“Reports have surfaced that allege that certain technologies developed here at Janus have found their way onto the black market,” Tremain said, watching his former associate’s face very closely.
“Impossible,” Kavanagh scoffed. “Our security here is state of the art.”
Tremain folded his hands in his lap, afraid that they might start to tremble again. “In Albania a teenage girl was put up for sale,” he stated. “A teenage girl with the ability to take down six grown men with her bare hands.” He paused for effect. “Do you believe this is a freak coincidence, Brandon?”
Kavanagh moved his coffee cup around on its saucer but had yet to drink. “Can you guarantee the validity of the report?” he asked, without looking up.
“Aleksander Berat has been a credible source of intelligence to the group for years. There’s no reason to doubt him.”
Kavanagh slowly raised his eyes and fixed Tremain with an intense stare. Tremain remembered those eyes well and the murderous efficiency that was often behind their ferocity.
“Did he provide us with the identity of whoever was behind the sale?”
Tremain slowly shook his head. “No. He did give us a vague description, but we believe the person who ran the show might have just been a middleman hired to negotiate the sale.”
Kavanagh leaned back in his seat, rubbing one of his hands across his closely cropped white hair. “This is horrible,” he said, staring up at the ceiling as if searching for answers from some divine source. “I can’t believe this has happened.” He was silent for a moment, then asked, “How should we proceed?” Tremain knew he had been in the business far too long not to know.
“I’m recommending that the Janus Project be terminated,” Tremain said. “I’m sorry, Brandon, but protocol dictates that any breach of security must be—”
Kavanagh raised a hand to silence him. “I know what protocol dictates, Chris,” he said coldly. “But what about the work? The years I’ve put into the project; what about that?”
Tremain sighed as he stood up from his chair. “You know Pandora,” he said. “The work won’t go to waste—it’ll be absorbed into another project.”
He turned to retrieve his coat as Brandon Kavanagh silently brooded about the fate of his work. “You know if there was any other way,” Tremain began, slipping into his raincoat. It was still damp and the clammy feeling of the material sent a discomforting chill down his spine—at least, he thought it was the feeling of dampness.
“How long do I have?” Kavanagh asked flatly.
“I’ll begin the paperwork as soon as I get back to operations, sometime tomorrow,” he answered. “A data retrieval team will collect all pertinent information shortly thereafter. I’d recommend any evidence of your work here be erased by the end of the week. I’m really sorry about this, Brandon,” Tremain added, stepping to the edge of the desk and extending his hand. “But there’s too much of a risk, and I shudder to think of the ramifications.”
Kavanagh stood slowly, accepting Tremain’s hand. “Let’s hope that we can find whoever was responsible for the Albanian display and nip it in the bud.”
“That’s our intention. We already have a team of our best people working on it.”
“Excellent.” Kavanagh released Tremain’s hand. “Until we meet again.”
“Good to see you, Brandon,” Tremain said politely as he headed for the door.
Brandon Kavanagh sat behind his desk, about to set the plans for his future in motion.
The meeting with Tremain had not come as a complete surprise. The potential of his employer discovering the Albanian presentation had always been a possibility. And it was only a matter of time before they learned that he was responsible.
He leaned back in his chair and sighed. He would hate to leave this office, this facility, but he had no choice now. His role in life was about to change, and he felt a sensation of electric excitement raise the hair on the back of his neck and arms.
Noticing the untouched coffee on his desktop, he sat forward in his seat and carefully picked up the cup. The coffee was cold, but he still drank it.
Kavanagh had always seen himself as one of the good guys but knew that it wasn’t a long journey to the other side. He had seen many things in his years trying to keep the world safe, things that often made him question whether or not it was even worth the struggle.
As much as he hated to admit it, he knew they were losing the battle, the world sliding deeper and deeper into chaos with every passing day. Really, what difference did it make which side he was on? Wasn’t evil all a matter of perception anyway?
Evil. He smiled at his use of the word. It always sounded so dramatic, corny even.
Tremain’s coming here was actually a blessing of sorts, a merciful end to a life hurtling toward the inevitable. Brandon Kavanagh had been straddling the line between good and evil for more years than he cared to think about, finding it more and more difficult with every passing year to tell one from the other. Today he had made the decision to cross over for good, and it wasn’t as traumatic as he had imagined it would be.
He chuckled out loud. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really. Even when he was just a child, the villains in movies and on television interested him more than the heroes. His desire to see the bad guys win had always been his own little secret.
Brandon Kavanagh’s life was full of secrets.
He stood and stretched, then removed his cell phone from his belt and flipped open the lid. Humming an odd tune, he punched a number into the keypad and placed the phone to his ear.
“It’s me,” he said. “I’m going to need you to wake up our friend.” He moved out from behind his desk. “Yes, I’m aware that we’ve used him recently, but I need him again.”
Kavanagh paused mid-office. “That’s right. A wakeup call for Sleeper One. I’d like him to meet an old friend of mine.”
He was about to hang up when he remembered something else, a matter of betrayal. “Oh yes, another thing. Kindly see to it that our Albanian friend and his associates meet with an unpleasant fate.”
