Adverse Effects

by Joel Shulkin

“But you said I was just a neuroscientist. I wasn’t a mercenary or a gang member. I should be fine, right?”

  For a long time, Kobayashi held her gaze. Finally, he stood and withdrew from his pocket a pill bottle. “I saved these to bargain for survival. Take them and return to your new life. Forget all this.”

  She stared at the green capsules inside the bottle. A craving worked its way from her inner core outward. It would be so easy to return to being Cristina Silva.

  Or she could create a new life here in Brazil. She could be anyone she wanted.

  But you won’t be you. The voice whispered from every corner of her brain. And you’re not me. Quinn took that from us. He won’t let you walk away.

  Ripping her gaze from the bottle, she glared at Kobayashi. It took every ounce of effort to speak. “I can’t walk away when others are in danger. What aren’t you telling me?”

  Kobayashi sucked his lower lip, seeming to be fighting an inner battle. At last, he said, “We’ve all done things we’d like to forget, yet they’re part of who we are. If you truly wish to find yourself, you may uncover things you won’t like, things you may even detest. Are you prepared for that?”

  Was she? Could anyone be? “I am.”

  Kobayashi drew in a deep breath and released it in a forceful sigh. He seemed about to speak and then stopped. He was staring at her chest. “What is that?”

  “What?” She looked down. The locket rested against her T-shirt. Instantly, she remembered what she’d found inside. “It contains formulas.”

  His eyes bulged. He backed away, waving his hands. “You gave that locket to someone to keep it out of Quinn’s hands. Quinn must know you have it now. We’re not safe. Quinn is—”

  The tiny window exploded. Kobayashi’s head jerked backward and bounced off the wall behind him. Before Cristina could scream, his lifeless body toppled toward her.

  Chapter Sixty

  Staring at Carl Franklin’s brain was bad enough, but Dr. Morgan’s revelation stirred up every urge in Detective Wilson’s gut to vomit. “You’re telling me Recognate can erase people’s minds and reprogram them as someone else?”

  “Not exactly.” Dr. Morgan stripped off his gloves and tossed them in a bin. “You’ve heard of stem cells?”

  “They use them to treat spinal cord injuries, right?”

  “Among other uses. Stem cells are precursors. With the right manipulation, they can become anything we want.”

  Wilson indicated Franklin’s new brain tissue. “Those are stem cells?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Recognate turned Mr. Franklin’s mind into a blank slate. If I’m right, someone then fed him new memories.”

  “Jesus, what kind of drug could do that?”

  Something chimed in the other room. Morgan jerked his head. “Looks like we’re about to find out.”

  They left the autopsy room. Morgan walked to the analyzer and pressed a button. A display screen lit up. Morgan studied it. His gaze narrowed. He mumbled to himself.

  “Something wrong?”

  Morgan pressed another button. The drawer slid back out. He plucked the capsule, opened it, and touched it to his tongue.

  “Are you crazy?” Wilson grabbed Morgan’s wrist. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Morgan snickered and offered the capsule. “It’s sugar.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a placebo. A fake pill. Researchers use them in studies to prove the effects of the test drug aren’t due to random chance.”

  “Cristina was prescribing Carl Franklin a fake drug?”

  “She may not have known. Often the researchers blind both the prescriber and the subject as to who gets the actual drug.”

  “But he must’ve gotten the real thing at some point, right? Sugar couldn’t do that to his brain.”

  “You’re correct. Someone switched the pills.” Morgan scratched his chin. “Cristina’s patients had barely detectable THC levels. They were probably taking placebo for at least a week. He was effectively going through withdrawal, causing his emotional instability. But it might also explain . . .”

  “Doctor?” Morgan’s look unsettled Wilson.

  Morgan suddenly dashed across the room and flipped through a box of glass slides. He chose one and placed it on a microscope, then fiddled with knobs.

  “Detective, come here.”

  When Wilson approached, Morgan stepped back.

  “Take a look.”

  Wilson peered through the viewfinder. A pink blob floated. “Help me out, Doc.”

