“Wards upon wards of people, Soph, and even through the mask I could smell the death. Almost didn’t put on the bio suit—did I tell you that yet? Didn’t think I’d need it, but Lyle made me promise to wear it so I did. I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
“Of Synthesis?”
“That my suit would rip. Tear. That I’d fall and it’d all be over. Oliver pumped the virus in through the sprinkler system. Then there was this sound, like a wild animal. It was this boy. Alive, still.”
“How?”
“He must have had some kind of immune disorder because they had him in this bubble. Plastic, filtered air. That kind of thing. But something got through. His eyes—” She stopped again and closed her eyes when she spoke. “They were black, all the way through. Dripping blood—dark blood, like what you’d get from a direct heart wound. His cheeks had collapsed. I could see the bones under his skin where it flaked off.”
Sophie wanted to press her hands to her mouth and beg Adele to stop. She’d only seen someone’s face like that once—Veronica, before she died—but that was from the beating, the burns, nothing to do with disease. When she’d pushed back the images, she looked up from the water and saw that Adele’s eyes were open. She was watching Sophie, seemed close to tears.
She’s seen Veronica’s tape, too.
“Did he die?”
“I wanted to go to him. To hold him or something, anything really, and you know how I feel about sick people. There must have been three hundred dead in the earlier rooms, and the doctors, the nurses, the staff. But I didn’t touch him. I was too scared. I ran and found a closet in the back of the ward. That’s when they came.”
“Who?”
“You know, when I sat in that closet, trying to get it together enough to get out of that tomb, I started thinking about the families. People who would come visit their brothers and sisters, to bring candy or comic books, and they’d die as soon as they came in. No respirators for them, no clean, white suits provided by The Hellenic Agency.”
Two women entered the room with the infinity pool, laughing, their arms slung around each other. The sound was harsh in the quiet room, broke the tranquility of the place and, mercifully, took Sophie out of the horror of Adele’s memory for a moment. Not wanting company, she started to cry. It was easy to turn the tears on and off, no effort, but this time she didn’t have to force them. She just thought of Veronica, hundreds of nameless people, and the waste her life had become.
“Her groom left her at the altar,” Adele explained. “You look like his secretary.” The woman with the short blonde hair seemed to get the point, and said they’d give them time alone. Adele thanked them as they retreated into the spa. When the door closed again, Sophie took a deep breath and locked the tears away.
“Anyway, it was Oliver’s men. Just a cleaning crew with body bags. I’ve never seen a place cleaned like that. Couldn’t have been more than ten men but it didn’t take more than an hour before that place was empty. Spotless.”
“They didn’t see you?”
“As soon as the first one came into the ward I was in, I pulled myself up into the ventilation system. They didn’t look there.”
“Amateurs.”
“To be fair, could you really expect someone to survive in that?”
“Who were they?”
“The only thing I could see through the suits was that one had a tattoo on his cheek.”
“This is why I never got a tattoo.”
“They’re not for everyone. I ran it in the database and he came up as Oliver’s. Some guy named Loyal.”
“Loyal?”
“Southern thing, I guess. They were gone and I left. Joe picked me up two hours later. Fastest op I’ve ever run. And I didn’t show him the video.”
“You took one?”
“Yeah. Lyle’s orders. The camera was already sewn into that damn suit, right by my face. Everything I saw, it saw.”
“And the boy in the bubble?”
“Dead before the men arrived. He started throwing up—yellow bile, looked thick from where I was crouched—and then just died.”
“You have the video now?”
“Yeah. Just give me a few minutes.”
They ended up staying in the infinity pool for an hour, until the two women came back to swim. After lamenting the general awfulness of men, they left and went to their hotel room where they put on one of the innocuous romantic comedies that Sophie had packed. They didn’t speak, just watched life unfold on the screen until Adele fell asleep on the chaise and Sophie covered her with a light blanket.
She pulled the video out of her friend’s luggage and loaded it onto her computer. There, in full color and sound, was the hospital in Bolivia. She could hear Adele’s sharp breaths, the way she whimpered in the back of her throat when she entered the first large ward. It was overwhelming to see the bodies of the dead, like some terrible documentary. The film was smooth, showing how Adele had walked calm through the labyrinth of death. Only her erratic inhalations gave away the tears that must have slid down her face, swelled her cheeks.
After it was over, Sophie had snapped it off and walked into the bathroom to throw up all the acid that rolled through her stomach. When she rose to rinse her mouth out, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her face was whiter than a fish belly. She could still taste the vomit behind her teeth.
Running her tongue over her lips, Sophie tried to block out the images that still rose when she thought of Bolivia. More than anything, the boy who was still alive, his face a map of muscles and rot.
She shook herself out of the memory. These people, she reminded herself, looking around at the chic Parisian women who crowded the market, were alive. They were smiling or laughing, humming, arguing with their lovers and friends as they wound through the booths that lined the street. She stopped at a stand with apples and grapes and faced her favorite vendor.
“Laurent,” she said with a smile
“Mademoiselle. It’s been weeks. How was your vacation?”
“Hot. Sunny. More exciting than I expected. How’s the selling?”
