by Regan Black
He held out an arm in the direction of his black Mercedes. “Indulge an old man, won’t you?”
There wasn’t much point in tossing out more objections. Not when the idea of being alone terrified her. “Of course.”
She dropped her keys into her coat pocket and fell into step beside him. Being unpredictable was a smart idea under the circumstances. Someone was definitely tailing her and she shouldn’t make it easy.
Dr. Gerardi opened the passenger door for her, waiting patiently while she slid into the supple leather seat, politely making sure her coat didn’t get caught in the door. He walked around the front of the car, hesitating and peering closely at something on the edge of the hood. Through the windshield, his gaze met hers and the abrupt sadness in his eyes startled her. “Such a waste,” he said, shaking his head.
The electronic locks clicked and a low hiss sounded behind her as a fog of white smoke rose from the floorboards of the back seat. She felt the damp vapor on her feet first and she covered her mouth against the cloying scent. Her analytical brain registered the primary smell of chloroform. Old fashioned, but effective.
Holding her breath, she clawed at the door handle, to no avail. The locks wouldn’t give. She tried the window controls and got no response. How had he rigged this device? Why? Her lungs burned, and biologic reflex brought the poisoned air into her lungs. “Why?” she shouted at him through the windshield. He only shook his head.
She reached for the steering wheel and pounded her fist on the car horn. Dr. Gerardi took a startled few steps backward while she struck at the window with her elbow and then her computer tote. It didn’t break. The gas seeped through her lungs, into her blood. She was as good as dead. With no one to trust she’d waited too long. Her secrets would die with her, kill others too, she thought, as she lost consciousness.
* * *
Last Strike leaned against a concrete pillar near Dr. Johannson’s car and waited. Where the hell was she? Thanks to Messenger he had complete, invisible access around and through the security system UI cast like a protective net over the research facility. According to the log, she’d swiped her program badge when she left her lab twenty minutes ago. He’d timed her over the past three days and it never took her more than nine minutes to reach her car. She always worked late - no surprise. His body bore the hard memories and scars of her dedication.
He’d confirmed her habits by reviewing the logs for the past few months. There was no place for her to go but the parking garage as the two food vendors on the first floor had closed hours ago.
She didn’t have friends. A fact that made his job almost too easy. He’d been to her tidy home in an urban renewal neighborhood nearby and searched through everything, even swept her personal computer while she’d showered this morning. His cursory examination of her email, cloud accounts, and online activity didn’t reveal anything solid about her leaking UI secrets. He’d sent the scarce information to Messenger anyway. There were other agents more qualified to pick apart those details. His goal was the woman herself.
If she wasn’t compromising UI’s work through the web, she had to be doing it in person.
He hated sitting out here twiddling his damned thumbs, waiting for her to show up. He despised picking through her life when it would be cleaner just to end it. Anyone who put the UI system in jeopardy was his enemy. He wouldn’t tolerate the threat she posed to his job security, his life’s purpose.
So where the hell was she?
There were four identical cars on this level of the garage, with only the license plates and personal belongings to define them. It was enough to make him wonder about a close-out sale or some employee perk for the UI researchers. Regardless of her lack of imagination in vehicles, he’d use the potential anonymity for a cleaner getaway.
Two short beeps of a car horn broke into his thoughts in a burst of sound that faded on a third, long wail from a lower level. He might have chalked it up to automatic door locks or someone getting an early start on road rage if there’d been engine sounds to go along with it.
Damn. He checked his watch, his instincts amped up to full alert. He bolted for the stairs, determined to rule out his target’s involvement with the anomaly. He paused on the third level and saw nothing, but heard an engine start somewhere. Expensive, quiet idle. Probably that beefy Mercedes one of the older doctors drove. Following the sound he crept closer, waiting to hear the vehicle move toward the exit. The engine sound didn’t change.
Maybe a remote starter. He moved forward cautiously, not wanting to reveal himself to any more people than necessary. Preferably to no one but the bitch he was hunting. He would be sure she knew him, knew he’d come to claim her life…
His thoughts trailed off as he tried to make sense of the inexplicable scene in front of him. The lead doctor at this facility was talking to his car. “I’m sorry. Relax. I’m sorry.”
Last Strike drew his knife from his boot and crept forward for a better look. His target, or someone with golden hair and wearing a moss-green trench coat identical to hers, was in that car, slumped over the console, her hand limp on the steering wheel. She’d apparently hit the horn in a plea for help.
He saw red at the edges of his vision and forced back the hard rush of temper. No one else was allowed to hurt Dr. Johannson. She was his target. His prize. His revenge and reward all wrapped into one convenient package.
Damn it. He didn’t even know who she’d been talking to yet. This was his assignment, his chance at redemption in Messenger’s eyes and he wasn’t going to let anyone ruin it. The old man wasn’t the target. As a valued asset, he couldn’t just kill him. Messenger would definitely want him alive so they could figure out why he was horning in on Last Strike’s job.
Unfortunate but true.
