Tainted Hearts

by Cyndi Friberg

  “Good luck with that.” Marc shook his head, frustration tightening his lips. “How long will it take before you know whether or not it’s working?”

  “I’m not sure.” She was silent for a minute as she entered a series of commands.

  “Was there anything interesting in any of the other files or have you focused entirely on F_PURE?” Tuesday didn’t want to distract Sydney, but there wasn’t really anything they could do to help. It was Sydney’s turn to save the world. Tuesday smiled, knowing the thought would please her sister.

  “Define interesting.”

  Marc moved up behind Tuesday and wrapped both arms around her waist. Her fresh, clean scent filled his nose, summoning him back to the dreary room, teasing him with echoes of the pleasure they’d shared.

  A protective urge to whisk her away from the crisis warred with his need to stay and fight. If they didn’t preempt Final PUREification, there would be nowhere to run.

  “What about the other files Raeanne mentioned?” Tuesday asked.

  “John_11_35 contained the Bible verse. The shortest one there is, if I’m not mistaken. Just two words—Jesus wept.”

  “Why was Jesus crying?” Marc rubbed his cheek against the softness of Tuesday’s hair. “Raeanne said Job loved biblical imagery.”

  “He found out Lazarus was dead,” Raeanne supplied from the doorway.

  “Okay, I’m not a Bible scholar. Who was Lazarus?” Tuesday pivoted to face the other woman.

  “Lazarus?” An icy shiver skittered down Marc’s spine. “I know someone named Lazarus. When did Job first appear?”

  “You think you might know who he was?” Raeanne moved closer to the workstation, her expression intent, her gaze locked with his.

  “Probably just a coincidence. I’ll have to check it out. Let’s focus on one thing at a time. Why did learning Lazarus was dead make Jesus cry?”

  “They were good friends and Jesus arrived too late to heal him.” Raeanne crossed her arms over her chest as speculation clouded her gaze. “Lazarus was already dead.”

  “That’s an odd ending for a Bible story,” Tuesday noted.

  “That’s not where the story ends. Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead.” Raeanne rolled her shoulders, sounding a bit impatient. “How can you stand just sitting there writing code? I’d go crazy.”

  “That infers you haven’t already,” Sydney returned without shifting her eyes from the screen.

  “My friend was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck.” Marc couldn’t shake the feeling that this was no mere coincidence. Mentally scrambling, he searched his memory for the last time he’d seen or heard from Lazarus Dayle. “They’d just declared him stillborn when he started breathing. Thus his unusual name.”

  Sydney drummed her finger against the edge of workstation. “Come on, baby. Beat them to the finish line.”

  “Who is she coaching?” Raeanne looked to Tuesday for the answer.

  “Her program is racing the subroutine that shifts the file’s encryption.”

  Raeanne let out a soft whistle. “No wonder I couldn’t open it.”

  “Holy shit, I think I’ve got it.”

  They huddled behind Sydney’s chair. Marc took a deep breath as a solid black bar scrolled down the screen, taking the image with it. The cursor blinked for a second, alone on the screen, then characters appeared one by one.

  “Damn.” Sydney sighed. “It’s just gibberish.”

  A few more lines formed before Marc smiled. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Sydney. This isn’t gibberish—it’s the chemical composition for the SP-64 cocktail.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Understanding slammed into Tuesday in the same instant Marc turned her to face him.

  “Oh, my God,” she cried. “It was never the heart. Without the cocktail, every person with a transplant will reject the device.”

  “Tainted.” Marc pronounced the word as if he tasted something foul. “Job was going to make sure of it.” He slid open his vidcom and spoke a name she didn’t recognize. “It’s Marc. When’s the next shipment of the cocktail scheduled for dispersal?” After a short pause, he said, “Shit! Is there any way to intercept them…I understand…transmit the manifest to my vidcom. Thanks.”

  Raeanne resumed her military posture. “I’ll alert General Bettencourt,” she said and hustled from the room.

  Marc’s vidcom beeped. Tuesday watched his eyes as he thumbed through the manifest. So intense and commanding. So focused. Her chest expanded with tenderness and pride.

