by Leigh Tudor
Readjusting the strap over her shoulder with resolve, she continued, “Well then, when you see her, tell her to call me right away, as she’s not been responding to any of my messages.”
Alec and Madame G stared at one another.
“Her phone died,” Alec explained. “I ran over it with the Rover by mistake. She’s been using my phone until she can get hers fixed.”
“It’s a burner phone,” the woman said, her eyes turning squinty. “Why wouldn’t she just buy another one?”
“Night goggles and a new burner phone were both on her list of things to do.”
Remaining stoic with an air of calculated temperance, she continued to glare at Alec while pulling her burner phone back out of her purse.
“Let us share numbers, shall we? That is, if we are to communicate with one another.”
Trevor memorized her number in his head as she recited it to Alec, who was entering the number into his phone. Alec sent her a message, which seemed to appease her.
Before walking out the door, she turned to Trevor, and his back straightened. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Master Forrest. Please see to it that you keep in touch.”
Trevor nodded at the order placed under the guise of a grandmotherly suggestion.
Madame G was his superior in every sense of the word. She was his superior in terms of skill and knowledge, and an unparalleled legend within the Bureau.
Knowing she was there and had his back, presumably going against Bureau instructions as well, gave him a newfound sense of hope.
Loren’s stomach seized, and she had to look away from the contents of the box.
Jasper turned to vomit in the trash next to Loren’s desk.
It wasn’t what you saw inside that made your stomach hurl and convulse. It was the ungodly stench.
The box held a man’s severed head with the eyes gouged out. Inside was a note to the esteemed Dr. Jasper Bancroft that read, you are next unless you deliver.
The box was hand-delivered to the guard manning the security gate. The guard was a young kid, new to the profession. Probably just out of high school, thinking it would be cool to work for a low-budget security company that required they carry a gun on their hip despite receiving little to no training on how to properly use it.
From what Loren could tell, the so-called security company had sent what appeared to be armed adolescents who had spent their high school careers living in their parents' basement, eating mom’s meatloaf and playing too many graphically violent video games.
The stench of rotten flesh alone had the newbie guard doubled over and practically throwing the box onto Loren’s desk. And then made it just in time to blow chunks in the hallway.
Loren held her breath as she closed the lid to the box while Jasper took his turn puking in the trash can again.
Loren held the note up, reading the scrawled message a second time. “What does it mean by, ‘unless you deliver’?”
Jasper pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his white coat, his hands trembling as he covered his nose. “I don’t know.”
“Jasper, so help me God, you have got to tell me everything.”
He looked up and then just as quickly glanced away. “I did tell you everything. We were assigned a strip of highway to guard. Someone on our team double-crossed us, and we were ambushed. Amado blames me for losing all the narco trucks and ten of his men. We managed to escape Mexico before getting tagged by Amado and his men. But he’s sent a number of body parts to let me know he’s coming.”
“This isn’t the first?”
“No, I’ve also received a hand and . . . a severed penis.”
“Hmm, how prophetic,” Loren said. “He’s showing you which body parts he’ll cut off in chronological order.”
He glared at her, but her level of sympathy was near to nonexistent. He had Vlad killed, and for that, she could barely muster a pat on the shoulder as he was without a doubt a short-timer, and no one deserved it more.
Remaining impassive, she crossed her arms. “What are you supposed to deliver?”
“I don’t know.”
Loren picked up the phone sitting on an old mahogany particle board desk the office staff found in storage.
“Hello, Louise?” she said. “Could you please instruct the gate guard to return to my office?”
The new hire walked back into the office as if her shag carpet were the last green mile and eyeing the box on the desk as if it were full of explosives.
Loren doubted that any of his video games prepared him for transporting dead body parts.
“What’s your name?” She’d need to know that for drawing up his termination papers.
“Carl.” He remained in the middle of the room. “Carl Randolph.”
“Carl,” she said with waning patience. “Who delivered this box to the gate?”
“I . . . don’t know.” He shrugged. “Some kid. Maybe ten or eleven years old.”
“You didn’t get his name or contact information?”
He looked at her as if this was a strange question. “No, ma’am.”
Loren turned to give Jasper a condescending look. “Do we not keep track of the comings and goings of individuals anymore?”
Jasper’s expression was that of a defensive preschooler. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s hard to hire good people when you have no revenue coming in to speak of.”
“What about the grants and research funding, Jasper?”
“They’re maxed out. I’m not an idiot.”
“Debatable,” she murmured. Turning back to the infantile guard, she nodded toward the box. “Bury this in the woods and make sure no one sees you.”
The guard hesitated and then trudged toward the desk, picked up the box, and held it out in front of him, gagging on his way out.
Jasper wiped his brow. “Who sends a ten-year-old to deliver a severed head?”
