That was the argument that persuaded Bowman to green-light the mission this morning, despite its numerous risks. Last-minute intel had arrived from one of the rebels' Boston contacts. Ackmeyer would be making a rare public appearance in a few days, as part of the peace summit gala. And as the celebrated guest of none other than Reginald Crowe.
There could be no more waiting, no more guessing. Ackmeyer could not be permitted to arrive on that stage.
The consensus among Bowman and his rebel crew had been immediate, and the plot to grab the reclusive scientist was put into motion. He'd trusted in the team sent to carry it out. They were capable and skilled, proven in the field time and again. He'd been counting on them and never doubted they'd succeed, with or without him leading the charge.
They would have succeeded, he was certain, if not for an unexpected obstacle.
After taking great care to avoid such a problem, he had now stepped into direct conflict with the Order. He only hoped his crew - hell, the rest of the world in general - didn't end up paying for his mistake.
Bowman picked up his pace as he neared the mouth of the tunnel leading to the nearby battery. No sooner had he reached the yawning maw when he heard a distant commotion of voices spilling toward him through the darkness.
"Is that them?" Nina asked, worry creasing her forehead.
A woman's scream tore loose in that next second. Then a man's sharp, angry shout.
Bowman spared Nina only a fleeting glance before taking off like a bullet onto the lightless path ahead. Chaos was erupting - more shouting and commotion. A metallic clatter, punctuated by the sudden olfactory punch of spilled blood.
He emerged from the tunnel just in time to see Doc on the floor near the van with a fresh stab wound from the dagger lodged in his abdomen. Vince slumped next to a bound and unconscious Jeremy Ackmeyer in the open side-panel door of the vehicle. The rebel's left arm was wrapped in a makeshift tourniquet from what appeared to be an injury that had been tended to en route. He had bruises on his face, clothing shredded in several places. Meanwhile, Brady and Chaz tried unsuccessfully to subdue the hooded, partially restrained female who fought like a demon.
No, Bowman mentally corrected in the second he watched her, she fought like a warrior.
The warrior he knew her to be.
In that fraction of time, between the moment he was simply the leader of these renegade soldiers and the one that held him motionless in awe and respect for a woman he had betrayed so long ago, Bowman didn't think to look in Vince's direction.
Not until it was too late.
Face twisted with rage, Vince launched himself into the fray. He had something in his hand - one of Doc's pressure injectors. He hit her with it, tearing off her black hood and shoving the dosing gun up against her neck. He pulled the trigger and she went down like a rock, limbs crumbling uselessly beneath her.
Bowman's roar shook the entire fortress.
One minute he was standing at the open mouth of the tunnel, the next he was holding Vince suspended by the throat, his fingers all but crushing the man's larynx as he bore down on him in total, murderous fury.
"What have you done!" he snarled.
Eyes wide, nearly popping out of his skull, Vince sputtered and squeaked, tried to form words. "S-something had . . . had to do . . . something. Attacked us in the van . . . might've killed Doc just now . . ."
Bowman pressed harder, the heat of his anger bathing Vince's face in a rising amber glow. The blood spilled would have been enough to set him off, but it was pure rage that put the sharp ache in his gums. He peeled his lips back from his teeth as his fangs erupted into deadly points.
Vince's eyes went wider, fear filling his entire expression. Bowman could feel the sharp tang of that fear in the rapid pound of the human's heartbeat against his fingertips. He could hear it in Vince's thoughts, taste it through the touch that allowed Bowman to burrow into the human's mind and divine the truth of his intentions.
The sheer panic that had provoked Vince to attack the woman deepened to dick-withering fright as he stared up at Bowman and struggled to pull air into his lungs. "P-please . . ." Vince gasped. "Don't . . . don't kill me."
"She's okay." Brady's voice carried across the room now, level and cautious. "It was a tranq gun, that's all. Once she wakes up, she's going to be fine."
Bowman kept his eyes trained on Vince. "You don't touch her. Never again. If you do, you die. We clear?"
The rebel soldier gave a weak nod. "Please . . . let me go . . ."
Bowman dropped him, left him where he fell. He swung around and sank into a crouch beside the female warrior who lay on the floor nearby. She wasn't completely out yet. Her eyes rolled behind her lids, opening in drowsy intervals as she fought against the sedative Vince had pumped into her veins. She murmured incoherently, her voice so quiet, going weaker with every second.
He noticed dried blood in her blond hair, crusted at her left temple where a small red birthmark rode along her hairline. The sight of that tiny teardrop and crescent moon, coupled with the lily-sweet scent of her spilled blood, tightened the knot of regret that had settled like a rock in his gut from the moment of his team's call from the field.
That she'd been harmed during this operation - injured even before the tranq gun that was leaving a dark bruise on the delicate skin of her neck - made his veins turn cold with self-directed fury.
The urge to touch her was nearly overwhelming.
He wanted to offer her comfort, hold her close, assure her that she was safe.
But he couldn't do those things.
He didn't have that right.
Not anymore.
He was no longer that man. To this band of human rebels, he was, and had been for the past eight years, simply Bowman. He was their leader, who also happened to have been born Breed, not Homo sapiens like the rest of them.