by Misty Evans
“Three? Wow, okay. Where are they? I'll get them.”
It was silly to worry about which glasses would work best with this outfit, but like handbags, she enjoyed having the perfect frames for every occasion. She had to admit part of her wanted to know which frames would complement this dress. “They’re in my briefcase downstairs.”
“Don’t go anywhere. I'll be right back.”
He dashed out of the closet and she heard his feet hitting the stairs. She looked at herself again, turning to one side and the other to see all the angles. She usually stayed away from such tight fitting clothes, and although her butt wasn't any smaller, the way the dress accentuated it made her give it a little shake in the mirror.
She bent forward and shook her hair out more, then flipped it back over her shoulders. Damn, I'm hot.
The thought was like a blow to her system. It was new, frightening, and exhilarating all at the same time.
Behind her in the mirror, she saw the Dolce & Gabbana bag. She snatched it from the carousel and posed with it in front of the mirror, once again turning side to side and crafting her facial expression into that of a model. At one point she even twirled, laughing softly to herself.
She felt alive, really alive, and… happy.
“You look amazing.” She jumped at the sound of Mick’s voice. He leaned a shoulder on the closet doorframe watching her, hands behind his back. She hadn't heard him return, so wrapped up in her little world. “No lie. What do you say we forget about the mission and just enjoy ourselves this afternoon?”
Enjoy ourselves. That part of the sentence was loaded with innuendo, and his eyes were doing that smoldering thing again. The feral, I want to eat you look was back.
Another shiver went down her spine and she couldn't look away from him. She felt like a caterpillar who had just emerged from a cocoon. Taking a deep breath, she let it out very slowly. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For the makeover and” —she bit the inside of her bottom lip, but forced herself to finish the sentence—”the compliment. I know it's been a while since you've seen a woman, but I still appreciate the flirting.”
He looked surprised, but then his expression softened. “I didn't say it because it's been a long time since I've been with a woman. I said it because it's true. And while that dress really brought it out, you were beautiful before you put it on.”
Now she knew he was lying, but she didn't care. “I think the magenta frames are the ones to wear.”
From behind his back he produced the exact ones, the confident swagger back. “For once, we agree, my sexy chief operating officer.”
Assessing the threat
Synthetic biology conference
Over the next two days of relentless study, memorization, and playing out various scenarios with Cassandra, Mick decided he was not cut out for undercover work.
But here he was, at the symposium, attending Dr. Epstein's talk on synthetic viruses and a fictional one she referred to as Disease X, using the World Health Organization's descriptor.
Cassandra, seated next to him and totally engrossed in the lecture, wore the tight blue dress that showed off her boobs and ass, and Mick’s mind wandered to his happy place—the king size bed back at the safe house, his partner in crime wearing the dress and shoes.
He imagined her standing next to the edge of the bed, her back to him. His fingers unzipped the dress slowly, teasingly, to reveal her shoulder blades. His lips found the nape of her neck, the curve of each shoulder, the tiny knobs in her spine.
He peeled the dress off her shoulders and down to her hips, exposing her breasts to his hands. Trailing his kisses with exquisite slowness down, down, down…
An elbow jerked him out of the fantasy. He shot Cassie a look and saw her glaring at him. Had he missed something important?
He straightened from his slouch and tried to tune into Epstein’s latest slide at the front of the room. It showed the progression of Disease X from Ground Zero. In her example, red lines ran in different directions, intersecting with multiple populations and showing how many days it would take the disease to carpet bomb thousands, and up into the millions once introduced into the general population.
It was deadly within eight hours of contraction, less for children, the elderly, and anyone with a compromised immune system. Even a healthy one would succumb eventually without an antidote.
“Package is behind you on the left,” Cassandra whispered in his ear. “Try to act like you’re interested.”
Creeped out was more like it. In Epstein’s scenario, there was no antidote. No combination of drugs could be mixed into a cocktail to stop the pandemic.
Disease X was built from the foundation of viruses long thought extinct that could now rise like zombies because their genome sequences were recorded and there were something called “permissive” cells available to re-create them. Apparently, there were nearly four thousand of these publicly for sale on the website of the National Institutes of Health.
Throw in some other virology mumbo-jumbo and Dr. Epstein compared Disease X to the effectiveness of an aggressive cancer that could use each infected person’s particular DNA against them.
Scary shit. Unstoppable shit.
As Mick listened to the rest of the lecture, most of it made his brain cells hurt, but the parts he understood made his stomach want to toss his breakfast.
Wrapping up, the doctor offered to take questions. Cassandra watched and listened to several members of the audience present various scenarios. Most were concerned with containing the fallout. Mick wondered why they weren’t more concerned with stopping it in the first place. It was as if they believed this was inevitable.
Cassandra flicked a glance over her shoulder as another audience member asked a question near Falana’s seat. Her breath was warm on his ear as she whispered, “She’s studying all of the people asking questions. Probably sizing them up as potential investors. That’s how we get her attention.”
“So ask a question,” he said.
“You need to do it.”
“Can’t I just wow her with my good looks after the talk?”