Not knowing what the man dosed her with, Last Strike used his speed enhancement and moved in swiftly, rendering the doctor unconscious before he even knew to turn around. Taking the man’s keys, he popped the trunk and shoved him in among a clutter of binders, old grocery bags, and a canister of some sort. He slammed the trunk closed, knowing when the man came to he’d be able to summon help or spring the emergency release that was standard on all newer cars.
He regretted his haste when he couldn’t figure out how to open the car. Whatever the old scientist had rigged, it was effective. He had to work quickly before she died or someone else stumbled onto this scene. Thank God Dr. Johannson worked ridiculous hours. Just because the facility was deserted now didn’t mean it would stay that way. He broke the rear passenger window with his elbow and reached in. The handle didn’t budge.
Desperate, he pulled out his gun and shot out the lock. Opening the door, he reached in and pressed his fingers to her neck, checking her pulse. Alive. Good. He pulled the doctor’s body from the car. Unconscious, she was limp as a rag doll and he had to brace her against the side of the vehicle as he reached back for her bag. Tossing her over his shoulder, he hurried toward the car he’d rented and left parked a level up, grateful he had the tech support to erase his actions from any security feeds.
He duct-taped her hands and feet, as well as her mouth when she started to mumble. With a pair of handcuffs, he secured one wrist to a bolt under the seat. There would be no escape for her now, no use in crying for help. He wanted her to understand how helpless she was.
As he left the parking garage behind, he struggled to smother his excitement. Not one of his previous kills had this deep, personal meaning. He’d done those to serve Messenger. He vowed not to rush this task, not to strike before he learned everything and made her pay for each terrible minute of the pain she’d administered.
Messenger needed to plug a UI leak. Last Strike needed to know why she’d singled him out for her grotesque, traumatizing experiments. The memories pressed at the edges of his control, looking for a weak spot to break free. He was stronger now. Stronger than the memories and the experiments. Disciplined. Capable. Unstoppable.
He took his time on the drive,
ignoring the noises in the back seat as she recovered. When he reached her house, he pulled into the garage and lowered the door. His bigger sedan was nearly too large for the space where her sleek little compact usually sat.
She went still when he cut the engine. “Welcome home, Dr. Johannson.” It felt strange to initiate a conversation, but controlling the dialogue during this interrogation was key to operational success. Her continued silence, her absolute stillness didn’t bother him. He admired it and braced for the inevitable, cathartic storm when she recognized him.
Aside from Messenger, this woman was the only other person who knew exactly what he’d been designed to do and the full extent of his abilities. He left her there to wait and wonder as he took her bag into the house for a quick search for anything incriminating. Finding nothing, he wondered if she was that good at hiding her tracks.
He didn’t think so. Her personnel file showed advanced degrees in science, biology, and chemistry. His search of her home and lab revealed a fastidious woman, with no natural inclination for stealth or subterfuge. As he’d watched her over recent days, she used a direct, efficient approach in every task from a placing a coffee order to a discussion with colleagues.
Maybe she’d started dosing herself with the cocktail designed to keep soldiers calm against insurmountable odds. Without the education or means to make that assessment, Last Strike had only one way to find out. She’d give him everything and he’d kill her quickly. Though a quick death might steal a bit of his personal satisfaction, it was a fair compromise. Efficiency was the one trait they shared.
He spread a sheet of plastic over the kitchen floor and brought in a chair. Bracing himself to start the conversation by necessity, he had no doubt she’d do most of the talking.
Chapter Three
Daria rubbed her face against her upper arm, trying to lift the tape sealing her mouth. Her hands, she’d quickly realized, were cuffed to the bolt under the driver’s seat. The metal cuff and the duct tape made it impossible for her to tug her wrist free. There was little victory in knowing she wasn’t paranoid about being followed. She twisted her mouth side to side, praying for a lucky break. If her captor had been honest and they were at her house, screaming for help was her only hope. She didn’t want to die, not yet, not before she got the worst of the secrets out of the lab.
Her stomach rolled and she went still long enough to stem the urge to vomit. When she saw Dr. Gerardi again, she’d slap him, or worse, for subjecting her to that noxious gas. Her head ached and her vision was blurry. Thankfully, the air filling her lungs was clean. She didn’t know Gerardi’s intention, but she wasn’t going to make it easy on him. She was alive and she intended to stay that way.
She’d managed to loosen one corner of the tape at her mouth when the door opened and a massive man in dark clothing filled the space. Where was Dr. Gerardi? Blinking, she struggled to make out distinct features with no success. The tape muffled her plea for help, for mercy.
“I’m taking you into the house. You fight me, I’ll fight back.” That low voice resembled gravel crushed under heavy boots. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed hard enough to bring tears to her eyes as he pressed on a nerve deep inside the joint. “Do you understand?”
She nodded, sucking in a breath through her nose when the pressure eased.
That massive hand slid the length of her arm and covered both her wrists, gripping firmly as he released the handcuffs.
She jerked against his hold the moment the lock clicked open. He tugged her hands up and back, causing another slight pain. Captor one, Daria zero.