  “What do you want me to do?” She was almost afraid to disrupt his concentration.

  “Start calling the distribution centers. Each shuttle stops at four or five. If we catch them at the first, the rest won’t matter. Set your vidcom to receive and I’ll transmit the list. They have to hold the lots until we can do on-site testing.”

  She slid her vidcom open and received the list he sent. “Wait. How do I explain the testing?”

  “Tell them there may have been a calibration malfunction. This is primarily a precaution, but they can’t release the product until we’re absolutely sure nothing is wrong.”

  Marc’s vidcom beeped again. He paused to read the text message on the small screen. “Thank God. We were able to recall four of the shuttles.”

  “How many does that leave?” General Bettencourt joined them in the workroom.

  “Three,” Marc supplied, then turned his attention back to his vidcom.

  “I have someone waiting in the warehouse at the first distribution center,” Tuesday explained a few minutes later. “They’ll call as soon as the shuttle arrives. We’re down to two.”

  “Luther can’t get either of the pilots to answer their radios.” Marc snapped his vidcom closed against the heel of his hand. “I’m tempted to go after Two-Three-Five. It’s a one-shot run right to the biggest distribution center on the planet. Chuck can fly it in his sleep, and sometimes does. He’s made this run for seven years.”

  “What do you need?” the general asked.

  “Anything can catch a solar shuttle, but he’s got a good head start. What do you suggest?”

  “The Rahab,” Bettencourt said with an enigmatic smile.

  * * * * *

  Strapped securely into one of the four seats on the jetfighter Rahab, Tuesday let out an excited yell. Raeanne Rawsen executed another barrel roll and Tuesday laughed uproariously.

  “You’re not going to think it’s so damn funny when I puke all over this plane,” Marc snarled from behind them.

  The women exchanged knowing smiles, but Raeanne kept the jet level.

  “Still no contact from your pilot, Mr. Sinclair. General Bettencourt just tried again,” Raeanne reported, the information coming to her through the audiocom hooked around her ear.

  Tuesday didn’t care that they could see nothing but clouds and an occasional glimpse of the ground two miles below. Thank heavens the effects of the Anistaum had worn off or she would be as miserable as their grumpy male passenger. She was seated in the copilot seat, after all, so Marc was a mere passenger. What a grand adventure!

  “You’re grinning again,” he warned.

  “I like this plane. I may hire—”

  “Actually, Rahab’s a jet. That’s like calling a ship a boat. It’s rather insulting.”

  Tuesday laughed. “I apologize—to both of you.”

  Marc’s vidcom beeped and he activated the device with a voice command. “Sinclair here. Go ahead, Cobra.”

  “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

  “I don’t pay you to blow smoke up my ass. What have you found out?”

  “Job recruited key members of your staff, from chemists to department heads, his tentacles weave all through your corporation. PURE had to have begun infiltration months, perhaps years ago.” There was a long pause before he added, “This kind of methodical planning is always personal.”

  “How did they get past your security screenings? You’ve g
ot access to information—”

  “Most of these people were in place before you hired me.”

  “Keep digging. I want them all.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Tell me more about Lazarus,” Raeanne prompted. She’d obviously heard the brief exchange. “What makes you think he might have been Job?”

  “The scripture, mostly, and Job’s obsession with me. Cobra’s right. It has always felt personal, not professional. Most of the people with a grudge against Sinclair-Dietrich carried their axes to court.”

  Tuesday glanced back at him. He sounded distracted and sad. “But the courts exonerated Sinclair-Dietrich. Maybe that’s when it turned personal.”

  “I’ve known Lazarus my entire life.” He shook his head, his expression distant with memories.

  A small crowd had gathered on the tarmac by the time Raeanne landed at the distribution center. Tuesday frowned. So much for the manager keeping things quiet.

  “There’s been some sort of disruption.” Just a hint of disbelief sneaked through in Raeanne’s well-modulated tone. She spoke calmly into her audiocom. “The dispatcher has asked me to hold position and not approach the bays.”

