Out Of Time
Out Of Time
Cliff Ryder
When crisis looms and politics and red tape conspire against effective measures, the International Intelligence Agency plays its hidden hand. Now the spymasters of Room 59–dedicated, dangerous and willing to push the limit–get the green light to eradicate the threat.Room 59 agent Alex Tempest has a secret: a degenerative illness that may end his career as a field operative. But first he accepts one final mission. And…it's personal. A research facility in China has built the ultimate biological weapon. Alex's job: infiltrate and destroy. His wife works at the biotech company's stateside lab, and Alex fears danger is poised to hit home. But when Alex is captured, his personal and professional worlds collide in a last, desperate gamble to stop ruthless masterminds from unleashing virulent, unstoppable death.
If he moved quickly enough he might be able to assume a new disguise
As he stepped through the doorway, he heard a shout from his right. He’d been spotted. He lunged for the door, but this time the effort proved too much. His left leg suddenly gave out and he tumbled to the side with a cry of pain. A shot rang out and something struck him hard on the shoulder, spinning him out of control.
Alex managed to get his 9 mm out of the holster. He heard cursing and shouts, but for some reason the words wouldn’t register. He crashed into the wall and pain shot through his shoulder, already soaked in blood. He gritted his teeth and tried to stand, but his legs would not support him. He raised his gun, watching for movement.
Two men appeared, crouching low and moving down opposite sides of the passageway. He took aim at the man on the left and fired, saw the round strike him mid-chest and blow him off his feet. Alex tried to roll to his right, but somewhere between his brain and his legs, the signal went haywire. What was supposed to be a smooth roll turned into a flop and he landed heavily as another searing pain brushed his temple.
Everything went black.
Out of Time
Cliff Ryder
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Garrett Dylan for his contribution to this work.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Out of Time
1
Alex Tempest leaned on a dirt-crusted stone wall, head lowered, trying to control his breathing and ignore the pain. His legs felt like gelatin and sent sharp, stabbing jolts of agony into his hips; his head spun with a sudden wave of nausea. Every muscle was bowstring tight and his heartbeat ragged—every sound brought a flinch and a shift of disoriented senses.
The sun had begun to set over the Mexico City skyline, but the heat continued to roll off the streets in waves. On the floor of a villa just outside of town, Vincenzo Carrera lay dead in a pool of blood. His men hadn’t stopped to clear away the body, the blood or any of the evidence. They hadn’t even disposed of the kilo-sized bag of cocaine, blown to bits and strewed across the inlaid mosaic of Carrera’s garden. The powder floated about like fine drifts of snow. Carrera would never spend the money he’d expected to make on that sale. He would not make his reservations at La Villa Cordoba, nor his date with his wife and young daughter the following day at the beach.
All that remained of Carrera was his well-oiled organization, designed to sell drugs and kill or destroy anything that got in its way. It wasn’t supposed to have mattered. In, remove the target and out. That was the plan. That was always the plan. Alex wasn’t known as “the Chameleon” without good reason. He had worked his way into incredibly tight spots, killed and disappeared countless times. This wasn’t even one of his more difficult assignments.
But something had gone wrong. Something had been going wrong for some time, in fact, and though he’d tried to ignore it, it only grew worse as each day passed. This time it had nearly cost him both the success of his mission and his life.
As he waited for the shadows to deepen and his legs to stop shaking, he went over the mission again, trying to see if there was anything he could have done differently, trying to see where he’d gone wrong. Somewhere there was an error, a stupid error and he hated stupidity almost as much as he hated the trembling in his normally steady hand.
The earlier stages had gone exactly as he’d foreseen. It wasn’t his first trip to Mexico City and his old contacts were in place. He’d managed to infiltrate the lower levels of Carrera’s organization without incident, had marked his time and his place. It had taken two weeks of careful watching and listening to be certain he had it right.
Carrera had been too arrogant to distance himself from his business and his organization was too dangerous to be left without close control. It had only been a matter of time until a deal went down and Alex was close enough to the center of the operation to pin it down. They weren’t secretive in their activities once inside the walls of Carrera’s villa. Whom did they have to fear? Enough of the local policia were on the take to ensure secure operations and no business ever took place on the streets or in an unsecured location. Again, what would be the purpose?
Alex had slipped into the deep center of the garden shortly before the deal was set to go down, his tan skin darkened with a touch of makeup and his clothing already a perfect match to what the guards of the villa were wearing. There were five posts along the villa’s wall and he’d placed himself very near one of these. The guard hadn’t seen or heard him—he was searching for threats from outside the villa, not from within.
Just before 5:00 p.m., he’d slipped up behind the guard, slit his throat and took his place, watching the streets beyond the walls carefully. He moved and acted exactly as the guard would have—a professional doing his job. There was no reason anyone would look at him twice and no one had. The damned plan was perfect.
At five o’clock sharp, Carrera appeared in the garden. He sat where he sat every afternoon, and a young girl brought refreshments. He ate fruit, and he laughed with the two bodyguards who were never far from his side. They were short, squat men with dark hair, dark glasses and no smiles. They made a quick sweep of the garden. They glanced up at each guard post. They didn’t take any special notice of Alex. He paid no attention to them, willing them to see only what he wanted them to see—a guard on duty.
At half past five, a long white sedan wound its way up the long driveway to the villa. It stopped just shy of the iron gates. Men poured out of twin guard shacks on either side of the gate, scanning the passengers, opening the trunk and searching quickly, checking the engine and sweeping beneath the undercarriage with mirrors. Slick, quick and efficient. Alex appreciated that—under other circumstances he might have admired it.
The gates opened and the car slid in, moving at a leisurely pace. Alex watched, lost sight of the vehicle and turned his attention back to the streets. For the moment, his duty was to protect. He kept his rifle, a modified Russian SVN-98, with the barrel tipped toward the street, but low enough that anyone watching from beyond the fence couldn’t see it. They knew, of course. The police knew, the locals knew, everyone knew better than to approach the fence, but that was no reason to let down the guard. He knew what was expected, and that was what he became. It was how he operated, how he survived.
The Chameleon absorbed his environment, took on its colors.
The deal went down moments later. There were no formalities. Carrera’s men escorted a small party from the villa to the garden. There were three men. One carried a banded metal case. The other two were mirror images of Carrera’s men—short, squat, expressionless. They didn’t glance around, but Alex knew they were aware of every detail. Their lives and the life of their leader depended on it. It was all like clockwork, and that was what was supposed to make it simple.
The money was counted. The drugs were presented for inspection. Carrera lounged in a chair, indifferent to the proceedings. The man who had carried the case moments before scooped a small sample onto his finger, tasted it quickly, then pulled a smaller case from his pocket. He took out a glass bottle, dropped a bit of the powder into it, added liquid and shook. That was the moment.
Alex knew that no one would be able to resist watching that bottle. Either the drugs were good, and the white sedan would glide back out the gates the way it glided in, leaving Carrera to count the cash, or it was a setup, an ambush meant to send some message to a lesser dealer or a competitor. It mattered little to Alex. Every set of eyes was locked on the bottle, and in that moment, he struck.
He shifted the rifle in the blink of an eye and sighted in on Carrera through the integrated scope. There was no time to hesitate, but Alex was a crack shot. It was thirty feet down the opposite side of the wall, but he’d already rigged a line. The entire operation should have taken, by his calculation, about forty seconds.
The crosshairs rested on Carrera’s heart, and Alex curled his finger around the trigger, preparing to gently squeeze off the single round that would end Carrera’s life. Except, at that moment, his hand began to shake. Not a small tremor, but an uncontrollable spasm that wrenched his fingers into a locked claw. He fought to control it, and pulled the trigger instinctively. The slug slammed into the bag of cocaine and sent a cloud of powder into the air. In that momentary confusion, cursing to himself, he resighted, pulled the trigger again, and blood spouted from Carrera’s temple—the only part of him that was visible above the tabletop.
Carrera was dead, but the damage to the mission was done. Men were already on the move.
Alex dropped the gun and grabbed at his line. He slid down quickly, rappelling down the sheer stone face. The muscles of his hand clenched again, so tight that he nearly cried out. He dropped too quickly and fought for control. He heard voices calling out in the distance. He heard gunfire, probably the buyer’s men crossing with Carrera’s in the confusion. He heard the roar of an engine, and he knew they’d seen him. He hadn’t gotten over the wall quickly enough.
He hit the ground moving far too quickly. He braced, released the line and rolled, but pain shot through his legs—more pain than there should have been—and it was all he could do to keep his feet. There was a hundred yards before he’d be near any sort of cover. The first side street consisted of lines of small houses, all the same, most of them uninhabited. The few that weren’t empty held Carrera’s men and their families. It was a small demilitarized zone, more for camouflage than habitation.
Behind the second house on the left side of the street, he’d parked a Ducati dirt bike, small, powerful and maneuverable. He heard sounds of pursuit, too close. As he ran, he tossed aside his jacket and shirt. Dangling from the handlebars he’d left a dirty serape that many of the natives here wore. He whipped it over his shoulders, slid his arms in and dropped heavily onto the bike. His legs tingled as though they’d fallen asleep, and ice picks stabbed at his hips. His vision darkened for a moment from the sudden pain, and he nearly blacked out. He gritted his teeth, punched himself in the thigh repeatedly and kicked the engine to life.
He spun out and around the corner as the first wave of Carrera’s men swept out the gates and into the streets, searching for likely targets. It was five miles to the center of the city, where the streets would be busy with people and tourists and where the police would have to make at least an attempt to pay attention. Alex blinked and gripped the handlebars tighter, his hands like talons. His eyesight blurred and it was all that he could do to keep the Ducati upright.
For a time he operated on pure instinct, and the bursts of gunfire and the roar of engines at his heels became the sounds of dreams on awakening—distant and unreal. He was the Chameleon, and he needed only to disappear.
He dumped the bike at the edge of a small market, running between carts overladen with fruits and vegetables, and ducking in and out of alleys. At six feet one inch, he wasn’t small enough to remain unseen in a doorway or tucked behind some clutter in the alley. He kept moving, ignoring the protests of his body, knowing that it didn’t matter where he ended up, only that they not find him. The crowded streets were his best chance of blending in and eventually disappearing.
A car roared by the mouth of the alley where he stood. There was no way to know for sure if it was one of Carrera’s. He had to assume that it was. Alex took a deep breath, steadied himself and pushed off the wall. He stumbled at first, then found his stride and, hanging close to the wall, stepped confidently into the street. Just ahead was a small cantina with tables looking out onto the street. He lowered his head and stepped inside.
The urge to turn and scan the street was strong, but he ignored it, walking into the shadows near the rear of the bar and taking a seat. Anything he did that might bring attention to himself would be a mistake. He needed to become what he appeared to be—a tired worker in from the fields, looking for a place to wait out the last heat of the day and enjoy a drink. His clothing, the makeup he wore and even the contact lenses that turned his normally pale blue eyes a dark brown color would all serve to make him look more like a native. He ordered beer in fluent, unaccented Spanish and slouched over it. Occasionally, he turned toward the door and glanced at the street, but he was careful to make such motions inconspicuous and innocuous. There was nothing to be gained by moving now. His best bet for survival was staying put, and the way he was feeling, the rest was a blessing. There was no way to deny it—something was wrong. He had to get out of Mexico and back home. He had to see a doctor. There was no longer any way to deny the sudden, excruciating pains or the uncontrollable trembling in his hands. His physical conditioning had not slacked off, and yet he seemed to spend most of his energy trying to concentrate, or fighting the pain in his legs.
Something had gone horribly wrong and his life too often depended on the skills of his body. A mistake in his line of work could easily prove fatal. And, if he was honest with himself, the missions were often too important to the safety of the world for him to fail.
The bartender polished the copper-and-brass beer taps. He paid no more attention to Alex than he did to the tables or the chairs. Alex looked into the mirror on the other side of the bar, his eyes mocking him in the reflection. There was nothing in the image to indicate that something was wrong with him, but he stared at the image as if it were a puzzle, as if maybe, if he stared long enough he could make the pieces fit back together. Alex sipped his beer and thought quietly. A young boy wandered in, looking for an easy mark or a free meal.
The boy looked sidelong at him, but didn’t approach immediately. Alex met the boy’s gaze and nodded him over. With a quick glance at the bartender, who seemed not to notice, the boy complied.
In a disinterested voice, Alex asked if he was hungry. The boy didn’t answer, but instead glanced at the floor. Alex spoke quickly, explaining what he needed. He slid a few pesos across the table.
The boy eyed them for a moment, considering. It had to be one of the strangest requests he’d heard, but he wanted the money. He reached out, and as he did, Alex caught his wrist in a snake-fast grab.
He held the boy’s gaze, and studied him. There was fear, and a bit of pride, but they weren’t the dead, street eyes of one of Carrera’s boys. Maybe he was just out for an evening’s adventure, or maybe his parents worked late and left him to fend for himself. Whatever the story, he would do as he was told for the money, and that was enough. Alex released him and nodded again. The boy disappeared.
Alex rose, slouched over the bar and ordered a second beer. He took the chance to glance out at the street, but he saw nothing out of place. They weren’t going door to door searching for him. Not yet anyway. But it was time for another change, and then it was time for him to disappear.
Despite the problems, the mission could be considered a success. The head of the snake had been removed, and Carrera’s business would be taken over by someone else. Fights and power struggles would cause a shift at the top. And whoever ended up running it would have to rebuild. It would be a long time before they managed to work up to the threat Carrerra had become to the government, if they ever did. More than likely, wars would erupt among the underlings; lieutenants and street gangs would vie for control of their little parts of the business until it fractured. Most of the drug gangs were held together by violence, the threat of violence and fear of one leader. When that leader was gone, the disintegration was almost always just a matter of time.
He finished his beer, marking the time the boy had been gone. Just as he began to think he’d slipped up again, the boy ducked back into the cantina. He carried a package wrapped in brown paper and moved a little uncertainly. He dropped the parcel on the table in front of Alex, who tore open the corner, looked inside, smiled thinly and nodded. Alex reached into his pocket and pulled out a few more coins. He slid them across to the boy, who took them quickly. For the first time since the two had met, Alex saw a toothy grin emerge from the lonely shadows of the young face. Then the boy turned and exited so quickly and silently he might never have been there at all.
Nonchalantly, Alex took the package and walked through the beaded curtains at the rear of the building and entered the men’s room. Less than five minutes later he emerged wearing a bright red T-shirt with the Union Jack flag emblazoned across the front. His dark hair was tousled. The contacts were gone, returning his eyes to their natural blue color, and the makeup had been washed off his face, lightening his skin tone by several shades. He wore cheap mirrored sunglasses and in all respects now looked like a tourist rather than a native.
Without even glancing at the curtain, he entered the kitchen, crossed to the rear exit and slipped out into another alley. He was feeling better, and his thoughts had returned to the mechanical, clockwork efficiency of his art. There were streets at both ends of the alley. One was busier, and he chose it. He stopped just inside the mouth of the alley and waited.
Moments later, a brightly colored taxi rolled slowly by. There were religious icons on the dashboard, bright, reflective stickers on the bumpers and enough chains dangling from the rear-view mirror to obscure half the windshield. Alex sauntered out of the alley, picked up his pace and raised his hand. The taxi was moving slowly, and the driver caught sight of him, pulling to the curb. Alex slipped open the rear door.
He heard quick footsteps behind him and heavy breath. He didn’t turn. He slipped into the backseat.
“Airport,” he said softly. “Quickly!”
As the taxi rolled into traffic, Alex heard frustrated shouts behind them. Once again, the Chameleon had disappeared.
The taxi shot through traffic and rounded the first curve, nearly rolling up onto two wheels in the process. Alex had two lockers waiting—one at each end of the airport. Depending on what he saw when he arrived, he’d go to one or the other, change again, take his tickets and board a flight for the United States. He wanted a hot meal and a long nap. Maybe something stronger to drink than a cheap Mexican beer.
In his lap, his hand trembled, and he frowned, staring out into the growing darkness.
2
Three weeks later, Alex sat in the doctor’s office, trying to remain calm. He’d have better luck staring into the business end of a gun than staring at that damned clock. The door popped open, nearly sending him off his seat. The groan of new leather betrayed him, and he fought to relax his muscles, to sink casually back into the chair.
Under normal circumstances, Alex would be utilizing one of the doctors who had been specially selected to serve the agents of Room 59. But this wasn’t a normal circumstance and Alex wanted his situation to be private—at least until he could figure out what was going on and what to do about it. His mandatory time off after a mission was almost over, and he’d soon be sent out again. He needed to know what was wrong before that happened.
Alex had chosen Dr. Britton because he had a reputation for being discreet, he was one of the top in his field and he was close to home. He was also blunt and to the point, which Alex appreciated. As Dr. Britton stepped through the door, Alex’s eyes riveted on his face, he shifted the file folder from one hand to the other. That folder bore the fruits of a battery of tests. It held Alex’s fate.
“Sorry it took me so long.” Dr. Britton eased into his own chair; the wheels scraped across the plastic mat as he moved closer to the desk. “I had to take an emergency call.”
“No worries, Doc. It’s not like I have somewhere else more important to be.” Alex dry swallowed and recrossed his legs.
“Let’s see.” Britton sighed, licking one finger and turning quickly through the various lab results until he came to the one he wanted. “I’ll start with the good news. You’ll be happy to know that you’re in wonderful physical shape. Heart good, lungs good, muscle tone impressive. That’s all going to be a help to you with the bad news.”
Alex offered up a tight grin by way of reply and recrossed his legs. Patience eluded him.
“The bad news is that there is one problem and it’s a big one,” the doctor said.
He paused, Alex supposed, awaiting a response. Alex gave none.
Dr. Britton nodded. “I’ll put this as simply as I can, then. No sense fooling around with it. Your MRI showed extensive lesions—we call them plaque—on your brain and spinal cord, and the fluid we took from your spine has elevated protein markers. You have multiple sclerosis, and based on the history you’ve given me, it’s very progressive.”
Alex felt the small lunch he’d eaten earlier rise into his throat, and his head spun. “MS. Like Muhammad Ali?”
“Not quite. Ali has Parkinson’s disease, which is also neurological, but has a different progression. MS causes lesions on the brain and affects different parts of the nervous system based on where the lesions are occurring. Most forms of MS progress slowly, or more commonly relapse and remit, with recovery between. The symptoms are mild, often unnoticed at first, then build to larger problems over time.”
“Like, decades, right?” Maybe he had time. Time to live, to work, to find a cure. Room 59 had access to all sorts of classified things. For all he knew, some government agency already had a cure that hadn’t been released to the public yet.
The doctor shook his head. “Not decades, Alex. That’s not the form you have. Your tests indicate that you most probably have primary progressive MS. Its onset is much more dramatic and, I’m afraid, it doesn’t afford you as much time before you get into some serious and often debilitating symptoms.”
“How long?”
Dr. Britton scanned his chart, avoiding looking up at Alex.
“Come on, Doc. Just give me the worst case and we can work back from there.”
“Alex, there’s just no real way to predict how MS is going to progress. Sometimes it can take quite a while before you run into serious problems, and then one day you wake up and can’t get out of bed. With the problems that you’re having now and the location and size of the lesions it could be as little as a few months, maybe less, maybe more. It’s not a predictable disease.”
Alex’s face betrayed him. He could dodge bullets without so much as a tic, but this had thrown him into a spin. His grip on the arm of the chair loosened and he felt the tremors start again.
“Months.”
“I’m sorry, Alex. This disease isn’t something that I can give you a shot for—we can’t even predict with any accuracy the symptoms you’ll experience from one day to the next. Muscles spasms, tremors, pain, blindness—there are so many neurological possibilities.” He slid several prescriptions across his desk and sighed. “There are some medications that will help relieve some of the symptoms for a while. They will help lessen the spasms a bit, make the pain more tolerable. But the disease has a mind of its own. It’ll take its own course and have done with you when it damned well pleases.”
“What can I expect? I mean—” Alex didn’t know what he meant. He wanted the doctor to tell him he had years before he went shopping for a personalized license plate for his wheelchair. He wanted the doctor to guarantee him a few years before he became totally useless.
