by Anna Antonia
I couldn’t tell if he was telling this to Marcus or the other two. Especially since all three pairs of feet shifted about the table.
“Understood,” Marcus said. “You’ve got the design all mapped out?”
“State of the art. Between the design and the ink, a forgery is damned near impossible. Lots of strokes are too light to get on camera so they can’t be reproduced.”
I tried to follow their conversation.
“All the fuckin’ strings I pulled to get this, ya? It’ll be worth it though. No one has it. Not the Russians or the Brits. It won’t take the Chinese long, but that’s where you come in, you talented shit.”
“Xiexie.” Marcus bent down to my eyelevel. “Miss Kelly, our associate here is going to give you a shot. It will sting but then after that you won’t feel a thing.”
“I thought you couldn’t take pain relievers when getting a tattoo,” I replied faintly. Barring my masochistic bent with Damian, I never had a high pain tolerance. I feared humiliating myself by screaming or crying when they started. I’d welcome just about anything to keep that from happening.
“You have the right of it, girlie. Aspirin will make you bleed like a stuck pig. But you aren’t getting a regular tattoo. Be glad for it or this would hurt like a motherfucker.”
A needle slid into my skin, seemingly deeper than normal. I hissed, pressing my forehead against the cold metal. “Are you done yet?”
“Not yet,” Marcus soothed. “Just hold on for a bit more.”
“How much more?” This was supposed to keep me from feeling the tattoo, but whatever it was I got injected with burned and wasn’t numbing yet.
“Here.” McGuire’s hand weakly grabbed mine. He wrapped it around the tank’s handle. “Squeeze this has hard as you want. It won’t hurt it none as long as you don’t yank my tube. Do that and we’ll have a problem.”
I clenched my fist, gritting my teeth, and doing my fucking best not roll off the desk in agony. Then…the pain went from fiery blades stabbing all over my back to little fire pricks to nothing at all.
Huffing with relief, I was surprised to hear McGuire say, “You did good.”
I thanked him then shut my mouth because he said, “Now hold still or I’ll get Marcus here to strap you down for sure.”
I laid there while all three men worked on my back. They were for the most part silent, leaving me to wonder what the hell was being done to me.
Shallow as it was, I worried what Damian would think when he finally saw me again. Would he like the tattoo or demand I get it lasered off? For all I knew they were inking the Mothman on it. Or a piggy bank. Or a naked woman with ginormous breasts.
Who the hell knew?
I was about to find out.
“Keep that ink clean, understand? And you, girlie, don’t go touching it. I mean it. This is the one shot you two have at this and I don’t want to hear ya mucking it up because ya got it infected.”
“Sure.”
“How long does she need to keep it covered?” Marcus asked while helping me up off the table, making sure my modesty was preserved up front.
“Healing or activation?”
“Activation.”
McGuire raised the mask up, breathing in deeply for several beats. As bad as he looked when I first saw him, he looked ten times worse.
Compassion made an appearance. Reaching for his arm, I murmured, “Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”
His eyes showed appreciation even though he waved me off. “All I do is sit. No need for it anymore.” To Marcus he said, “A month and then she’ll be ready for her debut.”
I itched to ask what McGuire meant, but I didn’t waste my breath. He wasn’t about to tell me. I’d have to depend on Marcus for information.
“Wanna see what it looks like, girlie?”
Nodding, I waited while he gestured to one of the men to hand me a small mirror. I turned about and then froze.
The other men packed up their gear and left the room while I stared in horrified fascination at the black ink boldly taking up about six inches across the back of my ribcage.
Damian’s initials were embedded in an intricate pattern of what looked like wooden vines surrounded by an oval frame. A “K” formed the peak of the top while a “V” formed the bottom. Or maybe it was just a point. I couldn’t quite tell yet.
“Looks good, huh? State of the art inking there. It’s put on like a brand but without the scarring. No one looking at it would ever suspect a thing.”
“What is this?” Horror bled into fascination. My skin was a stranger now.
“About a billion in research.” McGuire pointed at Marcus. “She’ll be protected. Doesn’t mean someone won’t try to cut that pattern off her, but even so, the nanos are deep in the muscle. The skin isn’t the key.”
“DNA combining?”
“All the way. They won’t adhere to anyone else. Can’t be replicated either. 100% secure. She’s a walking scrambler. Once girlie memorizes the sequences, she can take down communications, jam up computerized weapons, steal anything electronic, shield herself and anyone she touches—”
McGuire broke off into a hacking cough. “It’s the finest fucking thing I’ve ever stolen.”
Marcus said softly, “You’re a true patriot.”
“Fucking right I am. Remember that shit when I’m gone.”
“I will.”
He coughed again, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket. I averted my gaze when I saw him spit into it, but I wasn’t fast enough to avoid seeing it. Red stained the white linen.
“I did my part. She’s free now and she’ll stay free once you do yours. Understand?”
Instantly, I could tell he wasn’t talking about me.
“Yes, La Madonna is free. McGuire, you have our thanks.”
Who?
McGuire’s shoulders slumped. He reached out for the desk’s edge. “Good. Good. She deserves it. God knows she does.”
