by Joel Shulkin
The last passenger squeezed into the car. The doors closed automatically. With a jerk, the train rolled forward. Cristina held tight to the pole. She felt her assailant take a step back with the train’s movement. He squeezed her arm as he regained his posture.
Over her shoulder, she asked, “Where we going?”
“My employers want to speak to you.”
“Do you work for ReMind or Zero Dark?”
He didn’t answer. The gun jammed harder into her back. Cristina gritted her teeth.
“I’ll tell you what I know, okay? Please don’t hurt me.” Cristina’s shoulders trembled. “I want this whole situation to end.”
The grip on her elbow relaxed. “It’ll end when you give us the key to fixing the drug.”
“Fix Recognate? How do you mean?”
“I know you have it on you.” The train veered around a corner. He shifted his weight. “I want it.”
“All right.” Cristina kept her tone level, hoping he couldn’t tell she was bluffing. “Whatever you want.”
“Not here. When we get off the train.”
Cristina nodded and squeezed the pole, her pulse racing. The train slowed as it approached the station. An overhead display read Metro Center. The conductor applied the brakes, and the train jerked backward. The assailant shifted his weight. The pressure on Cristina’s back lightened.
Now.
The voice commanded Cristina’s body into action. She threw herself forward. Swung around the pole like a tetherball.
Her attacker fell forward. He let go of her elbow. Groped for the pole.
She revolved behind him. Shoved as hard as she could against his back. He collapsed onto the laps of nearby passengers.
Use your advantage.
“He grabbed my ass!” Cristina pointed at him. “Pervert!”
The assailant struggled to disentangle himself from the surprised passengers. Two men and a woman stepped between him and Cristina, blocking her view.
Run!
The doors slid open. She dived between the remaining passengers. Slipped outside. Hit the platform running. Behind her, shouting and cursing.
Dodging and weaving, Cristina sprinted up the escalator to the turnstiles. Slapped her SmarTrip card against the reader. The bars retracted. She squeezed through.
“Hey,” someone yelled behind her. “Stop her!”
Both escalators were packed. She ran up the stairs.
Feet pounded the steps just behind her.
Halfway there. Move faster.
The abductor grabbed her pack from behind. Jerked her shoulder backward.
That’s it. Let me handle this.
The voice shoved Cristina’s mind aside. Her body wheeled around on its own. She chopped the assailant’s arm with her free hand. He let go. His brown eyes widened beneath a cold weather mask, igniting a faint spark of familiarity. He swung at her. She dodged and shoved the pack at him. He tumbled backward. Ignoring stares from the escalator riders, she sprinted up the stairs.
By the time she reached the top, Cristina had regained control. She found the strength for one last surge. She threw open the station door and dashed onto the sidewalk.
Flashing lights off to the right. Police. They could help. Cristina ignored her aching legs and ran to the corner of Twelfth and G streets. Cars sped through the intersection. If she waited for the light, the man would catch her. She had no choice. She’d have to risk crossing the street.
A black sedan squealed around the corner. Screeched to a stop in front of her. The passenger door opened.
“Get in!” the driver shouted.
Cristina’s heart pounded in her ears. She recognized his wavy dark hair, the distinguished facial lines, and those eyes—blue as a clear sky. His name caught in her throat. When it finally passed her lips, she still didn’t really believe he was there.
“Mitchell?”
Chapter Forty-Six
As Miranda Parker buried her face in her hands and wept, Detective Wilson fidgeted. Square him off against a combative drunk or a narcissistic felon, he’d win every time. But dealing effectively with a crying widow? Clueless.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured and wiped her eyes. “I need to sit for a moment.”
He awkwardly escorted her to the next room. Subdued blues and lavenders matched a somber gloom hanging in the air. A cluttered wooden desk sulked in the corner. No knickknacks, no pictures on the wall. It was clean and utilitarian.
Miranda stumbled. Wilson shifted his attention to helping her onto the suede couch.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked.
“No, thank you. I’ll be fine.” She rubbed her forehead and motioned for him to sit next to her. “I haven’t been able to sleep. I keep thinking about Mitchell.”