More paper slid across the desk, this time in the form of fat pamphlets. Alex took them without really looking at them.
“You can read these and they’ll give you a better idea of where you’re headed. There are also plenty of informative Web sites on the subject. Do some digging and you’ll get a handle on what’s known about the disease. We’ll want to repeat several of the tests in a month, especially the MRIs, and then again in six months if you’re still—”
Alex’s head snapped up, eyes glaring daggers. “Alive? If I’m still alive?”
The faint smile disappeared from Dr. Britton’s face. “No, nothing that severe. But given what we’re looking at, if you are still walking I admit I would be surprised.”
Alex stood shakily. “I know. Not your fault. Sometimes, shit just happens, eh?” He turned toward the door, the pamphlets clutched tightly in his hand. “I’ll be back in a month. Then again in six.”
Dr. Britton stared after him, frowning. “Call me if you have any concerns, Alex. And try to minimize your stress. There are many worse neurological diseases than MS. It’s not fatal. I could have told you that your life is ending.”
Alex laughed harshly. “You just did.”
Britton slumped back into his chair. “I’m sorry, Alex,” he said. “You’ll want to take some time with this at first. Just remember that stress makes MS symptoms worse. Go easy for a bit and maybe the symptoms will settle down a little.”
Alex nodded sharply, then left, stalking down the hall toward the elevator. His face was steady and he hadn’t blinked since opening the door to Dr. Britton’s office. The Muzak droned in the elevator, but he didn’t hear it. He stared straight ahead, stoic and silent. He showed no reaction at all until he stepped out onto the sidewalk and the bright midday sun assaulted his eyes.
There he stood, Alex Tempest, master spy and assassin, husband, father and soon…useless. For the first time, he became aware of the pamphlets in his hand. That hand trembled as it brought the pages closer to his line of sight and he grimaced. Multiple sclerosis. Didn’t that just beat the hell out of the band?
He realized he’d never really thought about walking. Everyone just takes for granted that they can. It might have been easier if it had been a death sentence. That would have been devastating to most people, but Alex Tempest was not most people. He had thought at length about the manner and time of his death. He’d always figured that he’d die in a blaze of glory, bullets raining down on him from every direction. He’d hoped he would die in brave, heroic fashion, maybe even in the process of saving someone’s life. Death like that was something he could face.
But he’d never imagined something like this. A disease, wasting him away, helpless in the face of an enemy he couldn’t see, couldn’t fight. It wasn’t even a good disease, the result of a life of excess or debauchery. If it were, he’d at least have something to show for it—some good memories.
Two blocks down the street was a dark little bar called Pete’s. Alex headed in that direction, the pamphlets clutched in his trembling hand. The prescriptions were tucked neatly into his wallet, folded twice to ensure a good fit. His free hand gripped the door handle and pulled, allowing him entrance to a world inhabited solely by the lost.
Inside, the bar was dark and the air smelled like stale beer and smoke. The faintest scent of burned French fries wafted out of the kitchen and the phone rang shrilly against the soft hum of voices. Alex slipped onto a stool and flagged down the bartender. “Double Black Jack, neat.”
The bartender nodded, and then reached for a glass. It was artfully filled and pressed into his hand. Alex traded him a twenty for it. “Four more. Line ’em up.” He downed the first one and tried to smile.
“Tough day?” The bartender was too young and too innocent to know anything about bad days.
“Last day.” The hint of sadness in Alex’s voice was unmistakable and it was enough to make the bartender leave him alone with his liquid friends.
Alex sipped at the second drink and spread the pamphlets out on the bar. Might as well know what he was up against. He flipped open the fat one, skimmed the opening details and gore, then cut straight to the dos and don’ts. He hoped that he’d find some secret remedy contained in those scant pages. Instead, he found bad news and more bad news.
Chief among the don’ts was drinking. “Fuck you!” he grumbled to the pamphlet, then slammed it shut and tossed back the third shot. The bartender stared at him for a moment, then turned away in silence.
There were few dos included. Not much advice and little or no hope. Apparently, nothing much helped, beyond doing none of the things you enjoyed up until you were left drooling in a wheelchair and then killed by something stupid, like a cold, when your immune system finally collapsed.
He thought about his wife, Brin, and his eyes welled with tears. He’d have to tell her, but he didn’t know how he’d do it. She was strong and brilliant and amazingly self-sufficient, but this would devastate her. And he didn’t want to think about what the news would do to their daughter, Savannah. She was Daddy’s girl, tried and true. Alex smiled as he thought about her, her sweet face, her tiny hand in his. Then he frowned. She was a little over two. If the disease progressed quickly, she might not even remember him, or worse, she might only remember an incompetent in a wheelchair who could never help her or protect her.
Alex thought he would rather be dead in some hell hole than face his wife and daughter with this kind of news. Dead that way, he was making a difference. He was a warrior, and if he couldn’t fight this disease, he could damned well go out fighting.
And who knew, he thought, maybe he was strong enough to beat it for a while. The power of the mind, his body was still in great shape, maybe he could will himself to overcome the disease. He shook his head and took another swallow of the burning liquor.
If not, what good could he do himself, his family or the world, with this damned disease?
He swallowed as the answer came to him.
None.
3
Denny Talbot heard the faint tone in his earpiece that indicated someone wanted to speak to him and he slipped on the wraparound-style sunglasses that allowed him to access the virtual world of Room 59. Using his avatar, he keyed in the codes that would transform the digital green lines of nothingness into what looked like a normal office in seconds. When it was done and his avatar was seated, he said, “Enter.”
Kate Cochran, the director of Room 59, came through his virtual door at a good clip, her platinum-blond hair bouncing around her neck as she moved. She had one of those damnable red folders in her hand, which meant this was important—life-altering important.
Denny leaned back in his chair, which squeaked in protest. Everything in the Room 59 virtual world could appear as real or unreal as the user desired. He preferred reality to the strangeness of a dream, so his office mirrored reality to the smallest detail. “A red folder,” he said without preamble. “What do you have for me this time?” A smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Something big,” Kate said. “And very juicy.” She tapped the folder and set it on his desk. “Rare-steak juicy.”
Denny started to reach for the file but she pulled it back just in the nick of time. “Okay, why don’t you fill me in, then?” He smiled, full on, and laced his fingers over his belly as he rocked slowly in the chair.
“Ever heard of a company called MRIS? Medical Robotic Imaging Systems, Inc.?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“They’re a high-tech medical-imaging firm, mostly working on the research-and-development side of diagnostic equipment. They’ve even developed a successful prototype of a nanobot camera—nanobots are tiny robots that can be injected into a person’s body—eliminating the need for such things as endoscopic procedures and upper GIs. It still needs a lot more testing before they can go public with it, but it will happen soon enough. They’re privately funded, very quiet and already making hundreds of millions of dollars a year,” Kate said.
Denny nodded, wondering where this was heading.
“Last year, MRIS opened a facility in China, up in one of the northern provinces, specifically for the continued development of this nanobot imaging system.”
“Where’s the part where this concerns us?” Denny asked. Kate could be blunt, but she could also drive a man to distraction with too much detail.
“Apparently, that isn’t all they’re up to. Yesterday, we got a communiqué from one of our assets in China. Site intel and surveillance shows that MRIS isn’t just working on the imaging systems. Seems they’re also building some sort of related biological weapon. According to the Chinese, the biological end of it is complete. It’s just the weapon part—the delivery system—that needs work.”
Now his interest was piqued. He sat forward and leaned both elbows on the desk. “And they want us to eliminate the threat.”
“Bingo.” Finally, she tossed the file across the desk, watching it skid slowly into Denny’s hands. She took a seat in a chair and crossed her long legs, watching his face as he accessed the information and read through the file and scanned the pictures.
When he was done, Denny slid the folder back and shook his head. What he’d read had made him sick, deep inside. The particular nerve gas MRIS had created was very spooky. They’d found a way to use the nanobots to deliver a payload specifically designed to kill slowly in order to maximize suffering and increase the contamination rate. “They’re right,” he said. “We need to stop this. Now.”
“Pai Kun completely agrees,” Kate said. “It was one of his who that initially got the intel. But he wants us to take the lead on it, rather than using a local asset.”
“Why?” Denny asked.
“He thinks we’ll have a better shot at keeping things quiet and suspicion away from any of his local assets,” she said. “I think he’s right.”
Denny stared at the folder for a long moment, and then glanced up, another question in his eyes. “Who do you want to send?” he asked.
“I was thinking of Alex Tempest. This is right up his alley. He’d be perfect for it.”
Denny shook his head. “He’s great at blending in, but even he might have trouble looking Chinese.”
A crease formed down the middle of Kate’s forehead and she frowned. “He pulled off that mission in Korea just last year,” she countered. “I think he can do it.”
“Maybe,” Denny admitted. “But he’s only been back from that mission in Mexico a few weeks or so. And things didn’t go very well down there. I was thinking of giving him some extended downtime.”
Kate nodded thoughtfully and studied her shoes for a moment. “There’s nobody better suited for it,” she said. “And we can’t afford a failure here. Who else has his level of experience, let alone his training?”
“I can think of a few—”
“Who else will get the job done or die trying? Come on! You know damned well that nobody else we’ve got right now is capable of taking this on with any kind of certainty of success. There’s only Alex.” Kate paused for a moment and studied his face with the trained eye of an interrogator. “We mandate three weeks minimum between missions, Denny. He’s had that and is probably sitting on his hands waiting for something else to do by now. Maybe sending him back out is what he needs, more than extra time off.”
Denny thought for a moment. He knew Kate. She had all the tenacity of a bull terrier. He could tell her no until the cows came home and still not win the argument. “All right. But you have to promise not to try and influence his answer in any way. Not to pressure him into it. I’m still waiting for his full report on what happened down in Mexico, but I’ve got a bad feeling right now where he’s concerned. If he says no, then we’ll find someone else, okay?”
Kate nodded her head slowly. “You know I would never, ever try to push an agent into taking on a detail he wasn’t ready for.”
Denny stood his ground, frowning. “Promise me.”
When several beats passed without an answer from Kate, he glared at her, staring daggers. “Promise or you can ask him yourself.”
She held up her hands to ward off the heat of his eyes. “Okay, okay! I promise I will not try to influence his decision in any way. Happy now?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. Good luck chatting with Alex.” Kate rose, tucking the folder under one arm and pushing open the door. Once outside, she shoved the door shut and Denny sighed, then disconnected from his virtual office.
They both knew it was as good as decided.
Alex would take the job. He was too white-hat not to.
4
Alex was folded over a cup of coffee, his gaze turned inward, when Brin joined him. She was dressed for work, not a hair out of place, her brown eyes bright and dazzling. He was the opposite—careless hair, unshaved, vision murky. When he wasn’t on a job, he was unkempt and relaxed. He kept it casual. He loved that Brin could roll out of bed looking perfect. Her gorgeous blond hair always looked sexy, either smooth and perfect or playful and tussled, his favorite, the way she looked after sex. Or was it just that his love affected his vision?
Brin eased into the chair opposite his and rubbed his hand for a moment. “Sleep well?”
He looked up at her with a smile and a wink. “Always do, first night home.” He hadn’t told her that he’d been back for almost a month, staying in a nearby hotel until the doctors had finished working him over. It had been incredibly hard not to race right home, to see her and their daughter, but he wanted to know what was going on before he allowed himself the luxury of the feelings his family aroused in him.
“Me, too.” She let loose an uncharacteristically girlish giggle.
Alex took a long sip of his coffee, studying her face over the rim of the cup. He held it in both hands, just in case the tremors returned. So far, they had only affected one hand at a time. He could always steady one hand with the other.
“Things went okay in Mexico, then?” She fiddled with her briefcase latch. “You were gone longer than I thought you’d be.”
“Took longer than I thought,” Alex said. “They don’t have a lot of the resources we do here, but it turned out all right. No worries.” Brin had no idea what Alex really did for a living. She thought he was some sort of security expert, doing contract work all over the world. He wasn’t sure if she’d have been able to handle all the alone time if she’d really known what he was doing in those faraway places. But he couldn’t tell her anything without putting her in danger and he liked the image that she had of him now. Besides, she might actually take exception to his killing people for a living. Quite a few people seemed to think that it wasn’t the most honorable line of work.
“Glad to hear it.” She turned a bit in her chair, so that she was facing him, and cupped her chin in one hand. “So, how long do we have you for this time?”
“Right up to the moment you get tired of me. There’s nothing on the radar, so I guess I’ve been gifted with some major downtime.”
“Good. Savannah will be happy to hear that, too. She misses her big old daddy bear when he’s gone.”
If there was anything sexier than Brin talking baby talk, Alex couldn’t imagine what it was. “I miss her, too. Like I’d miss the air.” He reached for his coffee and a sigh slipped out before he could cut it short.
“Alex, are you all right?”
Confused, his arm paused halfway to his mouth and he frowned at her across the table. “Fine. Why?”
Her arms were folded and crossed on the table. She nodded toward his hand in a quick jerk of her head and the frown deepened.
Alex looked at his hand, holding the coffee cup almost to his lips, and his breath caught in his chest. It was shaking, and not just a little, but a lot. Coffee sloshed gently against the sides of the cup. Quickly, he transferred the cup to his left hand and put it back on the table.
“I’m fine, really. I’m just still a little tired from the trip and all the excitement. Guess I just didn’t realize how tired I was.”
Brin’s face was etched in worry, strained.
“Are you sure? Maybe you should see a doctor or something. I don’t think I’ve ever seen your hands shake like that.”
Her tone changed from concerned wife to scientist. He knew that he needed to move on to something else or she would sit and analyze until she uncovered the truth. Part of the problem with being married to a Ph.D. was that sometimes she was too observant for his own good.
“I’m sure. Now, come here, wife!” He held out his arms to her and she rose instantly, slipping around the table.
Alex grabbed her by the hips and swept her into his lap in one easy movement. His lips found hers from experience, resting there as they had done a thousand times before. When he released her, his eyes sparkled.
“If I were sick, could I still do that?” Another wink and a smile.
Brin giggled again and nuzzled his neck. “I guess not. Now, you have to let me go before I’m late for work. You get some rest today. Promise me?”
“Yes, Mother.” He swatted her on the backside, a little too roughly perhaps, but with good humor and great results. “Love you.”
5
With Brin safely off to work and Savannah hugged, kissed and off to day care, Alex was alone with his misery. He tried to focus, to find a positive he could cling to that would help him map out the next few months or weeks. Days? Nothing worked. He finished his coffee, then puttered aimlessly about the kitchen before pouring another cup.
He tried thinking about the house, his family and planning for the future, but it was hopeless. In many ways, they were fortunate—far more so than many of the people he’d seen in other countries. The house was paid for and a college fund for Savannah was already in place, accruing interest. He had more money tucked away than the family would ever need, and, in all reality, Brin didn’t actually need it. The research lab she ran was on the cutting edge of the hunt to cure a dozen or more degenerative diseases. She made plenty of money on her own.
Sometimes he thought it was marriage to him that held her back from a Nobel Prize or more. And she was a wonder with Savannah. It was true that the girl loved her Daddy, but it was Brin who got the call when knees were scraped or a stuffy nose kept the girl from sleeping.
He couldn’t shake the feeling of frustration that he wasn’t going to be part of building their family, their life—he was going to be a burden on it.
One thing was certain. He couldn’t put off telling Denny Talbot that he was done as a Room 59 agent. They would have to replace him, and quickly. His personal life might have gone into a slide, but he knew the world wouldn’t pay a bit of attention to that. He might even have saved it once or twice—it was all the same to Mother Earth.
Alex stalked to his desk. The computer monitor was dark. He punched the power button and brought the machine to life. As it booted up, he plopped into the leather chair and stared at the screen.
He didn’t even know what he’d say when he logged in. He had his final report on the Mexican operation to upload, but they already knew the details. He’d given Denny a quick debrief when he’d returned. Nothing was really news to Kate or Denny. They probably also knew that he’d nearly screwed up, though they wouldn’t say anything about it. If he’d failed or the mission hadn’t been completed, he’d be hearing about it in spades. His mistake this time had no lasting repercussions, so he was sure that was okay.
The computer screen filled with the smiling faces of Brin and Savannah, and Alex stared at them. He didn’t want to touch the keyboard or the mouse. He didn’t want to disrupt the image. With a long sigh, he leaned forward and typed in the coded keystrokes he’d memorized so long ago. While the commands ran, he removed his virtual reality glasses from a hidden slot beneath his desk and put them on. The image on the screen shifted, dissolving to a slowly spinning number 59 in the center of the screen, followed by a login prompt. This was the first of a multiple-stage process for logging into the ultrasecure Room 59 reporting center.
As he followed the familiar electronic trail, he considered what he’d say once he was in. He knew he’d have to resign. There was no way to continue under the circumstances. It was likely he wouldn’t be in any condition to deliver for much longer.
He passed the final security level and his personal portal opened. To the right were icons for a variety of contacts and resources. Down the left side were alerts, memos and communications. The center icon sent a direct chat request to Denny. Despite using the Room 59 technology on a regular basis, there was still a feel of science fiction to it all as far as Alex was concerned. Virtual offices, avatars, conference and briefing rooms. Anybody could look like anyone, though he’d noticed that humor was not highly appreciated. His initial avatar of choice had been Yoda, the Jedi master from the Star Wars movies. The frowns alone told him to choose something more mundane and now he appeared as a somewhat altered version of himself.
Alex started to open the link, and then stopped. One of the communications icons was blinking. He had an urgent message waiting for him. He frowned. These were usually reserved for assignments or emergencies. He hadn’t even been home a full month, and they’d never contacted him for his next mission so quickly.
Yet there it was. Alex touched the icon with his virtual hand, and immediately a series of folders opened in front of him. The files were from Denny Talbot and Kate Cochran, including a note that he should review them before checking in for his assignment. A final document opened without prompting, and, curious, he began to read.
It was an intelligence report from one of their Chinese operatives, interspersed with notes from Chinese intelligence, as well as the conclusions of Denny and Kate and Pai Kun, the Room 59 leader for China. Alex’s frown deepened. This intelligence represented a serious threat to the security of the world, but all it had taken was the name of the company, MRIS, to get his full attention. He quickly skimmed the rest of the materials.
He closed the document, minimized the files, reached out and launched the chat icon. The scene in front of him shifted and he was standing outside the door to Denny’s virtual office. Denny had been waiting for him, and when he rapped on the door he heard “Enter,” just as though they were in the real world.
Alex stepped through the doorway. Though he had never met the man in person, Alex suspected that Denny’s avatar was exact in almost every detail. He had a heavy build and his hair was graying at the temples. Still, he looked strong, and his eyes were sharp. Denny didn’t miss too many tricks, despite the fact that he wasn’t a field man anymore.
“What do you have?” Alex asked without hesitation. “What the hell is this file, Denny?”
“Big stuff, cowboy,” Denny replied. “The Chinese are pretty worried over this one, and if they don’t like it, you know it’s got to be bad. They don’t play well with others, as a general rule.”
“I just got home a few weeks ago,” Alex said. “I was sort of planning on some downtime.” He knew it didn’t mean a thing; he was buying time and running what he’d read through his mind. He knew he should be telling Denny what the doctor had said. This one was hot, and there wasn’t going to be a lot of time to find someone else to handle it. If there was someone else.
“I know, Alex, and I hate it, especially considering that things didn’t go great for you in Mexico, but I told Kate I’d at least present it to you. We don’t send out operatives this soon unless it’s mission critical, and I like to give my men at least a month or more off between assignments.”
“That’s why I’m surprised,” Alex said. “I’ve always had at least that long—usually closer to six weeks or more—between missions.”
“This is going to be a tough one, Alex. Security is tight, and the schedule is half a gnat’s ass short of insane. We’re under the gun, and you may be our only field agent who can pull it off. You have experience with the Chinese, and you speak the language.”
It was true. Alex had completed two missions in the east in the past ten years. As an Army Ranger he’d been specially trained for Chinese operations—he spoke several dialects, and with some work he could pass for a tall Asian if he had to. Of course, given the right opportunity, he could pass for almost anything.