Kavanagh smiled. He really got a kick out of being a bad guy.
Tom glanced up at the kitchen clock and saw that it was nearly time for his guest to arrive.
“I’m setting another place,” he warned his mother, who was busy at the stove.
“What do you mean?” she asked, turning from the sink with a steaming pan of broccoli in hand.
She had prepared a roast chicken for tonight’s dinner. That, plus broccoli, salad, and fresh bread from Giordano’s Bakery, made for what he thought was a perfectly acceptable meal—nothing embarrassing, like that tuna surprise with the egg cooked in the middle. Disgusting.
As if on cue there was a knock at the front door, and Tom watched as the look of confusion on his mother’s features grew more pronounced.
“I invited a friend over for supper,” he explained as he headed for the door.
“You did what?” she asked, voice slightly raised in agitation.
“I meant to mention it earlier, but I forgot. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Tom hadn’t really forgotten; it had been practically all he could think about the entire day. He hadn’t mentioned it because he’d been afraid she’d say no, especially the way she’d been acting lately.
His mother was sputtering something from the kitchen behind him as he opened the front door and stopped cold. Madison stood on the porch, dressed in a short denim skirt and a fitted white button-down shirt. Her red hair fell in sexy waves past her shoulders. Tom was struck speechless.
“Hey,” he finally managed, opening the door wider to let her in. “Thought you might’ve come over the fence and in the back way.”
She laughed. “I could if you want,” she suggested, pretending to leave.
“That’s all right,” he said, closing the door behind her.
“Well, there’s always next time,” she said, the slightest hint of a smile playing on her lips as their eyes momentarily
locked.
Tom pulled his eyes from hers and escorted her toward the kitchen, keeping his fingers crossed that his parents would be on their best behavior.
“Mom, Dad, this is Madison Fitzgerald,” he said. “She’s the girl I told you about who’s staying next door with her aunt and uncle.”
Tom watched as his father quickly glanced at his mother, a comical look of bewilderment on his face.
“Hello,” his mother responded with a nervous wave. “I’m Victoria and this is Mason.”
It was his dad’s turn to smile and wave. “Hi,” he said, casually leaning on the countertop, trying not to look flustered. “Nice to meet you.”
“Thanks so much for having me over,” Madison said.
“You’re welcome,” Victoria replied. “Supper is just about done, so why doesn’t everybody take a seat in the dining room and I’ll start to bring things in?”
“Can I help with anything?” Madison asked.
“That’s all right,” Victoria said, slicing up the bread and putting the knife back inside the drawer. “You and Tom go sit down.”
Mason stood in the doorway to the dining room, bowing slightly to them as they passed. “After you,” he said, motioning them toward the table.
“Hope you like chicken,” Victoria said, placing the platter on the table.
“Chicken’s great,” Madison said, standing behind her seat. “Are you sure I can’t help you?” she asked again.
“No thank you,” Victoria replied with a tight grin. She retreated back into the kitchen and Mason followed her.
“She said she didn’t need help!” Tom called after his father, but he was shrugged off.
“Sit down,” Tom said, pulling out one of the chairs. He parked himself in the one next to hers. After a moment Tom’s parents returned with the rest of the dishes.
“I think that’s it,” Victoria said.
Mason picked up a bottle of wine from the center of the table.
“I’d offer you guys some wine, but I’m not sure how your aunt and uncle would feel about me giving you alcohol,” he said, inserting the corkscrew into the top of the bottle. “And besides, Tom can’t drink because of his condition.”
Tom shot his father a look that could have peeled paint from the wall.
“Mason.” Tom’s mother shook her head sadly.
“What did I say?” he asked, looking around the room for someone to answer. “I assumed she knew,” he said, the cork coming free of the bottle with a loud pop.
“I do know,” Madison said, nodding, a polite smile on her face.
Tom was about to say something to his father about being a complete jerk when he felt Madison’s hand touch his briefly under the table, and his anger was suddenly diffused. “It’s fine,” he managed instead.
“All right,” his mother said with a sigh of relief. “Shall we eat?”
She picked up the knife and started to carve the chicken.
And from that point things seemed to return to normal, his father keeping his comments to the Red Sox and how the Farmers’ Almanac had predicted a very wet and humid summer.
“So you’re from Chicago,” his mother said to Madison, tearing off a corner of bread and popping it into her mouth. “And you’ll be visiting just for the summer?”
Madison became noticeably uncomfortable, looking down at her plate. “Probably longer,” she mumbled. “I’ll probably be going to school here.”
Tom gave his mother a nasty look across the table.
“I’m sorry,” she said, brushing the crumbs from her hands. “Did I touch on something I shouldn’t have?”
“See,” his father said, taking a sip from his glass of wine. “It’s very easy to do. I do it all the time, it seems.”
Madison raised her head and smiled anxiously. “That’s all right, Mrs. Lovett,” she said. “It’s just that my parents are in the process of splitting up and they think it might be best for me to stay with my aunt and uncle for a while.”
