She swallowed hard. “You’re hurt. Bleeding.” She pointed a shaky finger to the blood on the glass.
“I’m fine, but there’s going to be some serious bruising around your ankle. I’m sorry about that. As soon as we can get into the apartment, I’ll find you some cream to ease it.”
He was injured, bleeding, standing out on the ledge while the lights from the chopper lit him up for Freedom to find, and he was worried about her bruises? She blinked furiously to clear her gaze. She wasn’t crying. Tears of fear were allowed. No other kind were permitted.
“Don’t open that door unless you’re sure it’s me,” he ordered before turning to leave.
Keiko’s hand shot out to grip his wrist. Blue eyes filled with something she didn’t dare try to identify stared back at her.
“Be safe. I mean it. Don’t fall. Don’t get shot. Don’t die. Or I will hurt you.”
His smile stole her breath. “We’ve got to talk about your violent tendencies.”
“Come back to me,” she whispered as he stepped away from the window, leaving her to stare out into the night.
The sight made her stomach heave. Never, ever in her life did she want to be more than a floor or two off the ground again. Unable to look out any longer, she turned into the stairwell and slid down to sit on the stairs. And that was when it hit her—how exactly had Mace managed to save her?
Chapter Fifteen
Red Zone Warriors surveillance vehicle
Four blocks from CommTECH Research Facility
Houston, Northern Territory
“I can’t believe he did that,” Hunter said, sounding as stunned as Striker felt. “And on camera, too. With the whole world watching. He may as well have painted a target on his back. On all our backs.”
He wasn’t wrong. Mace had moved faster than humanly possible, falling to his stomach on the ledge, grabbing Keiko by the ankle and swinging her up to catch her. There were going to be a whole lot of questions about how he’d managed to save her.
“Was he supposed to just let her fall?” Friday asked, frowning at the screens, where Mace saving Keiko was being replayed.
“No.” Hunter blushed at the reprimand. “But a normal person couldn’t do that.”
No. They couldn’t. To react with that sort of speed, you needed the genetic advantage of an animal that shared your DNA. One that excelled at moving fast and keeping its balance while doing it.
“The news has slowed the footage down.” Hunter pointed to the screen. “They’re saying it was adrenaline.” He looked up at Striker. “That could work, right? I mean, normal people can move cars and stuff when they’re wired out on adrenaline. Can we push that as an explanation?”
“Spread the rumor that he’s had training, maybe gymnastics or something like that, and, fueled by adrenaline, his training kicked in and made the rescue possible.”
“I’m on it.” His fingers flew over the keyboard.
Friday’s wide, mismatched eyes looked up at him. “Will anyone believe it?”
“I don’ know, bébé. People look for ways to explain this kind of thing. This is as good an explanation as any.”
Striker hoped to hell the media and everyone watching would buy the adrenaline theory. If CommTECH found out Mace was part of the Red Zone Warriors and remembered the footage of him on the ledge, all they had to do was put two and two together to come to some worrying conclusions—like there being something worth knowing about the entirety of his team. It was bad enough that CommTECH was out to hunt him down. This could send them after all of his team.
“He should have fallen off the ledge,” Friday mused as she stared at the slow-motion footage. “He’s so wide, I don’t understand how he didn’t fall off the ledge when he caught her. It was like one of those acrobat acts where they throw each other around. Maybe it was possible because of the difference in their sizes. When he gets back to base, I need to run some tests on his skills. I think they’re changing again.” She looked up at him. “You need to tell me what his animal is so I can figure out what’s going on.”
“That’s between you and Mace. I don’ have the right to tell you what his animal is.”
She huffed. “He’s so stubborn, and he loves to annoy me. He’ll never tell me.”
“You could probably guess,” Hunter p
ointed out.
Striker wrapped an arm around his wife’s waist and kissed her head. “I’ll talk to him. Tell him he needs to stop messing around and come clean.”