“The file said MRIS was involved,” Alex said. “You know Brin works for them. It’s pretty close to home.”
“As far as we know, her work isn’t a part of this,” Denny said, “but it’s a safe bet that they’re using every resource they have in one way or another, even if the people don’t know it themselves. I doubt there’s any part of the company not involved in this one way or another. I’m sure she’s clean—we checked and rechecked to make sure—but I don’t know what it will mean for her if they bring this all together. Hell, I don’t know what it will mean for China, or the world, but it won’t be good. Chemical attacks are bad enough—if they manage to infect someone over here with those damned nanobuggers of theirs, it could get out of control pretty fast. We can’t let that happen.”
“Of course not,” Alex agreed. “Do we have an in? They’re going to be looking for trouble, especially if they’re as close as you say. You sure we have time for this? Might be better to turn one like this over to more standard channels and get them shut down.”
“Can’t risk it,” Denny said so quickly that he must have anticipated the question. He was like that. “Relations between China and the U.S. are already too strained. Our sources on this are in deep—they can’t be the ones to bring this forward. If we tried it, it would just be seen as us taking another shot at their culture. They’d tighten up, shut us out, and by the time they’d realized their mistake, it would be over. We have to go in—hard, fast and right now.”
Alex didn’t reply. Denny didn’t wait long.
“You want it, cowboy?”
Alex glanced down at his hand. For the moment, it was steady. He thought of Brin, smiling at him and hurrying Savannah out the door. There was such trust in that smile, such love. How could he leave her alone to face—what? A company that wasn’t really trying to cure diseases, but intent on spreading new ones? Would she be safe? Would they come after her, others like her, to force them into creating bigger, better diseases instead of curing the ones they had now? How long before Savannah was in danger?
He sighed. Maybe he wasn’t one hundred percent, but even at ninety he was better than most. This might be his last shot at doing something that really meant something. Maybe he could beat the MS and still do what he loved.
“I’m in,” he said. “Give me what you’ve got.”
“Timetable transferring to your calendar,” Denny replied. “You have the files. There are photos, a database of personnel, instructions on contacts and credentials. You know the drill. Once it’s all transferred, and you’re airborne, we’re out.”
“The assignment?” Alex asked. He knew the information would be in the file, but he wanted a few seconds more to back out if he thought of a way to get clear. Nothing came to mind, and this wasn’t a drug lord making things nasty on the border—this was a huge global threat.
“We need the research either retrieved or wiped out,” Denny replied. “It has to be removed from all their systems and backups. We want it utterly gone. There is also a list of key personnel, the people we have established with certainty are behind this. They have to be taken out of the equation so they don’t just recreate the work. There has to be a message sent with this, Alex. It must be made clear that this kind of thing won’t be tolerated. If we hit too hard, we’ll get too much attention—but if we don’t hit them hard enough, they’ll—”
“Just come back like bad pennies,” Alex finished. “Where do we stand right now for field support?”
“You’ll have a local asset in Beijing who will supply any and all needs beyond your departure. You have, of course, full run of equipment, data and assistance on this end. That ends the minute you hit the ground over there, so take advantage while you have the chance.”
“Will do,” Alex replied. “Damn. And I was looking forward to weeding the garden this week.”
“You’ll get to it, cowboy,” Denny said.
“Yeah,” Alex replied. “I guess. I’m out. I have a lot of reading to do, and then I have to explain to Brin and Savannah why I won’t be taking them camping this weekend.”
“Alex, one other thing,” Denny said. “I tried to talk Kate out of calling you on this one. I know you could use a break—if for no other reason than to finish that report on Mexico.”
“It’s okay,” Alex replied. “I have to do this—you know I do. It’s too close for me to ignore. I’ll get in, do the job and get out as quickly as I can. Plenty of time left for gardening when it’s done.” He grinned. “And I’ll upload the report on my last mission to you before I leave.”
“That’s the spirit,” Denny replied. “Catch you soon.”
Alex left Denny’s office, then brought up the icons again, choosing the one for home. His view shifted and once more he was in his own virtual office. He flipped open the first file. He wouldn’t be able to download or print any of the data, so he had to make the most of the time he had to read and memorize everything they knew. His life might depend on it. What he could safely carry would be waiting for him at the equipment drop—names, photos and false identification.
“Damn,” he muttered. “Holy five-flaming hell.”
He cursed, and he read, and he drank black coffee. When his hand twitched and then began to tremble, he told himself it was just the caffeine.
Alex had meant to offer his resignation. To call it quits and spend his last good days with his wife and daughter. If Denny or Kate or anyone in Room 59 found out about the MS, the mission would be aborted. They might even take him out to keep him from snapping. He couldn’t let that happen—he needed this one. It was his chance at the blaze of glory—a final shot at being a hero. This was a mission that could make a difference, and he wasn’t about to turn it down. A warrior without a war to fight wasn’t much of anything.
As far as missions went, it was a good one. Challenging and making the world a safer place. At the least it beat holy hell out of a pile of useless pamphlets and a race to oblivion. It would have to be enough.
As Alex read, memorizing names and places and facts, the sun slipped toward the horizon. The sad little lamp on his desk—considered a treasure when they’d found it at the garage sale years ago—was an inadequate soldier against the shadows that had filled the room. He was just about to take a break, make some more coffee, when he heard sounds of talk and laughter in the driveway. Brin and Savannah, returning from their day out in the world. How many times had Brin come home to an empty house since they’d been married? Too many, he guessed. Still, that would be ending soon enough.
Alex disconnected from his office, and put the glasses back beneath the desk, then stood and walked toward the front door. For now, his body seemed to be obeying all commands, but he wasn’t sure just how long that would last. The door swung open, and there was Brin, looking every bit as prim as she had that morning, one hand full of mail, the other clutching her briefcase.
“Hey, you.” Alex chuckled. He leaned on the wall, this time because he wanted to, not because he needed the support.
“Daddy!” Savannah rocket launched across the room and left the ground in one last glorious leap, knowing that her daddy would catch her in midair.
Catch her he did, smothering her little cheeks and neck with kisses and growling his big bear hug into her hair. God but he’d missed that! “How was your day, princess?”
“Good day, Daddy.” Savannah smiled, eyes sparkling, giggling as she patted him down for presents.
“Sorry, kiddo. Daddy hasn’t even left the house.”
She sighed and squirmed, wanting to be put down.
“How about you, Mommy?” Alex asked. “How was your day?”
He set Savannah on the floor and turned to sweep Brin into his arms. She was ready with a kiss and a smile, and most anything else he needed. He hoped she was ready with understanding, too.
“You know, gene splicing, curing diseases, saving the world. Blah, blah, blah!” She tossed the mail and her keys onto the hall table and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Give me a minute to change and I’ll start dinner.”
Alex wondered if her company was also working on a cure for MS, and if they were, would they find anything in time to save him. None of the pamphlets he’d read sounded promising, but a lot of medical advances were kept quiet until they were ready for a public unveiling. Maybe when he got back from this mission, when he could tell her the truth about his condition, he’d ask her about it.
She was halfway to the bedroom before Alex thought to call after her. “No need. I ordered pizza and it should be here any minute.”
She spun on him, a silly, crooked grin stuck to her face. “I’m that predictable that you can order food to be delivered the moment I walk in the door?”
“Yep! You’re the predictable one. I’m the irrational, flighty one. Good system.” The doorbell rang and he reached for his wallet. “Hurry up and change. I’ll get the pizza and get Miss Savannah seated.”
He swung open the door and thrust out the twenty in one easy movement. The pizza guy was young and his face looked a lot like the pizza he delivered. Outside, there was a small blue Toyota, built sometime back when Carter was still in office.
Alex smiled. “Keep the change.” He shut the door and turned the lock.
When he reached the kitchen, Savannah turned and smiled at him from where she sat, legs swinging, in the high chair. “Pizza! Yay!”
Alex stopped abruptly and frowned, then grinned to himself. “Did you get up there all by yourself?” Of course she did. Who else would have helped her?
Savannah mumbled something incoherent but nodded her agreement.
“You’re a very smart girl. But please—” He stooped to fasten the strap and put on the tray. Then he leaned in close and whispered, “Please don’t grow up so fast. Daddy will miss his little girl.”
He pecked her cheek and slid her close to the table, stopping then to study her face. It changed daily, growing, maturing. A week away brought him home to find all her expressions morphed somehow. A month, and he could hardly recognize her.
“Did you remember the pineapple? I love pineapple.” Brin swept into the room, still buttoning the buttons on her blouse.
Alex caught sight of her and smiled, thinking how nice it would be to pop each and every button right off. “Pineapple present and accounted for, ma’am!”
She smacked him as he saluted.
There was lots of pizza, chitchat, a sundae for Savannah. The normality of it almost made Alex think that things might end up fine. It was all part of the dance. They both knew what they were working toward…later…after Savannah had gone to bed.
The nightly ritual was followed to the letter. The table was cleared, Savannah bathed, her story read and her little covers pulled tightly under her chin. Just the way she liked it. Her poodle night-light softly glowed from across the room, and Alex blew kisses as he shut the door.
His body had behaved quite nicely all evening. He was thankful for that much. Brin waited for him in the kitchen, a glass of wine in each hand. She pressed one into his right hand and turned him toward the door with a kiss, then pushed him in the direction of the sofa.
Alex took up his place, all territories having been decided on long ago. Brin slid into his arms and sipped her wine, pulling his arm around her and kissing the back of his hand.
“I missed you so much.” She sighed. “I always do.”
For a moment, he thought he would cry. He took a sip of his wine, against doctor’s orders, and swallowed hard. “I missed you, too. I just don’t feel right when I’m away from my girls. Which is why I don’t want to leave you again. But I have—”
He got no further. Brin spun in his arms, crushing her lips to his, shaking a bit as she kissed him. When she pulled back, there were tears in her eyes and her lip quivered.
“Wow! What was that all about?”
“I didn’t want you to tell me that you’re leaving again. Not so soon. Please, not so soon. You just got home.”
He drew the back of one hand over her soft cheek, found a tear there and wiped it away. “I wouldn’t go if it weren’t important, Brin. It’s my job. I have to go.”
“I know.” Her voice quavered. It broke his heart. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
“No. Please.”
She hesitated, then dropped her eyes in resignation. “Where to?”
“The Middle East,” he said, hating to tell her yet another lie, but knowing that he could never tell her the truth. “I can’t be any more specific. This is huge. Really huge. I couldn’t say no.” She nodded and he continued. “After this one, no more for a long time. I swear. I’ll take an extended downtime. Maybe we’ll even take a vacation.”
“Promise?”
He nodded. “I promise.”
She slid along his body, pushing with her toes and letting her lips reach for his. One hand found his glass, pulled it free and set it on the table. She kissed him again, then whispered, her breath washing hot over his cheek, “Make love to me. Please.”
He slid his fingers into her hair, pulled her down on top of him, and the world faded to soft flesh and whispered kisses.
For a while, it was almost enough to make him forget.
6
It was still dark when Alex woke. He lay very still, not wanting to disturb Brin, who was curled tightly against his side. Sunrise was still more than an hour away, and he dreaded its arrival. The new day would mean the beginning of the end, the start of his last mission before the disease took its inevitable toll.
Even after reading through the pamphlets and scouring the Web, all Alex really knew was that his prognosis was grim. Primary progressive MS, when it moved quickly, often robbed a person of mobility, eyesight…even sex could become too painful or impossible due to mobility impairments. He didn’t want to go out that way—useless, hopeless, miserable.
Too many things he cared for would begin to unravel when the night ran down, and he could hear it ticking away like a giant clock—or a bomb. He would do this last mission and go out a hero.
Brin stirred, rolling toward him, and he slid his arm around her, pulling her close. She turned a sleepy-eyed smile up to him, and he brushed her eyelids with his lips. He was shocked at the sudden heat the contact brought. She sensed it and pressed closer, running her lips up his chest. He shivered as her hair tickled his throat.
Alex rolled onto his side, slid his arm across Brin’s body and rose to stare down at her. His arm trembled and his heart raced.
“No,” he whispered.
“What?” Brin raised her head, but he dropped over her fiercely, covering her lips and sliding his hips up to mesh with hers. She gasped, but as his palm pressed her thigh, she parted her legs and he drove forward, pinning her to the mattress, pressing so tightly the friction burned. She cried out, but not in pain. Her legs curled around him, drawing him deeper still, and he dropped into the sensation. He ground his hips, and she met each motion. He slid over her, felt her breasts press into him, nipples hard and rough. Sweat lubricated their motion and they fell into a rough rhythm.
The room blurred and Alex closed his eyes. He wrapped his arms around Brin’s taut, muscled body and moved with her, chasing the sounds of her pleasure with his motion. He closed his eyes and clutched the sheets, digging his fingers into the mattress and fighting for control. She sensed his urgency and bucked up into him with a soft cry. It was more than he could stand.
Tears flowed down his cheeks and blended with the sweat of their coupling as they climaxed. His body tightened, shuddered and grew still, but he didn’t move off of her. He lay there, limp, drained and gasping for breath as she kissed his cheeks, ran her fingers through his hair and brushed his shoulders with long, sharp nails. Slowly his mind, heart and lungs dropped back through levels of sensation. He felt her heartbeat against his chest. He lowered his head and managed to brush his eyes on the sheet in his hand in a pretense of wiping away sweat. He didn’t want her to see his tears.
Brin stroked his hair in silence for a few moments.
“What was that?” she asked.
“You didn’t enjoy it?” He stiffened at the thought it might have all been for himself, that he might have stolen their final moments of intimacy in selfish lust.
“I didn’t say that. It was wonderful. It is wonderful. But it was so intense. It was like you were trying to pull me into you, or through you. I—”
Before she could go on, a soft thump sounded beyond the door. They both glanced up sharply. The sound repeated and Alex couldn’t stifle a chuckle. He rolled slowly off Brin, wrapping her in his arms. She reached down quickly and drew the sheet and comforter farther up the bed.
“Savannah?” Alex called. “Are you out there?”
They lay in silence for a moment longer. The bump repeated and a soft voice called out.
“No.”
They both laughed, and moments later, childish giggles sounded in the hall.
“Go lay down, baby,” Brin called out. “We’ll be out in a minute.”
“I want to come in,” Savannah called petulantly. “I want to wake you up.”
Brin started to speak again, but Alex stopped her. His hand shook as he gripped her arm, and he released her as if he’d been bitten. He let his voice break a little to help explain away the tremor.
“Let’s get dressed and let her in,” he said softly. “I miss both my girls, you know? I don’t want to miss a moment with either of you.”
She watched him. He saw her glance at his hand, and he willed it to be steady, just this one time. It remained rock solid, and she stroked his cheek, then laughed.
“Okay, hotshot. I’ll get dressed first, then you. I have to get out and make breakfast. I have a big day. I have a meeting with Rand this morning, something new—and big. He wants me to go over some new research.”
“Big brains and nice breasts.” Alex laughed. He lunged for her, but she was too quick, slipping off the edge of the bed. He watched her, and a lump filled his throat. He didn’t try to speak, and moments later she had her nightgown on and stood, waiting on him.
“Rise and shine, hero,” she said, smiling brightly. “I get the shower, you get the child. I’ll trade you in twenty minutes.”
He grinned at her, rolled out of the bed and fumbled in the dresser until he found a pair of pajama pants and a T-shirt. He turned just in time to see Brin disappear into the hall, and Savannah’s bright, inquisitive face peering back in through the door. Growling like a bear, he charged.
His daughter squealed, spun and scampered off down the hallway. Alex pursued, but not too quickly. Some races are better if you come in last, and he knew where she was headed. A soft couch pillow to hide behind and screams for cartoons would come next. He smiled and dived after her, sliding onto the couch, spinning and curling her in close. Before she could even ask, he’d clicked the remote and brought the big-screen TV to life. Alex buried his nose in his daughter’s soft hair and closed his eyes as she giggled, squirmed and laughed at the prancing animated nonsense on the screen.
He squeezed her tight, enjoying the contentment he felt at that moment. If only it could always be that way.
THE REST OF THE MORNING passed far too quickly. He nearly broke down hugging Savannah goodbye, and she wasn’t happy to hear he was leaving again. Alex watched from the doorway as Brin bustled the girl into the SUV, and didn’t turn away until the two of them were down the road and out of sight.
He packed lightly. There was no way to know what he was getting into—not exactly. It was better to choose his gear after he knew. His magic was camouflage, but it was a subtle art. He couldn’t carry too much, or too little. It wasn’t enough to take on the appearance of a new persona. It was absolutely inadequate to simulate change. He had to disappear. He had to melt into another reality where Alex Tempest didn’t exist at all—or if he did, he was disconnected. He had very little time.
Too many things could go wrong. If the doctor mentioned his condition to anyone connected to Room 59, the mission would be aborted. If there was any incident indicating he was less than one hundred percent, he’d never leave the country. Funding would dry up, and very likely his access to Room 59 would cease to exist, as well. There was nothing he could do to expose them, not that he would. They might contact him, but somehow he didn’t believe that they would. They were a tight, close-knit group, for all their independent operations, but there was one truth binding them all. The mission came first. The greater good overshadowed personal glory, needs and safety.
In less than an hour, he was out the door. Before he left, he went to the small garden he and Brin had planted behind the house. Very carefully, he clipped a single rose and a small violet. He carried them inside and sat at the table in the kitchen to write.
He started several notes to Brin. He wanted to tell her everything. Their love had always been based on trust, and not sharing—particularly at this moment—felt like a betrayal. In the end, he carefully shredded his first four attempts and wrote simply, “I love you,” on a card. He drew a heart and carefully slit the paper, sliding the stem of the rose through it like an arrow.
Then, with equal care, he drew a cartoon bear on a second sheet of paper. He laid the violet across it and wrote carefully, “I can’t bear to be without you. See you soon. Love, Daddy.”
He couldn’t remember ever tearing up so many times in the space of a single day. It seemed as though even the ability to control his emotions was being taken from him. He brushed it away, grabbed his things and slipped out the door, locking it behind him. He looked back only once, staring at the small, comfortable home wistfully. Then he turned and walked into another life as if he’d never existed.
7
Brin spent the first hour in her office, filing correspondence, answering e-mail and fuming over lost time. Meetings were a big part of her life as director of the lab, but they infuriated her. Every moment she spent schmoozing board members, entertaining investors and planning for the future of the company was time away from her research.
A lot of very talented men and women were involved in the same sort of research she conducted, searching for clues to the nature of degenerative diseases, testing and retesting possible cures. She knew most of the best and brightest by name, the rest by reputation. In a few she recognized kindred souls, minds and hearts dedicated to healing and life. In too many others, though, she found only greed, pride and the bickering nature of academia.
This time it felt different. She’d had an odd sense of impending accomplishment since the call from her CEO, Hershel Rand. He very seldom involved himself in the nuts and bolts of the company. He was a high-energy, high-efficiency administrator. He knew the worlds of money and corporate warfare as well as Brin knew her cultures and petri dishes, and the two rarely crossed paths. Other than annual budget talks and occasional pep talks, he let her run things the way she saw fit.
Now he said he had something she had to see, something he didn’t trust anyone else to handle. He knew how she worked, and more importantly, she thought he knew why she worked. He said researchers in China had presented some brilliant work—something that could shift the entire paradigm of genetic research. These weren’t the sorts of things he would say in idle conversation. Nothing was insignificant in his world; no moment was wasted. As Brin’s fingers slipped and she nearly spilled a file folder’s contents onto the floor in her haste to clear her desk, she smiled. She hadn’t been so excited about a meeting since her initial job interview years in the past.
She only wished Alex would be there to share it with. He didn’t fully understand her work, but he supported it—and her—and she knew he’d listen. When he was away, she felt isolated and kept things bottled up. He really was a vital part of her life, and she felt—too often—that she was operating under a painful handicap.
Brin swept the rest of the mess off her desk and into a large box. She could file it later, when there was idle time. Her hand whipped up in a nervous gesture that displayed the watch Alex had given her for her first Mother’s Day—the year she got pregnant with Savannah. Five minutes. She’d better go upstairs to Hershel’s office.
