GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  Images from this morning's final presentation saturated her mind. Preceded by an enhanced security detail that added four more armed guards to her lab, delegates from each group arrived. The odd assortment of so-called business leaders, foreign government officials, and what she guessed were factions within certain countries—how extreme she wasn't sure—looked like a gathering of the United Nations. All skin colors and what looked to be religions were represented, either in person or through a secured online video stream she'd set up. The only constant was that all were male. To be interested in the weapon she had developed, she knew they all must have an acute desire to destroy human lives, or to have power over others who wished to destroy their sinister way of life.

  Keeping track of international politics, in her mind, had become pointless. Every group offered propaganda to support its view of the world, its justification for performing certain acts. But the bottom line was always this: how many lives were saved and how many were lost.

  She never imagined that she'd contribute to the deficit. Not in a million years.

  While she had promised herself and her close friends that she would fix the system, the one that allowed her and Gustavo to live in rancid conditions, eluding predators on a daily basis, she never thought her vow would end this way. That was not how she had envisioned it. She'd been obviously duped, used, and manipulated. She silently cursed her naiveté for the thousandth time.

  Camila glanced back at her hands and recalled the exact moment when she knew how the world would always remember her. Standing before the highly interested crowd of onlookers in front of her main workstation earlier that morning, with her hands shaking like she had Parkinson's, she hesitated before punching the ENTER key—one final pause to see if fate would interrupt an act of terror that would capture the world's attention and possibly shift the balance of world power. She waited for what seemed like minutes, hoping, praying a team of people would burst through the metal lab door, arrest everyone in attendance, and stop the experiment before the slaughter began.

  But it never happened. And her mind drifted to her one motivation—being with her only son, Juan. She could hear his infectious giggle, touch his blond curls, feel his unending love. And then she did it. She hit ENTER.

  “It has started,” she'd announced then took a step back, held her hands behind her back and, like everyone else, watched the tragedy unfold. A single eighty-inch monitor displayed a live feed of the lone camera positioned in the corner of the Mumbai office.

  The lab was quiet—like now—no one moving, no words spoken. Until the test became all too real.

  The man at the end of the first row struggled for air, losing control of his muscles. As she had designed, his nervous system was systematically destroyed in a matter of minutes. The next person, a woman, approached him, took in the toxic gas, and within a couple of minutes, experienced a similar fate. Another person ran up, felt the chokehold of her body being invaded, and tried to escape. But it wasn't possible. As she collapsed, her face stared directly into the camera, every tendon and muscle rigid from stress, her eyes bulging like they were about to burst from their sockets. She reached out her arm, a final, useless act of bravery to save herself.

  When the woman hit the floor, Camila heard a single gasp, noticed one person online bring his fist to his mouth, like he was about to regurgitate. She knew that feeling all too well. As more innocent workers fought and lost the battle for their lives over the next hour, Camila could hear whispers around her. When the carnage had ceased, with her eyes welling and her heart stuffed in the back of her throat, she took a step toward her workstation but stopped as soon as she heard the laugh.

  A twisted, maniacal cackle bounced off the bare floor and walls, the sick response burrowing into her mind.

  Camila turned back and caught a glimpse of the Asian man, no more than five-five, grossly overweight, his gut hanging over his belt, wearing casual slacks, a tweed sport coat. Could have been a businessman from Singapore, Malaysia, who knew? While she understood the groups in attendance had varied motivations for their interest in her creation, she never expected this type of reaction. Some, she knew, saw dollar signs; others probably envisioned using this weapon to alter the balance of power in their region. And yes, she knew the worst were fueled by sheer hatred, wanting to kill people, pure and simple.

  And that's exactly what she had created: a killing device capable of attacking any location across the globe, with nothing more than a few key strokes and a click of the mouse.

  The landing from the second-floor entrance into the lab rattled, and she looked to her ceiling. Heavy shoes pounded the metal, multiple pairs, a few possibly combat boots. She heard energetic voices, accented, one discussion in English, a second in another language. She only knew it wasn't her native Portuguese or Spanish.

