by Hope Anika
Ruslan slowed the Impala as they approached the security gate of GenTek Industries. Fourteen-foot fences surrounded the large complex, wide slats of high-grade steel topped by a curling ribbon of razor-thin, barbed wire, which was, he suspected, electrified as well. Beyond the fence, a campus of buildings rose like a collection of staggered, jagged teeth, white walled and windowless, with slanted solar panel roofs and tall black antenna. “I do not believe they will be particularly forthcoming about the Primary Project,” he continued, “or their current eugenics research.”
“No?” Beside him, Ash snorted. “What makes you say that? The razor wire or the sniper towers?”
Ruslan looked at her. “Sniper towers?”
She pointed at the building closest to the fence, which was shorter than the rest, fat and stout with a series of alternating solar panels crowning its roof. “You see that lip right there, tucked up against the edge of the roof? That flips down. That’s a sniper rest.”
Ruslan’s gaze narrowed. The rest was white and not apparent when one first looked, but upon further inspection, he could see the large square of steel that would fold down and provide the perfect position from which to fire down upon the complex.
He turned and looked at Ash, who was studying the buildings with a frown. Her right eye was a brilliant shade of purple, and the cut on the edge of her cheekbone was nearly two inches long. Her nose was less swollen, but her bottom lip was bisected by an ugly, jagged red line. He knew she hurt; he also knew better than to mention it.
“You have experience with sniper towers?” he asked.
“My father had several mobile towers; they had the same type of platform.” A dark, hard smile turned her mouth. “He liked to mix it up.”
One day, Ruslan thought, he was going to meet Blade Kyndal. And it would not be a day either of them forgot.
“Why would a bio-tech firm need sniper towers?” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “This entire situation continues to mystify.”
Ruslan didn’t disagree. “There was limited information available online with regard to GenTek’s lead researchers. The company keeps a tight rein on both information and personnel.”
She sent him a sideways look. “When did you do all this research?”
“I rarely sleep,” he replied. “A few hours is sufficient.”
But last night, he’d not gotten even that. He’d been too aware of her, just a handful of steps away; close enough to touch. He had never been so cognizant of another person before, not even those who’d tortured and blooded him. The growing temptation she presented was as alluring as it was dangerous, especially for a man who’d never known temptation—or surrender.
I see you, she had said, words that struck him like a physical blow. Because no one had ever seen what he did not want them to, no one but her. And he’d never wanted to be seen.
Except by her.
A disarming paradox.
“So you were up all night surfing the web?”
“Not all night,” he said and slowed the Impala before the manned security booth. A guard emerged—armed with both a 9mm and an expandable baton—his face a cold, unmoving mask that took one look at Ruslan and hardened.
“Kyndal and Ruslan to see Dr. Masters,” Ruslan told him.
The man scowled and looked down at the clipboard he held.
“Have I scolded you yet for making that call without me?” Ash asked softly, watching the guard.
“No,” Ruslan said.
“Later, then.”
He looked forward to it.
“Ruslan and Kyndal.” The guard gave a short, clipped nod. “You’re clear.” He eyed Ruslan darkly. “No weapons in the building.”
Which Ruslan found ironic, considering that the woman beside him was the one armed to the teeth. Ruslan merely carried his SIG Sauer; Ash would have her Ruger, her knives, and a pair of battered brass knuckles she carried around like a good luck charm. They matched a pair Wylie carried.
“Aye, aye, captain,” she said and smiled sweetly at the guard, who only studied her bruises and scowled in response.
Ruslan waited for the security gate to swing open and drove into the complex, eyeing the buildings that were seated in a bed of lush green grass interspersed with clumps of succulents, and broken into large geometric shapes by wide strips of concrete sidewalks. A small, gurgling fountain sat before the largest building, which was set apart from the others by a glass and steel sign that said GenTek Industries, Inc.
He parked next to the only tree in the parking lot, a profuse, sprawling juniper that was covered in blue berries and smelled like cat urine.