She made the elevator just as the doors began to close, slipped inside and sighed with relief. The ninth-floor button was already lit and she smiled. She didn’t usually get this worked up, but Hershel had been excited and her mood had fed off his ever since.
Elaine, Rand’s executive assistant, was at her appointed place, the phone tucked under her ear and her glasses halfway down her nose. She waved Brin past, into the CEO’s office. The door was open.
The office was empty, another odd fact. Hershel never left his door open, especially not when he was out of the office. Brin slipped inside and eased into a leather chair. She bit her lip and wondered if she’d have long to wait. Nothing about this day, or this meeting, was normal—why expect the normally punctual Rand to be the exception? She had just fixed her gaze on the skyline beyond the great window when her boss popped up from behind the desk, scaring her half to death.
“God! You just about gave me a heart attack!” She laughed then, but there was little humor in it.
“Sorry. I had some new equipment installed this morning and the cords keep tangling around my chair wheels.” He offered up a feeble smile, stood and crossed the room in quick strides. “Let’s get down to it, shall we?” He stuck his head out the door. “Elaine, turn on my voice mail and go get yourself a latte. Don’t come back until I call you.” He shut the door to his office firmly.
Brin frowned. She had never known Elaine to leave her desk without someone to fill in, and she had never known Rand to let her. She studied his face as he slid back into his chair, rolled forward and regarded the plasma monitor set into the top of his desk. Whatever he saw there made him smile and he relaxed a bit.
“Everything okay?” Her voice sounded weak, even to her.
“Fine. Just making sure we’re really alone, if you know what I mean. Now, as I said, we have some research material coming in from China. You’ll be impressed—I guarantee it.”
“All right. But why not have it sent electronically? We’ve got the best network security in the business.”
“You don’t understand. This is huge. World-changing huge. I couldn’t risk having it sent electronically, no matter how impressive security is. It will be arriving late this afternoon, and after I review it, you’ll get a chance to have a go at it.”
“What type of research is it?”
“Sorry, Brin, not just yet. All I want you to do right now is clear your schedule. This project is going to be your number-one priority for a while anyway. And I have to insist that you not discuss this. Not with anyone on your team, not with Alex. No one. Do you understand?”
She paused for a moment, the crease in her forehead deepening. This was so out of character for Rand that it scared her. “I understand. And I don’t discuss my work, except in the vaguest of terms, with anyone. I doubt they’d understand anyway. But my team—”
“Is out of the loop on this one. Totally out. It’s you and me. I need your help on this one, but it has to be our secret,” Rand said.
“Understood. I don’t have a problem with that, but any serious research is going to require assistance.”
“I knew you’d understand. Once things get past the initial stages, we’ll find ways to compartmentalize the research. Now, I have another meeting. I’ll let you know when it arrives.” He gestured in the direction of the door, dismissing her. His face, which had shown traces of humor when he popped up from behind the desk, now lacked any humor at all. In fact, it seemed almost pressed in on itself, creased and tight with stress.
Brin nodded slowly and made for the door. Whatever was going on was huge—that was certain. And it made her nervous as hell. It also irritated her that Rand was so nervous he’d called a meeting with her to not tell her what was going on. He could have had her meet him after whatever the big deal was arrived. Every move he’d made on this one was out of character. There was only one thing that would make her feel better—Alex. She only hoped that she wasn’t too late to catch him.
Cell phones were prohibited inside the building. Not only did they lead to slacking off, but they also interfered with a lot of the equipment they used and could be a security risk. Brin made for the roof of D-wing. It was only five stories high and there was a small lounge out there for those people who liked to escape the sterile air of the lab. In that small area, the cell phone dead zone was lifted. She hurried out the door, smiling as five pairs of eyes met hers and looked askance of her.
Alex’s cell phone was first on her speed dial, permanently recorded in every contact log she had. “Alex,” she said quickly and the phone dialed. There was a dead-air pause and then it rang. And rang. Suddenly, Brin felt as though she might cry. Her call was forwarded to voice mail and she stomped her foot, cursing her luck for having been too late.
“I just wanted to call and let you know that I miss you already.” She swallowed hard, fighting back tears at the thought of how empty the house would be that night. “I love you.”
She slapped the phone shut and sighed, staring at the clouds for a moment before she shuffled through the door, back into the carefully sterilized and conditioned air. Now she wished that research would hurry up and arrive. At least then, she would have something to focus on other than Alex’s absence.
8
Alex stepped out onto the tarmac and heaved a sigh of relief. It had been a long flight to Seoul and his back ached. He couldn’t be sure whether the pains and twitches were from exhaustion or a byproduct of the MS, and just that uncertainty alone was enough to keep his nerves on edge and disrupt his rhythm. He stretched, yawned and headed toward the south side of the airport. He’d arrived in a private Room 59 jet that traveled under a counterfeit corporate name. If someone checked, the phones would be answered, but the address was nothing more than an abandoned warehouse near the docks in New York.
His contact in Seoul would provide his gear and take him into China. There was nothing like running around the fence to get to the barn to eat at a man’s nerves.
About three hundred yards away from where the plane he’d come in on was parked, another plane waited. This one was smaller and not anywhere as close to being well-maintained. A small Asian man puttered about beneath it, checking the landing gear and whistling. Alex recognized him immediately as Yoo Jin-Ho, a contact he had used before in both Korea and Southeast Asia. Jin had the typical dark hair and eyes of his native Korea, and his skin was still ageless and smooth. It was a small relief to see a familiar face, but something was off and it took Alex a moment to place it.
What was unrecognizable was the bright smile on Jin’s face. The last time Alex had seen him, he’d been beating the hell out of a South Vietnamese asset who’d turned double agent. Jin’s smile widened, and he climbed to his feet, wiping his hands on his gray coveralls and then extending one in a handshake.
“Good to see you again, my friend. I trust you are well?”
“Fine as frog’s hair. It’s good to see you, too, Jin,” Alex replied.
Jin nodded. “Your jumper is in the plane with the rest of your things. We’re flying a load of televisions to Beijing today. I hope you are up to some heavy lifting.”
“I’ll go change,” Alex said, “and check my gear.”
He turned and marched up the short stairway into the plane. It was a small cargo plane and, judging from the smears of oil on each side, the engines had failed more than once. When not assisting the agents of Room 59, Jin ran a small freight service out of Seoul. He had a couple of planes, one other employee—his son—and a boatload of guts. Alex had liked him at first sight and he welcomed the opportunity to see the man again.
His hands had begun to tremble, and he made a conscious effort to remember to keep them out of sight. Jin was no fool, and if he caught a whiff of something, anything, wrong, he’d bow out. Jin wasn’t a coward, but he didn’t like taking stupid chances. There was no way to complete the mission without him.
The tremors were very slight this time, but enough to remind Alex that he wasn’t one hundred percent. He had to lean on the cargo netting in order to pull on his jumper, and it made him want to hit something. Already he felt exhausted and wrung out, even though all he’d done so far was sit on the long, boring flight from the U.S. to Seoul and review the mission parameters.
Jin had placed a large duffel bag in the back of the plane. It contained everything Alex needed for the mission except the explosives. It wouldn’t do to be caught entering China with those. Aside from that, he was well equipped. Jin had come through for him yet again. Alex settled in, lost in thought.
When Jin’s face popped back over the pilot’s seat a few moments later, the sound of his voice startled Alex, and he sat up, shaking his head.
“I’ve filed the flight plan and almost finished the checklist. We should be able to take off in about twenty minutes.”
Alex hadn’t even heard the pilot return. “Good. I’m ready to get started,” he said. “The sooner I can get this over with, the better.” He checked the cargo netting over his duffel, and glanced dubiously at the boxed televisions lining the cargo bay.
“So, all of those are boxes are TVs?” Alex asked, raising an eyebrow.
“That’s what my invoice says. You know what a law-abiding man I am,” Jin said.
“Do you know anything about the local asset I’ll be utilizing in Beijing?”
“I don’t know him personally,” Jin said. “He has a good reputation, gets the job done at all costs. Very John Wayne. Reminds me of someone else I know, eh?”
Alex chuckled and looked down at his boots. “You do know me too well. Usually I kill anyone who does.”
“I’ll take my chances. Now, I have to finish the last three things on this checklist and then we’ll take off. You might as well strap in.”
Alex slipped the harness over his waist and clipped the buckle together. No matter how many times he rode in one, he would never get used to the touch-and-go ride of these little puddle jumpers. He sighed and for a moment his mind was pulled back to Brin and Savannah. It made his heart ache. He was anxious to get this flight under way. The sooner he got started on this mission, the sooner he could be on his way back to them. The longer he was away, the less precious time he’d be able to offer them. He knew he had to tell Brin everything, and the thought of it filled him with dread.
Alex closed his eyes and pictured his two girls curled up together on the big bed, and he fell asleep with that image filling his thoughts.
9
Brin awoke the next morning to Savannah’s sweet face. Somehow, she had crawled into bed with her mommy, laying her head on the pillow where Alex usually slept and staring at her mother until she woke up—another thing Alex did. Brin’s eyes snapped open and a small gasp escaped her lips. That first glimpse of Savannah’s eyes made her think, just for a second, that Alex had somehow returned to her. Stupid. He was never gone less than five days, and quite often it was several weeks or more.
“Good morning, baby.” She kissed the tip of the girl’s nose. “And what are you doing out of your bed?”
“I have to go potty.”
There was urgency in that last, a little fear, as well.
“Let’s go, then.”
Brin threw back the covers and grabbed the girl, hurrying down the hall toward the bathroom. No telling how long it had been since that urge first hit. No telling how long the girl could hold out. She tugged her daughter’s pants down and placed her gently on the potty seat, then turned to take care of her own needs. Before she could even get the lid up, the phone rang, echoing down the hall and making Brin’s head hurt a bit.
“Who the hell would call at this hour?” She glanced at the clock in the living room and realized that it was past nine.
“Hello?” she mumbled, the phone halfway to her ear.
“This is Woodard’s Pharmacy. We have a prescription ready for Alex Tempest.”
Brin spent a long moment furrowing her brow instead of speaking. “Uh, okay. I didn’t know he needed a prescription filled. As far as I was aware—never mind. I’ll be down in a few hours to pick it up for him, if that’s all right.”
“That’ll be fine, Mrs. Tempest. Thank you.”
“Goodbye.”
Down the hall, Savannah had sounded the “I’m done” alarm. Brin hurried down the hall to help her.
“You go sit in the living room. Mommy will be there in a minute to get your juice. I just have to go potty first.” She pecked the top of Savannah’s head and shooed her out the door.
Was Alex sick? She didn’t remember his mentioning anything about a doctor or medicine. She wasn’t even aware that he hadn’t been feeling well. Suddenly, she felt like the worst wife in the world.
Savannah’s juice chant made her finish in a hurry. The next hour would be filled with getting ready and feeding Savannah her breakfast. No time to wonder what, if anything, was wrong with Alex. Savannah was cute and sweet and it truly was a blessing to be her mom. At the moment, the girl was a godsend. If not for her daughter, Brin would just sit around and worry all weekend.
After they finished breakfast, cleaned up the kitchen and went through the complex rituals involved in dressing Savannah for the day, Brin threw on her own clothes and they piled into the SUV. She had the usual shopping to do for the week. But first she had to stop at the pharmacy.
When Alex and Brin had first moved to the neighborhood, Woodard’s Pharmacy was the only one for ten miles. There were several more now, of course. But they continued to use Woodard’s out of loyalty and comfort. There were things in that pharmacy that you couldn’t find anywhere else, like a dollar ice cream cone and a pharmacist who kept track of all your medicines and knew when not to give you one pill with another. They also sent cards on your birthday. That kind of dedication and caring just couldn’t be bought.
They were no sooner through the front door of Woodard’s than Savannah was running full-tilt toward the ice cream counter. They also had squished cheese sandwiches there, which made Savannah squeal with delight.
“Savannah, no, honey. We’ll have ice cream after I get Daddy’s medicine, okay?” The day was hot and the ice cream would taste so good, but first things first.
“Aaaawwww!” There was a tiny foot stamp to punctuate her disappointment, but no tantrum followed. Her terrible twos hadn’t been too terrible—so far. Brin took her daughter’s hand and led her to the prescription counter, where she was met by a young woman with a head full of thick red hair and the brightest green eyes Brin had ever seen. As many times as she’d been in the place, she’d never seen the girl before. For some reason the change in personnel felt like a betrayal.
“Hello, I’m Mrs. Tempest. You called earlier about my husband’s prescription?” She felt Savannah lean against her leg and knew that all was well.
“Please give me your husband’s full name and address.”
“Alex Tempest. One-thirty-four Brickle Lane.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Tempest.” The young lady sorted through the waiting prescriptions and pulled out the proper bag. She held the bag out to Brin with one hand and worked the cash register with the other. “That’ll be thirty-eight dollars, please.”
Brin swiped her debit card and keyed in her PIN number. Once the transaction had gone through, the young lady handed her the receipt with a smile. “Thank you for shopping at Woodard’s and come again.”
Brin turned and walked toward the ice cream counter, Savannah hurrying to run around her and get there first. Brin bought them each an ice cream—Brin’s in a cone, Savannah’s in a cup. Then they sat down in their favorite booth, right next to the candy counter, and dug in.
Brin took the amber pill bottle out of the bag and squinted at the label. Klonopin. It was used to treat seizures; that much she knew. What she didn’t know was why Alex would be taking it. The doctor’s name didn’t ring a bell, either. For as long as she had known him, Alex had never had a regular physician, nor had he gone to a doctor unless he was genuinely in pain. There was just that one time, when he had had pneumonia so bad that walking across the room brought on a five-minute coughing fit.
“Savannah, baby, you sit right here for a sec, okay? Mommy has to go back and talk to the medicine lady again.”
Brin slid out of the seat and hurried back to the prescription counter. “Excuse me,” she said to the young woman behind the counter. “I was wondering if you knew anything about the doctor who prescribed this?”
The woman took the bottle and read the label. “Just a moment, please.” She went back into the pharmacy and typed something into the computer, then returned with a piece of paper. “I’m afraid this is the only prescription we’ve ever filled for this particular doctor.”
“Well, what kind of doctor is he? I mean, is his office nearby?” Brin frowned and then bit into her lower lip.
“According to the physicians’ database, he’s a neurologist. Here. I’ve written down his address and phone number in case you need to contact him about your husband’s medication.”
Brin took the piece of paper and studied the address written on it. It was only a mile away from her lab, but she couldn’t picture the building it was in. “And you’re sure he’s a neurologist?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s what his license says.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Brin turned and walked slowly back to Savannah, the paper clutched in one hand and a dripping ice cream cone in the other. Savannah was coated in ice cream, and Brin took a moment to clean the girl’s face, still distracted by the medicine bag next to her on the seat. Why the hell was Alex seeing a neurologist? More importantly, why was he keeping it from her?
Whatever was going on, she was damned sure going to talk to this doctor first thing Monday morning. As soon as Alex came home, she was going to have a little chat with him, too.
10
Alex gritted his teeth as the small plane touched down at the airport in Beijing. Jin was a terrific pilot, but Alex’s legs ached all the way to the bone and his head had begun to throb. The flight had been uneventful and smooth, but he still longed to stretch his legs. There was simply no way to get comfortable in the small space of his seat.
Smaller aircraft landed in the back of the airport, where most of the freight lines came in. There was a customs office right there, and each plane was inspected before anyone or anything was released. Jin unbuckled and grabbed his clipboard. He stretched for a moment, and then opened the hatch.
“We must stay on board until the customs officer has signed off on the cargo.” Jin sat down at the edge of the gangway and let his legs swing.
“What about my bag?” Alex asked.
“They won’t look. They are only interested in inspecting the cargo. Your bag is in the middle of all those boxes. They will test a few boxes from the front, a few from the rear, and then they will sign off and move on. I have an excellent reputation.”
“How long does it usually take?” Alex stood and stretched a bit, then paced from side to side, trying to walk off the pain in his legs.
“Not so long. There are only a few planes here today.”
The gangway creaked and Alex’s eyes turned toward the hatch. A heavyset Chinese man stood in the doorway, a clipboard in one hand and his hat in the other. He and Jin exchanged words and clipboards and then the customs officer began slitting open boxes.
Once he had inspected four boxes, he paused at a fifth, going so far as to remove the back from the television, checking inside for something. He nodded, satisfied, and then wrote something on his clipboard. Alex stayed casual. Jin knew to expect this and how to handle it so there should be nothing to worry about.
More words were exchanged and Jin turned to Alex and said, “He needs to see your passport.”
“Oh! Sure!” Alex whipped out his passport and presented it to the officer. Of course, his real name wasn’t on the form. For this trip, he was Donald Vance, living in South Korea on a work and education visa.
The officer stamped the passport and handed it back to Alex. “Thank you, Mr. Vance,” he said in heavily accented English.
A small truck drove up and a large man jumped out, walking purposefully toward the plane. Jin stepped toward Alex, but kept his eyes on the new arrival. “We must be very cautious now,” he hissed. “Don’t do anything unless I tell you.”
He spoke rapidly to the customs inspector, but his voice only carried far enough for Alex to catch a couple of words. Alex eyed his bag in the middle of the larger boxes, knowing that it would take him precious time to get to it and make some use of it if the situation turned violent.
“That’s Yau Sin,” Jin whispered. “Chinese Mafia. They run the inspection ports. You can get most anything in or out if you pay their fee.”
Yau pulled a semiautomatic pistol from a holster beneath his suit and pointed it at the inspection officer, directing him toward one of the televisions.
“If you don’t pay their fee,” Jin added, his voice hushed, “then very bad things happen to you.”
The inspector walked over to the TV he’d examined. He nodded to the back and Yau looked inside. He looked back up and without another word shot the inspection officer point-blank in the chest.
He raised the pistol and pointed it toward Jin and Alex. Alex knew he could never reach a weapon in time. Yau walked closer and pushed the pistol into Jin’s side.
“Leave the box, get rid of the body,” he said in Mandarin.
Jin nodded his understanding, never saying a word.
Yau slipped the gun back into its holster, crossed over to his truck, got in and drove off of the tarmac.
Alex looked at Jin and said, “What the hell was that all about?”
“The inspector hasn’t been paying them their fees. Nothing crosses the border without their okay.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” Jin said. “As soon as the truck gets here, we will have to unload the televisions. You will go with the driver when we are done. He is your asset for this trip and he knows far more about the facility than I do.”
“Is that the truck we’re waiting for?”
Jin looked past Alex to the tarmac beyond. “That is the truck, yes. It will only take us a few moments to load the boxes. Then you can be off.” He nodded curtly and waved at the truck.
A man climbed out of the truck and met Alex and Jin at the bottom of the gangway, walking past the body with barely a glance. He shook Jin’s hand and smiled. “This is Donald Vance,” Jin said, stepping to the side. “He’ll be leaving with you when we’re done.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the man said, giving a slight bow at the waist. “I am called Liang.”
“Thank you for your help, Liang.” Alex sized the man up quickly. He was much larger than Jin and appeared to be only part Asian. He was well muscled and had an economy of motion that reminded Alex of Brin and the way she moved about the lab when she was working. There was something else in his movements, too. Liang moved like a trained martial artist, and Alex knew that he would be a dangerous man in a fight. And yet there was something in the man’s eyes that appeared gentle. His gaze made Alex trust him instantly.
True to his word, it didn’t take any longer than twenty minutes for the three of them to move the boxes into the large panel truck. Alex tossed his duffel bag into the truck and offered a handshake to Jin.
“Thanks for the ride, my friend. I’ll see you again soon, I hope.”
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Cliff Ryder
When crisis looms and politics and red tape conspire against effective measures, the International Intelligence Agency plays its hidden hand. Now the spymasters of Room 59–dedicated, dangerous and willing to push the limit–get the green light to eradicate the threat.Room 59 agent Alex Tempest has a secret: a degenerative illness that may end his career as a field operative. But first he accepts one final mission. And…it's personal. A research facility in China has built the ultimate biological weapon. Alex's job: infiltrate and destroy. His wife works at the biotech company's stateside lab, and Alex fears danger is poised to hit home. But when Alex is captured, his personal and professional worlds collide in a last, desperate gamble to stop ruthless masterminds from unleashing virulent, unstoppable death.
