No One Lives Forever no-3

by Jordan Dane

  "Two men at the gate. Armed," Jasmine muttered. She passed the binoculars to him for a look. "More walking the grounds inside. Hard to tell how many."

  Christian rolled onto his belly and checked out the layout for himself.

  "We could be in for a long night." He knew this would be a long shot. But after today's tour, something didn't feel right about this place. He trusted his instincts.

  An hour stretched into two. And Christian's headache had returned with a vengeance. After sweating away the bug repellent, they applied more. Just when Christian thought their efforts would be a lost cause, Jasmine punched him in the arm.

  "We got company."

  Headlights along the ridge flickered between the trees. The sound of a car approaching carried through the night. It turned into the main entrance to Genotech and made the switchbacks, heading into the valley. Dust kicked up in its red taillights.

  On cue, the guards looked like they expected company. They raised their weapons and stood aside as the gate slowly opened. Obviously, they waited for someone they knew. Dressed in a white lab coat, Dr. Phillips joined them and paced, looking at his watch. A familiar gesture.

  "He's working late," Christian whispered, binoculars up. "No rest for the wicked."

  A dark sedan pulled into the light and stopped at the guard station. From the shadows in the vehicle, Christian saw more than one man, but not much else. Phillips leaned down to speak to the driver. The doctor gestured for him to pull ahead. After the car parked, two men in suits got out of the front seat. Christian caught a glimmer off the belt of one of the men when his suit coat opened. A badge reflected the light. The men were . . .

  "Cops," Jasmine said as if she invented a new curse word. "I can smell them from here." She didn't have his clear-cut view, but there was nothing wrong with her senses.

  Christian couldn't imagine why they were at the lab, yet something unfathomable gripped his throat. He held his breath, waiting.

  Two men in handcuffs and disheveled clothes were hauled from the backseat. They stumbled and had trouble walking a straight line. Homeless vagrants. They were either inebriated or stoned on something far worse than alcohol. Christian took in the scene, peering through the night vision gear, his jaw tight.

  "What's this all about?" Jasmine whispered as she reached for the binoculars again. "Are they doing what I think they're doing?"

  "Yeah, I'd say Doc Phillips just got two more volunteers for his genetics research." He furrowed his brow. "Those two don't look like amateur drinkers either. Addicts fresh off the street."

  But a bigger question lurked in the back of his mind. With cops handing over the unsuspecting men to Genotech as lab rats, who had given the order— Captain Duarte or Chief Zharan? All the hope Christian had for progress in his father's case suddenly got sucked away in a cruel twist.

  Who would he trust now?

  There was cruelty in silence, and isolation made it worse. Jasmine knew this firsthand.

  Once they walked back to the hotel after ditching the "borrowed" Fiat, Christian withdrew into himself and ignored her attempts at conversation, which were few and far between on a good day. He tried to call his lover, but had no luck. His woman had cut him off from what little comfort she could bring long distance. On top of what they witnessed at Genotech Labs, he didn't need this personal blow. His frame of mind changed. He'd grown sullen and moody, not entirely his style.

  Jasmine suspected that Christian's detective was not happy about the way he left the States, with another woman. And she had chosen to punish him in the worst way possible. Watching his pain only reminded her of words unsaid between her and Nicky.

  A Kevlar vest gave protection from a bullet, but no such invention existed to safeguard the heart. Pity.

  "Takin' a shower." Christian headed for his room. "G'night."

  To him, she might as well have been a ghost. Jasmine wasn't sure she liked the new experience of being invisible to a man. He even tried to shut the door behind him—like mere wood could keep her out—but it remained open a crack.

  She knew she should have followed his lead and washed off the disappointment, but her mind wouldn't stop. Anxiety mixed with adrenaline and kept her moving. She paced the living room and downed a shot of vodka. Nothing helped. When the shower rumbled in the next room, her eyes shifted to his door, more out of reflex. Yet once she caught a glimpse of Christian in the mirror of his dresser, she couldn't take her eyes away. The mirror angled toward the bathroom, giving her a spectacle she had no right to see.