“Seriously?” Ash eyed the sea of empty parking spaces in front of them. “You couldn’t get a little closer?”
“I prefer the shade,” he said and climbed from the Impala.
They headed toward the glass-encased entry, where cement benches sat along the sidewalks, surrounded by beds of blooming red flowers. Light sheered brightly from the glass, forming glittering squares atop the pavement.
“Would you prefer to lead?” Ruslan asked.
“He talked to you,” Ash replied, stepping through the door when he opened it. “So you go first.”
They entered GenTek’s massive lobby, where the walls were just as white inside as out, and modernistic, stainless steel furniture gleamed beneath bright LED lights. Black and white photographs dotted the austere walls, pictures of cells in various stages of regeneration; protons, neurons, atoms in motion. A square receptionist area dominated the space, inhabited by a slender woman of Asiatic descent whose bright yellow dress was like a splash of sunlight spearing through cloud cover.
“Welcome to GenTek,” she said when they approached, her smile cool but polite. “Ruslan and Kyndal, I presume?”
“Yes,” Ruslan said.
“Very good,” the woman replied. “My name is Diana Wen. Dr. Masters is expecting you. Please follow me.”
She turned and exited the reception desk, leading them across a vast expanse of white marbled floor, past a collection of small white couches and matching chairs. A handful of people clad in lab coats occupied the seating area; they spoke in hushed tones over steaming coffee cups and eyed Ruslan and Ash with unhidden curiosity as they passed.
Ms. Wen strode to one of the three elevators that sat along the western wall. Once inside, she pressed her thumb to a fingerprint reader and leaned over to stare into the optical scanner built into the wall panel. A small ding sounded and the screen read Identity Verified, Access Granted, and she said, “Masters, please, George.”
To which a deep, disembodied digital voice replied, “My pleasure, Ms. Wen.”
And up they went.
“Is the entire building secured with fingerprint and retinal scanning?” Ash asked.
“Yes,” Ms. Wen affirmed. “GenTek owns countless patents, both technical and biological. We also have several contracts with the DOD and the CDC, which necessitate the enhanced security.”
“Shiny,” Ash murmured and shot Ruslan an arched look. “The DOD and the CDC. Dare I ask what sort of contracts?”
A cool smile from Ms. Wen. “The confidential sort.”
“Tease,” Ash told her, smiling.
Ms. Wen narrowed her gaze and considered the bruises on Ash’s face. Then she looked at Ruslan, who only stared back dispassionately. “You will notice there is neither cellular nor internet service available on the campus. That is also a security precaution.”
“Hackers?” Ash asked.
“Our industry is proprietary in nature.” Another cool smile. “We utilize every tool in our arsenal in order to protect our interests.”
“I just bet you do,” Ash said, still smiling.
The elevator slid to a halt, and the doors opened to reveal a large, open-floored office. Unlike the white walls and modern furniture that dominated the lobby, the space before them had hardwood floors and walls painted a dark, earthy green. The furniture was oak, the lights were frosted glass, and tall bookca
ses dotted the room, filled to overflowing with all manner of books.
A large, wooden desk sat in the center of the space. A tall, spindly man stood next to the desk, a slender Siamese cat draped over his left arm.
“Ah, Ms. Wen.” The man smiled broadly. “Good morning. Are these our guests?”
Ms. Wen nodded. “Yes, Dr. Masters.”
“Wonderful.” Masters stroked the cat, who watched them with unblinking, pale blue eyes. “Please, do come in.”
Ash gave Ruslan another look and preceded him into the room. He followed, trailing through the scent of jasmine she left in her wake, his gaze sweeping the room, the man, the cat. He took note of books on everything from pressure canning to Einstein’s Theory of Relativity and of the room’s clutter and disorganization. Many of its surfaces were filled with working models of molecules and wooden blocks stamped with genetic symbols. Magazines and newspapers and more books littered the floor in slumping piles. The room smelled vaguely of lemon, and the man at the center of it all was clad in a wrinkled blue suit and a crooked brown tie; he appeared as disheveled as his office.
