THE CURE
A BLACK GHOST THRILLER by
Freddie Villacci, JR.
THE CURE
Copyright © 2021 by Freddie Villacci, JR
Invincible Beauty Publishing
First Edition
ISBN Paperback: 975-1-7352247-5-6
ISBN Hardcover: 975-1-7352247-6-3
ISBN Ebook: 975-1-7352247-4-9
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design: ebooklaunch.com
Formatting: Erik Gevers
American Big Pharma wants her gone. China wants her as a bargaining chip to rule the world. She could save millions of lives. But now she's fighting for her own.
On the brink of curing cancer, Gracie Green is eager to advance to human trials and share her findings with the world. But the FDA, and special interests in Big Pharma and a host of other people who stand to lose billions if cancer is cured, have other ideas. They hire expert assassin and Ex-CIA operative Jaco Ivanov; with one mission—wipe Greentech from the face of the earth!
Hunted by an expert killer and framed for a terrible crime, Gracie finds herself on the run, struggling to stay one step ahead of Jaco and his vast assets. Caught between a murky world of shadow governments, assassins, and even China's quietly deadly intelligence network, her future hangs in the balance. There's only one thing none of them accounted for—the Black Ghost.
Gracie will need more than luck to find the truth and bring her cure to the world. Can she hope to survive against such powerful enemies, even with the help of the legendary assassin who tops the FBI's most-wanted list…
Or will the Black Ghost finally have met his match?
V
To the scientists who find a cure.
One day, hopefully soon,
cancer will be cured with a simple pill.
Just as today an infection is treated with penicillin.
When that day comes cancer’s reign of terror
over the world will be over.
V
1
Two years after Book 1
Early July
Bic tried to steady the pace of his pounding heart as he squeezed his massive body through a skintight hole leading into a death cave of pungent-smelling impenetrable blackness constructed by the Viet Cong. Once he got down there, he’d fire his weapon toward the source of any sound—a drip of water, a flutter of wings against a hard carapace—and each blast would reveal the contours of the cave in strobe relief, and he’d wish he hadn’t seen it…
…This is what confined spaces did to Bic Green.
He was a big guy, well over six feet tall; his dark skin tight over thick chiseled muscles—the kind you only get from a combination of genes and hard lifting—and the tight chamber of the MRI machine he found himself in was the latest culprit.
For two years now, since his first collapse on the boat in the coastal waters of Seal Island, he’d been suffering blackouts. Random, without warning, and excruciating; they tortured him until some benevolent switch in his brain brought the blessed relief of unconsciousness. He had seen consultants all over the world, but received no answers.
The opinions varied—allergic reaction, nervous breakdown, post-traumatic stress. One psychologist had the unmitigated gall to suggest Bic had invented the incidents in his mind. But the gob of blood he’d spit up on more than one occasion didn’t lie. Something was wrong with him and it wasn’t going to go away on its own.
He often wondered if this was God paying him back for all that he had done. If so, that was okay, he couldn’t get the pictures of those innocent victims out of his mind. Especially the two he didn’t kill, the children of the Braddicks. That eight-year-old boy was just a year older than he was when his mom was murdered. The boy didn’t do anything, he was so scared, but he could see it in his eyes that he had wanted to really bad. One day, somehow, he’d hoped to help fix that young boy he’d taken so much from.
He’d been reluctant to return to the states since his assassinations of nine of the ten wealthiest people in the US, but his niece, Dr. Gracie Green, wouldn’t take no for an answer. She had arranged a panel of sub-specialized radiologists at the Duchossois Center for Advanced Medicine (DCAM) at the University of Chicago Medical Center in Hyde Park to comb over his entire body, certain that they would find answers.
Two hours later—his head still ringing from the jackhammer pounding of the MRI—Bic sat next to Gracie as she reviewed her notes in a brightly lit conference room at a highly polished oval oak table. Gracie stood slender and tall in her high heels and commanded attention with a confident, watchful demeanor. Her black hair was straightened into a bob and slicked back away from her face to behind her ear, revealing her youthful twenties face and promising never to get in the way of anything. She was wearing cobalt blue scrubs and a tailored white lab coat, which strongly contrasted with her espresso-colored skin.
Her nametag read Dr. Grace E. Green, Oncology and her lab coat had an embroidered coat of arms and the words At the Forefront, UChicago Medicine. Though she had moved her research work to her private lab, she had retained her admitting privileges and continued to see patients occasionally here at DCAM. She had earned a few chips, and today was a day she was calling most of them in.
She reached over to him, placing her fragile hand on top of his. “You okay?”
He nodded once. “Fine.”
“Liar,” she said with a teasing smile. “It’s okay to be scared, you know. But in a few minutes the doctors will be with us and we’ll have answers. That’s the first step in a process.”
Bic looked at her hand and smiled, “I used to hold you in one arm.”
She pulled her hand away with giddy embarrassment. “Cut it out, Unc.”
“Look at you now,” said Bic. “A brilliant woman getting ready to put your mark on the world. Your momma would be proud.”
