Chatting gaily, a group of eight young men and women walked past the suited man standing at the entrance of the building. Sofia was buried in the middle of the group, concealed as much by the crowd as by her lack of height. She forced herself to match the maddeningly slow pace of the others. The group walked down the street and turned the corner where the crowds grew thicker, providing safety in obscurity.
Sofia fell back gradually and slipped down a side road. She sagged against a brick wall. A sigh whispered out of her. I’m not cut out for this. She counted down the minutes that passed before her pulse returned to normal. It did not quite get there, but it settled down enough to alleviate the feeling of her heart pounding hard against her rib cage.
Several deep breaths steadied her enough to push away from the wall. All good. Still alive. Yesterday, being alive had not seemed too much to ask for. How quickly things changed.
And Kyle…
She bit down on her lower lip. She prayed the IGEC was the play-by-the-rules type Kyle made its agents out to be, but she had little hope of it. As far as she knew, government agencies were not above bending the rules when they thought circumstances required it.
Did they? Did the circumstances demand bending, even breaking, the rules?
Sofia reached into the pocket of her denim jeans and dug out the plastic-encased microchip. She stared at it—tiny and seemingly innocuous. Apparently deadly.
Whatever was on it was enough to provoke the IGEC into interfering and the Rue Marcha into killing.
Kyle’s words came back to her. “Information is far more lethal, its range far wider. Once released, it can never be recalled.”
Sofia grunted. Her small hand clenched into a fist around the microchip. Forbidden knowledge was overrated, and everyone forgot to mention the cost until it was too late.
How many lives am I going to endanger in my search for the truth?
She had to talk to someone who understood the price of standing up to the government and who possessed the conscience to do so anyway.
Danyael Sabre.
For a moment, she contemplated taking a cab back to Washington, D.C.—Kyle had given her enough money for the ride—but it would be too difficult to convince a cab driver to make the hour-long trip. Public transportation was the only viable option.
Besides, crowds offered safety.
She stepped out onto the main road and flagged down a cab driver. “Take me to the MARC Camden Station.”
She kept her gaze on the hospital entrance as the cab driver took off. The swarm of IGEC agents scrambling down the front steps of the hospital did not materialize, but the momentary sense of relief did not reduce her vigilance.
Hyper alert, she watched the traffic flow and wished she knew more about spotting abnormal patterns. By the time she hopped from the cab and onto the Maryland Area Regional Commuter train that would take her from Camden Station in Baltimore to Union Station in Washington, D.C., she was mentally exhausted.
How did Kyle do it, day after day, hour after hour?
It was crazy to live like that.
Passengers were sparse aboard the MARC train. Sofia made her way down the narrow aisle, coach after coach, until she found a seat at the back of the train.
She sagged into the chair, hugged her plastic bag to her chest as if the plastic were steel armor, and stared at the scenery flashing by the window.
Logic told her she was in over her head. What chance did a nursing student stand against a drug cartel and an international law enforcement agency in search of the microchip she carried?
On the other hand, the alternative was turning over the microchip to Zara Itani, who would likely return it to Proficere Labs.
The alternative sucked.
If there was an answer—a way out of her predicament—Sofia had no clue what it could possibly be.
The sun was low in the sky when Sofia arrived in Anacostia, but she counted on daylight to offer a slight advantage. Her careful study of the map on her smartphone paid off. Without referring to it—and looking like a tourist in the process—she walked from the metro station to the free clinic.
The key, she reminded herself, was to look confident, as if she belonged. The problem was that she did not entirely fit in. Her sweatshirt was too new, and despite her attempt to affect nonchalance, she knew she tossed wary glances over her shoulder to scan the people swirling around her.
The good news was that the business-suited IGEC agents would likely stand out among a local populace that demonstrated a high level of affinity for leather and chains. The problem was the gang-attired Rue Marcha blended in perfectly.
She was no longer certain which one she feared more.
Sofia was grateful when the free clinic came in sight. It swarmed with activity. The men, women, and children who filed in and out of the clinic in an unending stream paid little attention to the visibly armed gangsters who loitered outside the clinic. Weapons were treated as little more than scenery, no different from the bars across the windows and boarded-up doors on the buildings on either side of the clinic.
If she needed a reminder that she was far out of her comfort zone, she had just received it.
Across the street, two men loitered in a black sedan. One of them looked sharply in her direction.
Her pace faltered.
The car doors opened and two men, one in a brown suit, the other in gray, stepped out. They had to be government agents, unless the Rue Marcha had decided to invest their hard-earned drug money in cheap suits instead of yachts, seaside condos, and fast cars. One of the men held up a badge—not that she could make out its details from that distance. “Miss Rios, we’re with the—”
Panic kicked her feet into motion. Sofia ran, shoving past the startled gangsters who guarded the entrance of the free clinic and scrambling into the questionable safety of the building.
The waiting room was packed. Several pairs of curious eyes turned to her as a gray-haired woman in nursing scrubs approached her. “Is something—?” The nurse peered through the glass doors at the hubbub of tension building outside. Consternation flicked over the nurse’s face. The lines around her mouth tightened into a frown. Without a word, she scurried into Danyael’s office.