The cat, in contrast, was perfectly groomed and the picture of feline superiority.
“If that will be all?” Ms. Wen asked.
“Yes, thank you.” Masters stroked the cat, his smile appearing genuine. He had a long, narrow face and two deeply set brown eyes. His hair was dark, somewhere between black and brown, a thick wave that had been combed over his skull and sat like a small, nesting rodent atop his head. “Can I get you anything? Water? Tea? I have Yoo-Hoo.”
“No, thank you,” Ash said.
Ruslan only shook his head.
“Very well then, please sit.” Masters motioned to the wide wooden chairs that sat across from his pile-laden desk. He waited until they’d each taken a seat before sinking down into his own scarred leather chair, cat still in hand. “I was quite surprised to get your call...Mr. Ruslan, is it?”
“Just Ruslan.”
“A simple moniker.” Masters nodded. “Like Prince. Or Bono.”
Beside Ruslan, Ash snorted.
“And you?” Masters turned to her. For a moment, he simply looked her over, taking in her battered appearance, and she stared back at him, unperturbed by the inspection. “Are you just Kyndal?”
“I’m Ash,” she said.
Masters slid Ruslan a look of contemplation, then moved his dark brown gaze back to Ash. “Was there an accident?”
“It was no accident,” she replied wryly.
Another look at Ruslan. Ruslan only stared back.
“I see,” Masters said.
“Doubtful,” Ash replied, not unkindly.
“Well, Ash, I’m Leonard, but you may call me Leo.” Masters lifted the cat and scratched the animal beneath its chin. “And this furry beast is Mendel the third.”
Ruslan arched a brow. “After Gregor Mendel?”
“You know Mendel?” Surprise shaped Leo’s features.
“He is considered the father of modern genetics,” Ruslan replied, aware of Ash’s bright gaze touching him.
“Are you a student of genetic science?” Masters asked, excitement sparking in his gaze.
“No,” he said bluntly.
Masters blinked. “Oh.”
“Mendel the Third,” Ash said. “As in the third son?”
Masters’ smile reappeared. “As in the third version.”
Her brows rose. “A Mendel Mini-Me?”
“Exactly!” Masters looked delighted by the comparison. “He is the third Mendel I’ve cloned, and I must say, he’s quite perfect.”
“Impressive,” she murmured. “If only people were so easily calculated.”
Masters sobered. He studied her closely, with a razor-sharp intelligence belied by his unkempt appearance. “Who says they aren’t?”
“Anson Grant,” she replied steadily, meeting his gaze.
Masters shook his head. “That was a decade ago. The science has evolved. What we can do now...” Another smile blossomed, wondrous and terrible. “Miracles. We can do miracles.”
Ash only stared at him, and Ruslan was acutely aware of the tension that suddenly thrummed through her.
“You have solved the issue of degradation?” he asked.
Masters stiffened. He sat back slowly, his hand stroking over the cat, who mewed softly in response. “You told Ms. Wen you had discovered confidential documentation related to the Primary Project?”
“Yes.” Ruslan removed the envelope he carried from the interior pocket of his suit and slid it across the desk toward Masters. “These materials were found among Anson Grant’s possessions.”
Masters frowned. He set Mendel down atop the desk, and the cat sauntered toward Ruslan, delicately side-stepping the piles of magazines and files until he sat on the edge of the desk, where he proceeded to meticulously bathe his left paw.
Masters opened the envelope, scanned its contents and frowned.
“We are currently investigating Dr. Grant’s death,” Ruslan added.
“His death?” A startled look. “Anson died in a boating accident.”
“Dr. Grant died in an explosion,” Ruslan corrected.
Masters rubbed a hand over his skull, smoothing the tuft of hair that sat there. “I thought it was an accident.”
Ruslan merely blinked at him. Mendel chose that moment to jump down from the desk and brush up against Ruslan’s calf, leaving several long, pale hairs behind.
“According to our sources, GenTek fired Anson Grant,” Ruslan said.