  The single moment that had kept her breathing these last few, tortuous weeks was about to take place. Emotions swelled, and she could feel warmth permeate her body, her pulse patter at a much quicker pace. But she knew she couldn't get ahead of herself, allowing her emotions to flow like a river. Franco might tease her, toy with her single-minded desire to be reconnected with her son.

  Four people came around the corner, with Franco leading the pack of wolves. Three stopped at the bank of monitors, while Franco continued walking, his arms open, his face beaming.

  “Camila, my dear,” he said so all could hear, “We have completed our negotiations. And our friends here from China have won the prize.“

  He didn't stop until he was within an arm's distance from Camila and her cot. She unfolded her body from its cocoon, stood up, wiping under her eyes and attempting to tame her hair.

  Franco opened his arms like he was expecting a hug or kiss. She kept her hands to her side, clutching her pants to ensure she wouldn't unleash a series of punches on the larger man.

  “You are doing well, no?” he asked, his smirk unforgiving.

  She leaned to her left, and eyed the group that had paid the most money for this weapon. It was the man with the insane laugh, along with two partners...or bodyguards, now that she took a second glance.

  She tried desperately to maintain her focus, her purpose. "I'm...I'm okay, Franco." She took in a deep breath and a jab of pain shot through her back and her lungs, lingering in her chest cavity. The pain felt like she'd literally been stabbed in the back. She was so tired, spent; she almost glanced back to see if a knife was sticking out. She coughed, and the pain pinched her chest again. She shut her eyes for just a second, opened them.

  Franco reached out a hand...like he cared.

  Camila instinctively raised a hand like she was about to knock his arm away. She stopped herself before impact.

  “Oh, Camila, you still have that feisty spirit.” Franco rubbed his hands together then walked to the other side of the room and regained his thoughts. “You'll be happy to hear we have secured a twenty-five-million-dollar down payment.“ He looked at her, apparently expecting a response. She gave none. She only stared back at him, her eyes penetrating his.

  “Terms and conditions. That's where we need to understand the true details of this deal,” he said, pausing again. He looked into the small wall mirror and checked his teeth then brushed his fingers through his hair on both sides.

  “Our friends from China have a unique business model they have created. It's all based upon relationships. You do know that's how business is run all across the world? It's about building relationships. And apparently, they are the best at what they do,” he said. “They will take our product, enhance it, craft it to the specific needs of their potential clients, and then resell it. It's truly brilliant, I must say.“

  Franco glanced back and waved at his new business partner then turned around.

  “Why no response? Isn't this what we worked for?” he asked

  Her eyes looked away then shifted back to the man who stood between her and Juan. "You know what I want. Juan is all I care about." Just mentioning her four-year-old so
n's name out loud sent a wave of emotion through her body. She swayed a bit, her legs felt a tad rubbery, but she remained resolute.

  Franco seemed to ignore her reference to her son. “We have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here. Our Chinese partners have developed a pipeline of business that would make most CEOs salivate. Conservatively, if they close on twenty-five percent of their proposed clients, then they will clear one billion in revenue. Did you hear me? One billion, with a B.”

  Camila blinked at the number, but only took in a breath, not uttering a word until she heard Franco communicate how and when she'd reunite with Juan.

  “Now,” he chuckled, “We can't get too excited. Our cut is less but still a hefty number. Over the next year, we hope to bring in five hundred million.“ His voice raised a half-octave, ending with another toothy grin. “Aren't you excited...for us?”

  Camila's hands gripped her legs so hard, she thought she might have restricted blood flow. Her chin began to quiver. She couldn't hold back any longer. “Which us? I only care for my son, Juan. When will this nightmare end? When can I see my son, as you promised?”

  Franco held out his arms, like he was trying to calm her. “I know that is your concern. You are a mother. I understand," he said. "One of the key terms of the deal...”