With that, the dying man turned around and slowly walked out of the room. I couldn’t help but feel a spurt of pity for him knowing he wasn’t going to be here much longer.
I waited until the door closed behind him. Crossing my arms over my chest, I turned to Marcus.
“Okay, now what have you done to me and why?”
23
DAMIAN
Four weeks. Four fucking weeks and still no concrete sign of Risa.
I had virtually everyone on the payroll, but while the sightings were many, no one could pin Risa’s location down.
Wolffington’s contacts and system combed through camera footage, social media, transactional data—everything—but it soon became apparent that either Risa spent every day flying from one location to another or they were false leads.
I looked at every single picture, obsessed and haunted by the images I saw. Risa in the background of a family’s vacation picture at a Florida beach, looking glorious in a bright blue bikini. Risa crossing a busy street in London, head turned to the side and hands in jean pockets. Risa boarding a ferry in Canada, red scarf snapping in the breeze. Risa bundled up in a puffy coat, getting on a Shinkansen in Tokyo headed for Kyoto.
It was undoubtedly her, but not real.
Rather the problem was we couldn’t decipher which was a genuine location and which had been falsified. There were too many leads. Each took time to backtrack. Then three more popped up as quickly as one got discarded.
Digital whack-a-mole.
Worse than seeing Risa was hearing her voice. She may have gone to ground, but it didn’t stop her from calling her parents several times a week.
It bewildered me. Risa was under watch, locked away somewhere far from me, but she’d been allowed to contact her family.
Why?
Surely Elaine and her double-damned associates would expect me to monitor all communication to and from the Kelly household. Of course, they did. Which was why we couldn’t find her this way either.
Her calls were all VOIP hiding be
hind an endless series of VPN shells. It was a goddamned Gorgon knot that all the resources in the world couldn’t unravel.
“Hi, Mother-Dear! How was your shift today?”
…
“Hi, Daddy! NASA declassified proof of aliens yet?”
…
It brought me comfort to hear Risa, to know she was still alive out there. Somewhere. She wasn’t drugged up or cut into pieces. Of course, the calls could be as false as the pictures of her lounging on a beach in Perth.
But my gut told me this was indeed Risa.
It hurt to hear but not be able to reach my love. Most hurtful was listening to her sweet voice lie about me in passing.
“Oh Mr. Black-Price is doing well. He’s super-busy as always. But enough about him. Tell me about your day.”
…
“Yep, I’m still getting along with my boss. No worries there. What are you and Mom making for dinner?”
…
“Mr. Black-Price ran me ragged today, but he pays well. You should see the new shoes I bought today, Mother-Dear. They’re soooo pretty but soooo painful.”
There were exactly fourteen mentions of my name and three mentions of the phrase “my boss”. Which meant she had to think of me at least seventeen times.
I listened and dissected each word, searching for clues as I endlessly looped the day’s conversation. I found nothing.
Nothing other than to hear how good of a liar Risa had become.
Flinging the headset onto the desk, I spun in my chair. I’d been away from the New York office for five weeks now. Without Thomas and Elaine, I had to create different avenues of information. Questions were raised, subtle but persistent.
“Where’s Black-Price? There’s no travel assignment on the docket. Is he on vacation? What happened to his PA? Did he replace her yet?”
My business demanded my presence. Logic attempted to persuade me to pop in, to settle the uncertainties with a visit. However, my heart wasn’t in it.
Staring out the window, I viewed the San Francisco Bay with a dispassionate eye.
Risa would’ve loved this view. If she were here, I’d take her to Chinatown. There we’d find the fried chicken wings and dumplings she loved so much. Naturally, she’d want to visit the shops, not knowing what she was looking for until she found it. It would be a small thing, maybe a lucky cat figurine or a brocade journal.
I’d pay, of course, prodding to buy her a jade pendant or something delicate and beautiful like my love. Even though she had a better idea of what I was worth, Risa wouldn’t let greed guide her. She didn’t see me as walking bank account, that much was clear. She saw me, the man behind the polish, looks, and wealth.
She did and that’s why she’s gone.
No.
Risa would be disappointed in me, but my family lineage wouldn’t be enough to sway her heart because Risa truly loved me. I knew she did.
I just need to find her. I’ll do it.
Decision made, I stood up and picked up my phone.
“Ready the plane. We’re going to New York.”
Risa demanded my full attention and I couldn’t give it if Bridgewater became a thorn. I’d go through the motions, stay there a week, maybe two. Of course, I wouldn’t stop searching for my little girl. Never that.
I needed to pass my intentions on Wolffington. While he had a group of his men dedicated to circling the globe digitally and physically in search of Risa, I had a cadre with me at all times. It made for close quarters this last month.
Jeans and t-shirts worked fine here, but they’d need to change into Brooks Brothers to blend in my building.
Wolffington’s primary concern was because Risa got taken there was no guarantee I wouldn’t. His logic was sound. Yet…
What better place for me to be than by her side?
However, there were no ransom, no demands, nothing.
All I had was silence…except for Risa’s voice.
Helpless, I turned back to the digital recorder and scrolled through the files and pressed the eighth.
