Bait for the devil
It was the visual representation of my connection to Girard—a link that Lucian Moretti had turned into a barbed-wire leash.
“Proximity: two hundred meters,” the onboard computer chirped in a cold, synthetic tone. “Bio-signature: unstable. Elevated adrenaline. Accelerated cellular regeneration.”
“He’s fighting it,” I whispered, my voice lost to the wind. “He’s trying to stay under the water to keep the fire in his brain from exploding.”
Suddenly, a series of bright, blinding flares erupted to my starboard side. Red light bathed the crashing waves, illuminating three massive, armored skiffs closing in on my position. They weren’t Syndicate. They were the Roux Vanguard.
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