by M A Gelsey
After they finished, he got up and rummaged through his backpack for the cigarettes. Imogen watched him with a mixture of lust and bemusement on her face, and he lay back down next to her and tore the plastic wrap off the cigarette pack. He offered one to Imogen and she shook her head with a half-smirk. He put a cigarette between his lips and fumbled with the lighter for a moment before he successfully managed to light it.
Even though Javi didn’t like the taste of the tobacco much, he did feel awfully sophisticated smoking a cigarette naked in bed with a woman he’d just fucked. When he glanced to his right, Imogen seemed to be holding back laughter with difficulty. Javi scowled.
“What?” he asked defensively.
“What d’you mean ‘what’?” she said.
“What’s so funny?”
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I smoke all the time!” Javi said indignantly. “Only pot ‘till now.”
“I’d stick with pot if I were you. Quitting tobacco is a bitch.”
“Did you smoke?”
She shook her head. “Theo smoked a pack a day during college. It was brutal for him to break the habit.”
The casual mention of her husband left Javi feeling cold. It was one thing to know in the abstract that she had a husband, another to hear about him as a person. “I don’t want to hear about your husband.”
Imogen scoffed, and snatched the cigarette from him. She took a long, slow drag on it and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. “You’ve always known about Theo.”
“Still. I don’t want to think about him.”
“Lucky you. I don’t get that luxury.” She took another drag on the cigarette, and he hated himself for still finding her so sexy.
“I’m not the one who married him!” Javi’s temper flared. He planted his feet firmly on the floor and leaned down to search through the jumble of clothes for his boxers.
“You’re not leaving already?”
His only answer was to stand up and begin to dress. Imogen’s face softened and she stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray on the bedside table. He turned his back on her but heard the creak of the bedsprings as she stood as well. With a quiet sigh, she wrapped her arms around him from behind. He almost shrugged her off when her left hand slipped downwards and his annoyance melted away.
After the second time, Javi was sweaty and winded. He looked at the clock on the bedside table and groaned; if he didn’t leave soon his parents would be wondering why he wasn’t home yet. He rolled off the bed and took a two minute shower, hoping he wouldn’t pick up a foot fungus from one of the motel’s other occupants. Imogen called a cab for him while he got dressed, not bothering to get up from the bed. He gathered up his things and leaned down to give her one last lingering kiss before he left.
He needn’t have worried about his parents. When he got home only his father was awake, reading in his study. Javi stopped by the half-open door on his way upstairs. His father laid aside his book — Javi was amused to see it was paper and ink not digital — and greeted him with a smile.
“How was Stanford?”
Javi shrugged. “It was fun. Fred’s friend was a good host.”
His father beamed and Javi felt a twisting feeling in his gut. “Well, I’m happy to hear it. I know you’re probably tired . . .”
Javi seized on this excuse. “Yeah. Didn’t get much sleep.”
His father chuckled at that. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Go on then.”
“Goodnight, Dad.” Javi walked upstairs, brooding. The lie was taking its toll, far more than Javi had expected. He knew that his parents would find out the truth when the article came out, and he wondered what he’d been thinking. The stupidest part was that they’d probably have been fine with it if he’d just asked them. And things with Imogen weren’t helping. Now that she wasn’t there to distract him, he found himself unable to stop thinking about her husband, home with their young kids while she was in a cheap motel fucking the clone of her dead high school boyfriend.
A weight pressed down on Javi, the weight of certainty that he was the worst person in the world. He was a liar and a cheat — a defective copy of someone who a lot of people had loved. With only this heavy knowledge for company, it took many hours before Javi was able to drift off into a fitful sleep.
41: MIRA
With dismay, Mira read the latest message she’d received from the Clone Advocacy Network. They were growing increasingly bold, but Mira didn’t see how she could warn them off without arousing Harlow’s suspicions. He had something planned to deter them from investigating further, but hadn’t shared the specifics with Mira yet. For their own good, of course. The thought made her uneasy. Don’t they understand who they’re dealing with?
Like a good assistant, Mira showed Harlow the message. It outlined a plan to infiltrate the black market with a hidden camera, to show the world what really went on. Their naiveté took her breath away. They didn’t seem to understand that there was no one physical place that represented the black market. It was a vast web of seemingly unrelated pockets that communicated through the darknet, frighteningly well-financed and organized. Harlow chuckled to himself when he read the email, and instructed Mira to write back revealing their identities and requesting a meeting with Edgar Prime. The meeting was to be with Harlow himself, and the proposed topic was to discuss his interest in supporting their endeavor. When she was done, he had an errand for her to run.