“Why do you think he was murdered?”
“I’m a paralegal. I’ve reviewed tons of police reports. The medical examiner found no gunpowder residue on Mitchell’s fingers.”
The itching behind Wilson’s ear intensified. “Which they should have if he shot himself. Did you request an autopsy?”
“I was in shock and Mitchell’s captain convinced me it wasn’t necessary.” She shook her head. “But in my heart, I always felt something was wrong. Mitchell seemed happy. The suicide note sounded nothing like him. And then, after Gomes threatened me, I went through Mitchell’s things.”
“You found something?”
“An empty pill bottle tucked away in an old overnight bag. I think it was something called Recognate.”
Wilson’s heart jumped. “Recognate? You’re sure?”
“I can check. The bottle is upstairs.”
The moles started to line up, goading him to knock them down. “Can I see it?”
A puzzled look crossed her face. “Sure. Hold on.”
As Miranda climbed the stairs, Wilson mused over this new information. He stood and crossed over to the desk. Folders with labels “Tax stuff ” and “Utilities” lay atop a pile of books and loose papers. A simple cream-white photo album half-poked out of the pile. He wiggled it loose and opened it. The first few pages showed pictures of Miranda Parker in a flowing white wedding dress. The next pages displayed bridesmaids, followed by groomsmen.
“Found it.” Miranda reentered the room, holding out a small bottle. “What do you think it is?”
“I’m not sure.” He took it and inspected it. The word Recognate was handwritten in small print on a plain white label. No other markings except for a date and a phone number. “This was filled three years ago. You didn’t find any others?”
“No.”
“That would’ve been long before the Silvas died.” Wilson squeezed the bottle. “Did your husband ever mention Francisco Martins?”
“No.”
“He never told you about working with the FBI?”
“No.” Tears reappeared in the widow’s eyes. “I didn’t know about any of this. It’s like he had two different lives.”
Wilson nodded empathetically and looked around for a box of tissues. His gaze fell on the photo album. His pulse quickened.
“Mrs. Parker, did you remarry?”
“No, why?”
He pointed at the photo. Miranda stood in her wedding gown, smiling, holding hands with a dashing young man in a black tuxedo—close-cropped blond hair, chiseled features, baby-smooth cheeks. “Who is this man?”
Her brow furrowed. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny. I’m trying to understand what’s going on.” He pointed at the man again, a man completely unfamiliar. “Please, tell me his name.”
She visibly struggled to maintain her composure as she studied his face. At last, she said, “That’s my husband. Mitchell.”
“Get in!” Mitchell pulled Cristina into the car.
She tumble
d into the seat and pushed him away. “How are you alive? What are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you.” He floored the gas pedal, and the sedan rocketed forward. Cristina’s door swung shut. He readjusted the GPS on his dashboard and glared at her. “Fasten your seat belt.”
“Answer my question.” Cristina studied Mitchell’s face. A few gray hairs at the temples and extra wrinkles around the eyes but otherwise he looked the same. “You’re dead.”
“I know. I’ll explain later. Right now, we need to move.” He checked his rearview mirror. “Crap.”
“What?” In the side mirror, Cristina spotted the masked gunman giving chase on a Kawasaki Ninja. He was wearing her backpack.
“Hold on.” Mitchell gunned it. He swerved around a tractor-trailer.
Inertia flattened Cristina against the seat. “You’re going to get us killed!”
“That’s what I’m trying to prevent.” He drew a gun.
“Oh my God.” Her chest tightened.
“Sit tight.” Mitchell rolled down his window. As he steered with his right hand, he fired behind them with his left.
Cristina covered her ears. Mitchell stopped firing. She looked out her window. The assailant was coming up fast on their right. He aimed a pistol.
“Get down!” Mitchell pressed her head down. Fired his gun.
The window shattered. Cristina screamed.
“All right.” Mitchell released her head. “He’s gone.”
Cristina sat up. The gunman was gone. She shook glass from her hair. Fear and anger wrestled inside her chest. Tears welled in her eyes. “What the hell’s going on? Why did you fake suicide? Why did you lie to me about being divorced? How did you know where to find me?”
