Dinara,” one of the other turians noted. “Totally dusted.”

  “Please help me,” the Reapers begged.

  No, don’t! Grayson silently screamed.

  At a signal from their scarred leader, the turians lowered their weapons. Grayson was deflated the ruse had worked, but the fact the Reapers didn’t know his name verified his suspicion that his thoughts were still private … though for how much longer he couldn’t say.

  “Come with us,” Dinara said.

  The turians led him out of his cell, giving him his first glimpse of the facility where he’d been held prisoner. Beyond the door of the cell was a small hall; at the far end was a staircase leading up. At the top of the stairs was an observation room, made easily identifiable by the large, one-way mirrored window looking out over the cell below.

  Beyond the observation room was what appeared to be a lab. A large console consisting of several computer stations filled the center of the room. The chairs were empty now, but Grayson had no trouble imaging his Cerberus tormentors sitting in the seats at the various terminals, monitoring the changes as his body was transformed into something hideous.

  “See if you can find him something to wear in one of the sleeping cabins,” Dinara ordered.

  One of her followers disappeared out the door on the far side of the room, heading farther into the station in search of something for Grayson to wear. He returned a few minutes later clutching several pieces of clothing.

  He handed them to Grayson, and the Reapers slowly made him get dressed. The pants were too large, as was the shirt. The boots were a size too small and pinched his feet. The Reapers didn’t bother to complain.

  Dinara reached up and placed a hand lightly on the side of her helmet, activating the built in receiver-transmitter.

  “Status report,” she demanded.

  With his heightened sense, Grayson was clearly able to hear both sides of the conversation.

  “Facility is secure,” the voice on the other end replied. “Thirty-six enemy combatants confirmed dead. No prisoners.”

  “Shut down the alarms,” the commander ordered, and a few seconds later the sirens abruptly stopped.

  “We lost eleven of our own,” the voice on the other end of her comm-link continued in a more somber tone. “Seven from second team, two each from first and third teams. Two escape pods are missing.”

  “Any sign of someone fitting the Illusive Man’s description?”

  “Negative. If he was here, we let him slip through our fingers.”

  “First and third teams stay here to hold the facility,” she said. “Second team rendezvous back at my shuttle. We’ve got a liberated Cerberus prisoner for transport.”

  “Copy that.”

  She lowered her hand and the transmitter clicked off.

  “Come with us,” she said to Grayson. “We’ll get you somewhere safe.”

  The three turians led him through the halls of what Grayson quickly realized was a space station. He didn’t recognize it, though it had the distinctive utilitarian look of a Cerberus base.

  He realized the Reapers were making his head and eyes turn and gawk constantly as they walked, trying to take in as much of their surroundings as possible. The machines were capturing data, storing it inside their infinite memory banks in case they ever needed it.

  The turians didn’t comment on his somewhat unusual behavior. Either they didn’t know enough about humans to realize he was acting strangely, or they chalked it up to the effects of the red sand.

  Grayson expected the turians to lead him to the docking bay. Instead, they rounded a corner to reveal a massive hole in the side of the station’s hull. A chunk of metal two meters square lay on the floor, the edges scorched from where they had been partially sliced open by a powerful cutting beam, the metal itself twisted by the blast of the explosion that had finished the job.

  The turian shuttle was visible through the hole, connected to the station by a fully enclosed platform extending directly into the shuttle’s airlock. Three more turians—the surviving members of team 2—emerged from the airlock to greet them and salute the commander.

  “Tell me what happened to the others,” she ordered.