If he moved quickly enough he might be able to assume a new disguise
As he stepped through the doorway, he heard a shout from his right. He’d been spotted. He lunged for the door, but this time the effort proved too much. His left leg suddenly gave out and he tumbled to the side with a cry of pain. A shot rang out and something struck him hard on the shoulder, spinning him out of control.
Alex managed to get his 9 mm out of the holster. He heard cursing and shouts, but for some reason the words wouldn’t register. He crashed into the wall and pain shot through his shoulder, already soaked in blood. He gritted his teeth and tried to stand, but his legs would not support him. He raised his gun, watching for movement.
Two men appeared, crouching low and moving down opposite sides of the passageway. He took aim at the man on the left and fired, saw the round strike him mid-chest and blow him off his feet. Alex tried to roll to his right, but somewhere between his brain and his legs, the signal went haywire. What was supposed to be a smooth roll turned into a flop and he landed heavily as another searing pain brushed his temple.
Everything went black.
Out of Time
Cliff Ryder
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Garrett Dylan for his contribution to this work.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Out of Time
1
Alex Tempest leaned on a dirt-crusted stone wall, head lowered, trying to control his breathing and ignore the pain. His legs felt like gelatin and sent sharp, stabbing jolts of agony into his hips; his head spun with a sudden wave of nausea. Every muscle was bowstring tight and his heartbeat ragged—every sound brought a flinch and a shift of disoriented senses.
The sun had begun to set over the Mexico City skyline, but the heat continued to roll off the streets in waves. On the floor of a villa just outside of town, Vincenzo Carrera lay dead in a pool of blood. His men hadn’t stopped to clear away the body, the blood or any of the evidence. They hadn’t even disposed of the kilo-sized bag of cocaine, blown to bits and strewed across the inlaid mosaic of Carrera’s garden. The powder floated about like fine drifts of snow. Carrera would never spend the money he’d expected to make on that sale. He would not make his reservations at La Villa Cordoba, nor his date with his wife and young daughter the following day at the beach.
All that remained of Carrera was his well-oiled organization, designed to sell drugs and kill or destroy anything that got in its way. It wasn’t supposed to have mattered. In, remove the target and out. That was the plan. That was always the plan. Alex wasn’t known as “the Chameleon” without good reason. He had worked his way into incredibly tight spots, killed and disappeared countless times. This wasn’t even one of his more difficult assignments.
But something had gone wrong. Something had been going wrong for some time, in fact, and though he’d tried to ignore it, it only grew worse as each day passed. This time it had nearly cost him both the success of his mission and his life.
As he waited for the shadows to deepen and his legs to stop shaking, he went over the mission again, trying to see if there was anything he could have done differently, trying to see where he’d gone wrong. Somewhere there was an error, a stupid error and he hated stupidity almost as much as he hated the trembling in his normally steady hand.
The earlier stages had gone exactly as he’d foreseen. It wasn’t his first trip to Mexico City and his old contacts were in place. He’d managed to infiltrate the lower levels of Carrera’s organization without incident, had marked his time and his place. It had taken two weeks of careful watching and listening to be certain he had it right.
Carrera had been too arrogant to distance himself from his business and his organization was too dangerous to be left without close control. It had only been a matter of time until a deal went down and Alex was close enough to the center of the operation to pin it down. They weren’t secretive in their activities once inside the walls of Carrera’s villa. Whom did they have to fear? Enough of the local policia were on the take to ensure secure operations and no business ever took place on the streets or in an unsecured location. Again, what would be the purpose?
Alex had slipped into the deep center of the garden shortly before the deal was set to go down, his tan skin darkened with a touch of makeup and his clothing already a perfect match to what the guards of the villa were wearing. There were five posts along the villa’s wall and he’d placed himself very near one of these. The guard hadn’t seen or heard him—he was searching for threats from outside the villa, not from within.
Just before 5:00 p.m., he’d slipped up behind the guard, slit his throat and took his place, watching the streets beyond the walls carefully. He moved and acted exactly as the guard would have—a professional doing his job. There was no reason anyone would look at him twice and no one had. The damned plan was perfect.
At five o’clock sharp, Carrera appeared in the garden. He sat where he sat every afternoon, and a young girl brought refreshments. He ate fruit, and he laughed with the two bodyguards who were never far from his side. They were short, squat men with dark hair, dark glasses and no smiles. They made a quick sweep of the garden. They glanced up at each guard post. They didn’t take any special notice of Alex. He paid no attention to them, willing them to see only what he wanted them to see—a guard on duty.
At half past five, a long white sedan wound its way up the long driveway to the villa. It stopped just shy of the iron gates. Men poured out of twin guard shacks on either side of the gate, scanning the passengers, opening the trunk and searching quickly, checking the engine and sweeping beneath the undercarriage with mirrors. Slick, quick and efficient. Alex appreciated that—under other circumstances he might have admired it.
The gates opened and the car slid in, moving at a leisurely pace. Alex watched, lost sight of the vehicle and turned his attention back to the streets. For the moment, his duty was to protect. He kept his rifle, a modified Russian SVN-98, with the barrel tipped toward the street, but low enough that anyone watching from beyond the fence couldn’t see it. They knew, of course. The police knew, the locals knew, everyone knew better than to approach the fence, but that was no reason to let down the guard. He knew what was expected, and that was what he became. It was how he operated, how he survived.
The Chameleon absorbed his environment, took on its colors.
The deal went down moments later. There were no formalities. Carrera’s men escorted a small party from the villa to the garden. There were three men. One carried a banded metal case. The other two were mirror images of Carrera’s men—short, squat, expressionless. They didn’t glance around, but Alex knew they were aware of every detail. Their lives and the life of their leader depended on it. It was all like clockwork, and that was what was supposed to make it simple.
The money was counted. The drugs were presented for inspection. Carrera lounged in a chair, indifferent to the proceedings. The man who had carried the case moments before scooped a small sample onto his finger, tasted it quickly, then pulled a smaller case from his pocket. He took out a glass bottle, dropped a bit of the powder into it, added liquid and shook. That was the moment.
Alex knew that no one would be able to resist watching that bottle. Either the drugs were good, and the white sedan would glide back out the gates the way it glided in, leaving Carrera to count the cash, or it was a setup, an ambush meant to send some message to a lesser dealer or a competitor. It mattered little to Alex. Every set of eyes was locked on the bottle, and in that moment, he struck.
He shifted the rifle in the blink of an eye and sighted in on Carrera through the integrated scope. There was no time to hesitate, but Alex was a crack shot. It was thirty feet down the opposite side of the wall, but he’d already rigged a line. The entire operation should have taken, by his calculation, about forty seconds.
The crosshairs rested on Carrera’s heart, and Alex curled his finger around the trigger, preparing to gently squeeze off the single round that would end Carrera’s life. Except, at that moment, his hand began to shake. Not a small tremor, but an uncontrollable spasm that wrenched his fingers into a locked claw. He fought to control it, and pulled the trigger instinctively. The slug slammed into the bag of cocaine and sent a cloud of powder into the air. In that momentary confusion, cursing to himself, he resighted, pulled the trigger again, and blood spouted from Carrera’s temple—the only part of him that was visible above the tabletop.
Carrera was dead, but the damage to the mission was done. Men were already on the move.
Alex dropped the gun and grabbed at his line. He slid down quickly, rappelling down the sheer stone face. The muscles of his hand clenched again, so tight that he nearly cried out. He dropped too quickly and fought for control. He heard voices calling out in the distance. He heard gunfire, probably the buyer’s men crossing with Carrera’s in the confusion. He heard the roar of an engine, and he knew they’d seen him. He hadn’t gotten over the wall quickly enough.
He hit the ground moving far too quickly. He braced, released the line and rolled, but pain shot through his legs—more pain than there should have been—and it was all he could do to keep his feet. There was a hundred yards before he’d be near any sort of cover. The first side street consisted of lines of small houses, all the same, most of them uninhabited. The few that weren’t empty held Carrera’s men and their families. It was a small demilitarized zone, more for camouflage than habitation.
Behind the second house on the left side of the street, he’d parked a Ducati dirt bike, small, powerful and maneuverable. He heard sounds of pursuit, too close. As he ran, he tossed aside his jacket and shirt. Dangling from the handlebars he’d left a dirty serape that many of the natives here wore. He whipped it over his shoulders, slid his arms in and dropped heavily onto the bike. His legs tingled as though they’d fallen asleep, and ice picks stabbed at his hips. His vision darkened for a moment from the sudden pain, and he nearly blacked out. He gritted his teeth, punched himself in the thigh repeatedly and kicked the engine to life.
He spun out and around the corner as the first wave of Carrera’s men swept out the gates and into the streets, searching for likely targets. It was five miles to the center of the city, where the streets would be busy with people and tourists and where the police would have to make at least an attempt to pay attention. Alex blinked and gripped the handlebars tighter, his hands like talons. His eyesight blurred and it was all that he could do to keep the Ducati upright.
For a time he operated on pure instinct, and the bursts of gunfire and the roar of engines at his heels became the sounds of dreams on awakening—distant and unreal. He was the Chameleon, and he needed only to disappear.
He dumped the bike at the edge of a small market, running between carts overladen with fruits and vegetables, and ducking in and out of alleys. At six feet one inch, he wasn’t small enough to remain unseen in a doorway or tucked behind some clutter in the alley. He kept moving, ignoring the protests of his body, knowing that it didn’t matter where he ended up, only that they not find him. The crowded streets were his best chance of blending in and eventually disappearing.
A car roared by the mouth of the alley where he stood. There was no way to know for sure if it was one of Carrera’s. He had to assume that it was. Alex took a deep breath, steadied himself and pushed off the wall. He stumbled at first, then found his stride and, hanging close to the wall, stepped confidently into the street. Just ahead was a small cantina with tables looking out onto the street. He lowered his head and stepped inside.
The urge to turn and scan the street was strong, but he ignored it, walking into the shadows near the rear of the bar and taking a seat. Anything he did that might bring attention to himself would be a mistake. He needed to become what he appeared to be—a tired worker in from the fields, looking for a place to wait out the last heat of the day and enjoy a drink. His clothing, the makeup he wore and even the contact lenses that turned his normally pale blue eyes a dark brown color would all serve to make him look more like a native. He ordered beer in fluent, unaccented Spanish and slouched over it. Occasionally, he turned toward the door and glanced at the street, but he was careful to make such motions inconspicuous and innocuous. There was nothing to be gained by moving now. His best bet for survival was staying put, and the way he was feeling, the rest was a blessing. There was no way to deny it—something was wrong. He had to get out of Mexico and back home. He had to see a doctor. There was no longer any way to deny the sudden, excruciating pains or the uncontrollable trembling in his hands. His physical conditioning had not slacked off, and yet he seemed to spend most of his energy trying to concentrate, or fighting the pain in his legs.
Something had gone horribly wrong and his life too often depended on the skills of his body. A mistake in his line of work could easily prove fatal. And, if he was honest with himself, the missions were often too important to the safety of the world for him to fail.
The bartender polished the copper-and-brass beer taps. He paid no more attention to Alex than he did to the tables or the chairs. Alex looked into the mirror on the other side of the bar, his eyes mocking him in the reflection. There was nothing in the image to indicate that something was wrong with him, but he stared at the image as if it were a puzzle, as if maybe, if he stared long enough he could make the pieces fit back together. Alex sipped his beer and thought quietly. A young boy wandered in, looking for an easy mark or a free meal.
The boy looked sidelong at him, but didn’t approach immediately. Alex met the boy’s gaze and nodded him over. With a quick glance at the bartender, who seemed not to notice, the boy complied.
In a disinterested voice, Alex asked if he was hungry. The boy didn’t answer, but instead glanced at the floor. Alex spoke quickly, explaining what he needed. He slid a few pesos across the table.
The boy eyed them for a moment, considering. It had to be one of the strangest requests he’d heard, but he wanted the money. He reached out, and as he did, Alex caught his wrist in a snake-fast grab.
He held the boy’s gaze, and studied him. There was fear, and a bit of pride, but they weren’t the dead, street eyes of one of Carrera’s boys. Maybe he was just out for an evening’s adventure, or maybe his parents worked late and left him to fend for himself. Whatever the story, he would do as he was told for the money, and that was enough. Alex released him and nodded again. The boy disappeared.
Alex rose, slouched over the bar and ordered a second beer. He took the chance to glance out at the street, but he saw nothing out of place. They weren’t going door to door searching for him. Not yet anyway. But it was time for another change, and then it was time for him to disappear.
Despite the problems, the mission could be considered a success. The head of the snake had been removed, and Carrera’s business would be taken over by someone else. Fights and power struggles would cause a shift at the top. And whoever ended up running it would have to rebuild. It would be a long time before they managed to work up to the threat Carrerra had become to the government, if they ever did. More than likely, wars would erupt among the underlings; lieutenants and street gangs would vie for control of their little parts of the business until it fractured. Most of the drug gangs were held together by violence, the threat of violence and fear of one leader. When that leader was gone, the disintegration was almost always just a matter of time.
He finished his beer, marking the time the boy had been gone. Just as he began to think he’d slipped up again, the boy ducked back into the cantina. He carried a package wrapped in brown paper and moved a little uncertainly. He dropped the parcel on the table in front of Alex, who tore open the corner, looked inside, smiled thinly and nodded. Alex reached into his pocket and pulled out a few more coins. He slid them across to the boy, who took them quickly. For the first time since the two had met, Alex saw a toothy grin emerge from the lonely shadows of the young face. Then the boy turned and exited so quickly and silently he might never have been there at all.
Nonchalantly, Alex took the package and walked through the beaded curtains at the rear of the building and entered the men’s room. Less than five minutes later he emerged wearing a bright red T-shirt with the Union Jack flag emblazoned across the front. His dark hair was tousled. The contacts were gone, returning his eyes to their natural blue color, and the makeup had been washed off his face, lightening his skin tone by several shades. He wore cheap mirrored sunglasses and in all respects now looked like a tourist rather than a native.
Without even glancing at the curtain, he entered the kitchen, crossed to the rear exit and slipped out into another alley. He was feeling better, and his thoughts had returned to the mechanical, clockwork efficiency of his art. There were streets at both ends of the alley. One was busier, and he chose it. He stopped just inside the mouth of the alley and waited.
Moments later, a brightly colored taxi rolled slowly by. There were religious icons on the dashboard, bright, reflective stickers on the bumpers and enough chains dangling from the rear-view mirror to obscure half the windshield. Alex sauntered out of the alley, picked up his pace and raised his hand. The taxi was moving slowly, and the driver caught sight of him, pulling to the curb. Alex slipped open the rear door.
He heard quick footsteps behind him and heavy breath. He didn’t turn. He slipped into the backseat.
“Airport,” he said softly. “Quickly!”
As the taxi rolled into traffic, Alex heard frustrated shouts behind them. Once again, the Chameleon had disappeared.
The taxi shot through traffic and rounded the first curve, nearly rolling up onto two wheels in the process. Alex had two lockers waiting—one at each end of the airport. Depending on what he saw when he arrived, he’d go to one or the other, change again, take his tickets and board a flight for the United States. He wanted a hot meal and a long nap. Maybe something stronger to drink than a cheap Mexican beer.
In his lap, his hand trembled, and he frowned, staring out into the growing darkness.
2
Three weeks later, Alex sat in the doctor’s office, trying to remain calm. He’d have better luck staring into the business end of a gun than staring at that damned clock. The door popped open, nearly sending him off his seat. The groan of new leather betrayed him, and he fought to relax his muscles, to sink casually back into the chair.
Under normal circumstances, Alex would be utilizing one of the doctors who had been specially selected to serve the agents of Room 59. But this wasn’t a normal circumstance and Alex wanted his situation to be private—at least until he could figure out what was going on and what to do about it. His mandatory time off after a mission was almost over, and he’d soon be sent out again. He needed to know what was wrong before that happened.
Alex had chosen Dr. Britton because he had a reputation for being discreet, he was one of the top in his field and he was close to home. He was also blunt and to the point, which Alex appreciated. As Dr. Britton stepped through the door, Alex’s eyes riveted on his face, he shifted the file folder from one hand to the other. That folder bore the fruits of a battery of tests. It held Alex’s fate.
“Sorry it took me so long.” Dr. Britton eased into his own chair; the wheels scraped across the plastic mat as he moved closer to the desk. “I had to take an emergency call.”
“No worries, Doc. It’s not like I have somewhere else more important to be.” Alex dry swallowed and recrossed his legs.
“Let’s see.” Britton sighed, licking one finger and turning quickly through the various lab results until he came to the one he wanted. “I’ll start with the good news. You’ll be happy to know that you’re in wonderful physical shape. Heart good, lungs good, muscle tone impressive. That’s all going to be a help to you with the bad news.”
Alex offered up a tight grin by way of reply and recrossed his legs. Patience eluded him.
“The bad news is that there is one problem and it’s a big one,” the doctor said.
He paused, Alex supposed, awaiting a response. Alex gave none.
Dr. Britton nodded. “I’ll put this as simply as I can, then. No sense fooling around with it. Your MRI showed extensive lesions—we call them plaque—on your brain and spinal cord, and the fluid we took from your spine has elevated protein markers. You have multiple sclerosis, and based on the history you’ve given me, it’s very progressive.”
Alex felt the small lunch he’d eaten earlier rise into his throat, and his head spun. “MS. Like Muhammad Ali?”
“Not quite. Ali has Parkinson’s disease, which is also neurological, but has a different progression. MS causes lesions on the brain and affects different parts of the nervous system based on where the lesions are occurring. Most forms of MS progress slowly, or more commonly relapse and remit, with recovery between. The symptoms are mild, often unnoticed at first, then build to larger problems over time.”
“Like, decades, right?” Maybe he had time. Time to live, to work, to find a cure. Room 59 had access to all sorts of classified things. For all he knew, some government agency already had a cure that hadn’t been released to the public yet.
The doctor shook his head. “Not decades, Alex. That’s not the form you have. Your tests indicate that you most probably have primary progressive MS. Its onset is much more dramatic and, I’m afraid, it doesn’t afford you as much time before you get into some serious and often debilitating symptoms.”
“How long?”
Dr. Britton scanned his chart, avoiding looking up at Alex.
“Come on, Doc. Just give me the worst case and we can work back from there.”
“Alex, there’s just no real way to predict how MS is going to progress. Sometimes it can take quite a while before you run into serious problems, and then one day you wake up and can’t get out of bed. With the problems that you’re having now and the location and size of the lesions it could be as little as a few months, maybe less, maybe more. It’s not a predictable disease.”
Alex’s face betrayed him. He could dodge bullets without so much as a tic, but this had thrown him into a spin. His grip on the arm of the chair loosened and he felt the tremors start again.
“Months.”
“I’m sorry, Alex. This disease isn’t something that I can give you a shot for—we can’t even predict with any accuracy the symptoms you’ll experience from one day to the next. Muscles spasms, tremors, pain, blindness—there are so many neurological possibilities.” He slid several prescriptions across his desk and sighed. “There are some medications that will help relieve some of the symptoms for a while. They will help lessen the spasms a bit, make the pain more tolerable. But the disease has a mind of its own. It’ll take its own course and have done with you when it damned well pleases.”
“What can I expect? I mean—” Alex didn’t know what he meant. He wanted the doctor to tell him he had years before he went shopping for a personalized license plate for his wheelchair. He wanted the doctor to guarantee him a few years before he became totally useless.
More paper slid across the desk, this time in the form of fat pamphlets. Alex took them without really looking at them.
“You can read these and they’ll give you a better idea of where you’re headed. There are also plenty of informative Web sites on the subject. Do some digging and you’ll get a handle on what’s known about the disease. We’ll want to repeat several of the tests in a month, especially the MRIs, and then again in six months if you’re still—”
Alex’s head snapped up, eyes glaring daggers. “Alive? If I’m still alive?”
