Adverse Effects

by Joel Shulkin

  A glint of metal caught Cristina’s eye. Her gun was only a few feet away, nestled in a bed of leaves. It would be so easy to blow that backstabbing smirk off Andrea’s face.

  As if reading Cristina’s mind, the hard edges around Andrea’s eyes softened. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I did see you as my friend. I never wanted to hurt you.”

  For a moment, Cristina glimpsed the friend she’d known for three years. Whatever Andrea had done, she wasn’t the one pulling the strings. Slowly, Cristina released Andrea’s shoulders and sat back. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

  “First, you release me, and then we return to Quinn together. You give him what he wants, he lets you go back to whatever life you choose. Then he and I get rich and buy an island somewhere, and everyone lives happily ever after.”

  Cristina’s gut twisted another turn. “You and Quinn?”

  “I’m still pissed at him for shooting at me in DC, but we’ve come to an understanding.” Andrea shrugged. “Hey, you know I like ’em wild.”

  “I don’t know anything about you, and I’m not going back to Quinn.” Cristina stood and held out her hand. Andrea eyed it without moving. Cristina offered it again. “I’m letting you limp back to your master. Tell him to stay away from me and anyone I care about. If I see your face again, I’m putting a bullet through it. Clear?”

  “As clear as the sparkling water in a mojito.” She grabbed Cristina’s hand and pulled herself up. After brushing off her pants, she limped away three steps and then stopped. “You’re a good person, Cristina.”

  Cristina could feel her heart breaking. She turned away. “Go before I change my mind.”

  Anger and hurt boiled in Cristina’s chest as Andrea shuffled through dirt and dried leaves. Cristina looked down at her hands. Only a minute ago they were throttling the neck of a woman she once loved and now never wanted to see again. If Andrea was right, and she had worked for Quinn, what horrible things might those hands have done?

  “Oh, Cristina, one more thing—”

  “Andrea, get the hell out—”

  The knife zinged through the air and buried itself in Cristina’s shoulder. She stared at it, dumbfounded as blood trickled down her shirt. Ten feet away, Andrea leaned against a tree. A smile played at her lips as she pulled a second knife out of her belt and waved it by the tip.

  “Quinn convinced me not to kill you,” Andrea said with a wicked gleam in her eye. “He didn’t say you needed all your limbs.”

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  “Don’t do this, Andrea,” Cristina said, trying to keep her voice steady, ignoring the throbbing pain where the knife protruded from her shoulder.

  “You’re giving orders now?” Andrea flipped the knife around in her hand. “I’m done with orders. Do you know how painful it was to listen to your endless whining about how much you remembered? The whole time I wanted to rip off your goddamned lips.”

  Keep her talking. Try to get the weapon.

  Cristina fought the urge to look at the gun. She figured she could grab it with one strong leap. “What did I do to you?”

  “Quinn’s obsessed. We could’ve ended this weeks ago if he hadn’t interfered, all to keep you alive.”

  “Because I know how to fix the drug so his mercenaries don’t go crazy when they stop taking it?”

  “Is that what you think?” Andrea laughed. “You’re dumber than I thought. Quinn ordered them dead.”

  “Why?” She coiled, ready to spring.

  “He said it was an experiment gone wrong—case closed. Move toward that gun and you’re dead.”

  Cristina froze. Something scurried up the nearby tree.

  Andrea grazed the knife blade across her lips. “I think he just wants to tie up loose ends. Like he’s doing now with the medical examiner.”

  The muscles in Cristina’s neck tightened. “Luke Morgan?”

  “Poor Cristina. You’re losing all your friends.” Andrea raised the knife over her head. “Better to cut ties now, starting with that pretty little nose they gave you.”

  Gunfire sounded. Birds squawked as they flew away.

  Andrea’s body shook. A slug tore through her neck. Blood spattered her black vest. The knife slipped from her hands. She toppled to the ground.

  Cristina jumped, as if the bullets had struck her. She stared at Andrea’s body, unable to move. She wanted and didn’t want to rush over to help her former best friend. She couldn’t seem to summon any reaction at all.