“Well, yes, but—” Masters sighed. “I can’t discuss this. Dr. Grant’s work was highly confidential in nature.”
“Anson Grant is dead,” Ash said flatly.
“But his work is not.”
“No?”
Masters gave them a consternated look.
“What about Reginald Kline?” Ruslan asked. “Is he still employed by GenTek?”
“No.” The word was clipped, and Master’s long face seemed to close.
“Bethany Little?”
“No.” Masters shoved Anson Grant’s research reports back into the envelope Ruslan had given him. “Thank you for returning these. Now, if that’s everything—”
“Can you tell us where we can find either Dr. Kline or Dr. Little?” Ash asked.
“No.”
She removed a piece of paper from her coat pocket, unfolded it, and showed it to Masters. “What about this? Do you recognize this?”
Ruslan froze. The paper bore a copy of the symbols that had been spray painted onto Anson Grant’s living room wall.
The same symbols that decorated his wrist.
He hadn’t known she’d written them down. Or that she was going to show them to Masters. Not that it was unreasonable to do so; in point of fact, there was every reason to share it, to see what, if anything, Masters could tell them.
Still, Ruslan found himself oddly ambivalent about the act. The search felt personal, his, not hers. As if she was somehow usurping him in trying to find answers, betraying a confidence he’d never desired to share.
But you are not where it begins and ends. Not any longer.
A fact that should have relieved him, and yet did not.
Master stared at the symbols. He said nothing, but even Ruslan could not miss the tightening of that long jaw. The knuckles that pressed white around the envelope he held. “Of course. It is a series of alchemic symbols. Why?”
“Does the grouping represent anything specific to you?” Ash asked.
“Beyond their obvious meaning? No.”
A lie. The darkness within Ruslan stirred.
Ash sighed and turned to him. “He’s not being very helpful.”
“Indeed,” Ruslan said. Mendel butted his head against Ruslan’s shin, a silent but insistent demand he ignored. “But then, I did not expect him to be.”
“That’s because you’re a pessimist.”
“I disagree,” he replied. “I consider myself a realist.”
Again, Mendel butted against him. Again, Ruslan ignored him.
“I trust you will not share the contents of these documents with anyone?” Masters tapped the envelope against his desk. “Seeing as how Dr. Grant should have never had them in his possession.”
“If the information contained in those documents led—either directly or indirectly—to Anson Grant’s death, we can make no guarantees,” Ruslan told him.
“Led to his death?” Masters echoed. “Anson died years after leaving the company. Why would you possibly believe his death was connected to his work here?”
“Eugenics is cutting-edge, highly controversial technology,” Ash said mildly. “And no doubt highly competitive as well. People have been killed for less.”
Masters scowled. Mendel mewed and plopped down onto Ruslan’s foot, sprawling across the leather upper of his boot.
“A ridiculous theory.” Masters snorted. “I suggest you keep looking. Whoever hired you is quite the conspiracy theorist. Was it his family? I thought they were killed in the accident with him.”
“Explosion,” Ruslan said again.
“Whatever. It’s been what? Six years? Why now?”
“We are not at liberty to discuss that.” Ash produced a business card and set it down atop his desk. “However, should you have an attack of conscious...”
“Ms. Wen will see you out now,” Masters retorted, and as if on cue, the paneled door to the elevator slid open, revealing Ms. Wen in all of her bright, colorful splendor. She watched them with a dark, unblinking gaze.
Ruslan arched a brow. “I believe we are being escorted from the building.”
“I can’t take you anywhere,” Ash said and stood.
Ruslan gently nudged Mendel from his foot and followed suit.
Together, they moved toward the elevator.
“No doubt you made copies of these documents,” Masters said from behind them. “I strongly urge you to destroy them. It would be most unpleasant for you should they land in the wrong hands.”
Ash shot Ruslan a wry look over her shoulder. “Subtle.”
They stepped into the elevator and turned to face Masters, who watched from his desk with a narrow gaze. Mendel blinked at them from beneath the chair Ruslan had vacated.
