by Chris Mooney
Ellie could recall, in clear, vivid detail, everything that had gone down at the house, but, incredibly, she had no memory, even now, of being shot. But she had been shot. The last thing she remembered with any clarity was being in the car and driving away and Sebastian on the phone, yelling to someone about how shit had turned sideways, that he was on his way to the checkpoint and to make sure the doctor was ready, because he was bringing in someone who’d been shot. Sebastian, she assumed, had been referring to her. She remembered feeling light-headed, sure she was going to pass out and die.
And now here she was, alive, lying in a bed, her arm tucked in a medical sling and an IV taped to the back of her hand. The room she found herself in was small and boxy and had bare white walls and soft lighting and a dull gray linoleum floor and a white door that looked thick and as impenetrable as steel, like the door of a prison cell. A fish-eye camera looked down at her from the corner of the ceiling near the door, and directly across from the foot of her bed was a wall of one-way glass, like the kind used in police interrogation rooms. She wasn’t bound or gagged but her clothes were gone, replaced by gray sweats.
And she didn’t feel any pain, just slight discomfort in the form of a throbbing and nagging tightness coming from the gunshot wound. She knew she wasn’t on any narcotic, either. She felt clearheaded and amazingly well rested and she wasn’t the least bit nauseated.
In fact, she felt the exact opposite. She was ravenous, wanted to drive to the nearest In-N-Out Burger and order two of everything on the menu.
An electronic buzz filled the room, followed by the distinct sound of a latch clicking free. The door opened and Sebastian, dressed in dark-wash jeans with black driving loafers and a crisp white collared shirt, came in holding a paper cup of coffee with a lid and a brown paper bag stained with grease.
Seeing Frank die, shooting Anton, everything she had put into motion—all of it strangely evaporated like a puff of steam. All Ellie saw was the bag of food. She was seized by the crazy idea of pulling back the sheets, lurching from her bed, and tearing the bag from his hands.
Sebastian handed her the coffee. “I also brought you this,” he said, holding up the bag. His voice was stripped of emotion, his face haggard. “An assortment of croissants, scones, and muffins.”
“Thank you.”
He placed the bag on the nightstand, along with a couple of creamers and sugar packets he’d removed from his pocket. Ellie exchanged the coffee for the bag, opened it, and grabbed the first thing that caught her eye—a chocolate croissant. She took a large bite, resisting the urge to shove the entire thing in her mouth.
Sebastian stood beside the bed, his hands on his waist. “How are you feeling?”
Ellie finished chewing and swallowed. “Surprisingly good. I don’t know what drugs you put in my IV drip, but they’re working wonders.”
“It’s just saline.”
Ellie devoured the rest of the croissant in two big, unladylike bites, not feeling the least bit self-conscious. Sebastian’s presence didn’t bother her, either. She didn’t feel anxious or afraid, and she didn’t know why and she didn’t care. She didn’t know why Sebastian was being kind and gracious to her, and she didn’t care.
Actually, she did know why: she had saved his life. And he, in turn, had saved hers—not because of some moral obligation but because he needed something from her. Ellie had a good idea what it was.
Ellie held up the bag. “Want one?”
He shook his head, his eyes puffy from lack of sleep.
“You sure?” she asked, picking out another croissant. “The way I’m feeling right now, I’m inclined to eat everything you got in here.”
“Increased appetite is a normal side effect.”
“A normal side effect of what?”
“An infusion of carrier blood.”
Ellie stopped chewing.
“You were shot in the clavicle—a clean shot—but you lost a good amount of blood, so I gave you two liters,” Sebastian said. “It will help speed along the healing.”
The food in her stomach suddenly felt like it was going to come back up. “You gave me Pandora?”
Sebastian nodded. “In a couple of weeks, you’ll be as good as new.”
Ellie felt as though she were stuck at the bottom of a deep well, Sebastian’s words somewhere miles above her. He gave me Pandora. Her mind seized on that fact, couldn’t accept it, and yet she knew she had to accept it, was struggling to accept it.
“You’ll experience all the other benefits as well,” Sebastian said. “Your skin will look tighter and fresher, and you’ll have firmer muscle tone. Not that you need any of those things.” He offered up a weak smile. “How old are you, again?”
“Twenty-six.” Ellie felt very, very still. The prized blood product that she had read about on dark web forums was now coursing through her veins, healing her body. It had been given to her without her permission, which, oddly, made her feel somehow violated, even though it had saved her life.
“Twenty-six,” Sebastian repeated softly. He stared at the wall behind her, lost in some private memory, his face drawn with grief. Right. He had seen Frank die.
And Sebastian had survived. That’s the important thing, Ellie thought as she snapped her attention back to the room, to the present. She went to work on her second croissant, thinking strategy. She had risked her life for him and saved him. Figure out a way to use that.
Ellie swallowed, then said, “Paul gave Anton these blood pills. I have one. It’s in my purse.”
“Why do you have it?”