Once the request had been sent, Harlow gave Mira a package and asked her to bring it to the Central Park carousel. A man would be waiting there to accept the delivery. Mira found the instructions odd, but knew better than to question them. The box Harlow handed her was small, the same size as one that might contain a necklace or a pair of earrings. It had been neatly wrapped in brown paper, and it rattled faintly when she shook it. Before leaving the office, Mira took a detour to the bathroom. Inside the stall, she carefully unwrapped the paper, taking care not to tear it. She opened the box to reveal a flash drive. Knowing she had neither the time nor the skill to break the encryption, Mira texted Jack in the hopes that he’d be able to meet her on the way to Central Park and somehow copy the flash drive before she handed it over to whoever she was due to meet. Ordinarily for an undercover operation like this she’d have a whole surveillance team backing her up, but their poorly-funded task force didn’t have the resources for that — Mira was on her own. She didn’t have time to go down to their Chinatown base of operations, and would be cutting the meeting close as it was. Quickly, Mira wrapped up the package again and set off towards the elevators.
Mira spent the entirety of her walk to Central Park anxiously checking her phone for a response from Jack. She got one as she was entering the park, saying that he was still in Chinatown but could be there in half an hour. Cursing under her breath, Mira told him not to bother. She had no choice but to hand the flash drive over un-copied, or risk blowing her cover.
The sky was overcast as Mira wound her way through the park, habit causing her to scan the perimeter for any suspicious activity. Noticing nothing of importance, Mira made her way to the carousel. She leaned on an iron fence and waited.
Within a few minutes, she noticed a short man with black hair and bronze eyes approaching her. It only took Mira a split-second to realize where she’d seen him before: he was the one they’d called “The Courier”. He’d been caught on airport security cameras coming through customs using a variety of aliases. They had speculated that he was responsible for delivering auctioned clones safely to their overseas buyers. She noticed him looking her up and down as he sidled up next to her.
“You have something for me, Mira?” he asked. She couldn’t keep the surprise from her face when he used her name.
“Do I know you?”
“Not yet,” he replied, with an easy smile. The pitch of his voice was soothing, the sort of voice you might hear on a guided meditation podcast. Mira handed him the package, and he stuffed it into his jacket pocke
t.
“It’s not really fair that you know my name but I don’t know yours,” Mira commented.
“Bob Smith.” He held out a hand for her to shake. She took it, thinking that the name was probably another alias, but it was still better than nothing. Mira thought he’d make his exit to deliver whatever was in the small box, but he didn’t appear in any great hurry.
“Do you like jazz?” he asked her.
“Sure,” Mira said, thrown by the question.
“Will you meet me at Cadence Bar tonight? Best live jazz in the city.”
“That’s quite a claim.”
“I don’t make it lightly.”
Mira considered him. She was still uncertain how they’d arrived here, but she knew she’d have to meet him. The potential chance to gather information was too great.
“Okay. Nine?”
He grinned. “Perfect.” Then he walked away, leaving a bemused Mira in his wake.
That night, Mira sat in a corner booth at Cadence, waiting for the enigmatic Bob Smith to arrive. Jack was acting as her backup for the evening, sitting at the bar and nursing a whiskey and soda. Mira felt a stab of jealousy when she noticed several nearby women eying him appreciatively. She pushed the thought away, angry with herself. Why should she care if other women found him attractive? It didn’t matter to her either way.
The room was stuffy and dimly lit with an unpainted brick wall on one side, and exposed metal beams lining the high ceiling. It smelled of liquor and marijuana smoke and sweat. The band was set up in the corner opposite Mira’s booth, and there was a large open space between them and the bar where a few people were dancing enthusiastically to the jazz.
Mira noticed Smith walk in wearing a black leather jacket that she thought made him look marginally sexier. Instead of taking the seat across from her, he slid into the booth next to her, so close that their knees were touching. Get a grip, Mira silently berated herself as she blushed. You’re here to work.
Smith leaned toward her. “What’re you drinking?”
“Gin and tonic with extra lime,” she said with a smile.
“Can I get you another?” Smith asked, nodding towards the bar. She agreed, even though she knew she should probably watch how much she drank that night. Smith strode up to an open spot at the bar right next to Jack, who was chatting up a pretty girl with blue hair and heavily tattooed arms.
Smith returned as the band began to play a new song. For a while they just sat together sipping their drinks and making the occasional offhand comment about the music or the venue. After their third round, Smith stood up, gave an exaggerated mock-bow, and held out a hand with a nod towards the half-full dance floor. Mira was feeling pleasantly tingly all over, and she gave an uncharacteristic giggle and let Smith pull her from the booth.
While they swayed together, Mira was too drunk to feel awkward about the fact that she was a couple of inches taller than him. She could see Jack smirking at her over the head of the blue-haired woman who was still keeping him company. Suddenly, Mira felt angry with herself. What had she learned from this outing? Not a damn thing, except a reminder that she couldn’t hold her liquor. You’re building rapport, a voice in her head pointed out. That’s not nothing. Maybe next time he’ll tell you something useful. He’d be suspicious if you asked him anything tonight. Grudgingly, Mira admitted to herself that this may well be the case. Smith pressed himself even closer and kissed her, lightly at first. The kiss deepened, and for a time Mira allowed herself to enjoy the sensation and forget about her failings as an undercover agent. Later, Mira found herself outside the bar, with Smith whispering into her ear that he’d like to go home with her. She mentally shook herself, but the world remained hazy.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea tonight,” Mira told him. He was disappointed, she knew, but accepted her decision graciously.