  “Those are cells from Franklin’s hippocampus. The organized columns are the damaged tissue. The irregular tissue is new.”

  “Yeah, you said that.”

  “But what I missed was that the old tissue was undergoing active mitosis at the time of death.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The old tissue was growing back. Don’t you see?” Morgan’s eyes danced. “This explains the catecholamine surge, the psychosis, everything. They were regaining their real memories after they stopped taking the drug.”

  Before Wilson could reply, the wall behind them exploded.

  Kobayashi crumpled into Cristina’s arms. Bullets blazed across the floor. Riddled the researcher’s back. Cristina crouched, using his body as a shield. Drew her gun. Fired back.

  The bullets stopped. She shoved him aside. Rolled under the table. More gunfire. Bullets tore through the tabletop. Wood chips spattered. The shooting stopped again. Cristina panted. Checked her magazine.

  The door burst open.

  “Sabrina!” Maria shouted on entering.

  Another barrage of bullets slammed into the wall. Maria sidestepped. Fired at the window. Someone outside yelled. The gunfire ceased.

  More shouting. Maria fired at the window.

  “Wait,” Cristina said, holding up a finger. They listened.

  Sounds of fistfighting came from outside.

  “Come.” Maria pulled Cristina out from under the table.

  As they turned toward the door, Cristina spotted the pill bottle. Voices shouted in her head. Some said to grab it. Others warned her to forget it. The loudest won. She pocketed the bottle and followed Maria outside.

  In the hallway, the sounds of fighting grew louder. Luísa rushed toward them.

  “What have you done?” She pushed past them and peered inside Kobayashi’s room. She covered her mouth and crossed her chest. “Meu Deus.”

  “Luísa.” Cristina touched the woman’s shoulder.

  Luísa spun, eyes blazing.

  “We didn’t kill him.”

  “You may not have fired the bullet, but you led the wolves to our door. Now the Tropa do Elite will take away our babies.”

  Maria frowned. “You think this was the police?”

  “The officer attacking Eduardo and Tiago is not here to bring milk and cookies.”

  Cristina’s chest tightened. She couldn’t allow any more innocents to be harmed. “Get the children somewhere safe. Don’t come out until you’re sure it’s clear.”

  The corner of Luísa’s lip twisted. She withdrew a slim pistol from her jeans’ back pocket. “We take care of ourselves.”

  Respect bloomed in Cristina’s chest for this woman, who protected the children and even the man who endangered them in the first place.

  “Let’s go.” Maria pulled Cristina away. To Luísa, “Is there another exit?”

  “No.”

  “Then we must move quickly.” Maria cocked her handgun. “Don’t hesitate to fire. They won’t.”

  The women ducked into archways along the hall. Outside, the thudding and pounding intensified. A loud crack sounded, followed by a groan, an angry shout and an engine whine.

  When Cristina and Maria reached the entrance, they flattened themselves against the wall. Someone outside was c
rying.

  “Eduardo! Tá bem? ” Maria shouted.

  “Yes,” he said between sobs. “But Tiago—that bastard killed him.”

  Cristina’s heart pounded as she followed Maria outside, gripping her pistol. Eduardo knelt, cradling Tiago’s lifeless body. A bloody knife rested on the stoop.

  “It’s my fault.” Tears streamed down Eduardo’s face. “We heard gunfire. I wanted to protect the others.”

  “What were you thinking?” Maria asked. “Why would you fight a police officer?”

  “No officer fights like him.” Eduardo wiped snot from his nose. Blood streaked his cheek. “He was a wild animal. Tiago stabbed him in the shoulder. He pulled out the knife, killed Tiago, and escaped on a motorcycle.”

  “Tropa de Elite doesn’t send officers alone. He must have been bought.”

  “By a man named Quinn, I’m betting,” Cristina said. “Which way did this killer go?”

  Eduardo pointed up the hill.

  “Then there’s still time to catch him. He can tell us who Quinn is. Maria, how fast can the bike go?”

  “Fast enough.” Maria placed her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Eduardo.”

  Eduardo turned away and hugged Tiago.