“Hi, Daddy! I miss you guys so much! Listen. Guess what I was thinking about today? That time when we went to that Star Trek convention when I was in the fifth grade. Remember? The one where Mom wanted to be Uhura and you almost gave in…”
I didn’t want to go back to New York. I didn’t want to perform on command like a well-trained monkey, to pretend all I cared about was the bottom line and expanding my empire. The thought of dinners with clients, a benefit or two, and perhaps an evening at the theater or opera made my head explode.
And yet that was exactly what I prepared to do.
Heightened security would go without saying, though I had no intentions of alerting the employees to these changes. Thomas’s absence would be noted, but it was an easy remedy. He often stayed abroad in my service. Elaine showed her face, but she too could be easily explained away.
Picking up the phone, I connected with Wolffington instantly. I told him of my travel plans. We discussed the roles his men would play. As far as my upper-level executives were concerned, these five were investors. Closeted meetings were a given, along with after-hour excursions.
The conference room would make an excellent war room. Surveillance sweeps along with highly-restricted access would keep us hiding in plain sight. However, I’d leave first thing if Risa was found.
Confidence kept me afloat. I’d find her. I wouldn’t fail.
Tension seeped out of my body long enough for it to rush back.
I’d yet to be contacted by anyone from the government, but it was only a matter of time. Risa’s kidnapper all but promised a reckoning.
Another problem for another day.
I should’ve cared, but nothing managed to punch through my ceaseless worry for Risa. Where was she? Was she safe? Was she scared? Did she know I looked for her every hour of the day?
Did she believe my promise to find her, no matter how far she got lost?
Ending my call, I picked up the headset and recorder before laying down on the bed. With an arm flung over high on the pillows, I scrolled through the files until I reached the latest.
“Hey, it’s me. Have you missed me yet?”
Soundless, I moved my mouth in time with Richard’s, again and again as I rewound the file.
“Always. I always miss you.”
24
RISA
Four weeks. I’d been holed up in an underground bunker for four weeks. Location—unknown. Only known point of access—an elevator shaft that took us a mile beneath the surface.
The place consisted of a living/kitchen combo, three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a cavernous warehouse. It was here that Marcus brought me out to take different kinds of pictures, which in ordinary circumstances would’ve made me extremely uncomfortable if not militant.
But ordinary no longer had a home in my heart.
If Marcus asked me to put on a bikini and walk back and forth across a green screen I did it. If he dressed me up as someone bundled up for winter and told me to stand with one foot off the ground and looking up—I did it.
So on and so forth.
I still didn’t fully understand what Marcus and McGuire had done to me in that airplane hangar a month ago. Why or what I was supposed to do with it.
I didn’t know then and I still didn’t know now.
When I left the dark and dingy office, Elaine was standing there, immaculate in her suit dress and heels. I’d almost believe she was concerned for me and how I fared being experimentally branded like cattle.
Almost.
But after Marcus gave me a quick sketch of what my tattoo was supposed to do, I was sure she wasn’t worried about me at all.
She was worried if it had worked.
“Good. Keep her safe, Marcus. We’ll rendezvous once the deals are set.”
Then she was gone, leaving me alone with my captor once again.
Beyond knowing that the stuff inside my body wasn’t a natural ink at all, I’d yet t
o learn how it was supposed to actually work. According to Marcus that would come later, once it fully healed. In the meantime, I learned seven sequences of tracing motions to activate the nanotechnology on paper.
Marcus made it clear I wasn’t to learn what each one meant, at least not yet. My part was simply to perform on command. Like a dog.
This lack of understanding, and momentum, sunk me into a depression that grew steadily with each day.
With each smile I flashed on command.
With each meal I choked down.
With every vitamin I swallowed.
With each shifting of artificial light designed to keep our circadian rhythms intact.
With each day I went without news of Damian.
That truly hurt, but what rivaled in torture were the calls I made to my parents.
I had to pretend that everything was okay. That I was a young woman in the prime of her life enjoying a career overseas. This was the part I couldn’t really do. My bitterness poisoned every time I tried. Therefore, I did everything I could to keep the conversation focused on my mother and my father.
I’d listen to them tell me all the details of their normal, happy, little life in Houston. I’d listen to what they ate, where they went, and what they were going to do for the weekend.
Laughter made a solid cover for the tears I continuously swallowed back.
Inevitably, the questions came. When was I coming home? How much longer did I have to travel? Did I have time to fly home?
I hated hearing the note of disappointment when I made something up to explain away why I simply couldn’t come home. We were just that busy! Skillfully, I filled in the blanks so my parents wouldn’t think my boss worked me to death.
I invented people that didn’t exist, and read off menus to places I was never going to go. Sometimes, I even sent pictures of me smiling over a margarita next to a supposed co-worker.
Who those people really were? I never knew.
Once I asked Marcus, right when I still had purpose and hope. He surprised me with his forthrightness. He explained this was the new wave of counterintelligence. Since people oh-so-willingly uploaded virtually every aspect of their personal existence, it was quite simple to build up a false digital life to cover one’s tracks.