“I’m sorry, hon,” his mother said sympathetically. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Holding his breath, Tom reached down under the table and searched for Madison’s hand. His hand landed on her leg instead and he quickly yanked it away.
Madison picked up her water glass and took a drink, turning her head ever so slightly and smiling at him. He almost said he was sorry but decided against it. She didn’t appear to be at all upset.
“So, who’d like some dessert?” his mother asked after downing the remainder of her wine. She stood and started to clean up. “I think there’s some Ben & Jerry’s downstairs in the freezer,” she said, reaching for their plates. “Mason, go get the ice cream. We’ll make sundaes.” “I’m totally stuffed,” Madison said, patting her perfectly flat stomach. “But I think I might be able to find room for ice cream.”
Tom had suggested that they have their dessert outside, so they took their heaping bowls out to the patio, where they could have some privacy.
They sat in the cool darkness, eating and talking.
“Sorry about my parents,” Tom said, stirring the contents of his bowl. “They can be kind of obnoxious.”
“Do you mean the stuff about my parents? That was fine,” she said through a bite of ice cream. “There was no way your mom could have known.”
He made a face as he took a bite of his dessert.
“I thought you were gonna freak when your dad mentioned your condition,” she said.
“My condition,” he said with a certain amount of disgust. “They just love to bring it up whenever they can. It’s like they’re so aware of it—they feel it’s necessary to make sure that everybody else knows about it too.” Tom shook his head. “It’s like the only thing they have to talk about with anyone,” he said with a scowl and an angry shake of his head. Then he got very quiet, pulling his bowl of ice cream closer and picking up his spoon.
“The next time your mom and dad bring it up with somebody, you should pretend to have an attack and fall on the ground,” she said, the words spilling out before she had the chance to put on the brakes.
It’s a curse, it really is, Madison thought as she watched Tom’s eyes widen at her suggestion. It was as if her brain made it a point to come up with the worst-possible things to say.
But then the corners of Tom’s mouth began to quiver and he began to laugh, not just chuckle but really laugh. “That would be pretty funny,” he gasped. “I can just see the looks on their faces. This is Tom; he has narcolepsy—wham! Right to the ground.”
Madison let herself go, allowing her laughter to bubble up and out of her.
And then she let out a snort.
Her hands immediately went to her face as she covered an embarrassed blush.
“That always happens when I laugh really hard,” she said. “It’s gross, I know.”
He nodded. “I think I’d rather have narcolepsy,” he managed before breaking down into hysterics again.
It took them a good five minutes to pull themselves together long enough to finish their ice cream.
“That felt good,” Madison said, after a brief moment of silence.
Tom smiled, finishing the last of his dessert. “It did,” he agreed, grabbing up his napkin and wiping vigorously at his mouth. “It’s been a while since I had something to laugh about.”
“How have you been feeling?” she asked, licking her spoon. “You had the bad attack the other day; anything since?”
Something was definitely bothering Tom, something she wasn’t sure he wanted to discuss.
“You don’t have to talk about it if makes you uncomfortable,” she said, ready to change the subject to something lighter.
“It’s not that,” he said. “I just don’t know how to explain it. Something happened last night. I don’t think it was an attack, but I couldn’t tell you what it was. I just know that it’s making me a little nervous.”
“How did you feel this morning?” she asked.
“Fine,” he answered
with a shrug. “Other than the fact that I sorta just knew something wasn’t right.”
“Do you feel better now?”
“I feel good,” he told her, “but it doesn’t take away the nagging feeling that something happened. I’m just scared this whole Quentin’s narcolepsy thing is getting worse.” He laughed nervously. “Man, can I bring a party down or what?” he said. “Let’s talk about something else before we both decide to cut our wrists.”
Madison reacted without thinking, reaching across the patio table to take hold of his hand.
“You’re going to be fine,” she told him, giving his hand a firm squeeze. “I just know these things.”
“Oh yeah?” he asked, a lopsided grin appearing on his face. “And how can you be so sure?”
“Trust me,” she said, returning the smile. She liked this guy, really liked him, and just the thought of him being upset made her want to reassure him somehow.
The glass door to the patio suddenly slid back and Tom quickly pulled his hand from hers.
“Hey, Tommy,” his dad said from the doorway. “It’s getting late. I think it’s time to say good night to your company.”
Tom blushed red, and Madison watched as a spark of anger ignited in his eyes.
“It’s only a little after eight,” he said, looking at his watch and then at his father.
“Remember what the doctor said about keeping those routines,” his father said firmly. “If you’re going to get that workout in before bedtime—”
“Screw the workout,” he snapped, angrily slamming his hand down on the table. “This is crap.”
“I don’t care if you have company or not,” Mason Lovett said, coming out of the house onto the patio.
“You do not speak to me in that tone of voice—ever. Do I make myself clear?”
Madison stood up, reaching over to touch Tom’s hand. “It’s all right,” she told him. “I should probably be getting home anyway.”
Tom stood as well, his eyes never leaving his father.
“Why does it bother you so much to see me acting like a normal person?” he asked.
“Tom, don’t start. I just want you to…”
Sleeper Code Page 8