The faint smile disappeared from Dr. Britton’s face. “No, nothing that severe. But given what we’re looking at, if you are still walking I admit I would be surprised.”
Alex stood shakily. “I know. Not your fault. Sometimes, shit just happens, eh?” He turned toward the door, the pamphlets clutched tightly in his hand. “I’ll be back in a month. Then again in six.”
Dr. Britton stared after him, frowning. “Call me if you have any concerns, Alex. And try to minimize your stress. There are many worse neurological diseases than MS. It’s not fatal. I could have told you that your life is ending.”
Alex laughed harshly. “You just did.”
Britton slumped back into his chair. “I’m sorry, Alex,” he said. “You’ll want to take some time with this at first. Just remember that stress makes MS symptoms worse. Go easy for a bit and maybe the symptoms will settle down a little.”
Alex nodded sharply, then left, stalking down the hall toward the elevator. His face was steady and he hadn’t blinked since opening the door to Dr. Britton’s office. The Muzak droned in the elevator, but he didn’t hear it. He stared straight ahead, stoic and silent. He showed no reaction at all until he stepped out onto the sidewalk and the bright midday sun assaulted his eyes.
There he stood, Alex Tempest, master spy and assassin, husband, father and soon…useless. For the first time, he became aware of the pamphlets in his hand. That hand trembled as it brought the pages closer to his line of sight and he grimaced. Multiple sclerosis. Didn’t that just beat the hell out of the band?
He realized he’d never really thought about walking. Everyone just takes for granted that they can. It might have been easier if it had been a death sentence. That would have been devastating to most people, but Alex Tempest was not most people. He had thought at length about the manner and time of his death. He’d always figured that he’d die in a blaze of glory, bullets raining down on him from every direction. He’d hoped he would die in brave, heroic fashion, maybe even in the process of saving someone’s life. Death like that was something he could face.
But he’d never imagined something like this. A disease, wasting him away, helpless in the face of an enemy he couldn’t see, couldn’t fight. It wasn’t even a good disease, the result of a life of excess or debauchery. If it were, he’d at least have something to show for it—some good memories.
Two blocks down the street was a dark little bar called Pete’s. Alex headed in that direction, the pamphlets clutched in his trembling hand. The prescriptions were tucked neatly into his wallet, folded twice to ensure a good fit. His free hand gripped the door handle and pulled, allowing him entrance to a world inhabited solely by the lost.
Inside, the bar was dark and the air smelled like stale beer and smoke. The faintest scent of burned French fries wafted out of the kitchen and the phone rang shrilly against the soft hum of voices. Alex slipped onto a stool and flagged down the bartender. “Double Black Jack, neat.”
The bartender nodded, and then reached for a glass. It was artfully filled and pressed into his hand. Alex traded him a twenty for it. “Four more. Line ’em up.” He downed the first one and tried to smile.
“Tough day?” The bartender was too young and too innocent to know anything about bad days.
“Last day.” The hint of sadness in Alex’s voice was unmistakable and it was enough to make the bartender leave him alone with his liquid friends.
Alex sipped at the second drink and spread the pamphlets out on the bar. Might as well know what he was up against. He flipped open the fat one, skimmed the opening details and gore, then cut straight to the dos and don’ts. He hoped that he’d find some secret remedy contained in those scant pages. Instead, he found bad news and more bad news.
Chief among the don’ts was drinking. “Fuck you!” he grumbled to the pamphlet, then slammed it shut and tossed back the third shot. The bartender stared at him for a moment, then turned away in silence.
There were few dos included. Not much advice and little or no hope. Apparently, nothing much helped, beyond doing none of the things you enjoyed up until you were left drooling in a wheelchair and then killed by something stupid, like a cold, when your immune system finally collapsed.
He thought about his wife, Brin, and his eyes welled with tears. He’d have to tell her, but he didn’t know how he’d do it. She was strong and brilliant and amazingly self-sufficient, but this would devastate her. And he didn’t want to think about what the news would do to their daughter, Savannah. She was Daddy’s girl, tried and true. Alex smiled as he thought about her, her sweet face, her tiny hand in his. Then he frowned. She was a little over two. If the disease progressed quickly, she might not even remember him, or worse, she might only remember an incompetent in a wheelchair who could never help her or protect her.
Alex thought he would rather be dead in some hell hole than face his wife and daughter with this kind of news. Dead that way, he was making a difference. He was a warrior, and if he couldn’t fight this disease, he could damned well go out fighting.
And who knew, he thought, maybe he was strong enough to beat it for a while. The power of the mind, his body was still in great shape, maybe he could will himself to overcome the disease. He shook his head and took another swallow of the burning liquor.
If not, what good could he do himself, his family or the world, with this damned disease?
He swallowed as the answer came to him.
None.
3
Denny Talbot heard the faint tone in his earpiece that indicated someone wanted to speak to him and he slipped on the wraparound-style sunglasses that allowed him to access the virtual world of Room 59. Using his avatar, he keyed in the codes that would transform the digital green lines of nothingness into what looked like a normal office in seconds. When it was done and his avatar was seated, he said, “Enter.”
Kate Cochran, the director of Room 59, came through his virtual door at a good clip, her platinum-blond hair bouncing around her neck as she moved. She had one of those damnable red folders in her hand, which meant this was important—life-altering important.
Denny leaned back in his chair, which squeaked in protest. Everything in the Room 59 virtual world could appear as real or unreal as the user desired. He preferred reality to the strangeness of a dream, so his office mirrored reality to the smallest detail. “A red folder,” he said without preamble. “What do you have for me this time?” A smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Something big,” Kate said. “And very juicy.” She tapped the folder and set it on his desk. “Rare-steak juicy.”
Denny started to reach for the file but she pulled it back just in the nick of time. “Okay, why don’t you fill me in, then?” He smiled, full on, and laced his fingers over his belly as he rocked slowly in the chair.
“Ever heard of a company called MRIS? Medical Robotic Imaging Systems, Inc.?”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“They’re a high-tech medical-imaging firm, mostly working on the research-and-development side of diagnostic equipment. They’ve even developed a successful prototype of a nanobot camera—nanobots are tiny robots that can be injected into a person’s body—eliminating the need for such things as endoscopic procedures and upper GIs. It still needs a lot more testing before they can go public with it, but it will happen soon enough. They’re privately funded, very quiet and already making hundreds of millions of dollars a year,” Kate said.
Denny nodded, wondering where this was heading.
“Last year, MRIS opened a facility in China, up in one of the northern provinces, specifically for the continued development of this nanobot imaging system.”
“Where’s the part where this concerns us?” Denny asked. Kate could be blunt, but she could also drive a man to distraction with too much detail.
“Apparently, that isn’t all they’re up to. Yesterday, we got a communiqué from one of our assets in China. Site intel and surveillance shows that MRIS isn’t just working on the imaging systems. Seems they’re also building some sort of related biological weapon. According to the Chinese, the biological end of it is complete. It’s just the weapon part—the delivery system—that needs work.”
Now his interest was piqued. He sat forward and leaned both elbows on the desk. “And they want us to eliminate the threat.”
“Bingo.” Finally, she tossed the file across the desk, watching it skid slowly into Denny’s hands. She took a seat in a chair and crossed her long legs, watching his face as he accessed the information and read through the file and scanned the pictures.
When he was done, Denny slid the folder back and shook his head. What he’d read had made him sick, deep inside. The particular nerve gas MRIS had created was very spooky. They’d found a way to use the nanobots to deliver a payload specifically designed to kill slowly in order to maximize suffering and increase the contamination rate. “They’re right,” he said. “We need to stop this. Now.”
“Pai Kun completely agrees,” Kate said. “It was one of his who that initially got the intel. But he wants us to take the lead on it, rather than using a local asset.”
“Why?” Denny asked.
“He thinks we’ll have a better shot at keeping things quiet and suspicion away from any of his local assets,” she said. “I think he’s right.”
Denny stared at the folder for a long moment, and then glanced up, another question in his eyes. “Who do you want to send?” he asked.
“I was thinking of Alex Tempest. This is right up his alley. He’d be perfect for it.”
Denny shook his head. “He’s great at blending in, but even he might have trouble looking Chinese.”
A crease formed down the middle of Kate’s forehead and she frowned. “He pulled off that mission in Korea just last year,” she countered. “I think he can do it.”
“Maybe,” Denny admitted. “But he’s only been back from that mission in Mexico a few weeks or so. And things didn’t go very well down there. I was thinking of giving him some extended downtime.”
Kate nodded thoughtfully and studied her shoes for a moment. “There’s nobody better suited for it,” she said. “And we can’t afford a failure here. Who else has his level of experience, let alone his training?”
“I can think of a few—”
“Who else will get the job done or die trying? Come on! You know damned well that nobody else we’ve got right now is capable of taking this on with any kind of certainty of success. There’s only Alex.” Kate paused for a moment and studied his face with the trained eye of an interrogator. “We mandate three weeks minimum between missions, Denny. He’s had that and is probably sitting on his hands waiting for something else to do by now. Maybe sending him back out is what he needs, more than extra time off.”
Denny thought for a moment. He knew Kate. She had all the tenacity of a bull terrier. He could tell her no until the cows came home and still not win the argument. “All right. But you have to promise not to try and influence his answer in any way. Not to pressure him into it. I’m still waiting for his full report on what happened down in Mexico, but I’ve got a bad feeling right now where he’s concerned. If he says no, then we’ll find someone else, okay?”
Kate nodded her head slowly. “You know I would never, ever try to push an agent into taking on a detail he wasn’t ready for.”
Denny stood his ground, frowning. “Promise me.”
When several beats passed without an answer from Kate, he glared at her, staring daggers. “Promise or you can ask him yourself.”
She held up her hands to ward off the heat of his eyes. “Okay, okay! I promise I will not try to influence his decision in any way. Happy now?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. Good luck chatting with Alex.” Kate rose, tucking the folder under one arm and pushing open the door. Once outside, she shoved the door shut and Denny sighed, then disconnected from his virtual office.
They both knew it was as good as decided.
Alex would take the job. He was too white-hat not to.
4
Alex was folded over a cup of coffee, his gaze turned inward, when Brin joined him. She was dressed for work, not a hair out of place, her brown eyes bright and dazzling. He was the opposite—careless hair, unshaved, vision murky. When he wasn’t on a job, he was unkempt and relaxed. He kept it casual. He loved that Brin could roll out of bed looking perfect. Her gorgeous blond hair always looked sexy, either smooth and perfect or playful and tussled, his favorite, the way she looked after sex. Or was it just that his love affected his vision?
Brin eased into the chair opposite his and rubbed his hand for a moment. “Sleep well?”
He looked up at her with a smile and a wink. “Always do, first night home.” He hadn’t told her that he’d been back for almost a month, staying in a nearby hotel until the doctors had finished working him over. It had been incredibly hard not to race right home, to see her and their daughter, but he wanted to know what was going on before he allowed himself the luxury of the feelings his family aroused in him.
“Me, too.” She let loose an uncharacteristically girlish giggle.
Alex took a long sip of his coffee, studying her face over the rim of the cup. He held it in both hands, just in case the tremors returned. So far, they had only affected one hand at a time. He could always steady one hand with the other.
“Things went okay in Mexico, then?” She fiddled with her briefcase latch. “You were gone longer than I thought you’d be.”
“Took longer than I thought,” Alex said. “They don’t have a lot of the resources we do here, but it turned out all right. No worries.” Brin had no idea what Alex really did for a living. She thought he was some sort of security expert, doing contract work all over the world. He wasn’t sure if she’d have been able to handle all the alone time if she’d really known what he was doing in those faraway places. But he couldn’t tell her anything without putting her in danger and he liked the image that she had of him now. Besides, she might actually take exception to his killing people for a living. Quite a few people seemed to think that it wasn’t the most honorable line of work.
“Glad to hear it.” She turned a bit in her chair, so that she was facing him, and cupped her chin in one hand. “So, how long do we have you for this time?”
“Right up to the moment you get tired of me. There’s nothing on the radar, so I guess I’ve been gifted with some major downtime.”
“Good. Savannah will be happy to hear that, too. She misses her big old daddy bear when he’s gone.”
If there was anything sexier than Brin talking baby talk, Alex couldn’t imagine what it was. “I miss her, too. Like I’d miss the air.” He reached for his coffee and a sigh slipped out before he could cut it short.
“Alex, are you all right?”
Confused, his arm paused halfway to his mouth and he frowned at her across the table. “Fine. Why?”
Her arms were folded and crossed on the table. She nodded toward his hand in a quick jerk of her head and the frown deepened.
Alex looked at his hand, holding the coffee cup almost to his lips, and his breath caught in his chest. It was shaking, and not just a little, but a lot. Coffee sloshed gently against the sides of the cup. Quickly, he transferred the cup to his left hand and put it back on the table.
“I’m fine, really. I’m just still a little tired from the trip and all the excitement. Guess I just didn’t realize how tired I was.”
Brin’s face was etched in worry, strained.
“Are you sure? Maybe you should see a doctor or something. I don’t think I’ve ever seen your hands shake like that.”
Her tone changed from concerned wife to scientist. He knew that he needed to move on to something else or she would sit and analyze until she uncovered the truth. Part of the problem with being married to a Ph.D. was that sometimes she was too observant for his own good.
“I’m sure. Now, come here, wife!” He held out his arms to her and she rose instantly, slipping around the table.
Alex grabbed her by the hips and swept her into his lap in one easy movement. His lips found hers from experience, resting there as they had done a thousand times before. When he released her, his eyes sparkled.
“If I were sick, could I still do that?” Another wink and a smile.
Brin giggled again and nuzzled his neck. “I guess not. Now, you have to let me go before I’m late for work. You get some rest today. Promise me?”
“Yes, Mother.” He swatted her on the backside, a little too roughly perhaps, but with good humor and great results. “Love you.”
5
With Brin safely off to work and Savannah hugged, kissed and off to day care, Alex was alone with his misery. He tried to focus, to find a positive he could cling to that would help him map out the next few months or weeks. Days? Nothing worked. He finished his coffee, then puttered aimlessly about the kitchen before pouring another cup.
He tried thinking about the house, his family and planning for the future, but it was hopeless. In many ways, they were fortunate—far more so than many of the people he’d seen in other countries. The house was paid for and a college fund for Savannah was already in place, accruing interest. He had more money tucked away than the family would ever need, and, in all reality, Brin didn’t actually need it. The research lab she ran was on the cutting edge of the hunt to cure a dozen or more degenerative diseases. She made plenty of money on her own.
Sometimes he thought it was marriage to him that held her back from a Nobel Prize or more. And she was a wonder with Savannah. It was true that the girl loved her Daddy, but it was Brin who got the call when knees were scraped or a stuffy nose kept the girl from sleeping.
He couldn’t shake the feeling of frustration that he wasn’t going to be part of building their family, their life—he was going to be a burden on it.
One thing was certain. He couldn’t put off telling Denny Talbot that he was done as a Room 59 agent. They would have to replace him, and quickly. His personal life might have gone into a slide, but he knew the world wouldn’t pay a bit of attention to that. He might even have saved it once or twice—it was all the same to Mother Earth.
Alex stalked to his desk. The computer monitor was dark. He punched the power button and brought the machine to life. As it booted up, he plopped into the leather chair and stared at the screen.
He didn’t even know what he’d say when he logged in. He had his final report on the Mexican operation to upload, but they already knew the details. He’d given Denny a quick debrief when he’d returned. Nothing was really news to Kate or Denny. They probably also knew that he’d nearly screwed up, though they wouldn’t say anything about it. If he’d failed or the mission hadn’t been completed, he’d be hearing about it in spades. His mistake this time had no lasting repercussions, so he was sure that was okay.
The computer screen filled with the smiling faces of Brin and Savannah, and Alex stared at them. He didn’t want to touch the keyboard or the mouse. He didn’t want to disrupt the image. With a long sigh, he leaned forward and typed in the coded keystrokes he’d memorized so long ago. While the commands ran, he removed his virtual reality glasses from a hidden slot beneath his desk and put them on. The image on the screen shifted, dissolving to a slowly spinning number 59 in the center of the screen, followed by a login prompt. This was the first of a multiple-stage process for logging into the ultrasecure Room 59 reporting center.
As he followed the familiar electronic trail, he considered what he’d say once he was in. He knew he’d have to resign. There was no way to continue under the circumstances. It was likely he wouldn’t be in any condition to deliver for much longer.
He passed the final security level and his personal portal opened. To the right were icons for a variety of contacts and resources. Down the left side were alerts, memos and communications. The center icon sent a direct chat request to Denny. Despite using the Room 59 technology on a regular basis, there was still a feel of science fiction to it all as far as Alex was concerned. Virtual offices, avatars, conference and briefing rooms. Anybody could look like anyone, though he’d noticed that humor was not highly appreciated. His initial avatar of choice had been Yoda, the Jedi master from the Star Wars movies. The frowns alone told him to choose something more mundane and now he appeared as a somewhat altered version of himself.
Alex started to open the link, and then stopped. One of the communications icons was blinking. He had an urgent message waiting for him. He frowned. These were usually reserved for assignments or emergencies. He hadn’t even been home a full month, and they’d never contacted him for his next mission so quickly.
Yet there it was. Alex touched the icon with his virtual hand, and immediately a series of folders opened in front of him. The files were from Denny Talbot and Kate Cochran, including a note that he should review them before checking in for his assignment. A final document opened without prompting, and, curious, he began to read.
It was an intelligence report from one of their Chinese operatives, interspersed with notes from Chinese intelligence, as well as the conclusions of Denny and Kate and Pai Kun, the Room 59 leader for China. Alex’s frown deepened. This intelligence represented a serious threat to the security of the world, but all it had taken was the name of the company, MRIS, to get his full attention. He quickly skimmed the rest of the materials.
He closed the document, minimized the files, reached out and launched the chat icon. The scene in front of him shifted and he was standing outside the door to Denny’s virtual office. Denny had been waiting for him, and when he rapped on the door he heard “Enter,” just as though they were in the real world.
Alex stepped through the doorway. Though he had never met the man in person, Alex suspected that Denny’s avatar was exact in almost every detail. He had a heavy build and his hair was graying at the temples. Still, he looked strong, and his eyes were sharp. Denny didn’t miss too many tricks, despite the fact that he wasn’t a field man anymore.
“What do you have?” Alex asked without hesitation. “What the hell is this file, Denny?”
“Big stuff, cowboy,” Denny replied. “The Chinese are pretty worried over this one, and if they don’t like it, you know it’s got to be bad. They don’t play well with others, as a general rule.”
“I just got home a few weeks ago,” Alex said. “I was sort of planning on some downtime.” He knew it didn’t mean a thing; he was buying time and running what he’d read through his mind. He knew he should be telling Denny what the doctor had said. This one was hot, and there wasn’t going to be a lot of time to find someone else to handle it. If there was someone else.
“I know, Alex, and I hate it, especially considering that things didn’t go great for you in Mexico, but I told Kate I’d at least present it to you. We don’t send out operatives this soon unless it’s mission critical, and I like to give my men at least a month or more off between assignments.”
“That’s why I’m surprised,” Alex said. “I’ve always had at least that long—usually closer to six weeks or more—between missions.”
“This is going to be a tough one, Alex. Security is tight, and the schedule is half a gnat’s ass short of insane. We’re under the gun, and you may be our only field agent who can pull it off. You have experience with the Chinese, and you speak the language.”
It was true. Alex had completed two missions in the east in the past ten years. As an Army Ranger he’d been specially trained for Chinese operations—he spoke several dialects, and with some work he could pass for a tall Asian if he had to. Of course, given the right opportunity, he could pass for almost anything.
“The file said MRIS was involved,” Alex said. “You know Brin works for them. It’s pretty close to home.”