“Wonderful, wonderful. I have some marvelous grapes for you. Truly fantastic—the best of the season.”
“How much?”
“Name your price.”
“Three Euros for a kilogram?”
“You’re insulting me. Ten.”
“No way, friend.” She reached out and plucked a grape from the stem she already knew she’d purchase, held it between her fingers and examined it. “This doesn’t look like the prime pick of the season. Good,” she added when he looked offended. “Always good, of course. But surely not worth ten.”
“I’d consider eight.”
“I’d consider five.” They faced, adversaries, over a tangle of fruit. A woman came up, gathered some apples, and handed Laurent money before blending back in with the crowd. “Taste test?”
“Of course.” After he’d given his consent, she slipped the grape between her teeth and bit down. It was delicious, warmed by the sun and full of flavor. The flesh of the fruit was tangy against her tongue, the juice sweet.
“This is good,” she agreed, licking her lips. “Maybe I’d give you seven.”
“I don’t know how my wife and I will afford to make the drive to Paris next week,” he said, a grin appearing on his wrinkled, dark face. “I guess I can take the deal though.” He weighed out a kilo, laughed when she told him to throw in three of apples, another two of the grapes. When they’d exchanged money, he waved her off. “You sure do like fruit.”
“I just like talking to you,” she told the old man.
Sophie was still looking at him when pain ripped through her like a raging bull. The squeal of tires on the street assaulted her ears before she felt a needle jammed into her arm, a bag over her head.
It was hot.
She couldn’t breathe.
Laurent was screaming for the police. Other voices, people she didn’t know, were in a
n uproar. But they all sounded so far away when hands fisted in her t-shirt and pulled her to her feet. She choked, resisting the darkness, but the lure was too great. Doors opened, Sophie felt herself shoved through them, and then she was thrown back, her head bashing against metal.
While the world swam crazily around her, she realized she wouldn’t make it back to Aidan like she promised.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Where was she?
Aidan paced her hardwood floors with bare feet for an hour before the rage started to set in. It seemed impossible that Sophie would betray him—not after she pressed her lips to his and spoke her truths directly into his mouth--but her actions told another story. Aidan stalked up her stairs, found his shoes, and got ready to go after her. When he walked out the door, Daisy tried to follow him. Reaching down, he rubbed her back for a minute, then pushed her back into the house. Didn’t seem to be a reason to lock the door.
Sophie was already out.
He crossed the street and began to retrace her footsteps. As she’d walked away, his eyes were trained on her direction. Everything was normal. Sunny morning, clusters of irritable people on their cell phones, hurtling toward work or other pursuits. Tourists. Always tourists in Paris, he thought, annoyed, and pushed through a group of men and women with fanny packs.
The cluster of booths, surrounded by an ocean of people, came into view and he added speed to his steps. She’d be there. Still looking for peaches or whatever damn fruit had compelled her to leave the house. The colorful silk booths lined a block, but his senses went on high alert when he heard a man shouting and a woman crying.
Moving around a child who stroked a scarf while her mother complained about the cost, Aidan strode to the sobbing lady. She was sitting on the sidewalk, her knees drawn into her chest while tears streamed down her red, swollen face. Light brown hair, shifting to grey, a shapeless blue dress. Next to her was a man in jeans and a white t-shirt with some writing on it. It still took Aidan a bit of time to read French, though it was easy to speak.
Still focused on the shirt, Aidan realized that personal items were spilled across the sidewalk. A hairbrush. Passports. More than one. He palmed one, flipped it open and saw her face. Sophie. Smiling out at him, short dark hair—maybe three years younger and sassy. Her eyes were blue, her cheekbones higher. Not her face, but still her. It was in the lips, the easy smile into the camera. The shadows behind the eyes—wrong color, right shape.
Looking at the shape of things was important, in Aidan’s opinion.
He gathered up the other passports and stashed them in his jacket.
“What happened?” He switched to French and moved closer to a female detective, he assumed, who was listening to the shopkeeper. When the man recording their conversation waved him to silence, Aidan just listened to his testimony.
“—we talk every week. Nice American girl.”
“Do you know her name?”
“Sophie. Sophie something. She lives near. Maybe three blocks away.” He waved his hand in the direction of Sophie’s apartment. Weak wrists. Pale skin. “She moves a lot but always comes back.”
“You two friends?” asked the woman in uniform.
“We’re acquainted. She had me over once, five years ago. Pie.”
“What?” Aidan took a deep breath and tried to focus. The four cups of coffee he’d consumed while waiting for Sophie to return rolled hot and bitter in his stomach.
“What do you mean?” prompted the woman, still facing the vendor.
“I had apples that year. Beautiful, plump, red apples.” The man fiddled with his fingers. “She made pies. One day after work—my wife was at the stand with me—Sophie asked us over. For pie. Apples.”
“Can you explain what happened today?”
“I already told him,” the man pulled his fingers apart, pointed to a man interviewing a crowd of people. “He already heard.”
“Please go over it again.” Her tone brooked no refusal. She was curvy, Aidan noticed without interest. A tendril of red hair snaked out of her cap to tease her pale neck.