Moments later, Danyael emerged.
Sofia’s eyes widened.
The alpha empath’s face was drawn, and the pallor of his skin accentuated the shadows beneath his eyes. His hand trembled on his crutch, and he looked about ready to drop from exhaustion. He glanced at her, but said nothing as he headed to the door and pushed it open.
A black man in gang colors waved his assault weapon like an extension of his hand and glared at the suited men. “No can do. Yo ain’t got no warrant.”
The two suits kept their distance. One of them held up his hands in a placating gesture, though Sofia caught a glimpse of a firearm under his coat. “Look, we just want to ask Miss Rios a few questions.”
Danyael looked over his shoulder. His eyebrows raised in inquiry.
Sofia shook her head, her heart pounding. Please don’t turn me over to them.
But then again, Danyael owed her nothing. He had taken a risk for her once. Why would he do so again when she could see fear in the dark depths of his eyes?
Danyael hesitated. A muscle twitched in his smooth cheek before he turned back to face the government agents. His smooth tenor cut through the heated conversation between brusque street dialects and crisp New York accents. “Miss Rios isn’t interested in answering questions at this time.”
The agent turned to Danyael. No question, the agent knew who the real threat was—not the heavily tattooed men clad in Kevlar and leather and toting assault weapons, but the unarmed, crippled alpha empath. “Look, we’re not some damned journalist looking—”
“I know who you are. Without a warrant, Miss Rios isn’t obliged to go with you or answer any of your questions.”
“We don’t want to make this difficult.” The man’s tone had a hint—more than a hint—of a thr
eat.
“It isn’t, though it will be if you choose to escalate it. I’ve had a difficult day. Don’t push it.”
Behind Danyael, the gangsters eyed the agents. Their hands fidgeted on their guns. One of the men, obviously their leader, stared down the two men in suits. “Yo heard the man. Don’t push it. Get outta here.”
The agents cast Sofia exasperated glances, and then turned away, returning to their car. They did not drive away.
The gang leader looked at Danyael. “Want me ta get rid of them?”
“Don’t start a fight, please.” Danyael averted his gaze. “I’m tired.”
“Ain’t gonna be no fight if they just listen good.”
“When has the government ever listened to us?”
The gang leader laughed, a chilling sound. “Ain’t never, but mebbe we can help those two see the light, no?”
Danyael reentered the clinic. He looked at Sofia. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I think so.” She wiped her hands on the side of her denim jeans. “Uh, I know you’re busy but I need to talk to you.”
“Now, or can it wait until the clinic closes at ten?”
She studied the long line of patients in the waiting room. “It can wait.”
He nodded toward an empty chair. “Have a seat. You’ll be safe here.”
“Until someone comes in with a warrant.”
“They won’t. Your files are blocked.”
“They’re what?”
Danyael closed the distance to Sofia and lowered his voice to keep the conversation private. “Zara reached out to me an hour ago after Kyle called her to let her know that he’d been picked up by the IGEC. According to Zara, Xin blocked your files. Only someone with top-level security clearance will be able to issue a warrant, and there aren’t too many of those around—certainly none who will want to get involved in something they know nothing about.”
“Xin’s the NSA person Kyle spoke to.”
Danyael nodded. “Xin works for Zara, or vice versa. It’s hard to know the exact dynamics between Zara and Xin at any point in time.”
“But why would Xin—?”
“I don’t know. That’s a question you’ll have to ask Xin or Zara.”
The minutes crawled. The free clinic officially closed its doors at 10 p.m., but the line of patients did not thin for another hour. Danyael was in the office with his last patient when Zara entered the building. The passing glance she gave Sofia was far from reassuring, but she walked past Sofia without a word and entered Danyael’s office without knocking on the door.
Minutes later, Danyael’s patient scurried out, a worried furrow on her brow.
Zara did have that kind of effect on people.
Sofia pushed to her feet and crept closer to the open door of Danyael’s office. Both Danyael and Zara spoke in the hushed tones of a couple in a private argument.
“I don’t want anything to do with your cases.” Danyael’s voice was a low hiss of frustration. “I don’t want to get dragged into the muck. I don’t want to get forced into a showdown with drug cartels or international agencies—”
Zara’s voice was a seductive purr. “Turn her over to me. I’ll take her off your hands.”
“You know I can’t do that. She’s in over her head.”
Sofia nodded. Same thing I told myself.
Danyael continued. “I’m not going to turn her over to you.”
“She had a chance to get out but she insisted on holding on to the microchip,” Zara said. “She didn’t have to. This isn’t her business.”
“Someone made it her business when he stuck the microchip in her. Considering what it might contain, it’s no surprise she’s holding on to it, especially when the alternative is turning it over to you.”
“What are you saying?”
“She doesn’t trust you, and I don’t blame her.”
Zara snorted out a humorless laugh. “She’s out of options. I suspect she’d rather take her chances with Kyle than risk an encounter with the Rue Marcha or count on the IGEC to be understanding.” Zara paused. “You could, of course, talk her out of it.”
A moment of silence passed between them.