“Thanks, Unc, but you’re changing the subject.”
Both heads snapped toward the opening door as a six-man panel of doctors entered.
“Well,” said Dr. Yang, a serious-faced Asian thirty-something with a Beatles haircut. Bic had never much cared for the Beatles look, but this guy pulled it off. “We didn’t find any abnormalities.”
“None?” Gracie asked. Bic thought she sounded disappointed.
Dr. Yang shook his head. Bic almost expected to hear girlish shrieks as his side swept bangs moved back and forth. “I went over the body scans six times.”
She turned to Dr. Samuel, a man with dark caramel skin and dark brown eyes in his forties with close-cropped graying hair wearing a lab coat pressed as stiff as cold rubber. “No abnormalities in the bi-frontal white matter regions?”
“None,” said Dr. Samuel. He threw a glance at Bic—what was the look? Reassurance? Pacification?
“You did the flair, T1 and T2 signals?” Gracie asked, clearly perplexed.
“I did. Personally.”
“And nothing?”
“Nothing. No lesions. No shadows.”
“No lesions,” the man echoed. He continued gazing at Bic. Reassurance, pacification… pity…
Accusation…
Malevolence…
The man’s face distorted into a wooden mask, drawn taut and lightening in hue, with black grains and knots appearing there. T
he eyes glowed from behind the mask in a familiar, dope-stained red and a voice barked out from behind it “I see you.”
Bic jerked back in his seat as if jabbed with a cattle prod.
“Mr. Green? Are you okay?” asked Dr. Samuel, his appearance completely normal.
Bic nodded slowly, his breath coming in a long, uneasy sigh. “Yeah. Been a long day of tests is all.”
Though he obediently looked around as Gracie showed off the building they exited, Bic barely noticed the beautiful, clear day illuminating the impressive four-story atrium. It even smelled light and summery. Until they stepped outside. The full impact of the heat and humidity of a city set next to an enormous body of water hit him and roused him a bit. As they moved through the facility parking lot, Gracie’s voice sounded oddly distant as it reverberated, even though she walked right next to him. “Unc, I’m so sorry to put you through all that for nothing. I thought they’d have some answers. Or at least know what questions to ask next.”
“I appreciate you trying,” he said. “I was proud of you in there. Half the words you said, man, sounded like Martian to me.”
“I’ll figure out what’s wrong with you, I promise. We still have the bloodwork to assess. I’ve been corresponding with a hematologist in Boston who specializes in rare blood diseases.”
They stopped in front of her Nissan Maxima.
“Thank you,” said Bic.
“Unc,” she said, “are you serious?”
“You’re a busy girl. You don’t have to do this.”
“I don’t want to hear any more thank yous out of you. It’s insulting,” she said with a smile. Gracie stopped, “Hey, why don’t you come with me to see our lab building? It’s not every medical researcher who gets the funds to build her own private lab. I want you to see all the cool stuff we’re doing and meet everyone.”
“I’d love to, but I need to catch a flight.”
Gracie frowned. Bic couldn’t help but noticing her brow furrowed just like her mother’s used to. “You just got here.”
“Let me know when I can meet with that doc in Boston. And I meant what I said about you being busy. I don’t want you to take your eye off your company worrying too much about me.”
Her face beamed for a moment, then turned serious again. “Please tell your investors I have a plan to speed up getting our drug advanced into Phase 1 human FDA trials.” With a proud smile, “We cracked it.”
“Since you were five I believed with all my heart you’d find the cure,” Bic said emotionally. “The only way I can sleep at all at night is knowing the good you’re going to do for so many.” He enveloped her in a big, long hug, then gave her a couple of pats on the back and released her.
“I miss these,” she said tenderly. She put her hand on his arm. “You have to promise me I’ll see you again before another two years pass, okay?”
“I promise,” Bic said, as he opened Gracie’s door for her.
“Really,” she said, getting in.
“Really.”
And closed the door.
2
Bic made sure Gracie exited the garage before he left his car to reenter the center. He moved calmly, though his hands trembled. He hadn’t had a desire to release his darkness since he had released that same anger by feeding Congressman Tidwell to the sharks. But seeing that hallucination of that mask triggered something primal inside of him. His successful suppression over the last two years of his rage had suddenly sprung back to life. But why? He didn’t need to kill anymore. He didn’t need a raw piece of meat to drop at the scene as he looked into the eyes of his victim to say the last words they’d hear on this earth. Those where the traits of a serial killer. That Bic was no more, or so he thought. Now he realized that Bic Green hadn’t died inside him, but had merely gone to sleep. And now, like a recovering alcoholic is drawn back to the bottle…
Bic wandered the hallways near the conference room until he spotted Dr. Samuel walking at the opposite end of a corridor. The doctor turned into an office. A third Bic Green—the hunter—was awake. And the hunter wanted answers.
Bic entered the office, shutting the door behind him, and took a seat. The blinds were shut, blocking out the beautiful Chicago day, but also blocking out the heat. Most of the room was immaculately tidy, but his desk and the table behind him were stacked with files. Dr. Samuel looked up from the stack of case files that covered his desk, his computer monitor glowing to his left, brightening that side of his face.
