She nods, her eyes filling with tears. “Sienna,” she whispers. “Do you know how proud I am of you?”
“Mom—”
“No, listen.” She takes a deep breath. “I feel awful that you dropped out of school to help provide for the family. I know I haven’t been a good mother, not since your father—” She pauses, blinking rapidly. “But I want to be better. I do. It’s not fair to you or your sister—”
“Mom, please.”
She straightens her shoulders. “Starting tomorrow, there will be some changes around here. Maybe I can get a job again—”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, thinking of the numerous jobs she’s had and lost since my father’s death. Grabbing my mother’s cold hands and squeezing them between my own, I say, “It’s okay, Mom. I have it covered. You just focus on getting well.”
Her smile is sad as she brushes a lock of hair from my eyes. “You are so beautiful. If only your father could see you now. He would be so proud.”
Guilt fills me, and my eyes shift away from hers.
If she only knew…
***
On my Harley, I weave through City Square, the area of town where the wealthy live. The twinkling lights from the street lamps illuminate clean streets and rows of restaurants. Such a contrast to the far side of Legas with its broken-down buildings and darkened streets. The Gateway was once a prominent business strip, a moneymaker for Legas, but now it’s merely a cesspool for drug lords, criminals, and underground gambling. I don’t know why the Enforcers haven’t tried harder to put a stop to it.
Up on Hampstead Hill, I spot one of the mansions that overlook the city. The home of Match 360’s director, Harlow Ryder. It stands like a beacon, embodying the dream of every person.
That one man can change our future.
I snort, struggling to hold back the laughter that bubbles up. Change the future? More like ruin the future. If it weren’t for Harlow Ryder, genetically modified boys and girls wouldn’t be quarantined from one another like hormonal dogs in heat. If it weren’t for Harlow Ryder, people would still believe in love, romance, and desire. If it weren’t for Harlow Ryder, wealthy parents wouldn’t be making matches for their children while they are still infants.
When Mr. Ryder first began Match 360, his genetic matchmaking company, I’m sure he didn’t anticipate the impact his genetic discovery would have on the future of mankind. Perhaps he was trying to eradicate divorce. He may even have had good intentions to reduce the number of out-of-wedlock births and fatherless families. But his invention is changing society. Where lovers once courted, kissed, and fell in love, now, strangers are analyzed, their DNA coded, and their personalities and genetic makeup matched to create the perfect compatibility.
As if matchmaking wasn’t enough, twenty-one years ago, Harlow expanded his company to include genetic modification. He created the first generation of genetically modified individuals, his youngest son being the very first. Now, genetic modification is a choice the affluent make for their children, for their society of Citizens.
When wealthy parents are ready to conceive, they fill out a form at a Chromo 120 facility and the doctor handpicks those qualities from the DNA of the mother and father. Rarely do you find “surprise” pregnancies among Citizens. That simply would not be acceptable.
I park my bike against the curb and walk the few blocks to Wedgewood Row, a group of connected buildings that house a barbershop, a couple of upscale boutiques, and an electronics repair shop. This part of the Row is pitch dark and completely deserted.
The alley behind the buildings isn’t much better. The large dumpsters create lurking shadows on the brick walls. My heart pounds, both from uncertainty and excitement as I glance up and down the alley. With heightened senses, my eyes slowly adjust to the shadows and my ears perk at each rustle in the breeze. I glance at my watch. It’s exactly ten.
A figure emerges from the shadows. He’s been there the whole time.
Watching. Waiting.
A shiver of fear shoots up my spine.
The large man with oversized shoulders and a thick, bulging neck approaches, but he keeps to the shadows. The moonlight carves a path of light, allowing me to see his piercing, beady eyes as he opens his mouth to speak.
“Preston?”
My blood runs cold at the sound of his voice. Low and menacing.
“Yes, I’m Sienna Preston,” I say, tilting my chin higher.
The man pauses. “Do you have the box?”