  Three young men wearing bandanas over their faces stepped forward, bearing AK-47s. One approached Andrea’s twitching body. He studied it, then spat and turned to Cristina.

  “Please, don’t kill me,” she said, hands raised.

  He scanned her up and down and then jerked his head.

  Another teenage boy ran to her. He inspected her knife wound and said in Portuguese, “It’s not deep, but it will hurt.”

  He yanked the knife. It slid out of her shoulder. Cristina screamed.

  The boy slapped a rolled-up shirt over the wound and indicated for her to apply pressure before bringing the knife to his leader.

  “When Eduardo called, we thought Tiago’s murderer was long gone,” the leader said. He inspected the knife and tucked it into his belt. “But Filipe saw everything from the Barracudas den. He told us where to find you.”

  Try as she might, Cristina couldn’t summon the slightest grief as she stared at Andrea’s lifeless body. Instead she spoke to the gang leader in Portuguese. “You’re Comando Novo?”

  “Next generation. The government wants to control the favelas, but we are the favelas. Until they eliminate corruption and poverty, they’ll never eliminate us.” He held out his hand. “Will you help us?”

  “I want to get home and . . . Dr. Morgan!” She fumbled in her pockets until she found Mitchell’s satellite phone. “I need to warn him.”

  Cristina dialed the number from memory. The phone rang once and then she heard, “We’re sorry, but the number you dialed is not in service. Please check—”

  Cristina disconnected. Her cheeks went numb with fear for Morgan. She realized the boys were watching her. “Go help my sister Maria. She needs medical attention.”

  The gang members exchanged glances. Two trotted back downhill. The leader remained behind, checking his rifle. Cristina ignored him, wincing from the pain in her shoulder as she pressed the balled-up cloth against it and thought of her next plan. She could call Wilson. But could he get to Morgan in time?

  Something underneath Andrea vibrated. Cristina started forward, but the gang leader stopped her. He used his rifle to turn over her body. They spotted a phone on her belt.

  Cristina pushed him aside and snatched the phone. No identification showed on the display. Clenching her jaw, she hit Answer.

  For thirty seconds, she heard silence. At last, she said, “Who is this?”

  “Ah, Cristina. Nice . . . your voice. We are overdue . . . chat.”

  Cristina’s blood froze. The phone had a weak signal, the voice fuzzy and broken by static, but familiarity glimmered in the shadowy recesses of her mind. It could be only one person. “Quinn.”

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  “Is Luke Morgan alright?” Cristina’s upper back wound tight with the knowledge there wasn’t anything she could do from Brazil to help. The movement sent another pained twinge through her shoulder. “If you hurt him—”

  “I’m afraid . . . dead . . .” Static hissed. “ . . . your detective friend.”

  Cristina reeled, as if a cannonball had slammed into her chest. The gang leader caught her, but she shrugged him off. It took another second for her to speak. “You’re lying. You must be lying.”

  “Don’t believe me? Call . . . I’ll wait.”

  A warm breeze blew, but Cristina’s bones chilled.

  The gang leader coc
ked his head. She held up her index finger and mouthed, Wait.

  Her hands seemed to be encased in ice as she fumbled for the satellite phone and dialed Wilson’s number. Shrill chirps sounded in her ear, each unanswered ring jabbing like a knife. Her hand trembled.

  Click. “Who is this?”

  “Cristina Silva. Who is this?”

  “Detective Hawkins. Where the hell are you?”

  “Never mind that. Where’s Wilson?”

  He paused. “I don’t know. There was an incident at the morgue. Someone blew it up. Killed Dr. Morgan. I found Wilson’s phone, but we haven’t found him. He could be anywhere under this rubble.”

  Cristina covered her mouth. Her throat constricted so she couldn’t speak.

  “Tell me where you are, and I’ll help you,” said Officer Hawkins.

  It took several tries before she could say, “You can’t help me.”

  Cristina hung up. Stared at Andrea’s phone. The display indicated Quinn was still online.

  Heat flushed through her veins. She put the other phone to her ear. “You son of a bitch.”

  “Now, my turn. Where’s Andrea?”