  Maria snapped open the chain lock and hopped onto the motorcycle. Cristina jumped on behind her. Maria kick-started the Sherco and veered down the short driveway. Blood stained the ground ahead. Another blotch lay a few feet farther.

  “Follow the blood trail,” Cristina said.

  They rolled down the small dirt road. Maria gunned the engine. The Sherco rocketed forward. Cristina clung to her sister and shut her eyes. A moment later, she forced them open. Cristina could no longer afford fear. She and Maria needed to work together to find the killer and get answers.

  They zigzagged up the hill, dodging motorcycle taxis and potholes. The engine whined.

  “We’re near the mountaintop,” Maria shouted over the wind. “Hold on.”

  A crosswind whipped against them. Cristina tightened her grip around Maria’s waist. They shot forward and skidded around a torn-up stretch of road, then came to a hard stop.

  Several feet ahead, a stone barrier blocked their way. A red Yamaha cycle lay beside it, front wheel rotating. Footprints trailed through the dirt behind a crumbling brick house into the trees.

  Maria shut off the engine. Both women dismounted and readied their handguns.

  “This used to be a Barracudas hideout,” Maria whispered as they tracked the footprints around the side of the house. “A checkpoint to invade Comando Novo territory.” She held up her hand. Cristina stayed still. Maria crouched and touched a patch of grass. She lifted her index finger, revealing a red stain. “It’s fresh.”

  The hairs on Cristina’s neck pricked. Kobayashi’s killer couldn’t be far.

  They continued behind the house. Maria searched side to side. Again, she halted.

  “I saw movement . . . up there.” She aimed at the highest window.

  Cristina’s heart pounded.

  After two seconds, Maria relaxed and stood. “It must have been a reflection. We’ll need to move quickly to catch up—”

  Gunshots echoed in the woods.

  “Move!” Maria dived at Cristina and dragged her down.

  Bullets tore up the ground. Dirt scattered over them.

  The gunfire stopped. Someone cursed.

  Cristina spotted someone in a black military uniform and face mask struggling with a submachine pistol. One arm hung by his waist. His gaze met Cristina’s.

  Recognition jolted Cristina. She’d seen those eyes before—her kidnapper in Washington! And something else was familiar.

  The assassin turned and ran into the woods.

  “He’s getting away.” Cristina leaped to her feet. “We need to go.”

  “Not we,” Maria said through gritted teeth.

  Cristina’s gut knotted. Blood streamed from a hole in Maria’s jeans below the knee.

  Maria forced a smile. “It’s not that bad.”

  “It’s bad.” Cristina knelt beside her and covered the wound. “You need a hospital.”

  “No time.” Maria shrugged off her shirt. Ripped it in half. “Tie it off. Quickly.”

  Cristina lashed the fabric around Maria’s femur and tied it.

  Maria blotted the other half of her shirt against the wound. She hugged her pistol. “I’ll be fine. Don’t let him escape. You need your answers. Go!”

  Heart pounding, Cristina raced through the woods. Adrenaline surged. Her body shifted into cruise control. She dodged tree stumps and rocks. Euphoria washed over her. It felt good to let her body do all the work.

  That’s right. Let go of the wheel. Take a break.

  If I do, what happens to me?

  The same thing that happened to me. You’ll be here, buried away at peace. Doesn’t that sound nice?

  It did. So many people had died because of her. It would be a relief to not be responsible anymore.

  A tree branch slammed into Cristina’s chest.

  She fell to the ground. Her elbow crashed against a rock. Pain shot up her arm. The gun slipped from her fingers, bounced away.

  The assassin loomed over her. He tossed aside the branch and reached for a knife on his belt.

  Don’t think. Act.

  Cristina flung a handful of dirt at his eyes. He raised his arm. She somersaulted toward him. Twisted. Kicked him in the chest. He staggered backward.

  She swung at his jaw. He grabbed her arm. Rammed his knee into her side. Shoved her back. Charged. Slapped her face.

  She blocked high. He chopped at her stomach. She covered her abdomen. He punched her jaw.

