by Dyal Bailey
Werther had assured him that very soon the byproduct of Rafaela and Jacobs’ research would create all the deadly and contagious viruses that he could ever need. Then, not only would the Peloso Family become the most powerful crime family in the world—Antonio would become utterly untouchable.
He inhaled deeply and checked his phone to see if Puja had sent him an email yet.
Chapter Three
Rafaela regarded the inside of the Bed & Breakfast Inn and paused to consider all that had happened that day. She was still dazed from her encounter with Micah. She shook her head, as if to remove him from her thoughts, and began to make her way down the long hall toward her suite. Noticing the lovely view from one of the bay windows in the lobby, she stopped and took a moment to soak in the ancient oaks lining the streets of downtown Augusta.
Her breath caught as the clatter of a man's leather-bottomed dress shoes against the polished wood floors found her ears. The sound increased; they were heading her way. She smoothly slipped a tiny cylinder from her pocket.
“Dr. Ramos?” a man’s voice called.
Rafaela hurried through the lobby and down a hall..
“Dr. Ramos, Mr. Bailey asked me to have a word with you.”
She stopped abruptly, pivoted smoothly on the toes of her high heels, and eyed the man. “If Bailey sent you, then you have a report on his mother.”
He stepped forward and she backed away, locking eyes with him.
“It's early March and she's going water-skiing.”
She allowed a smile to cross her lips. “Such a lively old darling.” She gently pocketed the cylinder. Scanning her peripheral, she shook his hand with a firm grip.
“I'm Dickinson.”
“Of course you are,” she answered flatly. She watched his short, jerky movements as he popped several peppermints into his mouth. With a wandering gaze, she followed him outside to a cluster of trees.
“What seems to be the problem? The ambassador is dead, isn’t he?” She picked at a piece of lint on her sleeve.
“Yes, but the virus spread to our man, the chauffeur, and he hasn’t stopped vomiting.” Clumsily, he crammed the roll of mints back into the pocket of his understated, navy blazer.
She ran her thumb across one of the fingers on her left hand and studied her manicure. “Are you actually concerned that he’s going to die?”
His voice wavered. “No, no. Of course not. You are very good at what you do.”
“Then what seems to be the problem?” She took aim and kicked a tree root with her heel. She would have liked to kick the man in the teeth. Why should she have to explain herself to another one of Bailey’s hired babysitters? Rafaela took a moment to give the man a once over, but knew without looking that he was the same as all the others.
“Mr. Bailey would like to know why your little experiments have to be so remarkably contagious.” He shifted his weight from his left foot to his right.
“He didn't mind them being contagious when they sterilized that family of terrorists.” Her jaw was set as she moved in his direction. She was so tired of this crap. She would like to snap this Dickinson person, and every man he worked with, like a twig.
Sensing her aggression, he took a nervous step away. “Mr. Bailey is not ungrateful, Doctor.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Anything else?” She continued to stare at him with piercing eyes.
Dickinson fumbled to pull out another mint. “Yes.” Popping more of the soothing candies onto his tongue, he showed her a picture of Fritz with his long blond hair and thick swatch of black bangs. “Is this who you left for pickup?”
She nodded. “Where is he now?”
“Apparently, back on your trail.” He showed her a video of Fritz breaking the paramedic’s neck.
She lifted a wary brow, then her eyes drifted away, weary of the ring of death that surrounded her. The collateral damage never seemed to end.
Biting her lip, she walked away from Dickinson without so much as a goodbye. She knew she should care more. She wanted to care. Maybe it just wasn’t in her to care anymore about anyone. If that was the case, then why were thoughts of Micah plaguing her mind?
Lifting one of her hands to her face, she felt the warmth coming to her cheek as she remembered her final argument with Micah, so many years ago. He had been wrong, and he knew he was wrong, yet as soon as they walked into her apartment that night, he had yelled at her like he was chastising an unruly child.
Rafaela certainly hadn’t been a child; she had been twenty-two years old with a medical degree by the time they broke up.
Yet, Micah had patronized her and wagged his finger in her face. “Somebody set me up! This was a simple snatch and grab for info. The only way anyone could have traced my movements was if it was a trap in the first place!”
“That’s not the point!” she had yelled back. “I couldn’t have cared less if you had hacked into the Pentagon, but using my passcode and putting my professional reputation at risk? They’ve put me on cautionary notice, Micah. I could lose my fellowship!”
“Give me a break, Rafaela. Those suck-ups at the Dean’s office aren’t going to risk messing with their resident genius.” He rolled his eyes and moved to touch her shoulder.
She had stepped away. For the first time during the six months that they had been seeing each other, the idea of his touch disgusted her. “Life isn’t one big game, Micah.”
“I never said it was.” He gritted his teeth.
“But you act like it is. You’re twenty-five years old. When do you plan on finally growing up?” She cringed when saw she had wounded him with her comment, but she rubbed her face and continued, “You of all people should know how hard I’ve worked to establish myself in Biotechnology. Now that Abuela is gone, my reputation is all I have left.”
“You have me. Doesn’t that mean anything?” He looked down at her.
“Not anymore, it doesn’t.” She opened her door, a silent command for him to go.
