Black Read Free Page B

The former, considering they were in Denver, not the Philippines. No sounds from New York.
    He leaned back and closed his eyes, catching his breath.
    Crazy! Fights in Manila as a teenager were one thing, but here in the States at the ripe age of twenty-five? The whole sequence struck him as surreal. It was hard to believe this had just happened to him.
    Or, more accurately, was happening to him. He still had to figure a way out of this mess. Did they know where he lived? No one had followed him to the roof.
    Tom crept to the ledge. Another alley ran directly below, adjoining busy streets on either side. Denver’s brilliant skyline glimmered on the horizon directly ahead. An odd odor met his nose, sweet like cotton candy but mixed with rubber or something burning.
    Déjàvu. He’d been here before, hadn’t he? No, of course not. Lights shimmered in the hot summer air, reds and yellows and blues, like jewels sprinkled from heaven. He could swear he’d been—
    Tom’s head suddenly snapped to the left. He threw out his arms, but his world spun impossibly and he knew that he was in trouble.
    Something had hit him. Something like a sledgehammer. Something like a bullet.
    He felt himself topple, but he wasn’t sure if he was really falling or if he was losing consciousness. Something was horribly wrong with his head.
    He landed hard on his back, in a pillow of black that swallowed his mind whole.

2
    T he man’s eyes snapped open. A pitch-black sky above. No lights, no stars, no buildings. Only black. And a small moon.
    He blinked and tried to remember where he was. Who he was. But all he could remember was that he’d just had a vivid dream.
    He closed his eyes and fought to wake. He’d dreamed that he was running from some men who wanted to hurt him. He’d escaped like a spider up a wall after leveling one of the men. Then he’d stared out at the lights. Such beautiful, brilliant lights. Now he was awake. And he still didn’t know where he was.
    He sat up, disoriented. The shadows of tall, dark trees surrounded a rocky clearing in which he’d been sleeping. His eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and he saw a field of some kind ahead.
    He clambered to his feet and steadied himself. On his feet, leather moccasins. On his body, dark pants, tan suede shirt with two pockets. He instinctively felt for his left temple, where a sharp ache throbbed. Warm. Wet. His fingers came away bloody.
    He’d been struck in his dream. Something had plowed into his head. He turned and saw a dark patch glistening on the rock where he’d fallen. He must have struck his head against the rock and been knocked unconscious. But he couldn’t remember anything but the dream. He wasn’t in a city. He wasn’t anywhere near a dark alley or traffic or guns.
    Instead he was here, in a rocky clearing, surrounded by large trees. But where? Maybe the knock to his head had given him amnesia.
    What was his name? Thomas. The man in his dream had called him Thomas Hunter. Tom Hunter.
    Tom felt the bleeding bump on his head again. The surface wound above his ear had matted his hair with blood. It had knocked him senseless, but thankfully no more.
    The night was actually quite bright now. In fact, he could make the trees out clearly.
    He lowered his hand and stared at a tree without full comprehension. Square branches jutted off from the trunk at a harsh angle before squaring and turning skyward, like claws grasping at the heavens. The smooth bark looked as though it might be made of metal or a carbon fiber rather than organic material.
    Did he know these
trees? Why did this sight disturb him?
    â€œIt looks perfectly good.”
    Tom jumped and spun to the male voice. “Huh?”
    A man, a redhead dressed like him, stood looking down at a cluster of rocks ten feet away. Did . . . did he know this man?
    â€œThe water looks clean to me,” the man said.
    Tom swallowed.