The Judas Contact

By Heather Long

Doctor Ilsa Blaine
Codename: Doc
Abilities: Designs programmable bioware, enhanced understanding of brain chemistry
Mission: Research, analyze and troubleshoot the team’s active microchips

On the cutting edge of neuroscience, Ilsa is developing microchips that can be inserted into the brain and deliver information. The applications are endless, but her current goal is just to get dogs to return to their owners should they ‘become lost.’ When her college roommate turns up asking for lunch, she’s hardly prepared for the chaos that ensues or the revelation her chip changed the world and the lives of five heroes from the future. And now they need her help…

Garrett Fox
Codename: The Viper
Abilities: toxins, poisons and assassination, he can kill with a touch
Mission: Protect Ilsa Blaine

One of five desperate men sent back in time to save the future, Garrett volunteers to be the doctor’s guinea pig as she studies their neuro-chips. It’s not his first time being a lab rat. In close quarters, the unthinkable happens, an attraction that could kill Ilsa. Drawn together by science, and on the fast track to destiny, Ilsa must prove to Garrett he isn’t toxic to everything and save his team from their chips before they can end them…

Heroes come in all shapes and sizes. An alliance with Halo has given their leader a taste of hope. For these five lonely soldiers, the single emotion may prove their most dangerous threat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heather Long
• Release date: Apr 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9780998656441

Heather Long

Heather Long is a USA TODAY bestselling author who likes long walks in the park, science fiction, superheroes, and Marines. Her books are filled with heroes and heroines tangled in romances as hot as her native Texas summertime.

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Prologue

Michael Hunter stood in the middle of the room he shared with his…girlfriend? Mate? Neither word fit Rory Graystone. She was his. That was all that mattered to him. Only, instead of being present, she’d left. Again. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes had passed since he returned from meeting with the other Boomers. If she didn’t…the door opened before he could complete the thought.

The red on her uniform didn’t bode well for his temper. Nor did her extended fingers as she waved a hand at him. Before you say anything, it was an emergency and you were cloistered away with the boys. I have a job to do, and I went to do it.

Remaining still kept him from picking her up and examining every inch of her, followed by paddling her ass. Though he’d only ever spanked her once, she’d been less than thrilled with him for three days afterward. In play, she liked it, but when his temper snapped she responded in kind.

Aurora Graystone would be the death of him. What happened? He managed to get the question out on an even tone. Perhaps they were making progress. Four weeks earlier, he’d have already lost his temper.

Some lunatic decided to go on a spree downtown. She stripped off her white uniform top, then peeled off her boots and leggings. A splotch of reddened skin along her side betrayed the hits she’d taken. Two long, very hot red streaks told him she’d been shot.

The uniform’s sparkling exterior to the contrary, it was a tough fabric and could take most hits including slices. It wasn’t invulnerable, though.

Ricochets, she murmured, as though reading his mind. Maybe she had simply anticipated his question. Anticipation and probabilities were her specialties. He wounded thirty people before I caught up to him.

So he was shooting up midtown and you had time to get there, track him and catch him but not enough time to call me? He didn’t snarl or raise his voice, but he could feel the blood pounding in his brain.

Half-naked, Rory paused then made a face. Fine, I was meeting with Josh and Curtis, and they wanted to strategize about Corkscrew and Dark Angel.

Josh and Curtis—the other two members of her team of heroes. The latter pair was their missing members. Rory’s need to find them he understood and even supported.

And before you rip into me about not telling you I was going to meet with them, I’ll remind you that you were meeting with your team. So, I met with mine.

This isn’t a contest, Rory. Crossing to her, he pulled her into his arms and satisfied the need he had to check her over. Every delicate inch of her seemed unsuited for the work she did, yet, at the same time, she possessed taut, supple muscles and moved with an innate grace, power and confidence she’d earned. The Boomers are as much yours as they are mine.