The memory of Micah walking away that night brought tears to Rafaela eyes. She shook the thoughts from her head and hurried to her room. Suddenly exhausted, all she wanted to do now was get some sleep.
…
Raja Puja parked his car in an area far away from public view and peeked around to make sure he hadn’t been followed. This was surely an unnecessary precaution, but Puja was cautious and suspicious by nature—and lucky. Especially when it came to money.
As a boy, he’d won three raffles in a row. And as a teenager, he’d found a wallet someone misplaced with over a thousand dollars inside. Luckily––he’d been able to hide the wallet and keep the money for himself. But after that it started to seem like Puja was losing his blessedness. So he’d made the decision that he would simply manufacture his own good fortune. And he was forever grateful that he had.
In his senior year, Puja had been in an unfortunate tie with a bright, but undeserving, young man for number one in his class. Luckily, the principal discovered the empty whiskey bottles and proof of cheating that Puja left in the other student’s locker, thus enabling him to give the Valedictorian speech and receive the cash prizes awarded for that honor.
Later, when he didn’t have the funds to complete his education, a rich and superstitious alumnus, who routinely sought the advice of a psychic under Puja’s employ, picked his name out of a random group of students and gave him a full scholarship.
When he graduated, yet again with honors, he began applying for jobs and, somehow, no other truly viable candidates ever showed up for their interviews. Therefore, Puja fell into one wonderful corporate spying opportunity after another.
Now he was heading for the biggest payoff of his career. Although he didn’t yet know the name of his actual employer, the man fairly showered him with money. Puja was not going to let something trivial like parking his car in the wrong place mess things up. He surveyed his surroundings and entered the deserted warehouse.
Squinting into blaring lights, he nodded at the unseen fac
e of Antonio Peloso. His voice was clipped and to the point as he spoke into the microphone. “How was your dinner with Rafaela?”
Puja blinked towards the nameless voice. “Perfect. She’s everything you said.”
Antonio watched the scientist take his seat and began playing with a burnished Castilian switchblade, running the knife back and forth over his early-evening stubble. His eyes narrowed as he eased forward, still cloaked by the powerful lights focused on Puja.
“And how did it go with Micah Carteret?” With the tip of his expensive toy, Antonio scratched the black hairs shooting out of his ears as he sat back in his chair.
Puja folded his arms across his chest. He looked like a recently fed cat that had dined on a particularly plump canary. “Smoother than we hoped. You were right, there’s definitely still something there.”
“I’m seldom wrong,” Antonio purred. His contentment was short lived. “Whether or not we can use it, is another question,” he grimaced.
Puja pulled a handkerchief from behind his pocket protector and wiped his glasses. “One thing is for certain, they could barely keep their eyes off each other.”
Something resembling a smile curved across Antonio’s mouth. “How nice to know my years of hard work and research have finally paid off.”
Puja held his hand out to shield his eyes. “You know, this would be a great deal more pleasant if you would turn off those lights. It’s not as if I haven’t proven myself trustworthy by now.” He pulled off his glasses for effect.
“That’s very reassuring, Dr. Puja.” He allowed a chilling sort of tremble into his voice. After Antonio closed his knife with a slithering click, Puja’s hands fell to grip his chair.
Sweat gleaming on his forehead, the cowed scientist put his glasses back on and looked away.
Antonio leaned forward and continued, “When does she meet with Jacobs?”
“First thing in the morning.” Puja sat straight up in his chair.
“Let’s hope he’ll be able to pull her in. We really don’t want to resort to plan B. Our pretty little scientist won’t be nearly as productive.” Antonio clicked off his microphone.
Hearing it, Puja knew this was his signal to leave. He exited the warehouse as cautiously as he had arrived.
…
Covered in a scant diaphanous nighty, Rafaela murmured in her sleep. Her petite, athletic body tangled itself in the embroidery-tipped sheets. She woke up, gasping a lungful of air. “Micah.” She sat up, shook her head, and ran her fingers through her thick black mane. “What the hell? I hate that snake.”
She stood up and gaped into the mirror. Her hand trembled as she pressed it against her cheek. Shaking her head, she looked at the antique clock and saw that it was nearly five a.m. She glanced at her Nike running shoes. Soon, she was slipping her tiny feet into her socks, sweeping her hair into a bun, and was suited up for a run. As she jogged under the street lamps, wearing shorts and a zip-up cotton hoodie, she thrilled at the cool air pushing through her lungs and the feel of her blood pumping rapidly through her veins.
She was in a hurry.
Why? Where? She never knew, but she’d been in a hurry since she was a very little girl. Sighing, she knew it was because of her grandmother. Thinking of her now, she slowed.
Rafaela had known at a very young age that she would have only so many helpings of her grandmother’s wonderful arroz con pollo. She would have only so many hugs and so many mornings where her grandmother would tell her, “Wake up, my darling, Manitas.” And she would have only so much time to make her proud, before she would be lost to her forever.
Abuela was old when Rafaela was born. She hadn’t realized it until she went off to school and all the other children came and went with young, energetic parents. Her own mother had died when she was born and when it happened, her father had walked out of the hospital, never to return into her life. For her, there was only Abuela.