  Franco paused, released a cough, and glanced back at his new business partners. Camila also shifted her eyes to the pudgy, short man standing with his feet wide. His knees appeared to bow a bit, and his arms rested on his extended belly. His eyes were half shut, a pleasing smile painted on his doughy face. Two other men stood on either side of their boss. They were younger, leaner. She now noticed matching brown shoulder holsters inside their nearly matching jackets. Apparently big business came with a bit of insecurity, or mistrust.

  “As I was saying...” Franco put his hands in his pockets and looked down for a moment. “The key term that allowed this deal to be completed was they want to ensure long-term security of the product. The only way to do that is to have you lead the ongoing development effort.“

  Their eyes met briefly, then he turned away. She stuck out her jaw and huffed audible breaths.

  “Did I just hear you say I'm being asked, not told, to continue working on this weapon? You're out of your fucking mind!” Camila could stand still no longer. She walked toward the sink, turned the spigot, and splashed water on her face, then anchored both arms on each side of the porcelain.

  “I can ensure you that both you and Juan will be safe. This company thinks very highly of you. If you desire, you could make this your life's mission.”

  “You are genuinely losing your marbles.” She jabbed a finger into the side of her head. “I'm not working for them. I'm not working any longer on this weapon that will kill hundreds, no thousands, tens of thousands. I want my son. Where can I meet him?“

  She took a step toward the exit, but Franco shifted his body in front of hers, and briefly, they touched. She shuddered and took a step back.

  “You can meet him in Hong Kong,” he said.

  She closed her eyes and let the words resonate. Franco had betrayed his final promise to her.

  “You will be on a ship tomorrow morning, heading to Hong Kong. Juan will also be on the ship, in another cabin. Accommodations won't be great, but once in Hong Kong, you will be reunited with Juan, and the company will treat you like royalty. You see, it will all work out. It just takes a bit more cooperation.”

  Camila turned her back to Franco, as her eyes spilled water...again. She heaved with emotion and placed her hands over her face. She couldn't take this torture. Death was on her hands, that much she couldn't take back. But how could she look into her child's perfect blue eyes and tell him what is right and wrong about this world while she continued to develop a machine whose sole purpose was to kill people?

  Fury simmered just below the surface, as the images from this morning's final test darted through her mind. Those who worked in that office—brothers, sisters, moms, dads, good friends—never returned to their homes, their loved ones. They suffered a cruel death from that test, a vile act against humanity. She could be dormant no longer.

  She curled her hands into fists, turned, and leaped, releasing a violent kick toward Franco's stomach. Reacting quicker than she anticipated, he threw his arm in the path of her kick, and her bare foot glanced off his forearm and landed with a thud against his rib cage. He let out a loud grunt and doubled over. Without thinking rationally, she lunged for him, first kicking toward those same ribs, then hurling closed-fist shots with every ounce of strength she could muster. One after another connected on his face, his head, directly into his nose. She must have landed twenty of them, and she screamed at the top of her lungs. She was like a wild animal.

  Out of nowhere, a body rammed her, taking her off her feet and slamming her to the unforgiving concrete floor. She thought she'd been thrown into an American football game, minus the pads and helmet. Her shoulders collapsed under the weight, her skull bounced off the concrete surface like a basketball. For a few seconds, her eyes lost focus, bright lights flickered on and off. The man—most likely one of the bodyguards—shoved himself against her and stood up, a gun now waving three feet from her face.

  Franco's face came into focus.

  “You fucking prick!” She attempted to swing at him, but her shoulder felt like it had come out of its socket. She didn't give a shit.

  “Where is Juan? Give me my son?” she demanded, spit flying out of her mouth.

  “You'll get your son once you get to Hong Kong. But you must cooperate. Outbursts like this will not be tolerated. We have to get our money.”

  “It's always been about your money, for all of you. The Chosen Ones, my ass,” she said. “You never intended on helping those kids. The cause was a mirage. Admit it!“ she yelled.