No, they aren’t. We keep everything compartmented. You do it, I do it. Looping her arms around his neck, she rose on her tiptoes until he caved to his final need and lifted her so they were nose to nose. You and me, we’re a team—but you have your people and I have mine. She nuzzled him with a kiss, and one by one his vertebrae seemed to unlock from the tension holding him rigid. The Boomers are a biomechanical recon unit from a far-flung and disastrous future I can barely imagine. You’re a fucking time-traveler, Michael. I’m a hero. You’re a soldier. You have your mission. I have mine.

That doesn’t preclude us from working together. He would find a way to make this work for both of them. I’m on your side.

You don’t trust Josh or Curtis. She had a point.

So did he. You don’t trust Garrett.

I have to find Amanda, she whispered. She’s my best friend. I have to find Ronan. He’s one of mine. I won’t stop looking. I won’t not help if my city needs me. It’s who I am.

What if I need you? The words slipped out before he could stop them. They implied vulnerability, one he should have shielded her from. The world he’d left behind had no forgiveness for the vulnerable.

That’s not fighting fair.

I’m not fighting, he promised her. I do need you. We all do.

Her eyes narrowed, but she leaned her head back and studied him. You mean that.

I do. I came in here to ask you to join us when you didn’t pick up.

What’s wrong?

We need to find someone…a scientist who can help us.

The corner of Rory’s mouth curved. You want to vague that up some more, lover?

Simon has narrowed the search to three he thinks can be of use. One is here in the city. Her name is Ilsa Blaine…we have a plan to kidnap her.

No, no no. Rory shook her head. No kidnapping. That’s a crime you know.

It’s necessary.

No, it’s not.

He didn’t have time to argue with her.

Seriously, lover, it’s not…I know Ilsa Blaine. We don’t have to kidnap her. I just have to ask her to lunch.

Surprise chipped away at his temper, and he stared at the woman he loved. Lunch?

Oh yeah, dangerous op, I know, but I think I can handle it…

Chapter 1

Summer, 2016

---

Front doors covered. Michael's voice crackled in Rory's ear. She was parked in the R.E.X. facility's guest parking area. The campus for the scientific conglomerate laboratory boasted tight security including three patrols, an entrance and exit guard, and multiple camera angles. The electronic pass in her Lotus allowed her access to parking lot A, but that was more than 500 yards from the front doors of the facility. She'd pass at least four more security checkpoints before she could sign into the building.

Roof access covered. Garrett sounded bored. The poisoner got into position earlier than the rest, entering under the cover of darkness with the assistance of Rex, the Boomer's shapeshifter.

South exit covered. Rex is parked next to the lobby now, Drake announced. The strong man stood out in a crowd, so they'd secured a uniform for him. It took some explanation for the guys to accept that, in a scientific facility, the standard blue uniform and silver piping provided ubiquitous camouflage.

Security office covered. Simon's voice lacked any inflection. The eerie monotone gave her the willies, but Simon focused his telepathy on controlling one guard. He provided their eyes and ears inside the facility.

You do realize this is overkill, right? Rory murmured the words in a low casual tone. They weren't sure just how much audio surveillance the facility used. The Bluetooth tucked in her ear gave her cover for the conversation as long as she watched what she said. Not that her argument would affect their decisions one way or the other.

Her heels pinched but, as an heiress, Rory Graystone needed to look the part of a dilettante. Her lips twitched at the memory of Michael's upraised brows as she’d applied her makeup that morning. He wasn't especially thrilled with any aspect of the plan, but watching her dress up might have changed his mind—if he hadn't tried to strip her clothes off as quickly as she put them on. Just four weeks as lovers, and she couldn't imagine her world without him.

At the end of the curb, she took a seat on the marble bench and crossed one leg over the other. The tram would be along to pick her up. She could walk it easily enough, but that wasn't in keeping with her cover, a disguise she'd grown up cultivating, courtesy of her wealthy parents. The slim platinum watch on her wrist showed she was right on schedule.

You're covered, babe. Michael's husky, low voice sent a ripple through her belly, but she ignored the intense attraction. It was damned hard to shut it out when she worked, but at least his preference for heights and vantage points meant he wasn't within touching distance. If they were always side-by-side, they might not ever get anything done.