“Bic, can I help you?”
“You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
Dr. Samuel hesitated, then replied, hints of Southern roots barely noticeable. “I’m sorry I didn’t have any answers for you.”
“I think you do.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Bic blinked once, letting the silence stretch just a little too long. “Something happened to your face.”
The man cocked his head. “My face?”
“I’ve never experienced it before. I felt like you sensed it too.”
“Bic… are you ok?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m not sure I understand…”
“I saw a wooden mask on your face. I heard a voice.”
“A mask… on my face…” Dr. Samuel’s eyebrows furrowed together as his eyes darted to the closed door then back to the man seated before him.
Bic nodded slowly.
The doctor turned his head slightly, keeping his eyes trained on Bic the whole time. He extended his open hand. “Why don’t we move to the conference room where there’s water and more comfortable seats, and we’ll talk about this, ok?”
“I’m not crazy,” Bic said, straining against the words.
“I never said you were, Bic.”
“I know. I know because it’s written all over your face: you know I’m not crazy.”
“So… you’re saying you experienced some sort of… hallucination? What did you see?” asked the doctor when Bic didn’t reply initially.
“I told you. Your face became a mask. Aged wood, very stylized and carved to look like a long face, dyed brown.”
“Sounds like you saw a Dan mask.”
Bic looked on for an explanation.
The doctor leaned back in his chair. “Refers to the Dan people of Liberia. It’s a sacred object used for protection and as a channel for communication with the spirit world.”
“Does this have something to do with what’s wrong with me?”
“Could be a side effect of the meds Dr. Green gave you. Sometimes it takes a while till we can regulate dosage. She should have gone over that with you.”
“You’re a bad liar, doctor.”
Dr. Samuel smiled awkwardly. “Excuse me?”
“You have what poker players call a tell. You blink a lot when you lie.” Bic said matter-of-factly.
The man’s face froze and he blinked a couple times.
“What are you holding back?” Bic asked with a sigh, shifting in the uncomfortable seat.
“As a doctor, that is, as a member of the medical profession who’s sworn to do no harm, I’d say I’m holding nothing back. But as a man who can plainly see that you’re not going to leave this office—or let me leave, for that matter—I can tell you about my Auntie Elodie and what she did in the Bayou when I was a young boy. And though my medical mind wants to say that she did some stuff medicine will eventually explain, I can safely say that it hasn’t explained it yet.” He paused, watching Bic. “That’s between you and me. Understand?” Dr. Samuel spent the next few minutes talking about his ancient aunt, and what she did with masks, rituals, and powers that no one understood. How the darkness ran deep with blood. He finally trailed off.
“You didn’t blink once. Thank you.” Without another word, Bic rose and left the office.
When he got to his car, his hands were trembling. The rage was back. The other Bic, the killer, was awake and thirsty.
He put his head back onto the headrest and closed his eyes, feeling the hate wash over him like water from a baptismal font. Darkness did run deep with blood, and he had come to a realization.
“He’s not dead,” he said out loud. “The bastard’s not dead.”
Thoughts of his father revved the engine of bloodlust within him.
3
Jaco Ivanov climbed the metal steps of the Gulfstream G650, his face a carefully schooled mask of respect. He paused and glanced at his yellow gold and stainless-steel Rolex and silently nodded to himself and continued. His pearl-white Savile Row suit, which contrasted strongly with his bright blue eyes and brown eyebrows, matched the corporate jet in both color and sleekness. The aircraft itself, hangered at a private airfield twelve miles outside of midtown Manhattan, bore a royal blue corporate-stylized ‘V’, logo of Vintigen, the largest drug company in the world, coveted for its extensive line of anti-cancer drugs.
The cool, conditioned air inside the cabin pulled the muggy July heat away from his skin. A well-built man dressed like a Secret Service agent met Jaco and motioned to him to raise his arms for a pat-down. Jaco removed his aviator sunglasses, placed them atop his bald head, then smirked as the young, blue-eyed man with the dark hair patted him down. The agent caught the smirk.
“Ticklish?” Spoken with a sneer.
“No,” said Jaco, “I was just thinking about how you remind me of me, maybe 30 years ago. You sure you’re not my bastard son?”
Jaco caught a glimpse of a SIG Sauer P226, the standard sidearm of a Navy SEAL, beneath the other man’s sport coat.
“Got tired of burning garbage in the desert?”
The agent stopped and looked at him quizzically.
Arms still up, Jaco motioned with his head toward the man’s weapon. “Who does a Navy SEAL have to hump to get this cushy job?”
Ignoring him, the agent finished the pat-down and nodded.
Jaco lowered his hands. “Thank you for your service.”
The front section of the plane’s interior was plush, with four oversized off-white leather captain’s chairs arranged in a conversational grouping. Jaco smiled. He might steal this design for his own plane, substituting his family crest for the V logo stitched on the back of each seat.
The Cure Page 1