I nod.
“Good.” He motions with his hands. Two men step from the shadows, one burly, and the other wiry.
My heart stops. Three against one. Is this a joke?
The men grab my arms, pinning them to my sides.
“Hey! What are you—” I struggle against them, but they are too large, too strong. I open my mouth to scream, but something damp covers my mouth. The smell of castor oil mixed with chloroform fills my nostrils. Gagging, I swing my leg back to kick him in the groin.
Everything goes dark.
***
The rickety wooden chair creaks as I shift my weight and struggle to open heavy eyelids. Dim light filters in through the slits, and then I remember—the man with the thick neck and his two goons who grabbed me.
Rough cording binds my hands behind my back and rubs against my tender wrists. I try to shrug off the fear that tightens my shoulders as my eyes scan the room where I’m held captive. Puddles of water pool on the concrete floor and a single dangling bulb illuminates the dank, musty space. I must be in a basement of some sort, but where?
The door opens, and the thick-necked man with the beady eyes enters the room. After taking a seat in the chair across from me, he holds out a water bottle.
I glare in response. “Is this really necessary?” I ask, indicating the bindings around my wrists.
He shrugs. “Doesn’t have to be.” Moving behind me, he unties the rope.
Relieved to be free of that awkward position, I rub my wrists, soothing the raw marks left from the cords.
Thick Neck offers me the water bottle again. This time, I gladly take it. My throat feels like a slightly wetter version of sandpaper, and my mouth tastes like someone poured vinegar in it. But before I chug the water, I pause to sniff. Smells like nothing—a good sign for water.
Thick Neck chuckles and settles back into his seat. “We appreciate you bringing the box to us—”
My hands move instinctively to my chest where I’d hidden the box that wasn’t much larger than a matchbook. There’s nothing there.
“We already got it.”
A deep flush spreads across my cheeks. They invaded me. They had no right to take the box without my permission. And I don’t even want to think about where they had to place their hands in order to retrieve it.
“I can see that bothers you. Rest assured—we were very professional about it.” He smirks.
I bite my lip to keep from saying something I’ll regret. The sooner he lets me leave, the better. “So if you have the box, why am I still here? Why all this drama?”
“Because what you did was illegal and I want to know who hired you.” His eyes turn cold as he crosses one leg over the other and rests his clasped hands over his knees.
My eyes narrow. “I thought you hired me—”
He shakes his head and laughs, a cruel sound that chills me to the bone. “No. I just intercepted the exchange.”
“Who are you?”
“Can’t answer that, but what I can tell you is that you’ve been a very naughty girl.” He leans in, closing the distance between us. “Do you know what happens to naughty girls?”
My breath catches, and I try to swallow the lump that rises in my throat. “What do you want from me?”
He leans back and resumes a relaxed position. “I want to know who hired you, nothing more, nothing less.”
“Sorry, can’t help you there. I have no idea.”
He glances at a mirror across the room
and snaps his fingers. It is then that I realize this is nothing more than an interrogation room. My pulse quickens when his two goons enter the room and move toward my chair.
“Perhaps my boys can help jog your memory.”
I stifle a moan as the goons shove me out of the chair. Gripping my arms, they lead me down a dank hall to an adjacent room that has a wooden chair and a galvanized tub filled with water. Fear courses through me as they set me down on the chair and tie my hands behind my back. I study their faces as they move around me—the hanging jowls of one, the lazy eyes of the second. As I plead with my own eyes for them to have mercy on me, they barely even glance in my direction. Tears threaten, but I blink them back before they can fall. I refuse to cry in front of these monsters.
The voice of the thick-necked man comes through a speaker overhead. “I’ll ask you one more time. Who hired you to steal the computer chip from Harlow Ryder’s office?”
“I already told you, I don’t know!”
He makes a tsking sound. “Sorry, but that’s the wrong answer.”
