Page 62 of Wired Strong

He turned and crawled back to kneel beside the body.So many wounds. So much blood.

“Let me handle this. Trust me,” Nine said. “Don’t say anything.”

Connor couldn’t even nod. He wept, instead.

Nine screamed for help.

Feet ran on the stone stairs. Cries of horror and shock filled the room.

Connor was picked up under the arms by Nine and held close as Nine pretended to check him over for major injuries.

Connor kept his eyes closed, limp and unresponsive. He was hardly present in his body as they patted him down, supported him over to the low couch.

Connor wept on, oblivious to the stream of excited Thai conversation flying over his head. And then he heard Nine yell, “Pim Wat escaped out of the bedroom somehow! There must be a secret exit! Find her! She must be brought to justice!”

Nine was doing a very good job covering up what had happened, but Connor would always know.

He’d always know that he’d lost control and murdered a man he’d respected—maybe even loved.

But the Master had forced him to. Trapped him. Made him do it, and now he had to live with it. “I hate you, Master,” he whispered.

He wouldn’t think about it anymore. He couldn’t afford to.

Connor finally opened his eyes.

Nine whispered in his ear. “They’re looking for Pim Wat now. Come, let’s get you cleaned up. You can’t be seen by the Healer; he will notice the injuries from your fight and know what happened.”

Connor didn’t look at the still figure on the floor, already covered with a richly embroidered cloth. He let himself be led down the stairs, all the way into the bowels of the compound.

Nine stripped off his bloody clothes and escorted Connor into the bathing chamber with its hot pool. “Sit in the water. Heal yourself. Come out of this room with no injuries. I know you can do it, Master.”

Connor wanted to correct him.He wasn’t the Master!He never could be.

But his act had made him so, and if he didn’t take that role, stepping into the place the Master had prepared for him, the ninjas would tear him apart like a pack of wolves.

Pinning the murder on Pim Wat was a stroke of genius.

The stone-walled room was silent but for a drip of condensation falling from the ceiling into the water of the pool. Connor had taken many a relaxing and restorative bath here. The water was warmed by an underground geothermal spring piped into the pool, keeping it circulating continually at a comfortably warm temperature, though there was a slight smell of sulfur about it.

Connor rinsed the blood from his body with brisk strokes of a rough cloth lying folded at the pool’s edge. He scooped soft homemade soap onto the cloth and washed himself thoroughly.

The die was cast. He had done what he had done. He was the Master, now, in charge of this entire organization. Hundreds of men looked to him for leadership. He could not abandon them for something as prosaic as joining Sophie in domestic bliss, even if she would have him—especially not when he still had to hunt down Pim Wat.

That thought energized him.

Connor finished rinsing the soap from his upper torso. As he looked down at his body, bruises and lumps were forming under the skin beneath the wavering reflections of the water.

Nine had told him the truth—Connor had to be unmarked by that deadly confrontation with the Master for the men to believe the story that Pim Wat was the murderer.

Connor had always been able to heal himself at a fast rate. Now he needed to put all of his power into healing his body within an hour. He relaxed on the stone bench submerged in the water, closed his eyes, and went inward.

His body’s interior was the rich indigo of his energy field, a complex series of systems within systems. He tracked the pathway of his blood through his veins, rivers of blue on blue, pulsing with life. He could identify the areas of damage—dark masses and blotches.

Connor speeded up time, compressing it within himself, accelerating the natural effect of his body’s already powerful healing ability.

He followed the pathways of nerves, veins, bones; he traced through the universe of his tissues, repairing himself at a cellular level—and soon, it was done.

Connor opened his eyes and looked down at his swollen knuckles, his bruised legs, the torso that had been stippled with contusions.

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