  Had she been hindered by a conscience, she might have exercised restraint. Instead, she stepped closer, figuring if she got caught, she'd slam the door and act offended by his display. But with his back turned, her voyeurism held no such consequence, so she indulged herself.

  She narrowed her eyes and peered in.

  Christian removed his holster and put away his gun. Heading for the bathroom, he stripped off his dark shirt and tossed it to the floor. The steam in the shower billowed, but the sound of it faded away. The stillness of the moment closed in. With his black undershirt stuck to his skin, he tugged it over his head—tanned skin and lean muscles with the hint of pale skin below the waistband of his pants.

  Jasmine swallowed. Her cheeks flushed with heat. And the air-conditioning made the salt from her dried sweat prickle her skin.

  When Christian unzipped, she should have turned away. Instead, she nibbled her lower lip and held her breath. Piece by piece the rest of his clothes hit the floor until he was down to his natural assets. His thick, dark hair curled at the nape of his neck. Broad shoulders tapered to narrow hips. A striking man.

  Like father . . . like son.

  Christian stepped into the billowing steam, his body moving behind the opaque shower door. She pictured hot streams of water rolling down his skin. But when her fingertips touched the doorknob, all she thought about was Nicholas . . . how it felt to lie with him. She shut her eyes, fighting back the lump in her throat.

  Jasmine took a deep trembling breath and shut Christian's door. Left alone with her thoughts, she walked across the room and sat at the wet bar. Still smelling of insect repellent and sweat, she downed more vodka as images of Nicholas ran through her mind. As pathetic as she felt, she couldn't shake the blues.

  So when Christian joined her again twenty minutes later, she welcomed the company.

  "Thought you were going to bed," she said.

  "Too wound up."

  Barefoot and dressed in khakis and a navy tank, he brushed by her smelling of herbal soap. He looked exhausted. Dark circles had formed under his eyes. They made the bruising on his body look worse. After taking a glass and a bottle of vintage Macallan single malt whiskey from the bar, he sprawled on the sofa and indulged. Jasmine recognized the pricey label. One of Nicky's favorites. It made her all the more sad. Without a word, Christian drank in the dark, not bothering to put on the lights, except for the one she had lit by the suite door.

  Once again she'd been relegated to ghost status. To distract him, she asked the one question they had both avoided.

  "At Genotech. Do you think Zharan is involved?" The thought punched her in the gut when she said it aloud. She had hopes Zharan might have a solution to finding Nicky. She needed to believe it. Now, she had no idea. "Or is Duarte acting alone?"

  Jasmine knew Christian had been disappointed with the day, and she couldn't blame him. She felt the same. It took everything she had to keep herself together, the facade of self-reliance and strength.

  "I don't know what to think. Not anymore," Christian mumbled, and took another gulp. She barely heard him.

  "Are you in pain?"

  He didn't answer, only waved a dismissive hand. Typical tough guy. She knew if he drank himself into oblivion, he'd be no good to her tomorrow. She went to her room and came back with something from her well-equipped first aid kit. She could take care of his physical pain—and maybe with a little bit of luck, he'd get a night's reprieve from his emotional scars.
The best she could do.

  "Here. Take these." She held out two pain pills. With the alcohol he'd consumed, he'd be dead to the world. He turned to ask what they were, but she anticipated his question.

  "Pain meds. They'll dull the aches and you'll get some sleep. With no lingering hangover the next day."

  She lied about the hangover. In his current condition, she gave no guarantees. Christian swallowed them both and washed them down with the last of his drink. Neither of them could afford the luxury of self-pity. She had to keep him focused and his mind open to possibilities. Jasmine joined him on the couch. Her eyes fixed on him, even though he didn't return the gesture. Christian was too absorbed in his thoughts. She had to get her point across before the drugs and alcohol took over.

  "Duarte's a lone wolf. Can't see him being one in a crowd. And I can't imagine they staged Zharan taking over Nicky's case just for our benefit. It would serve no purpose."

  Christian raised his head, his brow knitted as he considered her assessment.

  She continued, "If Zharan continues to make progress, what harm would it do to follow his lead?" Jasmine found it hard to believe she had proposed working with the police, under any circumstance.