Hands on the back of my head force my face forward until it’s submerged in the tub. The cold water seeps into my eyes, nose, and ears as I struggle against their hands. But they are too strong. I stop fighting and concentrate on holding my breath. They are only trying to scare me, and I can’t let them.
My lungs scream. Just when I think I can’t hold my breath a second longer, they yank me up by my hair. My head throbs as I gasp for breath.
“Well, Miss Preston, let’s try that again. Who hired you to steal the computer chip?”
I remain silent as the water drips down my face and onto my black pants.
“Boys, you know what to do,” Thick Neck’s voice instructs.
I suck in a deep breath before my head is forced under again. Even though my throat is raw and my lungs ache, I remove myself. In my mind, I am lying in a meadow surrounded by beautiful butterflies. The sunlight falls on my face, and the breeze cools my warming body—
My head jerks up with a whoosh. Blackness dots the edges of my vision as I gulp air.
“Has your memory returned, Miss Preston?” his voice challenges.
When I don’t answer, staring straight ahead at the cracked plaster on the walls instead, he continues, “Perhaps Miss Preston needs some time to think about it. Why don’t we give her a few minutes?” The two goons leave the room. My head flops forward, my heart thudding its own sense of relief. I breathe deeply, grateful for a few moments of uninterrupted air.
I don’t know how to make this ruthless man understand that I know nothing about my clients except they are the source of my paycheck.
What can I do to convince him?
My heart sinks when I hear a noise at the door. They’ve returned, and I’m no closer to knowing how to stop them than I was a few minutes ago. Maybe they will tire of this game and kill me quickly. I’d almost welcome a sure, fast death as opposed to this torture.
The door pushes open. A dark-haired guy not much older than I am pops his head in and glances around. When he spots me, he slides inside and hurries over. My eyes widen in fear—this must be the man who doesn’t mess around. Maybe they have tired of playing games and decided to kill me. I close my eyes, not wanting to see the gun or knife he will surely pull from the back of his pants.
“Hey,” he says, his voice soft.
My eyes pop open. This guy can’t be an assassin, not with that smooth, deep voice that would put most baritones to shame.
“I’m here to help you,” he says, his blue eyes warm and kind.
My eyes narrow. “Who are you?”
He glances behind him. “I’ll explain all that later.”
Removing a knife from his pants—didn’t I say he would have one?—he moves behind me to cut the cord from my wrists. Once my arms are free, I push my wet hair out of my eyes.
“You know how to get out of here?” I ask.
He nods, pocketing the knife. “Follow me and try to stay close.” That’s when I notice the heat he’s packing in the back of his pants. I was right on both accounts. A knife and a gun. Thankfully, it looks as though neither of them will be used on me.
Removing the gun, he holds it steady before opening the door and peering down the hall. He motions, and we creep down the dark corridor, our feet silent on the block tile floor. I follow him to an empty stairwell, expecting to be ambushed by the thick-necked man and his men at any moment.
It isn’t until we push through a metal door and are greeted by the night air that I feel a sense of relief. But we aren’t safe yet. The guy breaks into a slow jog, crossing the damp grass, and I struggle to keep up, my head still fuzzy from lack of oxygen. We jog down a deserted road, the night sky so brilliant above us that the stars feel as if they are only an arm’s reach away. A black truck is parked on the side of the road a half-mile from the facility where I was held hostage. I hang back as we near the vehicle.
I’m grateful for his help, but I know nothing about him, and that dark truck parked on the side of the road looks as inviting as being water tortured by those lunatics. Not to mention the fact he has a gun… and I don’t.
“You okay?” he asks, eyeing me.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I appreciate you busting me out of there, but I don’t know you.”
He grins, flashing a pair of dimples, and then holds out his hand. “Trey Winchester.”
I hesitate a moment before sliding mine in his, the rough calluses on his palms scraping against my fingers. “Sienna Preston.” It is then that I notice his arm. It’s a tattoo, and yet, it’s not. Interweaving, knotted ropes form what looks to be a tree that snakes down his arm. But it doesn’t sit on top of his skin like a normal tattoo. Instead, it seems to glow from beneath his skin, especially in the dark. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“I know,” he says.