Danyael sighed. “I don’t know what’s on the microchip, but I do know that sometimes, you need someone with a different perspective to change the way the story ends. The microchip…you don’t care enough to ask what’s on it, and I…I’m afraid.”
Sofia winced at the ache she heard in Danyael’s voice. She had not imagined the fear she had seen in his eyes.
He continued so quietly that she had to strain to hear. “I can’t risk another run-in with the government. I can’t lose what I have.”
“What do you have, Danyael?” Zara’s voice was almost tender.
Sofia heard the sound of cloth rustling. Had Zara stepped into Danyael’s arms?
“I have enough,” was Danyael’s whispered acknowledgment.
“But it’s so little,” Zara said. “How can it be enough?”
Danyael’s response was another soft sigh.
“Fine.” Zara’s response was brisk. “Keep running from reality, if that’s what you want. Kyle’s on his way back to D.C.”
“What happened to him?”
“IGEC. Xin had to go down to Baltimore, wave her badge around, and remind the IGEC that they couldn’t hunt down or hold American citizens without a warrant countersigned by the NSA, and the NSA wasn’t in the signing mood. Still, there’s something nasty on the microchip. The IGEC was evasive, but Xin picked up enough to raise her hackles.”
“It’s always amazed me how Xin picks up as much as she does without actually being a mutant.”
“Yeah, well, the rest of us normal mortals learn to make the best use of our five senses. In Xin’s case, her naturally suspicious attitude works almost as well as a sixth sense. Anyway, Xin bought Kyle and Sofia a bit of breathing room, but the IGEC won’t be deterred. You can expect them to come down hard, and they won’t try to be subtle. And we haven’t even begun to discuss the Rue Marcha. They don’t care about the rules. Fact is, Sofia doesn’t have much time to figure out the contents of the microchip.”
“Twenty-four hours?”
“Less. Much less. I have to go. I’ll let you explain the hard facts to her.”
Sofia pulled away from the door but could not make it back to her seat before Zara strode out of Danyael’s office.
The assassin’s only reaction was a smile as she walked past Sofia. The heels of her boots snapped on the linoleum tiles. She let herself out of the clinic and locked the front door behind her.
Sofia blew out her breath. Zara had style all right, along the same lines as the Snow Queen in fairy tales. How and why Danyael put up with her was mind-boggling.
From behind Sofia, Danyael asked quietly, “How much of that conversation did you overhear?”
She spun around and tried not to blush. “Pretty much all of it.”
“Then you know that you don’t have much time.”
“Can I show you what I found?”
Danyael hesitated.
“Please. Maybe you can make sense of it. Even if you can’t, maybe you can tell me where to go next, who I can talk to.”
He looked away.
Sofia bit down on her lower lip and told herself not to plead. Danyael had his reasons not to get involved, but if he—the one person who seemed to understand her best—could not help her, then who would?
Certainly not Zara. And Kyle was still trying to untangle himself from the mess she had created by going to Johns Hopkins Hospital and searching the genomic databases.
How many more people am I going to drag into this madness? How many more will get hurt?
Danyael’s jaw clenched. He held out his hand. “Show me what you have.”
The smile of relief that spread across her face betrayed no sign of the conflict within. Sofia reached into her backpack and pulled out the stacks of paper she had spent the past five hours poring over to no avail. S
he spread the printouts over his desk and jabbed her finger at several salient points. “These three sections of DNA map to cardiac function, but I’m not sure what it’s supposed to tell us about the information on the microchip.”
Danyael traced a finger over the printed tangle of genetic code. “Just looking at this, I can’t tell you what the DNA sections do. You’ll need to dig deeper and find out how these particular sections differ from examples of ‘typical’ sections of DNA in the general population.”
“You think these sections are mutated?”
“It’s a possibility. In fact, you’ll need to consider the source of the code and the intended purchaser. Proficere Labs isn’t researching the cure for heart disease, I’m certain of that much, and the Rue Marcha is one of the most ruthless South American drug cartels. Why would the Rue Marcha be interested in understanding the genetic basis of cardiac function?”
Sofia pressed her lips together. “Could they be creating drugs that target specific genotypes?”
Danyael inhaled sharply. “Maybe. Possibly. I don’t know.”
His answer was vague, but she heard the whisper of fear in his voice. If their speculation was right, she was in far more trouble than she had counted upon. Was she ready to live in a world of malevolent drugs targeted to specific segments of the population based on their genetic heritage?
Like panicked sparrows, the questions fluttered through her mind. Which segments were targeted, and what would the drugs do to them?
What could she do? She was just one person. If a trained assassin did not want to get involved—if an alpha empath did not dare get involved—who was she to think that she could fix the problem?
Returning the microchip to Zara and consequently Proficere, who would likely turn it over to the Rue Marcha, was out of question.
She could give it to the IGEC, but Kyle was already in trouble with the IGEC. Until she knew what was on the microchip, she did not want to get him into more trouble.
Danyael’s words replayed over the recurring image of her unborn sister, her shriveled skin waxy and gray. Sometimes, you need someone with a different perspective to change the way the story ends.
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