  “You are wrong, Camila. We were all driven by the cause. This money will help those kids, I swear to you.”

  “You fucking liar!”

  Camila screamed until she lost her voice.

  Chapter Thirty

  It didn't matter if I moved left or right, their unblinking eyes followed me.

  A sea of men—all skin colors, half-dressed, crouched into a sitting position, their hands folded in front of them—watched my every movement. The leader of the group had a tear-like tattoo hanging under his eye.

  Standing no more than ten feet away from a giant tapestry hanging on a wall in the main exhibit area of the Asian Art Museum, I could see the texture of their skin. It seemed smooth, eyebrows sculpted. Most wore enormous, jeweled earrings and elaborate, ornate headdresses, red, blue, silver in color.

  “Kind of creepy isn't it, their eyes never leaving you?” Andi stood shoulder to shoulder with me.

  “Yeah.” I casually glanced left and right, trying to act like a normal tourist as Ji had instructed while he searched the premises for Satish.

  “Not sure if they're watching out for us or attached to the group hunting us down,” she said.

  I looked at her then back at the artwork before us. “Andi, this is just a tapestry, made two thousand years ago.”

  “Just sayin'.” She shrugged her shoulders.

  I shook my head in disbelief. “You think it's some curse? We've somehow interrupted a long-running ritual that is being carried out by modern-day descendants, and they've vowed retribution, hoping to restore their path to eternal life?”

  Andi turned her head, her eyebrows lifting slightly higher, in a cute way. “I think you read my mind.”

  “Damn, you're silly sometimes.”

  She returned her gaze to the Himalayan Buddhists—and elbowed me.

  “How long are we supposed to wait here for Ji?” she asked.

  “Until he finds Satish.”

  “What if they find Ji before he finds Satish? Or what if they find Satish, and Ji will never find him?” A finger swept under her eye.

  “Don't worry. You don't have any makeup to smear,” I said honestly.

  “Hey!”
She jabbed her elbow in my ribs, still a tad sore.

  “Ow. Sorry. It just means you don't need makeup.” I wasn't sure how that came across.

  Her head did a double take in my direction. She changed the topic. “Sorry about my little incident back at Ji's apartment.”

  “Fainting is understandable, given what I'd read. YY dead—I'm assuming murdered. Satish on the run. Made my stomach twist into a vicious knot.”

  I felt the side of Andi's arm brush mine, like she needed a human touch to provide solace in this swirl of volatile, life-threatening craziness. At times, the last few weeks seemed like a horrible nightmare...the kind where you want to wake up and stop it instantly, but you never do.

  A little, floppy-haired Asian boy padded around Andi, timidly taking one step at a time while his eyes were glued to the wall of eyes. I could see his head move from one side of the tapestry to the other, taking it all in. Andi and I traded smiles.

  Without warning, he screamed at the top of his lungs, "Mommy, they won't stop looking at me! Predator alert, predator alert, predator alert!" He ran off, his black hair bouncing up and down.

  I noticed that Andi and I had both taken a step back, leery of kids and their unpredictability.

  “Don't move. Don't turn around.”

  I felt a quick thump of my heart. Ji's monotone voice had startled me.

  “I found Satish. Second floor café. Corner booth against the window. Overlooking Larkin. Meet you there in five. Don't follow me.”

  I rested my hands in my pockets, while Andi crossed one arm across her chest, her other hand perched under her chin. We were doing our best to be inconspicuous. Before we left Ji's place, he said some of the best hiding can be accomplished in plain sight, blending in with normal folks. We weren't doing badly, although my uncovered legs reminded me our attire didn't exactly match the gray, windy conditions, temperatures hovering in the mid-fifties. We still had on our running gear from when we'd escaped the attempt on our lives at Chao Town. Fortunately, Ji had provided me a long-sleeve T-shirt and Andi an over-sized University of San Francisco sweatshirt.