The corners of Cassie’s eyes pinched.
Right. “What should I ask?”
She must've seen the terror on his face, even though he was trying to hide it. He’d read countless information on all this stuff, and she had quizzed him mercilessly, but he was completely out of his league here.
Cassandra started scribbling on a piece of paper, crossed it out, and wrote once more. Epstein had finished answering the last question, and shut off her slide show.
Mick shot to his feet. “One more question, Dr. Epstein.”
The short woman was fair haired and frazzled looking. She wore black pants and a colorful blouse, but both looked like they were off a discount store sales rack. “Yes?”
“We all agree the world of infectious diseases is now in uncharted territory.” Cassandra stared up at him, appearing slightly bewildered. She went back to scribbling, and he tried to read it from the corner of his eye, but her handwriting was atrocious. “There are no international regulations that control the type of research you’re doing, correct? Or the potential for synthetic biology-enabled weapons?”
The doctor’s mouth pursed slightly, her dark eyes piercing. “Regulations would be tough to enforce when anyone can order a second-hand DNA synthesizer on eBay and the genome sequences are all over the Internet.”
“In essence, anyone with half a brain can engineer biology and create a weapon of mass destruction, but as a global community, we haven’t succeeded at engineering preventative measures or custom countermeasures to handle such a pandemic.”
She nodded. “There is a barrier with certain aspects for the average person to develop and deliver such a weapon, but the public health infrastructure lacks the ability to recognize or deter a potential attack.”
“So the concern is about a pandemic, but what research is being done with antidotes? Do
you think scientists such as yourself can educate and influence policymakers regarding biosecurity measures?”
Another piercing stare. “In order to face the bio health risk Disease X can—and will—expose us to, it is imperative biologists do exactly that.”
“Thank you,” Mick said, and resumed his seat.
As the doctor thanked the audience and a polite round of clapping broke out, Cassandra tidied her notes and stuffed them in her black bag. “Not bad,” she said, but she seemed slightly irritated. “Although, I’m unsure how your line of questioning will attract Falana’s interest.”
“All I was doing was getting on her radar.” He glanced around at the departing group. The countess was keeping her eye on Epstein while chatting with someone she'd sat next to. Epstein became surrounded by colleagues on the stage, apparently answering more questions and receiving kudos. She handed a business card to an elderly gentlemen rocking the Einstein look. “No need to knock her over the head with a brick.” Yet, anyway.
They filed out to the end of their row. “From the subtle clues Dr. Epstein was dropping,” Cassandra said, “I have the awful feeling she has indeed already created Disease X.”
Mick agreed and felt sick again as the PowerPoint slides flashed through his mind.
They were nearly out the door when a gentleman stepped toward them. He held out a hand and introduced himself. “Seymour Gotty, Lanix BioTech. You seem to have a solid grasp on this stuff.”
Mick shook his hand. “Graham Sterling, Codex One.”
“I’m not familiar with Codex One,” Gotty said. “Do you deal in bio-tech?”
“Investments,” Mick explained. “The money is in sources to handle something like Disease X—antidotes, containment resources, preventative vaccines. I’m afraid a lot of the technical aspects of this conference are above my pay grade. That’s why I brought my chief operating officer, Cassie Juno.” He motioned to her. “She understands synthetic biology and advises me on new developments my investors might be interested in.”
Cassandra smiled and shook the man's hand. “What exactly does Lanix Biotech do, Mr. Gotty?”
“It’s doctor.” He handed her a card with a smile that made him look like the nerd he was. “I cut my teeth on public health issues and I'm a researcher, a sort of viral treasure hunter, you might say. I search for undiscovered viruses all over the world, particularly in rainforests, but synthetic viruses and manipulating DNA is the wave of the future, so I dabble in that as well.”
Cassandra began asking him questions, keeping him engaged. Mick tried to act interested and pay attention. At the same time, he covertly kept an eye on their target. Falana was watching them.
For the next fifteen minutes, they continued to network, one of Gotty’s friends joining them. Mick tried to pull his weight, but finally gave up and let Cassandra do her thing. She was good at networking. She knew how to keep all the men engaged, although Mick had the feeling they were as interested in her double Ds as they were her brains.
At that thought, the sick feeling in his stomach returned. He itched to whisk her away from all these smart pseudoscientists and doctors in their flashy clothes and fake interest in the subject matter.
But she seemed to be enjoying herself, not even noticing how Gotty kept flirting with her. Or maybe she didn't care. Maybe she was simply playing her part to the hilt.
He hoped the growing group around them would spark a deeper interest from Falana. She hustled down the aisle to intercept Dr. Epstein as the scientist left the stage.
Mick made a big deal out of looking at his watch. “Hate to break this up,” he lied, turning to Cassandra, “but we need to get going.”
“So soon?” Gotty gave Cassandra a sad face, and Mick nearly rolled his eyes. “A bunch of us are heading to the hotel bar before the main evening talk. Why don't you join us?”
“We can't,” Mick said, at the same time, Cassandra said, “We'd love to.”
Mick stared at her. “We have that…thing, remember?”