She told Sebastian about her conversation in the car with Anton, how Anton wanted her to try the pills out with her boyfriend. She told him everything, Sebastian listening attentively, nodding, encouraging her to keep talking. She couldn’t get a read on him. It’s probably grief over Frank, she thought.
Sebastian turned back to her.
“How much do you remember?”
“You mean after we drove away from the house?” Ellie asked. She took another bite.
Sebastian nodded.
“I remember you on the phone, talking to someone about a checkpoint, making sure everything was ready. After that? Nothing.”
“You were bleeding pretty bad.”
“And you decided to save my life.”
“Not me. A doctor.”
“You always travel around with your own personal physician?”
“I keep her close by when I have to engage in certain . . . activities.”
“You mean torturing someone with a cordless drill. How’d that work out for you, by the way?”
Sebastian didn’t answer. Ellie held his eyes with her own, wondering where this sudden newfound confidence had come from. Then she remembered what she had read online from users who said Pandora made you feel on top of the world, invincible. Apparently, Pandora loosened one’s tongue, too, made one speak frankly and directly and truthfully, regardless of the consequences.
Ellie finished the last bite of her croissant. She wanted another one but thought it would be better to give the food a chance to settle, ride out the inevitable sugar rush and crash. “You could have let me die,” she said, reaching with her good arm for the coffee. “Why didn’t you?”
“Last week at the house, you thought I was going to kill you?”
Ellie looked at him, puzzled. “Last week? I’m not following.”
“Right. Of course. My fault—I should have explained. We had to put you in a medically induced coma, so you’ve been out of it for—”
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday.”
She had called Frank and told him about her intel on Anton on Friday. She had been out for, Jesus, almost four days.
“You’re in good hands,” Sebastian said, and kicked over a nearby swivel chair on rollers. “The doctor who treated your gunshot
wound is here. She’s been keeping an eye on you the entire time.”
“And where am I, exactly?”
“One of the private treatment rooms we use for transfusions.” He sat and leaned back in the seat, his hands clasped and resting on his stomach. “Don’t worry—you’re safe.”
“Did your people get him? Paul? He was there.”
Sebastian drew in a long breath through his nose.
Shook his head.
“But I do have some good news,” he said. “The auto plant you told us about—I had some people go there. They found Paul’s blood product—the blood pills and some carrier blood. It’s now in our possession.”
Our. Ellie liked the sound of that, Sebastian talking to her like she was now a part of his team. His inner circle.
“You handled yourself well at the house—amazingly well, as a matter of fact,” he said.
Sebastian was appraising her carefully. But Ellie didn’t feel afraid. Her heart beat at its normal resting rate, as though they were two friends catching up over trivial matters instead of discussing life and death.
“When that grenade hit the floor,” he said, “most people would have frozen up.”
“You mean most women.”
“You threw yourself on top of me.”
“I did.”
“You knew it was a flash-bang and not a regular grenade.”
“I guessed.”
“How did you know?”
“It wasn’t shaped like a grenade.”
“You have some sort of military training I don’t know about?”
“Cops use flash-bangs all the time on TV shows.”
“I was referring to your shooting skills.”
Ellie had rehearsed this part with Roland in case the subject ever came up. “My mother had a longtime boyfriend who was a cop,” she said. “He taught me a lot. About guns, how to shoot.”
“Huge difference between shooting at a stationary target and handling a gun in close-quarters combat.”
“When the shit hits the fan, what choice do you have?”
Sebastian, she could tell, wasn’t sold yet. Ellie said, “It’s not rocket science. You click off the safety, aim, and pull the trigger. I’m sorry about Frank, by the way.”
Sebastian nodded his thanks and turned his head, she guessed, so she couldn’t glimpse his pain. She never understood why men were so uncomfortable with feelings, why they saw them as a weakness. She had also sensed, perhaps incorrectly, that he was embarrassed, maybe even ashamed, of his performance in Long Beach.
“I take it you two were more than just business partners.”
“What makes you think that?” he asked.
“The way you looked at him at the house.”
“Oh? And how exactly did I look at him?”
“Like the single most important thing left in your life had suddenly been stolen from you. It didn’t have to go down that way, you know.”
“You’re right. It didn’t.” Sebastian turned his attention back to her. “If you had given Frank the information when he asked, then—”
“Sell your bullshit to someone else.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Ellie’s voice was calm but firm. “I insisted on speaking to you and only you because I wanted you to hear everything from me and not thirdhand. Things easily get lost in translation that way, and sometimes people forget to pass along important information. You would have had questions, and I was the only one who could answer them.”
“And pick up the reward, while you were at it.”
“A reward that you were offering. So, yeah, I wanted an audience with you, to make sure I got credit. That’s just smart business. What isn’t smart, what was downright stupid, was that show you put on at the house.”
“Where you saved my life.”
“Again, smart business.”
“Thank you, by the way.”
“You’re welcome.” Ellie sipped some of her coffee. Her brain was alert, firing on all cylinders—firing smoothly, in fact. Yet another benefit of Pandora, she guessed. “We should discuss next steps.”