“How do you know who I am?”
Trey shifts his weight and looks down at the ground before glancing up, his eyes connecting with mine.
“Because I’m the one who hired you to steal the computer chip.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
My mouth drops open. “So, it’s your fault I was kidnapped and practically drowned by some lunatic?”
Trey nods, his eyes pained. “I’m sorry. I got to the Row in time to see those men carrying your body to their car.”
“You followed them?”
“Yeah.”
“What took you so long? To get me out of there, I mean? Were you waiting for them to drown me before you came and collected my body?”
“It’s… complicated. I had to find a way in. I couldn’t exactly walk through the front door of a government facility.”
“Government facility?”
Trey glances down the dark road as his face hardens. “Yeah. Those were government bastards.”
I was thinking Mr. Ryder’s men had come after me, but apparently not.
Cocking my head, I study the well-built guy in front of me, trying to decide if I should trust him. His kind eyes and dimpled smile make him appear believable, but the sheer fact that he’s the reason I was kidnapped in the first place makes me want to smack him.
“I don’t understand how our meeting was compromised,” I accuse.
“Neither do I. And I’m sorry for the trouble this has caused you.”
“They took the box with the chip.”
Trey sighs. “Figures. Those government officials have wanted to get their hands on that for ages, and I practically handed it over to them.”
I shouldn’t want to know, with the client anonymity and all, but I’m curious. “Why did you want that computer chip?”
He shakes his head, his smile wry. “I’d like to tell you, but I can’t.”
Pursing my lips together, I place my hands on my hips. “Considering what you made me go through, I think I deserve to know.”
He exhales deeply and contemplates my request. Just when I think he’ll refuse, he nods. “You’re right. I gues
s I owe you at least that much.” He runs a hand through his dark hair before he continues. “That computer chip houses all the codes used for genetic matchmaking as well as the DNA database for genetic sequencing. If it gets into the wrong hands… let’s just say I was trying to make sure it never does.” He gives a harsh laugh. “Looks like I failed.”
“Yeah, pretty much,” I say, my tone flat.
The sound of a car speeding down the dark road catches my attention. “It’s them,” I choke out. Tiny headlights, like pinpricks in the night, move toward us.
“I can’t outrun them in my truck. We need to hide.” Trey grabs my arm. “Quick. Climb underneath.”
I stare at him. “Of the truck? Are you crazy? Don’t you think an abandoned truck is the first place they’ll check?”
“That’s what I’m banking on. They’ll look in here,” Trey pats his truck, “but they won’t think to look underneath.” His mouth turns up into a crooked grin. “I know we just met, but we’re about to get real cozy.”
My breath catches. “I think I’d rather make a run for it,” I say. As I move away from the vehicle, Trey’s hand latches on my arm, pulling me back.
“You don’t have time,” he hisses.
I glance down the road at the approaching headlights. He’s right. “If you try anything,” I threaten.
“I won’t. Trust me.”
Hesitantly, I lie facedown on the ground, rocks embedding themselves in my palms, and work my way under the truck. Little blades of grass poke through the gravelly shoulder, tickling my chin. There are distinct smells of dirt and gasoline under here, and I picture things dripping and oozing onto my back. Making a face, I close my eyes and scoot further beneath the belly of the truck. I feel Trey slide in next to me, his shoulder and hip pressed against mine.
The sound of the car draws closer, and Trey curses under his breath. He rolls over on his side and pulls me to him, trying to minimize the shape of our bodies beneath the truck. My fists clench, but I turn and face him, my head resting under his chin and my arms crushed against his chest. Squeezing my eyes shut, I hold my breath until I can’t anymore. When I finally do inhale, I breathe in the smell of his skin. Sweat and soap—a very manly smell.
Catalyst Page 4