  “Why?” Marc craned his neck, trying to see out through the sculpted windshield. “What’s going on?”

  Raeanne spoke into her headset for a moment and then explained, “Shuttle Two-Three-Five arrived a few minutes ago. They taxied to the gate, then threw the bound and gagged pilot out onto the tarmac and left without clearing their departure.”

  “Is Chuck all right?” Marc’s voice cracked with anxiety.

  Another pause. “Yes. The center’s medic is tending him. He was pretty battered, but his injuries aren’t severe.”

  “Then let’s go! Does Chuck know where they headed? How did someone get control of his shuttle?”

  “Mr. Sinclair, I’m speaking with a dispatcher, not the pilot. The shuttle headed due south and they’ve got about fifteen minutes on us. I’ve been cleared for takeoff.”

  * * * * *

  An image of Chuck’s ruddy-cheeked face lodged in Marc’s mind, keeping his temper at a steady simmer. He’d never seen Chuck without a smile and had never known him to entertain a mean thought. Yet today he’d been beaten, terrorized, bound and tossed like garbage onto a bustling tarmac. All in the name of PUREity.

  “What do they hope to gain by taking the shipment now? We know they have it.” Marc fidgeted in his seat, hating the inactivity. He needed to do something, anything!

  “Thank God they’re stupid,” Raeanne said. “Smart thugs would’ve killed your pilot, offloaded the cocktail, then crashed the shuttle with the pilot’s body on board.”

  “I’m glad we’re on the same side. Did I ever tell you that?” Tuesday said chattily, and Raeanne smiled.

  “I have a visual,” Raeanne said suddenly. “I’m going higher.”

  “Higher” meant forty-five degrees straight up. Marc snapped his mouth shut as his stomach heaved. Damn the woman. Was she bent on seeing the contents of his stomach?

  She decreased her speed to match the shuttle. Marc could feel the pressure against his body ease. The jet slowed to three hundred miles per hour after traveling at three times that speed. It felt like they floated, motionless in space.

  “Dead or alive?”

  He hesitated. “Alive. As much as I’d like to watch you shoot them out of the sky, we need to talk to whoever’s on that shuttle.”

  “Copy that.”

  Raeanne dropped the Rahab into a sustained nosedive, drawing an enormous C across the sky. Plummeting through the atmosphere, the jet shot directly in front of the shuttle. With a quick blast over the bow, Raeanne demanded the smaller ship’s surrender.

  The shuttle floundered, rocking wildly from side to side. After a minute’s hesitation, it banked sharply to the left and mimicked the Rahab’s freefalling descent.

  “What do they think they’re doing?” Raeanne easily maneuvered to follow their escape. She fired another round, closer to their hull.

  “Can you contact them?” Marc asked.

  “They don’t appear to be receiving,” she said, but she made an obvious gesture toward her earpiece and gave a thumbs-up. “Is one shipment really worth all this trouble, Mr. Sinclair? I’ll just shoot them down.”

  “Copy that,” he echoed with a smile.

  The shuttle heaved to, leveled off and Raeanne grinned. “We’re coming up on a clearing. Looks fairly flat. I think I can force them down in the field and not incinerate the shuttle. Minimize debris.”

  Like a kite on a string, the shuttle adjusted its course, heading toward the open field.

  Raeanne flipped off her headset. “If you’re hoping to question these clowns, we better be ready to run the second we touch down. This was too easy. They’re either up to something or they’re planning on going out with a bang.” She made a gun out of her fingers and held it to her head, illustrating exactly what she meant.

  The jet bumped and skittered as the landing gear fought for purchase in the grassy field. Marc braced himself for the worst of it, but had his safety restraints unfastened long before Raeanne succeeded in stopping completely. The hatch popped and hissed, the seal releasing pressure from inside the cockpit.

  “Get ready,” Raeanne called. The hatch slid open. “Let’s go. Go!”

  Raeanne crawled down the side of the jet with catlike agility. Marc paused on the ground, reaching back to help Tuesday. She wore fatigues and a black T-shirt and her wrist now sported a molded splint. He was surprised to see a pistol tucked into the waistband of her pants.