  Swallowing hard, Cristina said, “Dead.”

  Two heartbeats of silence followed. “That’s unexpected but . . . fortunate. Every vestige . . . life as Cristina Silva is gone . . . have no choice . . . return to me.”

  “The only way I’ll return to you is to see you dead.”

  “Ah, there’s the firebrand . . . .Without me . . . Recognate, you’re doomed to madness.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Oh, Cristina, don’t . . . foolish. Why waste two lives?”

  He’s right. You’re losing it. At least one of us can survive.

  Cristina withdrew Kobayashi’s bottle from her pocket. She squinted at the green capsules. If she took them all, could she start fresh? Maybe this time would be better. Maybe she wouldn’t be so driven to remember. Maybe . . .

  “You’re considering, aren’t you?” Quinn’s voice dripped with self-congratulation. “Go back . . . ReMind. Give . . . the answer. Then, I . . . help you reclaim . . . life you lost.”

  Reclaim the life you lost . . .

  Cristina’s throat constricted. She couldn’t breathe.

  Another man had used that exact phrase before. In the same tone of voice. In fact, the same voice.

  The shadow man materialized before her, clutching a rifle, barking orders. Only now the shadows dissipated, revealing a strong brow, penetrating blue eyes, and deeply fissured cheeks.

  Mitchell.

  Staggering, numb, she stared at the satellite phone. How else could Andrea find her so easily? How could Mitchell have known where she’d be in Washington? Who had convinced her from the start she was Cristina Silva, all the while knowing she wasn’t?

  A scream formed in the pit of Cristina’s stomach. She tamped it down. She had to stay in control. Couldn’t let him know she knew.

  “Cristina? What . . . you say?”

  Images flitted through her mind. Wilson. Morgan. Jorge Silva. Maria. Her real mother.

  Tightening her fist around the bottle, she said into the phone, “I’ll go to ReMind. But then I want to meet you. Face to face.”

  “Of course. It’s . . . long time. I can’t wait.”

  She disconnected the call. “I can’t wait to see you in hell.”

  Cristina’s hands shook. Her legs buckled, and she fell to her knees.

  The gang leader rushed to her. She shoved him away.

  Tears trickled, then streamed down her cheeks. A bubble grew in her chest, crushing her heart, until it burst at last. She cried for Wilson and Morgan. She cried for Carl and Jerry. She cried for Andrea. Most of all, she cried for Cristina Silva, the poor woman whose life she’d inadvertently stolen.

  When she had no tears left, she sat back on her heels and took slow deep breaths. Her body felt stronger, her head clearer. She saw now that every choice she’d made since Sebastian dos Santos entered her life had led her to this decision.

  She looked at the gang leader. “I’ll help you—by destroying the man who did this to you. To us.”

  The mingled odors of blood, gun smoke, and formaldehyde stung Francisco Martins’s nostrils as he knelt behind a dumpster near the hole in the outer wall. Yellow crime scene tape surrounded the area. A conspicuous trio held his attention: two men and a woman. They were picking their way through the debris.

  When the morgue exploded, he’d been a block away, on his way back to the shelter. So far no one had spotted him. He adjusted his earpiece. He was lucky enough to be in range of the bug he’d hidden inside the burner phone he gave Detective Wilson, so he could overhear everything, including the white-haired cop’s phone conversation with Cristina.

  “Agents?” A uniformed officer held out a baggie containing a green capsule. “We found this under the analysis machine. It looks like someone ground another into dust.”

  The taller man studied the baggie. He scowled. “Detective Hawkins, how the hell did the medical examiner get a hold of this?”

  “What?” asked the white-haired cop. “You know what that is?”

  “Yeah, but it’s top secret.” To the woman, “We need to get going.”

  “Going where?” asked the white-haired cop.

  “Washington.” The taller man held up the baggie. “To deal with this.”

  “If you know where they make that, I’m coming with you.”

  “This is Bureau business and doesn’t involve you, Detective.” The blond man’s face reddened. “If you want to help, tell the reporters outside a gas line exploded.”

  He and the woman marched away.