“You’ll get the reward when I get Paul. I pay all my debts.” He leveled her with a cold glare. “Each and every last one.”
“I wasn’t referring to the reward.”
Sebastian said nothing, waited for her to explain.
Ellie drank some more coffee. Standing before her was the man who had created Pandora—ran the whole operation, from stem to stern. He had donors—maybe a dozen, maybe two dozen, maybe a whole lot more—and he knew where they were. He knew their names, maybe, and if he didn’t, they were listed somewhere. Maybe her brother was one of them, maybe not. Regardless, she wasn’t about to let him out of her sight.
“Way I see it,” she said, “your main problem right now is Paul. He’s a major threat not only to your life but also to your operation. We’ve got to deal with him now—the sooner, the better.”
Sebastian said nothing, which didn’t come as much of a surprise. She had told him things he already knew—basic, commonsense facts. Ellie said, “Anton knew where I live, so it’s safe to assume Paul does, too. So I can’t go home, and I can’t go back to work. Are we at the Wellness Center?”
“We are.”
Which solidified her original theory that the transfusions did, in fact, take place at the Wellness Center. I must be on one of the top floors, she thought.
“Anton knew I work here, which means Paul does, too. Since he’s still alive, this place is a target.”
“I’m very well aware of that, thank you.”
“Point I’m trying to make,” Ellie said, “is that I want Paul gone just as much as you do. I don’t want to live my life constantly looking over my shoulder.”
“Which is why you killed Anton.”
Ellie didn’t hesitate. “You’re goddamn right, I did. You heard what he said back there, at the house. I couldn’t let him live—couldn’t risk having him come after me.”
“Smart business,” Sebastian said flatly.
“And now I have to worry about Paul. I can’t go on with my life, and neither can you, until he’s properly dealt with. I’d say our interests are aligned, yours and mine.”
Sebastian said nothing. Ellie tried to get a read on him, couldn’t.
“I want to help you find him. I’ve seen Paul, and I saw the guy who drove him to the auto plant in Fresno. I know what he looks like, too, got a good look at him.”
“Make your point.”
“Let me stick close to you and watch your back.”
“And then?”
“I’m not following.”
“After Paul is dealt with, what do you want? Clearly you want something.”
“Absolutely,” Ellie said. “I want to learn the blood business—the actual business, not this boring front desk shit at the Wellness Center. You let me work with you, I’ll take only the money I need from your reward to pay off my debts, and you can keep the rest, use it as an investment in my future. With you.”
Sebastian slowly got to his feet.
“I’m sure you’ve got questions about me, maybe even some doubts,” Ellie said. “Give me a chance to prove myself, show you how valuable I can be.”
“You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“One last thing. Where are my clothes? I’d feel more comfortable in them than this hospital gear.”
“I had them incinerated. They were covered in blood.”
“We need to find Paul, and we need to kill him. It will be quicker and easier—safer, too, for the both of us—if we do it together.”
“Get some rest,” he said, and then left the room.
CHAPTER 31
WHEN SEBASTIAN ENTERED the area that served as a hub for monitoring patient rooms, he found Ron
Wolff reclining in one of the brand-new Herman Miller office chairs, sipping his coffee and staring straight ahead, at the one-way mirror looking into Faye Simpson’s room. Ron didn’t speak, which didn’t come as much of a surprise. Ever since the explosion, Ron had gone into full quiet mode. He did that when he was royally pissed off—and Ron was still royally pissed off at Sebastian for forcing his hand that night. Ron, Sebastian was sure, also blamed him for the deaths of his three employees.
And now Frank’s.
Ron and Frank had been tight. In a lot of ways, the two of them were cut from the same cloth. Like Frank, Ron kept his true emotions well hidden. Unlike Frank, Ron had emotions.
“Any thoughts?” Sebastian asked.
“I think it’s a great idea, having her stick close to you. Paul’s probably shitting his pants, wondering what she’s told you about him, his plans.” He scratched his chin. “Speaking of Paul, if I were a gambling man, my money’s on him investing whatever resources he has to put you down—the sooner, the better. Once you’re out of the picture, he won’t have to be constantly watching his back. He knows we have people out there looking for him.”
“You think he has people watching me?”
“I’ve wondered about that,” Ron said. “He knows we’re watching you, so in order to avoid detection he’s got to hire solid professionals who have experience in this area. If he doesn’t, he runs the risk that we’ll spot one of them. Which brings me back to my previous point about getting you out of the way as soon as possible. When that happens, he can relax.”
“You think Paul might come after her? For retaliation?”
“More like it’s smart business. If you have her stick close to you, it’ll make our job easier, covering you both.”
Sebastian settled into the chair next to him and watched Faye Simpson eat a softball-sized blueberry muffin like it was an apple, taking great big bites. She used a remote to thumb through cable TV channels, her face relaxed, maybe serene.
“How much do we really know about her?”
“I ran the background check myself, when Anton hired her,” Ron said.