  “Can you fire that thing left-handed?”

  “As well as I can with my right,” she answered with an embarrassed shrug.

  “Stay behind me,” Raeanne ordered.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Marc and Tuesday chorused.

  They ran across the field toward the shuttle, approaching the craft from the rear. Deep gouges had been torn through the earth by the ship’s frantic landing.

  A shot rang out. A flash illuminated the cockpit of the shuttle.

  Marc stumbled.

  A second shot echoed the first.

  Silence descended over the clearing. Time itself missed a beat before resuming its endless march. Marc’s steps slowed, his feet dragged. Futility tasted bitter in his mouth.

  Raeanne’s weapon remained at ready, her posture alert, intense. “Can you open the hatch or should I blast it?”

  “I can open it.” Marc pressed his hand to the scanner and stood to one side while the hatch hissed and lowered, steadily unfolding toward the ground.

  “Stay here,” Marc told Tuesday. “There’s no reason for you to see this.”

  “You don’t know that they… I’ve seen dead bodies before.”

  He cupped her cheek with his hand and kissed her gently on the lips. “Let me do this. You have enough fuel for your nightmares.”

  She shook her head then pressed a kiss into the center of his palm. “I’ll stay behind you, but I’m not staying here.”

  Knowing a lost argument when he heard one, Mark pulled his pistol and turned to Raeanne. “Go on. I’ll cover you.”

  The interior of the shuttle was shadowed. He peered into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Raeanne moved cautiously toward the cockpit and the two bodies waiting there. All he could see clearly was the backs of their heads as they slumped awkwardly over their chairs. A gun lay on the floor in the small space between them, having fallen from the pilot’s lifeless hand.

  Three steps ascended into the cabin. He placed his foot on the middle step and something slammed into his back knocking him forward. He collided with the wall opposite the hatch as gunfire erupted behind him. He heard Tuesday yelp and a figure crumpled to his left, half in and half out of the tiny lavatory.

  Scrambling to his feet, he approached the moaning form, steadying his weapon with both hands. “Are you hit, Tuesday?” he asked urgently, not taking his eyes off the shooter. Where had Tuesday foun
d the strength to knock him down? She’d used her shoulder like a linebacker!

  “No, but she almost got you. Oh, God, she was so close!”

  The whimper in her voice tore through him like the energy pulses he’d been spared.

  “I shot her at least once,” Tuesday cautioned. “Don’t let her bleed to death. We have to make her talk!”

  Good point. He kicked the shooter’s gun well out of range and went to one knee beside her. The shuttle rocked subtly, the smell of blood cloying and foul.

  “Roll her over, I’ve got you covered,” Raeanne said calmly.

  He tucked his gun into the back of his pants and rolled the shooter over.

  Marc couldn’t speak. His mind refused to comprehend what his eyes revealed. Why was Laura Finn here? This was Elise’s nurse—her aunt!

  “Hello, Ester,” Raeanne greeted without inflection.

  “Rahab.” Laura sneered in return. Her hands clasped her side, blood slowly seeping between her fingers.

  “Why did you call her Ester? This is my daughter’s nurse.” His shell-shocked brain still refused to absorb the implications.

  “Well, then you definitely knew Job, because this is his sister,” Raeanne told him. “Everyone at PURE calls her Ester.”

  He shook his head. That made no sense. “Nathan Finn died eleven years ago.”

  Tuesday stepped into his peripheral vision. “How badly is she hurt?”

  He reached for Laura’s hand but she kicked him away. “She’ll live.”

  “I’ll clear the ship, make sure no one’s hiding in the hold.” Raeanne skirted Marc and disappeared into the maintenance bay.

  “Everyone thought Nate died right after you lost your parents.” Marc’s befuddled brain slowly began assembling the pieces. “But he staged his death, so he could become Job.” Shaking his head in disbelief, he said, “But you’ve seen me. Why didn’t Job grab me that day in the lobby of the stronghold if he’s really your brother?”