“Behave.”
She nodded. Better to play along and hope for another opening. She was no match for him physically. Her only hope was to outwit him and that meant cooperating in the short term.
He eased her out of the car. Instead of freeing her feet so she could walk, he tossed her over his shoulder and carried her into the house.
She felt the powerful muscles of his shoulder, arm, and torso, noticing too quickly her weight gave him no challenge. As he carried her along, she could make out enough cues even without her glasses to see he had indeed brought her home. What the hell did any of this mean?
All the curtains were drawn and the house was clothed in shadows. A chill skated down her spine, raising goose bumps from her scalp to her toes as he sat her on a chair in the middle of her kitchen. She heard the rustle of plastic under her footsteps and knew her time was limited.
Either Gerardi had sold her to a serial killer - an absurd conclusion - or he was taking extreme measures to steal her latest breakthrough. A logical theory. She thought about her research and her long-term battle over the ethics. The tremendous advances she’d made were being applied in frightening ways. Her latest would be no different unless she followed through with the dramatic action she’d begun and lifted the veil to expose the UI research to the public.
Another chilling thought flew through her head. What if Gerardi had figured out she planned to escape the UI program?
With a cold, brutal efficiency, her captor sliced through the tape binding her wrists and ankles, only to apply more tape as he secured her to the chair. He leaned back against the counter and she felt like a dread bacteria under a microscope as he watched her. She wished for the tape on her mouth to be gone so she could start asking questions, making deals. She wished for her glasses so she could see him properly.
Then he knelt down in front of her, his face only a hand-span from hers. Terror clamped hard on her heart. She closed her eyes against that face, against the rush of unexpected tears at seeing this man again. If anyone in the world had good reason to kill her, he did.
“Look at me.”
She shook her head. If he was here, she could count on one hand the hours of life she had left. Was there any way to make those hours count for the greater good?
“Open. Your. Eyes.” A big hand covered her knee and his thumb pushed against her kneecap. “Fight me and I will fight you.” He pressed her kneecap to the tendon’s limit.
She obeyed immediately, staring into his pale, soulless eyes. His hand lifted from her body. “Smart as advertised.”
With her eyes, she begged him to spare her life. She didn’t expect it to have much effect on him. This was the agent known as Last Strike. Messenger’s personal assassin. There would be no negotiation, no escape. He was death personified... and she’d set him on that path.
She was suddenly grateful for the tape on her mouth and her blurry vision. The smallest, negligible distance would be the only peace available to her now.
As if he’d read her mind, he ripped the tape from her mouth, leaving her lips and cheeks stinging. Standing, he leaned back against the counter, his hands folding the tape into incrementally smaller squares. “You will answer my questions.”
She nodded. There was no point in fighting. If her killer would be her confessor, so be it. She didn’t want any of her secrets following her to the grave.
“State your name.”
“Daria Elizabeth Johannson.”
“Age?”
“Thirty-one.”
“State your educational background and credentials.”
She rattled off the facts, realizing he was creating a baseline, studying her honest replies so he could recognize any hint of deception. She could try and fool him, but her fate was sealed. Honesty would be her last act of respect for a man she’d hurt so unforgivably. “Ask me anything. I won’t try and deceive you.”
She caught the subtle shift in his posture. Respect? Surely it would take more than an admission of guilt to earn the respect of UI’s top assassin.
“Why did Dr. Gerardi gas you?”
It wasn’t the question she expected him to start with. “I- I don’t know.”
“Why were you in his car?”
She took a deep breath. “He said he wanted advice. I believed him.” She’d clung to the myth of safety in numbers.
“Did you recognize the gas he used?”
Now she wanted her glasses to study him. He showed more curiosity than she expected. “Chloroform mixed with something I didn’t recognize. Was he trying to kill me?”
“Did he have reason to?”
“I don’t know.” She hadn’t had time to think about it. “As a program supervisor, he had access to all of my research. I can’t imagine I was a threat to him.”
“Why are you giving away program secrets?”
“Pardon me?”
“We know you’ve been leaking UI intel to an outsider. Why?”
“You’re wrong,” she said. The only thing she’d been trying to get out of UI was her. Once safely away, she’d planned to share everything she knew about the facilities and the deadly experiments. “I have never compromised program security.” Not yet anyway.
“Tell me how you met Amelia Bennett.”
Who? She thought about it, tried to put the name in context. “Was she the reporter who died in Boston a few months ago?”
“Yes. How did you meet?”
“I - we never met. We can’t. She’s dead.”
“Before that!” From any other man the words would’ve been a roar. From Last Strike, they were delivered with icy calm.
“I have never met nor spoken to Amelia Bennett,” she repeated, trying to match his careful tone. As he walked away she gulped a big, steadying breath knowing the reprieve wouldn’t last. Any minute now he’d resort to pain and violence to confirm her honesty.
He returned with her laptop and set it on the kitchen counter. Well, she assumed it was hers. She couldn’t be sure without her glasses.