“As far as we know, her work isn’t a part of this,” Denny said, “but it’s a safe bet that they’re using every resource they have in one way or another, even if the people don’t know it themselves. I doubt there’s any part of the company not involved in this one way or another. I’m sure she’s clean—we checked and rechecked to make sure—but I don’t know what it will mean for her if they bring this all together. Hell, I don’t know what it will mean for China, or the world, but it won’t be good. Chemical attacks are bad enough—if they manage to infect someone over here with those damned nanobuggers of theirs, it could get out of control pretty fast. We can’t let that happen.”
“Of course not,” Alex agreed. “Do we have an in? They’re going to be looking for trouble, especially if they’re as close as you say. You sure we have time for this? Might be better to turn one like this over to more standard channels and get them shut down.”
“Can’t risk it,” Denny said so quickly that he must have anticipated the question. He was like that. “Relations between China and the U.S. are already too strained. Our sources on this are in deep—they can’t be the ones to bring this forward. If we tried it, it would just be seen as us taking another shot at their culture. They’d tighten up, shut us out, and by the time they’d realized their mistake, it would be over. We have to go in—hard, fast and right now.”
Alex didn’t reply. Denny didn’t wait long.
“You want it, cowboy?”
Alex glanced down at his hand. For the moment, it was steady. He thought of Brin, smiling at him and hurrying Savannah out the door. There was such trust in that smile, such love. How could he leave her alone to face—what? A company that wasn’t really trying to cure diseases, but intent on spreading new ones? Would she be safe? Would they come after her, others like her, to force them into creating bigger, better diseases instead of curing the ones they had now? How long before Savannah was in danger?
He sighed. Maybe he wasn’t one hundred percent, but even at ninety he was better than most. This might be his last shot at doing something that really meant something. Maybe he could beat the MS and still do what he loved.
“I’m in,” he said. “Give me what you’ve got.”
“Timetable transferring to your calendar,” Denny replied. “You have the files. There are photos, a database of personnel, instructions on contacts and credentials. You know the drill. Once it’s all transferred, and you’re airborne, we’re out.”
“The assignment?” Alex asked. He knew the information would be in the file, but he wanted a few seconds more to back out if he thought of a way to get clear. Nothing came to mind, and this wasn’t a drug lord making things nasty on the border—this was a huge global threat.
“We need the research either retrieved or wiped out,” Denny replied. “It has to be removed from all their systems and backups. We want it utterly gone. There is also a list of key personnel, the people we have established with certainty are behind this. They have to be taken out of the equation so they don’t just recreate the work. There has to be a message sent with this, Alex. It must be made clear that this kind of thing won’t be tolerated. If we hit too hard, we’ll get too much attention—but if we don’t hit them hard enough, they’ll—”
“Just come back like bad pennies,” Alex finished. “Where do we stand right now for field support?”
“You’ll have a local asset in Beijing who will supply any and all needs beyond your departure. You have, of course, full run of equipment, data and assistance on this end. That ends the minute you hit the ground over there, so take advantage while you have the chance.”
“Will do,” Alex replied. “Damn. And I was looking forward to weeding the garden this week.”
“You’ll get to it, cowboy,” Denny said.
“Yeah,” Alex replied. “I guess. I’m out. I have a lot of reading to do, and then I have to explain to Brin and Savannah why I won’t be taking them camping this weekend.”
“Alex, one other thing,” Denny said. “I tried to talk Kate out of calling you on this one. I know you could use a break—if for no other reason than to finish that report on Mexico.”
“It’s okay,” Alex replied. “I have to do this—you know I do. It’s too close for me to ignore. I’ll get in, do the job and get out as quickly as I can. Plenty of time left for gardening when it’s done.” He grinned. “And I’ll upload the report on my last mission to you before I leave.”
“That’s the spirit,” Denny replied. “Catch you soon.”
Alex left Denny’s office, then brought up the icons again, choosing the one for home. His view shifted and once more he was in his own virtual office. He flipped open the first file. He wouldn’t be able to download or print any of the data, so he had to make the most of the time he had to read and memorize everything they knew. His life might depend on it. What he could safely carry would be waiting for him at the equipment drop—names, photos and false identification.
“Damn,” he muttered. “Holy five-flaming hell.”
He cursed, and he read, and he drank black coffee. When his hand twitched and then began to tremble, he told himself it was just the caffeine.
Alex had meant to offer his resignation. To call it quits and spend his last good days with his wife and daughter. If Denny or Kate or anyone in Room 59 found out about the MS, the mission would be aborted. They might even take him out to keep him from snapping. He couldn’t let that happen—he needed this one. It was his chance at the blaze of glory—a final shot at being a hero. This was a mission that could make a difference, and he wasn’t about to turn it down. A warrior without a war to fight wasn’t much of anything.
As far as missions went, it was a good one. Challenging and making the world a safer place. At the least it beat holy hell out of a pile of useless pamphlets and a race to oblivion. It would have to be enough.
As Alex read, memorizing names and places and facts, the sun slipped toward the horizon. The sad little lamp on his desk—considered a treasure when they’d found it at the garage sale years ago—was an inadequate soldier against the shadows that had filled the room. He was just about to take a break, make some more coffee, when he heard sounds of talk and laughter in the driveway. Brin and Savannah, returning from their day out in the world. How many times had Brin come home to an empty house since they’d been married? Too many, he guessed. Still, that would be ending soon enough.
Alex disconnected from his office, and put the glasses back beneath the desk, then stood and walked toward the front door. For now, his body seemed to be obeying all commands, but he wasn’t sure just how long that would last. The door swung open, and there was Brin, looking every bit as prim as she had that morning, one hand full of mail, the other clutching her briefcase.
“Hey, you.” Alex chuckled. He leaned on the wall, this time because he wanted to, not because he needed the support.
“Daddy!” Savannah rocket launched across the room and left the ground in one last glorious leap, knowing that her daddy would catch her in midair.
Catch her he did, smothering her little cheeks and neck with kisses and growling his big bear hug into her hair. God but he’d missed that! “How was your day, princess?”
“Good day, Daddy.” Savannah smiled, eyes sparkling, giggling as she patted him down for presents.
“Sorry, kiddo. Daddy hasn’t even left the house.”
She sighed and squirmed, wanting to be put down.
“How about you, Mommy?” Alex asked. “How was your day?”
He set Savannah on the floor and turned to sweep Brin into his arms. She was ready with a kiss and a smile, and most anything else he needed. He hoped she was ready with understanding, too.
“You know, gene splicing, curing diseases, saving the world. Blah, blah, blah!” She tossed the mail and her keys onto the hall table and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Give me a minute to change and I’ll start dinner.”
Alex wondered if her company was also working on a cure for MS, and if they were, would they find anything in time to save him. None of the pamphlets he’d read sounded promising, but a lot of medical advances were kept quiet until they were ready for a public unveiling. Maybe when he got back from this mission, when he could tell her the truth about his condition, he’d ask her about it.
She was halfway to the bedroom before Alex thought to call after her. “No need. I ordered pizza and it should be here any minute.”
She spun on him, a silly, crooked grin stuck to her face. “I’m that predictable that you can order food to be delivered the moment I walk in the door?”
“Yep! You’re the predictable one. I’m the irrational, flighty one. Good system.” The doorbell rang and he reached for his wallet. “Hurry up and change. I’ll get the pizza and get Miss Savannah seated.”
He swung open the door and thrust out the twenty in one easy movement. The pizza guy was young and his face looked a lot like the pizza he delivered. Outside, there was a small blue Toyota, built sometime back when Carter was still in office.
Alex smiled. “Keep the change.” He shut the door and turned the lock.
When he reached the kitchen, Savannah turned and smiled at him from where she sat, legs swinging, in the high chair. “Pizza! Yay!”
Alex stopped abruptly and frowned, then grinned to himself. “Did you get up there all by yourself?” Of course she did. Who else would have helped her?
Savannah mumbled something incoherent but nodded her agreement.
“You’re a very smart girl. But please—” He stooped to fasten the strap and put on the tray. Then he leaned in close and whispered, “Please don’t grow up so fast. Daddy will miss his little girl.”
He pecked her cheek and slid her close to the table, stopping then to study her face. It changed daily, growing, maturing. A week away brought him home to find all her expressions morphed somehow. A month, and he could hardly recognize her.
“Did you remember the pineapple? I love pineapple.” Brin swept into the room, still buttoning the buttons on her blouse.
Alex caught sight of her and smiled, thinking how nice it would be to pop each and every button right off. “Pineapple present and accounted for, ma’am!”
She smacked him as he saluted.
There was lots of pizza, chitchat, a sundae for Savannah. The normality of it almost made Alex think that things might end up fine. It was all part of the dance. They both knew what they were working toward…later…after Savannah had gone to bed.
The nightly ritual was followed to the letter. The table was cleared, Savannah bathed, her story read and her little covers pulled tightly under her chin. Just the way she liked it. Her poodle night-light softly glowed from across the room, and Alex blew kisses as he shut the door.
His body had behaved quite nicely all evening. He was thankful for that much. Brin waited for him in the kitchen, a glass of wine in each hand. She pressed one into his right hand and turned him toward the door with a kiss, then pushed him in the direction of the sofa.
Alex took up his place, all territories having been decided on long ago. Brin slid into his arms and sipped her wine, pulling his arm around her and kissing the back of his hand.
“I missed you so much.” She sighed. “I always do.”
For a moment, he thought he would cry. He took a sip of his wine, against doctor’s orders, and swallowed hard. “I missed you, too. I just don’t feel right when I’m away from my girls. Which is why I don’t want to leave you again. But I have—”
He got no further. Brin spun in his arms, crushing her lips to his, shaking a bit as she kissed him. When she pulled back, there were tears in her eyes and her lip quivered.
“Wow! What was that all about?”
“I didn’t want you to tell me that you’re leaving again. Not so soon. Please, not so soon. You just got home.”
He drew the back of one hand over her soft cheek, found a tear there and wiped it away. “I wouldn’t go if it weren’t important, Brin. It’s my job. I have to go.”
“I know.” Her voice quavered. It broke his heart. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
“No. Please.”
She hesitated, then dropped her eyes in resignation. “Where to?”
“The Middle East,” he said, hating to tell her yet another lie, but knowing that he could never tell her the truth. “I can’t be any more specific. This is huge. Really huge. I couldn’t say no.” She nodded and he continued. “After this one, no more for a long time. I swear. I’ll take an extended downtime. Maybe we’ll even take a vacation.”
“Promise?”
He nodded. “I promise.”
She slid along his body, pushing with her toes and letting her lips reach for his. One hand found his glass, pulled it free and set it on the table. She kissed him again, then whispered, her breath washing hot over his cheek, “Make love to me. Please.”
He slid his fingers into her hair, pulled her down on top of him, and the world faded to soft flesh and whispered kisses.
For a while, it was almost enough to make him forget.
6
It was still dark when Alex woke. He lay very still, not wanting to disturb Brin, who was curled tightly against his side. Sunrise was still more than an hour away, and he dreaded its arrival. The new day would mean the beginning of the end, the start of his last mission before the disease took its inevitable toll.
Even after reading through the pamphlets and scouring the Web, all Alex really knew was that his prognosis was grim. Primary progressive MS, when it moved quickly, often robbed a person of mobility, eyesight…even sex could become too painful or impossible due to mobility impairments. He didn’t want to go out that way—useless, hopeless, miserable.
Too many things he cared for would begin to unravel when the night ran down, and he could hear it ticking away like a giant clock—or a bomb. He would do this last mission and go out a hero.
Brin stirred, rolling toward him, and he slid his arm around her, pulling her close. She turned a sleepy-eyed smile up to him, and he brushed her eyelids with his lips. He was shocked at the sudden heat the contact brought. She sensed it and pressed closer, running her lips up his chest. He shivered as her hair tickled his throat.
Alex rolled onto his side, slid his arm across Brin’s body and rose to stare down at her. His arm trembled and his heart raced.
“No,” he whispered.
“What?” Brin raised her head, but he dropped over her fiercely, covering her lips and sliding his hips up to mesh with hers. She gasped, but as his palm pressed her thigh, she parted her legs and he drove forward, pinning her to the mattress, pressing so tightly the friction burned. She cried out, but not in pain. Her legs curled around him, drawing him deeper still, and he dropped into the sensation. He ground his hips, and she met each motion. He slid over her, felt her breasts press into him, nipples hard and rough. Sweat lubricated their motion and they fell into a rough rhythm.
The room blurred and Alex closed his eyes. He wrapped his arms around Brin’s taut, muscled body and moved with her, chasing the sounds of her pleasure with his motion. He closed his eyes and clutched the sheets, digging his fingers into the mattress and fighting for control. She sensed his urgency and bucked up into him with a soft cry. It was more than he could stand.
Tears flowed down his cheeks and blended with the sweat of their coupling as they climaxed. His body tightened, shuddered and grew still, but he didn’t move off of her. He lay there, limp, drained and gasping for breath as she kissed his cheeks, ran her fingers through his hair and brushed his shoulders with long, sharp nails. Slowly his mind, heart and lungs dropped back through levels of sensation. He felt her heartbeat against his chest. He lowered his head and managed to brush his eyes on the sheet in his hand in a pretense of wiping away sweat. He didn’t want her to see his tears.
Brin stroked his hair in silence for a few moments.
“What was that?” she asked.
“You didn’t enjoy it?” He stiffened at the thought it might have all been for himself, that he might have stolen their final moments of intimacy in selfish lust.
“I didn’t say that. It was wonderful. It is wonderful. But it was so intense. It was like you were trying to pull me into you, or through you. I—”
Before she could go on, a soft thump sounded beyond the door. They both glanced up sharply. The sound repeated and Alex couldn’t stifle a chuckle. He rolled slowly off Brin, wrapping her in his arms. She reached down quickly and drew the sheet and comforter farther up the bed.
“Savannah?” Alex called. “Are you out there?”
They lay in silence for a moment longer. The bump repeated and a soft voice called out.
“No.”
They both laughed, and moments later, childish giggles sounded in the hall.
“Go lay down, baby,” Brin called out. “We’ll be out in a minute.”
“I want to come in,” Savannah called petulantly. “I want to wake you up.”
Brin started to speak again, but Alex stopped her. His hand shook as he gripped her arm, and he released her as if he’d been bitten. He let his voice break a little to help explain away the tremor.
“Let’s get dressed and let her in,” he said softly. “I miss both my girls, you know? I don’t want to miss a moment with either of you.”
She watched him. He saw her glance at his hand, and he willed it to be steady, just this one time. It remained rock solid, and she stroked his cheek, then laughed.
“Okay, hotshot. I’ll get dressed first, then you. I have to get out and make breakfast. I have a big day. I have a meeting with Rand this morning, something new—and big. He wants me to go over some new research.”
“Big brains and nice breasts.” Alex laughed. He lunged for her, but she was too quick, slipping off the edge of the bed. He watched her, and a lump filled his throat. He didn’t try to speak, and moments later she had her nightgown on and stood, waiting on him.
“Rise and shine, hero,” she said, smiling brightly. “I get the shower, you get the child. I’ll trade you in twenty minutes.”
He grinned at her, rolled out of the bed and fumbled in the dresser until he found a pair of pajama pants and a T-shirt. He turned just in time to see Brin disappear into the hall, and Savannah’s bright, inquisitive face peering back in through the door. Growling like a bear, he charged.
His daughter squealed, spun and scampered off down the hallway. Alex pursued, but not too quickly. Some races are better if you come in last, and he knew where she was headed. A soft couch pillow to hide behind and screams for cartoons would come next. He smiled and dived after her, sliding onto the couch, spinning and curling her in close. Before she could even ask, he’d clicked the remote and brought the big-screen TV to life. Alex buried his nose in his daughter’s soft hair and closed his eyes as she giggled, squirmed and laughed at the prancing animated nonsense on the screen.
He squeezed her tight, enjoying the contentment he felt at that moment. If only it could always be that way.
THE REST OF THE MORNING passed far too quickly. He nearly broke down hugging Savannah goodbye, and she wasn’t happy to hear he was leaving again. Alex watched from the doorway as Brin bustled the girl into the SUV, and didn’t turn away until the two of them were down the road and out of sight.
He packed lightly. There was no way to know what he was getting into—not exactly. It was better to choose his gear after he knew. His magic was camouflage, but it was a subtle art. He couldn’t carry too much, or too little. It wasn’t enough to take on the appearance of a new persona. It was absolutely inadequate to simulate change. He had to disappear. He had to melt into another reality where Alex Tempest didn’t exist at all—or if he did, he was disconnected. He had very little time.
Too many things could go wrong. If the doctor mentioned his condition to anyone connected to Room 59, the mission would be aborted. If there was any incident indicating he was less than one hundred percent, he’d never leave the country. Funding would dry up, and very likely his access to Room 59 would cease to exist, as well. There was nothing he could do to expose them, not that he would. They might contact him, but somehow he didn’t believe that they would. They were a tight, close-knit group, for all their independent operations, but there was one truth binding them all. The mission came first. The greater good overshadowed personal glory, needs and safety.
In less than an hour, he was out the door. Before he left, he went to the small garden he and Brin had planted behind the house. Very carefully, he clipped a single rose and a small violet. He carried them inside and sat at the table in the kitchen to write.
He started several notes to Brin. He wanted to tell her everything. Their love had always been based on trust, and not sharing—particularly at this moment—felt like a betrayal. In the end, he carefully shredded his first four attempts and wrote simply, “I love you,” on a card. He drew a heart and carefully slit the paper, sliding the stem of the rose through it like an arrow.
Then, with equal care, he drew a cartoon bear on a second sheet of paper. He laid the violet across it and wrote carefully, “I can’t bear to be without you. See you soon. Love, Daddy.”
He couldn’t remember ever tearing up so many times in the space of a single day. It seemed as though even the ability to control his emotions was being taken from him. He brushed it away, grabbed his things and slipped out the door, locking it behind him. He looked back only once, staring at the small, comfortable home wistfully. Then he turned and walked into another life as if he’d never existed.
7
Brin spent the first hour in her office, filing correspondence, answering e-mail and fuming over lost time. Meetings were a big part of her life as director of the lab, but they infuriated her. Every moment she spent schmoozing board members, entertaining investors and planning for the future of the company was time away from her research.
A lot of very talented men and women were involved in the same sort of research she conducted, searching for clues to the nature of degenerative diseases, testing and retesting possible cures. She knew most of the best and brightest by name, the rest by reputation. In a few she recognized kindred souls, minds and hearts dedicated to healing and life. In too many others, though, she found only greed, pride and the bickering nature of academia.
This time it felt different. She’d had an odd sense of impending accomplishment since the call from her CEO, Hershel Rand. He very seldom involved himself in the nuts and bolts of the company. He was a high-energy, high-efficiency administrator. He knew the worlds of money and corporate warfare as well as Brin knew her cultures and petri dishes, and the two rarely crossed paths. Other than annual budget talks and occasional pep talks, he let her run things the way she saw fit.
Now he said he had something she had to see, something he didn’t trust anyone else to handle. He knew how she worked, and more importantly, she thought he knew why she worked. He said researchers in China had presented some brilliant work—something that could shift the entire paradigm of genetic research. These weren’t the sorts of things he would say in idle conversation. Nothing was insignificant in his world; no moment was wasted. As Brin’s fingers slipped and she nearly spilled a file folder’s contents onto the floor in her haste to clear her desk, she smiled. She hadn’t been so excited about a meeting since her initial job interview years in the past.
She only wished Alex would be there to share it with. He didn’t fully understand her work, but he supported it—and her—and she knew he’d listen. When he was away, she felt isolated and kept things bottled up. He really was a vital part of her life, and she felt—too often—that she was operating under a painful handicap.
Brin swept the rest of the mess off her desk and into a large box. She could file it later, when there was idle time. Her hand whipped up in a nervous gesture that displayed the watch Alex had given her for her first Mother’s Day—the year she got pregnant with Savannah. Five minutes. She’d better go upstairs to Hershel’s office.
She made the elevator just as the doors began to close, slipped inside and sighed with relief. The ninth-floor button was already lit and she smiled. She didn’t usually get this worked up, but Hershel had been excited and her mood had fed off his ever since.