“A cartel drug lord,” Loren responded, pacing and rubbing the back of her neck to release some of the irritation her shoulders were holding like metal pincers. “It’s called narco-culture. They recruit kids who post their killings all over Facebook. The bloodier they are, the more ‘likes’ they get. Mexican kids choose their favorite cartel as if they were a sports team. They can even get their favorite drug cartel logo monogrammed on a duffel bag.”
Loren stopped pacing and turned to face Jasper. “We need legitimate security. I need the name of the company Halstead contracted.”
Jasper shook his head. “They won’t work for the Center. We owe them too much money.”
“How much?”
“Several months’ worth of contracted payments, five to six hundred thousand maybe.”
“Where did the money go?”
Jasper didn’t respond, just kept pulling at his handkerchief.
“You had over three hundred million in offshore accounts, Jasper.”
“I made a few poor investments.”
“Doing what? Day trading?”
“I sent the money to Amado.”
“All of it?”
He nodded.
“And he wants more?”
“Apparently.”
“I need to see the books, the ones you show to the investment community and the ones that are cooked.”
Jasper hesitated as if it was pointless. “Maybe we could work some drug deals for Amado. Negotiate a few pickups and drop-offs that would appease him.”
“He is never going to be appeased, Jasper. Don’t you get it? You are the golden goose, and he’s coming for your eggs until they’re all gone, and you’re no longer shooting them out of your ass.”
Jasper chuckled with a grimace. “I think we’re already there.”
“Set up a date and time for us to meet with him.”
“No one asks to meet with Amado. You want me to arrange our funerals while I’m at it?”
Loren took a deep breath, rubbing her temples. “First and foremost, he’s a businessman. If we can negotiate a deal, then you sta
nd a chance of living to see another day.”
“We?” Jasper said. “You mean we stand a chance.”
Loren chuckled. “Nope, this one is on you. I have no intention of dying because of your incompetence.”
Jasper pulled his phone from the pocket, eyeing her with nothing less than pure contempt. He pressed a contact number and waited. “Rudy?” He paused for confirmation. “I need to speak with Amado.”
He waited, and Loren wished she had asked him to put it on speaker.
“Yes, tell him I received his latest message, which is why I’m calling. Tell him it’s time we meet to discuss his latest request.”
Loren watched Jasper, though he refused to make eye contact with her.
“He’s on his way?” Jasper asked with raised eyebrows, looking at Loren as if he were about to soil his trousers.
Whatever Rudy said caused the blood to drain from Jasper’s already pasty skin. He began rubbing his forehead as Rudy continued to talk.
“When?” Jasper asked as the voice on the other end grew louder, but Loren couldn’t understand what he was saying.
Jasper pressed end on his phone and stared at it as if he were in a daze.
“He’s on his way to the Center.”
“When is he expected to arrive?”
“He wouldn’t say. Just that when he gets here, we had better have something for him.”
“Everything’s gone?”
“Let me put it this way, I’m not sure I can pay the office staff this week.”
She checked the time on her phone. It was late in the afternoon, so there wasn’t enough time. She could get the staff out the door but not move all the patients. She wasn’t even sure there were any.
Not to mention she had her own phone calls to make.
“Outside of office staff and a few contracted security guards, who else do we need to evacuate?”
“Why must we evacuate?”
Jasper Bancroft was nothing if not a self-serving narcissistic asshole.
Loren spoke slowly. “We have the leader of one of the most brutal drug cartels in the world coming to make a personal visit to the Center. Don’t you think we need to evacuate to protect innocent people?”
Jasper shook his head. “There’s no one here, except for Mara, I mean . . . Mercy.”
“No patients?” Loren said, confused. “What about the other annexes and all of the research work being done here?”
“Everyone is gone because I couldn’t afford to continue the research.”
“Omigod, I left you a thriving organization worth hundreds of millions of dollars, and you’re telling me you managed to turn it into a ghost town in less than twelve months?”
A knock on the door made Jasper flinch. The door opened, and Dr. Vielle entered with a folder in his hands, giving Jasper an aloof nod and giving Loren an arrogant one. “MRI results are in.”
“Jasper, give us a few minutes.”
“Are you kidding me?” He stood looking at her as if what could be more pressing than their current situation, and she waved him out.
“I’ll find you in a few minutes. In the meantime, send me the financials.”
Jasper, who looked on the verge of a breakdown, walked out of her office, looking down at his phone and making another call.
Closing the door behind him, Loren turned her attention to Dr. Vielle. He walked over to her desk and placed the MRI printouts down alongside a file folder.
He pointed toward a small cloudy area on the print.
“Here is the lesion or tumor. It has grown, which is a positive, as it will be easier to surgically remediate.”
“And if we do nothing?” she asked, staring at the picture of her sister's brain.
“It will undoubtedly hemorrhage.”
“Timeline?”
“Based on the growth rate, three to six months at most.”
Her heart sank. So little time. But then again, maybe just in time?
“Thank you, Dr. Vielle. You may go.”