On that first day of kindergarten, with her new set of crayons clutched protectively to her chest, and her hand squeezing her grandmother’s, she’d walked terrified all the way to school. Although the teachers had been kind, they’d had to pry her out of Abuela’s arms. Soon they realized she was smart and gave her even more affection and attention. But being highly intelligent came at a price. After a week of listening and observing, she understood that her grandmother was old.
On the day she came to that realization, she was silent all the way home. When they reached their tiny mobile home, she stopped and starred at the ground, unable to look at her grandmother. “Are you going to die?”
Abuela was quiet for a moment. She took Rafaela’s face in her hands. “Everyone must die, Manitas.”
“Not you! You’re not everybody.” Squeezing her tiny hands together, she studied her feet.
“Yes, even me. Although, not now. I hope to be here for a very long time.”
This did not soothe her. Rafaela remembered how she ran inside, threw herself onto her grandmother’s bed, and cried until she fell asleep. When she awoke, already wise beyond her years, she never mentioned her grandmother’s mortality again.
Coming back to the present, she realized she had slowed to a walk. She gradually moved faster until she was running more quickly than before. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been gone, but she knew it had been a while, because she was miles away from the inn. Turning her wrist to check the time, from the far corner of her eye, she noticed a van following her.
She detoured down an alley, but quickly realized the narrow brick walls led to a dead end. Fully on guard, she walked slowly back toward the street. Just as she exited the alley, she saw a goliath of a Scot a few feet away, blocking her exit.
“Hello, Dr. Ramos. I wonder what brings you out in the wee hours of the morning.” He lurched toward her, taking wide steps, his post-like arms casually swinging by his side.
Never looking away, she stepped to meet him. “Certainly not a toad like you.”
As the huge man pulled out a syringe, she continued to advance toward him. He noticed her unexpected movement in his direction and the determined expression on her face. It caused him to pause. The slight hesitation was all she needed. With the speed of a striking rattlesnake, her small, swift hand sliced through the air, popping his fist and knocking the syringe to the ground. Wasting no time, she spun, using the momentum to place a hammer-like side kick to his lower shin, breaking the hulk’s leg with a resounding crack. She relaxed her stance as he hit the ground with a thud. She paused, took a calm, easy breath and kicked him in the head.
Leaning over, she saw her thrust hit its mark. He was out cold. She examined him, then stretched her arms and legs and moved her head from side to side. She spread the giant’s legs, grabbed him at the knees, and pulled him further into the alley, out of sight.
Minutes later, she was under a street lamp, jogging in place. A car pulled up. Dickinson got out, yawning and annoyed. She led him to the alley. He inspected the hulk and rolled him over.
“Is he alive?”
She shrugged.
“Great.” He glanced at the body then at Rafaela. She ignored him and slipped her hair into a long ponytail.
“Did you get me that info on Micah Carteret?” She looked at him fixedly as she awaited his response.
He nodded, handed her a thumb drive, then sighed and sent a text. He checked the date on his cell phone. “I’m flying out for a meeting with Mr. Bailey at the end of the day. He wants a breakdown, by five tonight, on how you’re going to handle the Serbian once he gets to New Orleans. He also needs to know how long this Jacobs excursion is going to take.” Dickinson sucked on his mint.
She glared at him and threw her arms up in the air. “Tell Bailey that he can go to hell or shoot the guy himself. I’m exhausted. I haven’t had any freaking time off in over a year!”
Staring without emotion, he replied, “You know the political repercussions if the Serbian is seen as an open hit.”
She pulled at her ear and turned away.
“Okay. Fine. I’m meeting Jacobs at ten a.m. I’ll know more then, but it shouldn’t take me long, maybe a day or two, to give him what he needs.” She ran her fingers through her restrained hair. She bared her teeth, gave him an icy glance, and jogged away.
She ran for about half a mile before she realized her hands were in tight fists. Relaxing her arms, she shook them out and increased her speed. But her dissatisfaction was still there. She felt like a trapped animal, a hawk locked in a cage, only released into the sun when her master sent her to capture his prey. And she’d had just about enough.
All I ask for is a few measly days to do the kind of science I’m meant to do.
Huffing, she slowed to a walk. Then she thought of Micah and all of her anger and frustration returned. Of all the people she never wanted to see again, he was at the top of her list.
She shuddered with anger as she recalled his comment about her marrying Brett on the rebound. As if! She had been well over the arrogant, full-of-himself Micah Carteret when she had met her husband.
Had he forgotten that she was the one who ended the relationship?
The slime! Using my computer and personal codes to hack into the Harvard database. She wished that she had killed him right then for what he called an innocent way to raise some extra cash. She exhaled and thought about his comment again. On the rebound? Hah! She hadn’t accepted his phone calls for a nearly a month before Brett Hawthorne stepped into her life.
She contemplated Brett and her feelings. Did she love him? Of course, she loved him. She’d married him, hadn’t she? Yes, she would admit that Brett had appeared at an emotional time in her life, and that was a more than a little bit convenient for the CIA. But, Brett had been everything that Micah wasn’t. He was gentle, selfless, and comfortable.