  On a hunch, Martins withdrew the black device and activated it. As he expected, a blinking red light indicated a position directly inside the lab. He flipped a switch. A green light appeared, moving south. He turned on his phone and dialed.

  The detective on scene jumped. He checked his pockets and pulled out a black burner phone. He answered and said, “Who is this?”

  “Detective, this is Francisco Martins.”

  “Martins? Where the hell’s my partner?”

  “I know how to find Detective Wilson. He’s alive.” Martins watched the blinking light drifting offscreen. “But we must move quickly before that’s no longer the case.”

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  When Detective Gary Wilson opened his eyes, he saw nothing but darkness. He couldn’t tell up from down. Sharp pain bit at the base of his neck. He tried to sit up. His head banged something hard. He went to rub his head. His hands were bound behind his back. He wriggled his feet. Tied, also.

  He managed to run his fingers over what felt like zipties binding his ankles. Metal scraped his wrists—handcuffs. He knew a few escape tricks, but the confined space meant it would take a while.

  Something moved beneath him. He held still. Vibration. Subtle shifts in inertia. He was locked in the trunk of a motor vehicle.

  He had no idea why he was still alive. But he wasn’t going to wait to find out.

  Gritting his teeth, Wilson pulled his knees to his chest and groped for his shoelaces.

  As they raced down I-95 in a beat-up Crown Vic, headlights illuminating a small chunk of the dark highway, Francisco Martins hunched over in the passenger seat, studying the tracking device. He tried to ignore the wary glances Detective Hawkins kept giving him. At least it hadn’t been as difficult as Martins feared to convince the detective not to turn him into the authorities. The seeds of mistrust were deeply planted—all Martins needed to do was nourish them. Nevertheless, the way Hawkins drove with pistol in hand unnerved Martins.

  “I told you, I don’t intend to escape.”

  “Yeah,” Hawkins said. “Well, forgive me for not fully trusting a terrorist. Maybe I should’ve called for backup, after al
l.”

  “By the time you convinced someone to help, your colleague Detective Wilson would be dead.”

  Hawkins quieted, jaw clenched. Martins tensed, fearing the detective might change his mind.

  Hawkins indicated the tracking device. “You’re sure that’ll lead us to Wilson?”

  “The GPS in the other burner phone is active—which either means your FBI friends didn’t find it, or they’re using it to lure us in.”

  “I don’t like that second option.”

  “You needn’t fear.” Martins closed his eyes and mentally prepared for the imminent confrontation. “Before today ends, Quinn will pay for his crimes.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  The bright lights of the Reagan National Airport assaulted Cristina as she passed by the baggage claim area. She wore a platinum wig and eyeglasses as a disguise, but no one paid attention to her. Half-asleep passengers yawned and leaned against each other as they waited for their suitcases to arrive. Limo drivers circulated, holding up white signs with names written on them.

  Since she had no bags, Cristina went directly to the pay phones. She’d had time during the ten-hour overnight flight to reconsider her plan to take Quinn down. Maria had tried in vain to convince her to stay in Brazil.

  “We can move to Recife,” her sister had said, pleading with her from her hospital bed. “Or Minas Gerais. Even the Amazon.”

  “You’re in no condition to travel,” Cristina said, indicating the cast on her sister’s leg. Maria had been lucky that the bullet missed the actual kneecap, but it fractured the top of her fibula. The doctors said Maria needed two weeks of bedrest to heal. “And, anyway, Quinn knows I’m in Brazil,” Cristina said. “He won’t stop until he finds me. We’ll never be safe.”

  “I just got my sister back,” Maria said, tears filling her eyes. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

  Cristina had held her hand and said solemnly, “You won’t. I promise.”

  Now that promise felt empty. Cristina had used the satellite phone to call Mitchell for a ride home, careful not to reveal that she knew his real identity. Her plan was to pretend to go along with exposing Simmons as Quinn—then get the real Quinn alone and kill him. But she now saw it was foolish to think she could attack Quinn and whoever else was working with him alone. But who could she trust? Not the FBI. Not the CIA. Not Santos. With Wilson dead, there was only one person left who might be able to help.