I'm fine. It's a lunch date. Remember? Convincing them took more persuasion than converting a die-hard conservative to a liberal candidate. She called ahead that morning to let Ilsa know she was stopping by via voice mail. Less than thirty minutes later, Ilsa sent her an excited text. She couldn't wait to catch up.

The tram hummed to a stop and Rory stood, climbing in to sit on the very last seat. The cover blocked Michael's view but, as the tram turned, she knew he would be able to see her. As tempting as it was to tweak his overprotective streak, she liked sex without all the yelling beforehand. Not that he stayed angry with her for long. She rode the tram alone since eleven-thirty, on a Wednesday morning, wasn't a prime time for arrivals at the facility.

The trip took mere minutes and dropped her off at the dozen steps leading up to the revolving doors. Shouldering her purse, she took her time slipping out of the tram and smoothed her skirt. She'd chosen a sedate forest green combo over a white camisole. She probably should have worn hose, but she preferred the cool air on her bare legs and the heels were enough of a sacrifice.

Tucked back away from her face, her hair glittered with a pair of combs that would double as code breakers when she activated them. In a pinch, she would be able to use them to bypass their electronic key system. She'd turned down a camera in her sunglasses. They weren't messing up her Gucci's for anything and, anyway, the facility's security system would pick up any active device as they rolled through the high-powered scanner. Cold air washed over her as she pushed through the doors.

Ten minutes later, she followed her escort into the maze of the research laboratory. Ilsa's lab was on the third floor, well below the reportedly inaccessible eight through ten floors. The keycard pad next to the button and the keypad highlighted the rigorous controls in place. It made sense since R.E.X. stood for Research, Engineering and Xenogenetics. The facility was on the cutting edge of every major bio-metric breakthrough in the last decade. If their recent report to the board of the Infinity Corporation was anything to go on, their advancements were on the cusp of changing the world as they knew it.

Simon is monitoring you, sweetheart. Proceed as planned. Thanks for the update, Michael. I was hanging here with bated breath. But she didn't voice the thought or allow anything but bland boredom to show on her features. The Boomers treated everything like tactical warfare. When was the last time they had fun?

The elevator dinged, announcing their arrival on the third floor. Rory preceded her escort, pausing to 'adjust' her badge and survey the hallway. The elevator opened onto a wide promenade exposed on all sides by glass. As if on cue, Michael murmured. I have you.

The bridge spanned the level and looked down into the marble atrium forty-five feet below. Four cameras tracked her movements with little to no obvious blind spots. Pairs of heavily armed, black-clothed security guards in flak jackets stood watch at either end of the bridge, a significant change in the two years since she last visited Ilsa at her laboratory.

This way, Miss, her escort urged her along. The open concourse, the glass walls, the heavy security and the cameras left her with the sensation of being too out in the open—no easy cover available. Her heels clicked on the tiled floors. If running were involved, the shoes would definitely have to go.

She touched the first clip in her hair, adjusting it and activating it at the same time. Her escort’s pass carded their way through a series of three doors in rapid succession. Each one added a new layer of security from pass card to code key to retinal scan and, finally, thumbprint. The hairs on the back of Rory's neck stiffened. What the fuck is Ilsa working on? Most scientific facilities employed heavy security, but this bordered on the ridiculously paranoid.

Rory, did you obtain the key code the guard pressed in? Simon's telepathic voice murmured across the rim of her consciousness. She nodded once, an absent gesture as the escort admitted her onto a bare, institutional hallway with only one door visible. Mentally reciting the number for Simon, she focused her thoughts on the present and not on the uneasiness icing her spine. Instead of just opening the door, he knocked on it.

A muffled command to enter whispered through the steel door—because wood didn't clang when banged on—and the escort opened the door. You have a visitor, Dr. Blaine. Miss Aurora Graystone of the Infinity Corporation. Her credentials would hold up under any scrutiny. She actually did work for Infinity and possessed an office in their super-tower in midtown, even if she didn't use it that often.