Her smile suggested she liked seeing him squirm. “Don’t worry. I rescheduled that thing. Let's go to the bar.”
Gotty took her by the elbow and led her away, smiling.
God help me, Mick thought as he ground his teeth together and followed. I’m going to kill someone before this is over.
6
Always examine the bigger picture
Safe house, later that night
The evening had been a roaring success. At least, Cassandra thought it had been. From the way Mick was acting, she wasn't so sure.
They’d ended up at a table inside the hotel bar, Gotty and his friends flirting with her and talking about their businesses. They shared stories and rounds of drinks. She’d made sure to drop hints that Codex One was open to risky projects and had no qualms about gray or black market deals.
Seymour Gotty had been particularly interested in Epstein’s talk, and Cassandra had capitalized on that several times throughout the evening, steering him and the others into lengthy discussions about biological hazards, safety, and security issues concerning the general population, as well as those concerning researchers and anyone handling diseases on a daily basis.
Falana had met Cassandra's eyes several times and definitely checked out Mick, but the countess had never approached them. Hopefully, word would get back to her that they were investors interested in risky products.
At first, Cassandra had been nervous, uncomfortable with the attention Seymour paid her. She made sure her daiquiris were virgin, so she didn't slip up and say something in error. Talking about synthetic biology was fascinating, Seymour was easy on the eyes, and after a while, she was soaking up the interest and enjoying herself. Being a spy wasn't as hard as she’d thought it would be, at least not with Mick by her side. If anything went sideways, she knew he’d come to her rescue, so she relaxed, and when she did that, everything seemed to flow.
At least for her. On the way home, Mick hadn’t spoken, except to answer a few questions, his body language suggesting he was angry. She didn't know how to walk on eggshells, or pussyfoot around an issue, so she’d come right out and asked if he was upset about something. He'd said no through gritted teeth. Claimed to have a headache.
Was this a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder? Beatrice had made her read a lot about it so she’d understand the psychology of the men working for SFI. Most of them had it to some degree, and Beatrice’s husband, Cal—a veteran who suffered from it—made sure everyone on staff had resources available to help them.
As soon as she and Mick had entered the safe house, he’d bolted upstairs, once more giving her the cold shoulder. They needed to analyze Epstein’s talk and plan for the next day. Thanks to Rory, Cassandra knew Epstein’s itinerary at the conference, and she and Mick were scheduled to attend the same lectures.
Hard to prep for when the star of the show did a disappearing act.
“Do you know what’s wrong with Mick?” she asked Trace, who entered the kitchen after checking in with Henley and Slash. “He barely said a word on the way home.”
“Wrong?” Trace tossed his key fob on the island countertop and poured a glass of milk. He offered her one, but she shook her head. He’d been at the conference hiding in plain sight as another geeky scientist, in case they needed a bodyguard, but they’d ignored each other. “Give him time. He was in prison for two years. It’s an adjustment coming back to the real world, much less ending up on another operation before you’ve even gone home and seen your family.”
Parker had briefed her on the possibility but she hadn’t fully considered everything Mick might have to adjust to. At that point, Mick had been an unknown, just a man she needed to convince to work with them. Now, he was…
What?
My partner?
That’s what he called her off and on, and they’d spent hours together the past few days, eating, researching everything they needed to know, and playacting different scenarios, so they were prepared.
She'd grown to know him as more than a stranger who was simply a means to an end. He’d almost crossed over into friend territory. He'd definitely earned her respect, and she enjoyed his charm now. Most of the time, anyway. He still knew how to push her buttons, but he’d focused on their mission, on the desired outcome, and she'd begun to believe success was within reach.
He'd seemed so normal, but psychologically, he had to still be a wreck. Who wouldn't be?
A tugging sensation caught in her chest. “I thought maybe he was just…”
At her hesitation, Trace glanced at her. “Just what?”
She looked away, debating whether to say what was on the tip of her tongue.
Trace picked up on her hesitancy. “Anything you say is between us right now. If you think something is up with him, tell me. One of the reasons I'm here is to help him deal with the mental fallout from his prison time. You’ve been with him far more in the last few days than I have. If something is off, I need to know.”
“Jealous.” The blurted word came out too loud, making her cringe. It seemed so silly, she hurried to explain. “I mean, I don't think you have to worry about his mental state. From what I've seen, he's doing great. But tonight… well, I made some acquaintances at the conference. Male ones. You saw them, right?” At his nod, she continued. “One was hitting on me. A little.”
“Ah.” He smiled. “You and Mick seem to be getting along now. Not just with the mission details but personality-wise, right?”
“Yes. Why?”
He shrugged. “Maybe he is a bit jealous.”
“Can’t be.” She gave an exasperated chuckle, but it sounded forced, even to her own ears. “I mean, why would he be jealous of Seymour?”
“Were any of the guys overly predatory toward you?”
“No. Not at all. They were flirty, but respectful.”
“Hmm.”
She waited for him to go on. He didn’t. “What does that mean?”
He turned toward the sink and rinsed his glass. “Nothing.”
“Hmm does not mean nothing with you. You’re thinking something. Tell me what.”