Elaine, Rand’s executive assistant, was at her appointed place, the phone tucked under her ear and her glasses halfway down her nose. She waved Brin past, into the CEO’s office. The door was open.
The office was empty, another odd fact. Hershel never left his door open, especially not when he was out of the office. Brin slipped inside and eased into a leather chair. She bit her lip and wondered if she’d have long to wait. Nothing about this day, or this meeting, was normal—why expect the normally punctual Rand to be the exception? She had just fixed her gaze on the skyline beyond the great window when her boss popped up from behind the desk, scaring her half to death.
“God! You just about gave me a heart attack!” She laughed then, but there was little humor in it.
“Sorry. I had some new equipment installed this morning and the cords keep tangling around my chair wheels.” He offered up a feeble smile, stood and crossed the room in quick strides. “Let’s get down to it, shall we?” He stuck his head out the door. “Elaine, turn on my voice mail and go get yourself a latte. Don’t come back until I call you.” He shut the door to his office firmly.
Brin frowned. She had never known Elaine to leave her desk without someone to fill in, and she had never known Rand to let her. She studied his face as he slid back into his chair, rolled forward and regarded the plasma monitor set into the top of his desk. Whatever he saw there made him smile and he relaxed a bit.
“Everything okay?” Her voice sounded weak, even to her.
“Fine. Just making sure we’re really alone, if you know what I mean. Now, as I said, we have some research material coming in from China. You’ll be impressed—I guarantee it.”
“All right. But why not have it sent electronically? We’ve got the best network security in the business.”
“You don’t understand. This is huge. World-changing huge. I couldn’t risk having it sent electronically, no matter how impressive security is. It will be arriving late this afternoon, and after I review it, you’ll get a chance to have a go at it.”
“What type of research is it?”
“Sorry, Brin, not just yet. All I want you to do right now is clear your schedule. This project is going to be your number-one priority for a while anyway. And I have to insist that you not discuss this. Not with anyone on your team, not with Alex. No one. Do you understand?”
She paused for a moment, the crease in her forehead deepening. This was so out of character for Rand that it scared her. “I understand. And I don’t discuss my work, except in the vaguest of terms, with anyone. I doubt they’d understand anyway. But my team—”
“Is out of the loop on this one. Totally out. It’s you and me. I need your help on this one, but it has to be our secret,” Rand said.
“Understood. I don’t have a problem with that, but any serious research is going to require assistance.”
“I knew you’d understand. Once things get past the initial stages, we’ll find ways to compartmentalize the research. Now, I have another meeting. I’ll let you know when it arrives.” He gestured in the direction of the door, dismissing her. His face, which had shown traces of humor when he popped up from behind the desk, now lacked any humor at all. In fact, it seemed almost pressed in on itself, creased and tight with stress.
Brin nodded slowly and made for the door. Whatever was going on was huge—that was certain. And it made her nervous as hell. It also irritated her that Rand was so nervous he’d called a meeting with her to not tell her what was going on. He could have had her meet him after whatever the big deal was arrived. Every move he’d made on this one was out of character. There was only one thing that would make her feel better—Alex. She only hoped that she wasn’t too late to catch him.
Cell phones were prohibited inside the building. Not only did they lead to slacking off, but they also interfered with a lot of the equipment they used and could be a security risk. Brin made for the roof of D-wing. It was only five stories high and there was a small lounge out there for those people who liked to escape the sterile air of the lab. In that small area, the cell phone dead zone was lifted. She hurried out the door, smiling as five pairs of eyes met hers and looked askance of her.
Alex’s cell phone was first on her speed dial, permanently recorded in every contact log she had. “Alex,” she said quickly and the phone dialed. There was a dead-air pause and then it rang. And rang. Suddenly, Brin felt as though she might cry. Her call was forwarded to voice mail and she stomped her foot, cursing her luck for having been too late.
“I just wanted to call and let you know that I miss you already.” She swallowed hard, fighting back tears at the thought of how empty the house would be that night. “I love you.”
She slapped the phone shut and sighed, staring at the clouds for a moment before she shuffled through the door, back into the carefully sterilized and conditioned air. Now she wished that research would hurry up and arrive. At least then, she would have something to focus on other than Alex’s absence.
8
Alex stepped out onto the tarmac and heaved a sigh of relief. It had been a long flight to Seoul and his back ached. He couldn’t be sure whether the pains and twitches were from exhaustion or a byproduct of the MS, and just that uncertainty alone was enough to keep his nerves on edge and disrupt his rhythm. He stretched, yawned and headed toward the south side of the airport. He’d arrived in a private Room 59 jet that traveled under a counterfeit corporate name. If someone checked, the phones would be answered, but the address was nothing more than an abandoned warehouse near the docks in New York.
His contact in Seoul would provide his gear and take him into China. There was nothing like running around the fence to get to the barn to eat at a man’s nerves.
About three hundred yards away from where the plane he’d come in on was parked, another plane waited. This one was smaller and not anywhere as close to being well-maintained. A small Asian man puttered about beneath it, checking the landing gear and whistling. Alex recognized him immediately as Yoo Jin-Ho, a contact he had used before in both Korea and Southeast Asia. Jin had the typical dark hair and eyes of his native Korea, and his skin was still ageless and smooth. It was a small relief to see a familiar face, but something was off and it took Alex a moment to place it.
What was unrecognizable was the bright smile on Jin’s face. The last time Alex had seen him, he’d been beating the hell out of a South Vietnamese asset who’d turned double agent. Jin’s smile widened, and he climbed to his feet, wiping his hands on his gray coveralls and then extending one in a handshake.
“Good to see you again, my friend. I trust you are well?”
“Fine as frog’s hair. It’s good to see you, too, Jin,” Alex replied.
Jin nodded. “Your jumper is in the plane with the rest of your things. We’re flying a load of televisions to Beijing today. I hope you are up to some heavy lifting.”
“I’ll go change,” Alex said, “and check my gear.”
He turned and marched up the short stairway into the plane. It was a small cargo plane and, judging from the smears of oil on each side, the engines had failed more than once. When not assisting the agents of Room 59, Jin ran a small freight service out of Seoul. He had a couple of planes, one other employee—his son—and a boatload of guts. Alex had liked him at first sight and he welcomed the opportunity to see the man again.
His hands had begun to tremble, and he made a conscious effort to remember to keep them out of sight. Jin was no fool, and if he caught a whiff of something, anything, wrong, he’d bow out. Jin wasn’t a coward, but he didn’t like taking stupid chances. There was no way to complete the mission without him.
The tremors were very slight this time, but enough to remind Alex that he wasn’t one hundred percent. He had to lean on the cargo netting in order to pull on his jumper, and it made him want to hit something. Already he felt exhausted and wrung out, even though all he’d done so far was sit on the long, boring flight from the U.S. to Seoul and review the mission parameters.
Jin had placed a large duffel bag in the back of the plane. It contained everything Alex needed for the mission except the explosives. It wouldn’t do to be caught entering China with those. Aside from that, he was well equipped. Jin had come through for him yet again. Alex settled in, lost in thought.
When Jin’s face popped back over the pilot’s seat a few moments later, the sound of his voice startled Alex, and he sat up, shaking his head.
“I’ve filed the flight plan and almost finished the checklist. We should be able to take off in about twenty minutes.”
Alex hadn’t even heard the pilot return. “Good. I’m ready to get started,” he said. “The sooner I can get this over with, the better.” He checked the cargo netting over his duffel, and glanced dubiously at the boxed televisions lining the cargo bay.
“So, all of those are boxes are TVs?” Alex asked, raising an eyebrow.
“That’s what my invoice says. You know what a law-abiding man I am,” Jin said.
“Do you know anything about the local asset I’ll be utilizing in Beijing?”
“I don’t know him personally,” Jin said. “He has a good reputation, gets the job done at all costs. Very John Wayne. Reminds me of someone else I know, eh?”
Alex chuckled and looked down at his boots. “You do know me too well. Usually I kill anyone who does.”
“I’ll take my chances. Now, I have to finish the last three things on this checklist and then we’ll take off. You might as well strap in.”
Alex slipped the harness over his waist and clipped the buckle together. No matter how many times he rode in one, he would never get used to the touch-and-go ride of these little puddle jumpers. He sighed and for a moment his mind was pulled back to Brin and Savannah. It made his heart ache. He was anxious to get this flight under way. The sooner he got started on this mission, the sooner he could be on his way back to them. The longer he was away, the less precious time he’d be able to offer them. He knew he had to tell Brin everything, and the thought of it filled him with dread.
Alex closed his eyes and pictured his two girls curled up together on the big bed, and he fell asleep with that image filling his thoughts.
9
Brin awoke the next morning to Savannah’s sweet face. Somehow, she had crawled into bed with her mommy, laying her head on the pillow where Alex usually slept and staring at her mother until she woke up—another thing Alex did. Brin’s eyes snapped open and a small gasp escaped her lips. That first glimpse of Savannah’s eyes made her think, just for a second, that Alex had somehow returned to her. Stupid. He was never gone less than five days, and quite often it was several weeks or more.
“Good morning, baby.” She kissed the tip of the girl’s nose. “And what are you doing out of your bed?”
“I have to go potty.”
There was urgency in that last, a little fear, as well.
“Let’s go, then.”
Brin threw back the covers and grabbed the girl, hurrying down the hall toward the bathroom. No telling how long it had been since that urge first hit. No telling how long the girl could hold out. She tugged her daughter’s pants down and placed her gently on the potty seat, then turned to take care of her own needs. Before she could even get the lid up, the phone rang, echoing down the hall and making Brin’s head hurt a bit.
“Who the hell would call at this hour?” She glanced at the clock in the living room and realized that it was past nine.
“Hello?” she mumbled, the phone halfway to her ear.
“This is Woodard’s Pharmacy. We have a prescription ready for Alex Tempest.”
Brin spent a long moment furrowing her brow instead of speaking. “Uh, okay. I didn’t know he needed a prescription filled. As far as I was aware—never mind. I’ll be down in a few hours to pick it up for him, if that’s all right.”
“That’ll be fine, Mrs. Tempest. Thank you.”
“Goodbye.”
Down the hall, Savannah had sounded the “I’m done” alarm. Brin hurried down the hall to help her.
“You go sit in the living room. Mommy will be there in a minute to get your juice. I just have to go potty first.” She pecked the top of Savannah’s head and shooed her out the door.
Was Alex sick? She didn’t remember his mentioning anything about a doctor or medicine. She wasn’t even aware that he hadn’t been feeling well. Suddenly, she felt like the worst wife in the world.
Savannah’s juice chant made her finish in a hurry. The next hour would be filled with getting ready and feeding Savannah her breakfast. No time to wonder what, if anything, was wrong with Alex. Savannah was cute and sweet and it truly was a blessing to be her mom. At the moment, the girl was a godsend. If not for her daughter, Brin would just sit around and worry all weekend.
After they finished breakfast, cleaned up the kitchen and went through the complex rituals involved in dressing Savannah for the day, Brin threw on her own clothes and they piled into the SUV. She had the usual shopping to do for the week. But first she had to stop at the pharmacy.
When Alex and Brin had first moved to the neighborhood, Woodard’s Pharmacy was the only one for ten miles. There were several more now, of course. But they continued to use Woodard’s out of loyalty and comfort. There were things in that pharmacy that you couldn’t find anywhere else, like a dollar ice cream cone and a pharmacist who kept track of all your medicines and knew when not to give you one pill with another. They also sent cards on your birthday. That kind of dedication and caring just couldn’t be bought.
They were no sooner through the front door of Woodard’s than Savannah was running full-tilt toward the ice cream counter. They also had squished cheese sandwiches there, which made Savannah squeal with delight.
“Savannah, no, honey. We’ll have ice cream after I get Daddy’s medicine, okay?” The day was hot and the ice cream would taste so good, but first things first.
“Aaaawwww!” There was a tiny foot stamp to punctuate her disappointment, but no tantrum followed. Her terrible twos hadn’t been too terrible—so far. Brin took her daughter’s hand and led her to the prescription counter, where she was met by a young woman with a head full of thick red hair and the brightest green eyes Brin had ever seen. As many times as she’d been in the place, she’d never seen the girl before. For some reason the change in personnel felt like a betrayal.
“Hello, I’m Mrs. Tempest. You called earlier about my husband’s prescription?” She felt Savannah lean against her leg and knew that all was well.
“Please give me your husband’s full name and address.”
“Alex Tempest. One-thirty-four Brickle Lane.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Tempest.” The young lady sorted through the waiting prescriptions and pulled out the proper bag. She held the bag out to Brin with one hand and worked the cash register with the other. “That’ll be thirty-eight dollars, please.”
Brin swiped her debit card and keyed in her PIN number. Once the transaction had gone through, the young lady handed her the receipt with a smile. “Thank you for shopping at Woodard’s and come again.”
Brin turned and walked toward the ice cream counter, Savannah hurrying to run around her and get there first. Brin bought them each an ice cream—Brin’s in a cone, Savannah’s in a cup. Then they sat down in their favorite booth, right next to the candy counter, and dug in.
Brin took the amber pill bottle out of the bag and squinted at the label. Klonopin. It was used to treat seizures; that much she knew. What she didn’t know was why Alex would be taking it. The doctor’s name didn’t ring a bell, either. For as long as she had known him, Alex had never had a regular physician, nor had he gone to a doctor unless he was genuinely in pain. There was just that one time, when he had had pneumonia so bad that walking across the room brought on a five-minute coughing fit.
“Savannah, baby, you sit right here for a sec, okay? Mommy has to go back and talk to the medicine lady again.”
Brin slid out of the seat and hurried back to the prescription counter. “Excuse me,” she said to the young woman behind the counter. “I was wondering if you knew anything about the doctor who prescribed this?”
The woman took the bottle and read the label. “Just a moment, please.” She went back into the pharmacy and typed something into the computer, then returned with a piece of paper. “I’m afraid this is the only prescription we’ve ever filled for this particular doctor.”
“Well, what kind of doctor is he? I mean, is his office nearby?” Brin frowned and then bit into her lower lip.
“According to the physicians’ database, he’s a neurologist. Here. I’ve written down his address and phone number in case you need to contact him about your husband’s medication.”
Brin took the piece of paper and studied the address written on it. It was only a mile away from her lab, but she couldn’t picture the building it was in. “And you’re sure he’s a neurologist?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s what his license says.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Brin turned and walked slowly back to Savannah, the paper clutched in one hand and a dripping ice cream cone in the other. Savannah was coated in ice cream, and Brin took a moment to clean the girl’s face, still distracted by the medicine bag next to her on the seat. Why the hell was Alex seeing a neurologist? More importantly, why was he keeping it from her?
Whatever was going on, she was damned sure going to talk to this doctor first thing Monday morning. As soon as Alex came home, she was going to have a little chat with him, too.
10
Alex gritted his teeth as the small plane touched down at the airport in Beijing. Jin was a terrific pilot, but Alex’s legs ached all the way to the bone and his head had begun to throb. The flight had been uneventful and smooth, but he still longed to stretch his legs. There was simply no way to get comfortable in the small space of his seat.
Smaller aircraft landed in the back of the airport, where most of the freight lines came in. There was a customs office right there, and each plane was inspected before anyone or anything was released. Jin unbuckled and grabbed his clipboard. He stretched for a moment, and then opened the hatch.
“We must stay on board until the customs officer has signed off on the cargo.” Jin sat down at the edge of the gangway and let his legs swing.
“What about my bag?” Alex asked.
“They won’t look. They are only interested in inspecting the cargo. Your bag is in the middle of all those boxes. They will test a few boxes from the front, a few from the rear, and then they will sign off and move on. I have an excellent reputation.”
“How long does it usually take?” Alex stood and stretched a bit, then paced from side to side, trying to walk off the pain in his legs.
“Not so long. There are only a few planes here today.”
The gangway creaked and Alex’s eyes turned toward the hatch. A heavyset Chinese man stood in the doorway, a clipboard in one hand and his hat in the other. He and Jin exchanged words and clipboards and then the customs officer began slitting open boxes.
Once he had inspected four boxes, he paused at a fifth, going so far as to remove the back from the television, checking inside for something. He nodded, satisfied, and then wrote something on his clipboard. Alex stayed casual. Jin knew to expect this and how to handle it so there should be nothing to worry about.
More words were exchanged and Jin turned to Alex and said, “He needs to see your passport.”
“Oh! Sure!” Alex whipped out his passport and presented it to the officer. Of course, his real name wasn’t on the form. For this trip, he was Donald Vance, living in South Korea on a work and education visa.
The officer stamped the passport and handed it back to Alex. “Thank you, Mr. Vance,” he said in heavily accented English.
A small truck drove up and a large man jumped out, walking purposefully toward the plane. Jin stepped toward Alex, but kept his eyes on the new arrival. “We must be very cautious now,” he hissed. “Don’t do anything unless I tell you.”
He spoke rapidly to the customs inspector, but his voice only carried far enough for Alex to catch a couple of words. Alex eyed his bag in the middle of the larger boxes, knowing that it would take him precious time to get to it and make some use of it if the situation turned violent.
“That’s Yau Sin,” Jin whispered. “Chinese Mafia. They run the inspection ports. You can get most anything in or out if you pay their fee.”
Yau pulled a semiautomatic pistol from a holster beneath his suit and pointed it at the inspection officer, directing him toward one of the televisions.
“If you don’t pay their fee,” Jin added, his voice hushed, “then very bad things happen to you.”
The inspector walked over to the TV he’d examined. He nodded to the back and Yau looked inside. He looked back up and without another word shot the inspection officer point-blank in the chest.
He raised the pistol and pointed it toward Jin and Alex. Alex knew he could never reach a weapon in time. Yau walked closer and pushed the pistol into Jin’s side.
“Leave the box, get rid of the body,” he said in Mandarin.
Jin nodded his understanding, never saying a word.
Yau slipped the gun back into its holster, crossed over to his truck, got in and drove off of the tarmac.
Alex looked at Jin and said, “What the hell was that all about?”
“The inspector hasn’t been paying them their fees. Nothing crosses the border without their okay.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing,” Jin said. “As soon as the truck gets here, we will have to unload the televisions. You will go with the driver when we are done. He is your asset for this trip and he knows far more about the facility than I do.”
“Is that the truck we’re waiting for?”
Jin looked past Alex to the tarmac beyond. “That is the truck, yes. It will only take us a few moments to load the boxes. Then you can be off.” He nodded curtly and waved at the truck.
A man climbed out of the truck and met Alex and Jin at the bottom of the gangway, walking past the body with barely a glance. He shook Jin’s hand and smiled. “This is Donald Vance,” Jin said, stepping to the side. “He’ll be leaving with you when we’re done.”
“Pleased to meet you,” the man said, giving a slight bow at the waist. “I am called Liang.”
“Thank you for your help, Liang.” Alex sized the man up quickly. He was much larger than Jin and appeared to be only part Asian. He was well muscled and had an economy of motion that reminded Alex of Brin and the way she moved about the lab when she was working. There was something else in his movements, too. Liang moved like a trained martial artist, and Alex knew that he would be a dangerous man in a fight. And yet there was something in the man’s eyes that appeared gentle. His gaze made Alex trust him instantly.
True to his word, it didn’t take any longer than twenty minutes for the three of them to move the boxes into the large panel truck. Alex tossed his duffel bag into the truck and offered a handshake to Jin.
“Thanks for the ride, my friend. I’ll see you again soon, I hope.”
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Cliff Ryder
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Шпионские детективы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: When crisis looms and politics and red tape conspire against effective measures, the International Intelligence Agency plays its hidden hand. Now the spymasters of Room 59–dedicated, dangerous and willing to push the limit–get the green light to eradicate the threat.Room 59 agent Alex Tempest has a secret: a degenerative illness that may end his career as a field operative. But first he accepts one final mission. And…it′s personal. A research facility in China has built the ultimate biological weapon. Alex′s job: infiltrate and destroy. His wife works at the biotech company′s stateside lab, and Alex fears danger is poised to hit home. But when Alex is captured, his personal and professional worlds collide in a last, desperate gamble to stop ruthless masterminds from unleashing virulent, unstoppable death.