The visible laboratory space stretched out across a third of the space that made up the entire floor. Rory glanced around the desk space, the computers scrolling data, and spotted the dog cages with five of the most gorgeous golden retrievers she’d ever seen. The animals wagged their tails and barked excitedly. The leggy blonde stepping out from behind a large workstation topped Rory's slender height by a good three inches. With her icy blue eyes and rich platinum hair, she looked more Norwegian goddess than scientist.

Then she squealed. Rory!

Her leather-soled shoes swished across the floor and the women hugged. The faint smell of Prada's Candy wrapped around her and Rory returned the squeeze with true affection. Hey, sister, how are you?

I should be cross with you—two years between lunch dates is horrible manners—but at least you called! Ilsa leaned back, and they shared a private giggle. I hadn't even realized how long it's been until I tried to remember where we ate last time.

At the duck pond. Rory pressed a light kiss to the air near Ilsa's cheek and drew back, letting her purse slide down her arm in the most casual of gestures. A slender PDA inside it would begin the remote decryption of the machines humming in Ilsa's office. If they could download her research without involving her, all the better. The last thing she wanted to do was get her college roommate in trouble. You had a presentation for Global and didn't have time for a real lunch. So it was hot dogs and sodas with the ducks getting most of the buns.

Oh my God, that's right. Ilsa pulled off a pair of reading glasses and tucked them into the pocket of her lab coat. The light colored blouse and tan slacks she wore beneath it were as nondescript as they came. She also seemed to be lacking in any jewelry. The kennels bounced with the dog’s enthusiasm and Ilsa glanced over at them. Shush. Sit.

The absolute silence on the canines' part and their obedient drop to their haunches was both impressive and eerie. The escort excused himself, but neither Rory nor Ilsa acknowledged his exit. Nice.

That is the result of five years of research and two years of fine-tuning the applications. I think I’m finally ready to present. Pride swelled in Ilsa's voice.

What did you do to them exactly? The beautiful dogs were duplicates of each other, right down to the silken coats with their glossy sheen and the bright eager eyes.

Ilsa rubbed her hands together. Okay, do you remember my theory regarding brain stimulation?

In exquisite detail. But Rory didn't say it aloud. Something about application of stimulus to certain areas resulting in different reactions…maybe? Playing dumb didn't come naturally to her, but she didn't mind the occasional airhead moment if it served her purposes.

"Close enough. Okay, so the frontal lobe is where impulse control begins. We actually have to learn this type of control, it's not a natural behavior. We don't just automatically hold our tongues and keep secrets but, by the same token, we don't automatically prevent ourselves from taking what we want or doing what we want without learning." Ilsa warmed to the topic, a flush warming her pale face while her eyes sparkled. Rory had to wonder how often she really got to talk about her work—even with a layman like herself.

Wanting to encourage her, even with a mission at hand, Rory spread her hands. Okay, like when we're kids and the teacher asks a question. We blurt out the answer even though we raised our hands.

Exactly. Dogs are similarly structured. They have basic desires and wants—the urge to bark, the urge to run, the urge to urinate on your favorite shoes. The last statement carried enough sauce that Rory winced in sympathy. Her parents refused her a dog when she grew up for a similar laundry list of negative reasons. Then there is the urge to dig or escape to explore—most dogs that go missing are not lost because they want away from their owners, but because their biological urges tell them to run, chase, play, and sniff.

Still following you, more or less. Why I can't walk away from a shoe and purse sale even if I can't possibly need more shoes? That statement went against most of her personal beliefs, but it fit the parameters of Ilsa's description.

Rory, Michael breathed in her ear. "You're supposed to be leaving for lunch, not having a lesson in animal husbandry."

Exactly. Ilsa bounced a half step and strode over toward the cages. She popped open one and the at-least-eighty-pound dog bounded out. Sit. The dog immediately sat. That in and of itself wasn't remarkable. Dog training was a skill many humans perfected.

Okay. Rory didn't disguise the questioning skepticism in her voice.

Just watch. Ilsa opened a small refrigerator and extracted a steak. The dog's tail thumped against the floor. She peeled back the container lid and sat the bowl, rib eye and all, on the floor. She looked at the dog. Stay. Do not eat.

Do not eat is not a dog command. But Rory said nothing as Ilsa walked away and motioned Rory