Little did he know how close she was to choking him out and leaving yet another mess for someone to clean in her office.
He hesitated. “Shall I prepare the operating room?”
She refused to look up, afraid of what she would do to this man who was directly responsible for her sister’s condition but appeared clueless to the fact.
Waving her hand, she said, “Not yet. I want to read through her file.” She opened the manila folder and leaned her head into her hands as she began to read. And then something caught her eye.
“Wait,” she said, just as he reached the door. She lifted a stapled document for better viewing. “This says a tubal ligation was performed.” She looked at the date on the document and back up at Dr. Vielle. “When she went under for her initial surgery.”
For the first time, Dr. Vielle appeared unsettled. “Yes, Dr. Halstead ordered the procedure be done during the neurological surgeries. He said it was one less thing to worry about.”
She blinked as her heart pounded and the blood rushed through her veins. Despite efforts to remain calm, a guise that was fading fast, her voice grew harsh and loud.
“Are you telling me that Cara . . . Charlotte receive the same procedure?”
“That is correct.” He amended, “Under Halstead’s orders.”
She stood, shoving the document toward him.
“They weren’t even fourteen years old when they went under the knife. Are you telling me that you knowingly removed them of any possibility of bearing children?”
He moved his formidable weight from one leg to another.
“It’s not an uncommon practice when working with those diagnosed with severe psychotic tendencies.”
No remorse. Just a tedious explanation.
She rounded her desk, hissing through her teeth, “But she wasn’t severely psychotic. And. You. Knew. That.”
“I knew no such thing.” He straightened his spine as if he had one.
Oh, how badly she wanted to wring the lifeblood from this sorry excuse of a human being.
But it all had to be above board and by the book. She had to find the restraint to allow him to receive his just rewards another way.
Just like Jasper.
But she was losing patience and focus.
Mercy sat on the same bed where she spent the greater part of her adolescence. Pleasantly surprised to find her secret hiding place was still under her sink, carved out of the back wall of sheetrock by Loren when they first arrived at the Center.
When she pulled out the contents, her heart seized at finding a small monitor and DVD player Loren had snagged in a back alley in Hong Kong along with some pirated movies with Cantonese and Mandarin subtitles. She even found her favorite stress ball to throw at the ceiling to help her think.
It was past five o’clock, and she was waiting for the majority of the staffers to go home for the day so she could make her way around the compound unobstructed.
To say she was stunned earlier as Louise easily navigated the labyrinth of corridors without having to place a single digit onto a biometric device was an understatement.
And the thought of freely meandering the halls was nothing short of exhilarating.
She decided to wait until later in the day to investigate, just in case there was some level of security lurking around a corner.
Throwing the ball into the air and catching it, she thought about her pending MRI results. The images were taken over an hour ago, and the evil Dr. Vile seemed disinclined to share the results.
Fucker.
Finding herself back inside one of Vile’s examination rooms nearly brought on an anxiety attack of apocalyptic proportions. She managed to calm herself using a breathing technique she learned while training for long-range shooting.
The results must not be good.
Her migraines were coming more often, making her dizzy and disoriented. She could always tell when they were about to hit, her face would tingle, and her fingers would feel as tho
ugh she had slept on them wrong and cut off the blood flow. They would last anywhere from two to twenty-four hours. Over the years, she had become a master at hiding her episodes from others.
For the past few months, she’d had Vlad provide the injections that helped her to sleep through the migraines and even manage to work on her art without the fear of excruciating pain.
It had been a week since her last migraine, and she prayed she could stave off the next one until she returned to Wilder and could hole up in her room, pretending to be heavy into her artwork.
Playing the waiting game on the MRI results was driving her batshit crazy.
Who was going to be the one to break the news? The psycho-surgeon who apparently had issues with hand-to-eye coordination? Or her dear sister, who was lying with ninja-level acuity and taking on some undercover operation that could only end similar to book one of the Hunger Games trilogy?
Or was that book two?
Maybe it was better not to know?
For a while anyway.
She threw the ball up until it barely touched the ceiling and then caught it again. The clock on her digital monitor indicated that it was go time.
Standing in front of the pneumatic door, she pressed the button, and it opened with a faint swishing sound. Slowly, she made her way toward the side of the compound she was most familiar with, making a mental note as to where she was compared to recent memory. She moved deeper into the facility, going the opposite direction from Loren and Jasper’s offices, and farther into the maze of corridors.
She looked to the right to find the doors leading to the courtyard where she and Loren were trained by Israeli combat asshats and got the shit beat out of them more often than not.
The next door was the small clinic where the soulless PAs, who ghosted medical training on the day they covered the Hippocratic oath and operated under ironclad NDAs, would patch them back up without speaking to them or voicing any concerns.
Moving farther down the hallway, she came to the doorway leading into the gym. She looked through the rectangular door window to see where she and Loren used to work their muscles and did their best to let off steam by racing side by side on treadmills.