“I want to see you again,” he told her. “But I have to go out of town for a few days. Can I call you when I get back next week?”
“Of course.” Mira gave him her number. Something about what he’d just said registered as important, but she wasn’t in a state to figure out what it was just then. Mira got in a driverless cab alone, and fifteen minutes later stumbled into her apartment, kicking off her shoes and tossing her bag on a heap of dirty clothes in one corner of the floor. She groaned as she sank onto the bed without bothering to undress, knowing she’s have a horrible hangover in the morning but not quite caring enough to go through the effort of staying up to eat something and drink copious amounts of water.
A loud knock on the front door sent a jolt of adrenaline through Mira; it was almost two a.m. and her first thought was that mild-mannered as he’d seemed, Smith had followed her home. Mira fumbled in the nightstand for a moment and withdrew her gun. As she made her way to the door, she clicked off the safety and pulled back on the slide. Her whole body was tense as she leaned in towards the peephole, but when she recognized Jack on the other side of the door she exhaled the breath she didn’t realize she was holding and pulled open the door.
“Jack, what the fuck?” Mira asked, as he strode into her apartment without invitation. He turned towards her and took note of the gun in her hand with a raised eyebrow. She shut the door and slid the deadbolt into place, then removed the magazine and the bullet from the chamber of her handgun. Jack just watched her, and the moment she put the unloaded gun down on her coffee table he took two steps towards her and kissed her full on the mouth.
She was too startled to react immediately, but after a second she kissed him back, tasting the whiskey on his tongue.
“I hated watching you with him tonight,” Jack mumbled, and Mira could tell that he was as drunk as she was.
“You seemed to be doing just fine with that blue-haired girl,” Mira said, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. His hands trailed down her back and he grabbed her ass roughly and pulled her even closer. She grinned and pulled off his shirt, grabbing hold of his belt buckle and dragging him to the bed. Seeing the way he looked at her, Mira was tempted to use the belt to tie him to the bed and make him beg. Maybe next time, she thought, as they tore off the remainder of their clothes. The sex was the frenzied, uninhibited sort that comes from being drunk, and afterwards they lay side-by-side panting, covered in sweat.
Mira was grinning. “I like you when you’re jealous.”
“I could tell.”
She tossed a pillow at him that he was too lazy to deflect; it hit him full in the face. He just laughed.
42: BOB
Bob walked slowly home from the bar, thinking about what a waste of time the evening had been. When Jane first told him that Harlow needed him to check out his new assistant, he’d leapt at the assignment. Harlow wanted to know whether Mira was a corporate spy for one of his rivals, and Bob wanted a distraction. Now though, Bob had an entirely new dilemma to obsess over. He was almost certain that Mira was law enforcement — her scowling backup at the bar had been a dead giveaway — but he was strangely torn about passing the information along to Harlow.
Once upon a time, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But that was before. Now, he wondered whether it might not be better to let things take their natural course. Harlow might be arrested. His syndicate would be in disarray, or maybe even dismantled. He had to suppress a shudder as he imagined his father’s reaction to such thoughts. Bob had only seen his father get angry a handful of times in his life, but each one was etched into his memory as if with a chainsaw. His father never yelled; instead he spoke in a chillingly quiet voice that inspired terror in even the most fearsome of men. No doubt that’s why Harlow likes him so much.
Lost in thought, Bob found himself surprised to have arrived at his building. He trudged up the steps and took the elevator to the eleventh floor. When he opened his front door, the apartment was quiet, and pitch black.
“You’re home early.”
The voice sent a jolt of adrenaline through Bob as he flipped on the light switch. His sister sat
on the couch, pointing a gun at him and smiling.
“Fuck, Rebecca,” he said.
She lowered the gun and put it down on the coffee table in front of her. “You’re lucky it’s just me. If it’d been someone else, you’d be dead.”
“It wasn’t someone else.”
“It easily could’ve been. You’re slipping.”
Bob snorted and pulled off his coat. He took his time hanging it up in the tiny hall closet. When he was done, he sat down across in the armchair from her.
“Well?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Are you really here for my report?”
“If it’s interesting, yes.”
“It’s not.” The lie came easily, and went unremarked.
“I heard there were some . . . issues with your last drop.”
“Who told you that?”
She just looked at him.
“I want out.” He didn’t know what made him say it.
She laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m serious.”
“There is no ‘out’ for us. This is what we do, it’s in our blood.”
“Not in mine.”
“Is that so, Michael?”
It was the first time she’d used his true name since they were children.
“It is.”
She laughed at him again. “I’m sorry, I thought I was speaking to Michael Leone, son of Paolo and Lucrezia Leone —”
“— both currently in jail —”
“— both temporarily incarcerated, but still running the family business from behind bars.”
“Michael Leone is dead. He died in a car crash twenty years ago.” After spending so many years as Bob, the name ‘Michael’ felt foreign to him. He and Jane had been given new identities as children, when their parents were first sent to prison. Their mother liked to say it was to give them a blank slate, but Bob knew it was so that they could operate without the surveillance that all known adult members of the family endured.