  Pain blinded her. He was too big. Too fast.

  What do you do against a bigger opponent?

  Cristina was startled. It was a different voice. Her best friend’s.

  She knew the answer: Make yourself smaller to draw him in.

  The assailant coiled to strike. Cristina curled into a ball.

  He hesitated, then lunged. At the last second, she rolled backward. Kicked him in the face. He staggered. She grabbed a pointy rock. Sprang forward. Jammed the rock into his wounded right arm.

  The assailant shrieked. Cristina froze. Her attacker was a woman.

  An elbow rammed into Cristina’s nose. She stumbled. The assassin tackled her. Clawed at her eyes. Cristina swatted the hand away, then jabbed her finger into the assailant’s knife wound. The assassin screamed again. Cristina flung her to the ground. Straddled her chest. Wrapped her hands around the opponent’s neck and squeezed.

  “You . . . were paying attention,” the assassin said. “Good for you, mami.”

  Whatever remained of Cristina’s world collapsed. Please, no.

  Cristina loosened her grip on the assassin’s neck. She pinched one corner of the black face mask and lifted. Auburn curls spilled out and fanned the ground like a halo. The blood drained from Cristina’s face. She stared into the eyes of the one person she trusted most.

  “Andrea,” she whispered. A mix of anger and confusion made it almost impossible to speak. “Why did you do this?”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  “You should’ve let it go, Cristina,” Andrea said between ragged coughs. She wriggled against Cristina’s weight. “At least, let me go.”

  “Shut up. Don’t talk unless I tell you to talk.” Even as Cristina pinned her to the ground, she tried to convince herself this wasn’t Andrea. Not her best friend. Not the woman who shared all her secrets. Andrea had never lied to her. This had to be another hallucination.

  “Didn’t think you’d fight dirty.” Andrea sniggered. “You’d never beat me in a fair fight.”

  Cristina slapped Andrea’s face. She stopped herself from doing it again. Every strike made it more real. She lowered her h
and. “You used me.”

  Andrea turned her head and spat blood. “Don’t take it personally.”

  “You pretend to be my best friend, try and kill me in DC, follow me to Brazil—again to kill me—and I’m not supposed to take it personally?”

  “I wasn’t sent to kill you. Okay, I was sent to kill you in DC—but that was before Quinn convinced me that was a bad idea.”

  “What are you talking about? Don’t you work for Quinn?”

  “No, I work with Quinn,” Andrea said. “I planned to take that locket of yours and kill you, but Quinn wanted you alive. I thought he was making a mistake, acting out of some kind of chauvinistic chivalry, but then he told me why he wanted you kept alive at all costs.”

  “And why is that? To get the secret formula?”

  Andrea managed a slight shrug.

  “Well, he’s not getting it. If he comes after me again, I’ll . . .” She searched for a threat that would hold any weight. “I’ll kill myself. The secret will die with me.”

  Andrea laughed. “Forget who you’re talking to? You’re a survivor like me, girlfriend.”

  “Don’t call me girlfriend.”

  “Fair enough. But you haven’t taken Recognate consistently in—what, a week or two, now? Soon you’ll remember your old self, and then you’ll run back to your old boss and beg him to take you back under his wing.”

  Ice formed in Cristina’s blood. “Old boss?”

  Andrea laughed. “You’ve always been working for Quinn. You’re only in Rio because he wanted you here.”

  “That’s a lie. I’m no puppet.”

  “Oh, you think you can cut your strings and become a real girl? Who do you think trained you, made you who you are? No one disobeys Zero Dark and lives.”

  Ghosts of Carl Franklin and Jerry Peterman drifted between the trees. “Jerry and Carl were compromised,” Cristina said. “Quinn made them Recognate subjects to hide them from the CIA so, even if they were caught, they couldn’t reveal his identity.”

  A sarcastic smile twisted Andrea’s lip. “You always were the smart one.”

  Cristina wanted to wring Andrea’s neck. Instead, she studied the face of the woman who had pretended to be her friend. Whatever Cristina had once loved about her was gone.