  "You've got a point. Maybe we can see what tomorrow brings." He wiped his face with both hands, an attempt to clear the fog. "If he comes through with his promises, we may get an opportunity to fill him in. Otherwise, we keep our mouths shut."

  She nodded. "Agreed."

  Even though Christian continued to speculate about Genotech and the role of the men in handcuffs, Jasmine only listened and offered little. She had to protect Nicky's interests the only way she knew how. When Christian's words started to slur and his beautiful green eyes grew droopy, she noticed the change.

  "The pills have kicked in. Don't bother to argue the point." She stood and tugged at his elbow, pulling him to his feet. Not an easy feat. "Let's get you to bed, little acorn."

  "I told you . . ." He garbled his words. "Don't c-call me that."

  Christian nearly toppled to one side as he took his first steps.

  "Whoa." He braced himself onto the back of the sofa, but when Jasmine stepped in to help, he grimaced. "Hey ... do I smell DEET?"

  "Give it a rest, Delacorte."

  She rolled her eyes and forced his arm over her shoulder, gripping his wrist. With her other arm wrapped around his waist, she led him to his bedroom and flipped a light switch. Recessed lighting across one wall cast a pale glow onto the room. Surprisingly, Christian let her help as he rehashed his theories on Genotech. Perhaps in his condition, he had forgotten she was practically the enemy.

  "They g-gotta be looking . . . for a new . . . addiction . . ." He yawned and moaned with the effort. Jasmine pulled back his bed linens with one hand, not trusting Christian to stand on his own. He kept talking. ". . . something to rewire a person's brain . . . without them knowing it. They'll wrap it up in a n-nice bow . . . s-saying it's . . . medicinal. A miracle cure for something . . . maybe depression. Hell . . . who knows .. . what the lasting effects w-would be .. . when you're talking ge-genetics. And . .. and they're using the natives of Brazil ... as lab rats. What do you th-think?"

  Even doped up, Christian and his sharp mind explored a trail that made logical sense. Jasmine had a feeling Nicky would be proud of his son, in a peculiar sort of way.

  "I think you need to let it go. Let the pain meds do their job." She sat him on the bed, toppling onto him when he shifted his weight. When Christian collapsed onto the mattress, clothes and all, she covered him with the blanket.

  After he shut his eyes, she resisted the urge to touch his cheek and brush back a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. In this light, he reminded her of Nicky when he was younger. She took a deep breath and blocked the image from her mind as she walked toward the door to his room.

  "Good night, Christian." She glanced over her shoulder and saw him fast asleep. But when she turned off the light switch, he called out to her.

  "Please d-don't," he pleaded. "Leave them on."

  Of all people, Jasmine understood whatever demons plagued his sleep. She had more than a few of her own. She left the recessed lights on and shut the door.

  Out of habit, Jasmine performed her duty and checked all the surveillance gear throughout the suite. No one had entered the room besides housekeeping staff. She closed the drapes and shut the place down for the night. Standing by the French doors, she touched the windowpane where the glass had been broken, the sting of her mistake fresh in her mind.

  Her nightly ritual of self-torment.

  If only Nicky had let her fight. That night, he shook his head, a gentle no, probably trying to protect her. Didn't he know her job was to defend him? She would have died for him. If she had it to do over, she would have. Anything was better than living with regret. Nicky always said regret was a waste of time, but at this moment she indulged in it. Wallowed in it. Let it swallow her whole.

  "Stay alive, my love," she whispered. After a long moment, she headed for her room by way of the bar, grabbing a bottle of vodka and a glass. All she wanted was a hot bath and enough mind-numbing liquor to mask the steady barrage of guilt she felt coming back to Brazil.

  She had no choice, really. Her destiny, one way or another, was here . . . with Nicky.

  Her thoughts never strayed from him. She saw him everywhere, felt her connection to him, especially here in this suite. The last place she saw him alive. She fought back a tear as his handsome face came to her again. His luscious, wicked smile. The violet blue of his eyes. His absolute masculinity. She smelled his warm skin on her pillow, even after the linens were changed. The man could stop her heart. . . and often did. She knew Nicky had branded her soul and left his mark. No one else would ever take his place.