“She bought apples and grapes. We talked—not for long. Bargained. Then she started to walk back the way she came.” He pointed down the street, back toward Sophie’s house. “She turned around to say goodbye and a man came from over there.” He pointed again in the opposite direction. “Then he tackled her. She hit the sidewalk hard. I think her arm might have snapped. I heard a crack, at least. Her left arm was bent real funny.”
He paused and stepped away from the woman interviewing him. Behind the stand, out of the eye of the shoppers, he kept a bottle of water. Pulling it out, he drank deep and wiped sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand before continuing. “A van came from the other way. It hit the curb—knocked that woman over. Stop that damn crying,” he yelled toward the woman on the sidewalk. The man comforting her shot him a nasty look. “I can’t think with that noise. She wasn’t hurt. Up and screaming fast. Then the guy threw Sophie in the back.”
“What kind of van?”
“Blue. Dark blue, almost black. No windows in the back. The front was tinted, I think. I couldn’t see into it. When it hit the curb, the doors opened right away. I saw a hand come out of the back. I threw apples.” Laurent swiped his palms across his flushed face. A vein was throbbing in his forehead, the tips of his ears had gone white. He needed rest, maybe medical attention, Aidan knew. “She was gone before I could do anything else.”
“That’s all we need, sir.” The woman touched his shoulder, moved her hand a bit to comfort. “Why don’t you go home with your wife? I can get in touch with you if I need anything else.”
“You save that girl, Officer Ladroux. Please.”
“I will. I promise.” The woman, Ladroux, watched Laurent until he had started the process of closing down his booth. The man recording the conversation killed the tape, whispered something in her ear, and moved to a bike. Aidan waited for Ladroux to break free of her reverie and turn to be questioned.
She reached up and tucked the hair back into her hat. Sighing audibly, she turned and Aidan saw her eyes for the first time. Deep, crystalline blue. They widened in recognition before she could gain control over her features and she stepped back, putting an automatic distance between them. Then, once she found her footing, she pulled back her lips and snarled at him.
“You took her,” she snapped, rocking on her shiny black shoes. “You son of a bitch.” Her fists balled at her sides. He knew she wouldn’t go for him, not in front of so many witnesses.
Adele was too well trained for that.
So Sophie had lied again. To protect her friend? Or to protect her organization? It was a subtle difference but an important one. More than anything, it was one he didn’t have time to ponder.
His nemesis—if she was indeed that—circled him, keeping lots of space between them while looking for a way to take him down. Sophie was gone. He didn’t have time.
“I didn’t take her,” he said, so low she moved a step closer to catch the last word.
“Liar.” He could almost feel the heat rushing to her skin. If they were alone, he had no doubt that he’d be strangled with his own guts by now.
“I can’t convince you. Not really. Do you want her back?”
“Yes.”
“I know the van.”
“Liar. You’re all fucking liars. They took her.”
“Took who?”
“You fucking know who, Aidan. Yes, that’s right. I know who you are too. I guess we’re all just really, really terrible at our fucking jobs.” She laughed, then closed her eyes for a split second to harness her emotions. “She’s gone.”
“We’ll get her back.”
“Fuck you.”
“Do you want her back? Then you’ll work with me. You’ll walk back to her house with me—two steps ahead of me—so I can leave Daisy food and water and so I can get my things and then we’ll go. Back to London, maybe. I’ll have to make some calls.”
Adele didn’t speak, only watched him. Wary. Like a trapped animal.
“I’ll get Sophie back.”
“Why?”
“I feel for her.” He waited while she studied his face, seemed satisfied with what she saw there.
“I’m not walking ahead of you. Side by side.”
He nodded and started down the street, instinct driving him to watch their front while she kept an eye on the rear. When the reached Sophie’s, he opened the door and they moved through the house room by room, clearing it.
“There’s coffee,” he said. “If you want.”
“I want.” She poured herself a glass, moving around Sophie’s kitchen with the economical motions of someone who had used it many times before. Once she’d poured a cup, taken a sip and winced, she sat at the island, balanced precariously on a stool with spindly legs.
“The blue van is Eric. It has special equipment in the back.” Aidan felt guilt rise up in his throat at his betrayal of his employer, but every second counted.
“What kind of equipment? Does Eric work for you?”
“For Oliver. And it has the right things to keep her sedated for up to a week. Alive. Whoever ordered this probably wants to interrogate her.”
“Where?”
“London, maybe.”
“You can’t even be certain?”
“Not yet.” He was frustrated. She was mocking him, of course, but Aidan knew he’d do the same in her position. Instead of retaliating, he filled a glass of water and drank fast, the cold numbing his tongue. Aidan would have preferred coffee, but he knew it was imperative that he dilute the caffeine in his system. Another glass. This one he sipped while he texted Caleb with his other hand. Asking for information. For names.
“Excuse me.” Adele slid off of the stool and headed up Sophie’s stairs.
“Where are you going?”
She turned, slow, eyebrows raised. “Did you just question my actions in my best friend’s home, asshole? Because the way I see it, you’re the one who got her into this situation. I’m the one who gave her what she needed to get away from Oliver.”
Blacklisted: Blacklist Operations Book #1 Page 20