  In her room, she filled the tub with steamy water and sank into the suds, glass of vodka in hand. She stared across the bathroom, her mind lost in the past. Without much in her stomach, the alcohol worked through her muscles, leaving her legs and arms sluggish and heavy. And the hot water only intensified the sensation, making her feel weak.

  Tonight, the ghosts of her past would visit. And without Nicky, she would be alone to face them.

  Nicholas stared into blackness, his lungs heaving for air. Fear gripped him like a fist crushing his heart. He couldn't catch his breath.

  "H-Help me."

  Without warning, a flashbulb burst light across his cell, blinding him. Pop . . . pop . . . flash. Cowering, he shoved his back against the wall and held up a hand to shield his watering eyes. As he moved, a sick wheeze got worse, deep in his throat. A death rattle. Muscles in his chest burned, the heat blossoming from the pit of his stomach. It radiated through his arms and legs, making them feel sluggish and heavy.

  "Can't b-breathe," he cried. "I c-can't. . ."

  Flashes of light strafed the murky black as he clutched his shirt, tugging at the collar. Buttons popped off. His shirt tore. A bitter taste in his mouth forced him to spit, but the growing numbness of his tongue swelled his throat, constricting his windpipe.

  "W-What h-have you . . . d-done?" A raspy whisper, his voice sounded more like a garbled gag. He heaved, but fought the urge to throw up. In his condition, he might drown in his own vomit.

  Amidst flickering shadows and the throbbing light, he watched with strange fascination as the bars to his jail cell began to melt. Liquid silver drained to the ground and pooled near his feet. Even with the bars down, he was too weak to free himself. Then the silver took on life and slithered toward him like a nest of venomous snakes. With his lungs on fire and his gasping worse, he scrambled to get away with nowhere to go. The molten pool touched his heel and a massive numbing sensation invaded his body, crawling up his legs inch by inch.

  "No . . . Nooo."

  The realization hit him, hard. His hallucinations were drug induced. Wide-eyed, he found what was left of his evening meal and kicked the tin plate with his foot. Too late.

  "P-Poi . . . son
," he choked.

  Somewhere in the dark, a man laughed. It grew louder and louder. His cruel cackle echoed off walls, magnifying his captor's degrading brutality. Nicholas slumped against the wall, his chest barely moving now. His violet blue eyes glazed over, milky white. Spittle ran down his chin as he thrashed, his body fighting for every breath.

  Unmerciful laughter filled the room again, muffling his dying gasps, until there was nothing but eerie silence. Nicky no longer struggled for air. He had no need for it now.

  Heavy footsteps on wooden stairs intruded upon the quiet, with no reverence for his death. A dark memory emerged, compounding the atrocity.

  This couldn't be happening. Not again.

  "Nooo!" The high-pitched scream, muffled at first, then grew louder. "Nooooo!"

  Jasmine sat bolt upright in bed. Her heart pounded, jarring her rib cage and pulsing against her eardrums. She had never known such fear, not since she was a little girl. Her eyes searched the darkness to anchor her in the present, hoping to escape Nicky's dead eyes and the horror of her childhood terror revisited.

  Hotel Palma Dourada. Haze from the moon filtered through the sheers of her hotel window, a feeble match against the neon city lights below. Still panting, she peered around the bedroom, orienting herself to time and place. Yet the vivid nightmare of Nicky dying meshed with the sound of her drunk uncle climbing the stairs, coming to her room in the middle of the night. Her childhood tormentor.

  An icy chill raced across her skin, made worse by the cool sheen of sweat covering her body. Jasmine clutched at her blankets, pulling them close, but nothing warmed her.

  In the dark, the graphic memory permeated every fiber of her being as if it were happening again.

  Even fully awake, she couldn't shake it. A familiar whimper teased her senses. On countless nights, her screams muffled with her small face shoved into a pillow. Powerful hands took over and her uncle's brutish grunting and explosive release never summoned help. Abusive threats followed each violation, a whispered taunt meant only for her, even as she writhed in pain. And if she dared to resist, he inflicted greater punishment, invading her small body . . . and her very soul.