Her phone rang.
“Don’t answer that,” Mitchell said.
“Don’t you dare give me orders.” She sniffled and checked the caller ID. Wilson. Trembling, she held the phone to her ear and answered.
“Cristina? Are you okay? You sound scared to death.”
“I’m okay, I just—”
“Who are you talking to?” Mitchell asked, his face reddening. “Give me the phone.”
Ignoring him, she said to Wilson, “Someone attacked me.”
“What? Where are you?”
“Still in Washington.”
“You need to get back here.”
Mitchell grabbed at her. “Cristina, give me the phone.”
She switched the phone to the other ear and deflected him with her elbow. Mitchell scowled and changed lanes.
“Who is that?” Wilson’s voice rose in pitch. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know how to explain, but I had help from Mitchell Parker. He’s right here.”
“Parker? Cristina, I think Federico Gomes murdered Mitchell Parker—the real Mitchell Parker, that is.”
“What?” Cristina’s gaze drifted to Mitchell. He glared at her out of the corner of his eye. Her throat swelled. “I don’t understand.”
“Whoever’s with you, it’s not Parker. Get out of there. Somewhere safe. Get—”
Mitchell seized her arm. Yanked her over. Snatched the phone.
“Give that back.” She batted at him.
He tossed it out the window.
“Why’d you do that?” she asked.
“ReMind planted a tracer on your phone. See?” He pointed at the GPS. A blue car icon blinked in the screen’s center. A blinking red dot crept toward the bottom of the screen. “I tapped into their signal. It’s how I knew where to find you.”
Cristina stared at the screen and then at him. Blood drained from her face. “Who are you?”
“Cristina—”
“No, no more bullshit. I know you’re not Mitchell Parker. Who are you?”
“I can explain.”
“Who are you and what do you want from me?”
“This is a mistake.”
“Tell me or I’m jumping out of this car.” Cristina reached for the door handle.
“Stop.” He slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “Damn it, Cristina. I’m with the CIA.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
“Cristina?” Wilson hit redial. Her voicemail answered immediately. He disconnected. Hundreds of scenarios playing in his mind. All bad.
“What’s going on?” Miranda Parker asked, her face pale. “Is someone impersonating my husband?”
“I’m not sure, but right now I think we need to get you someplace safe.”
“You said Gomes was dead.”
“He is, but he wasn’t working alone. I’m going to take you back to the station, and we’ll try to sort all this out.”
As Wilson took Miranda’s elbow, his phone rang. He put it to his ear. “Cristina? Are you okay?”
“I’m not Cristina,” answered a familiar male voice.
“Rick.” Wilson rapped his fist against his forehead. “Sorry.”
“What’s going on?” Hawkins asked. “Where are you?”
“I’ll explain it all when we get back there. I’m bringing in Parker’s wife. I want her to talk to Forrester and Vasquez.”
“Yeah, that’s why I was calling. They’re getting ready to start an interrogation.”
“Interrogation? Of who?”
“Devi Patel, Dr. Silva’s office manager.”
“What do they want to know from her?”
“They went to Silva’s office to sift through her files. Patel put up a fight and they dragged her in.” He paused. “She told them that Dr. Silva hadn’t been in all day.”
Wilson’s cheeks cooled. He should’ve coordinated with the office manager after promising to cover for Cristina. What a rookie move.
“Where is she? And don’t lie to me.”
Wilson grunted. “DC. Meeting with a pharmaceutical company about her research. She was supposed to fly back later today, but something’s happened.”
“What the fuck, Gary?” His partner sounded pissed. “When were you going to tell me?”
“I didn’t want word to get out. Sorry. I should’ve trusted you.”
“You’re damned right. Now what?”
“Do a GPS trace on Cristina’s phone, and find out what drug companies are in the area.” He ushered Miranda toward the door. “What about Stacey Peterman? Did you find out anything more?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Tell me.”
“Peterman checked into Flight 337 to Salt Lake, but then flight logs showed her seat stayed empty.”
“What?”
“Someone bought her ticket in cash thirty minutes before the flight.”
“So, it’s a cover-up.” Wilson stopped short in the walkway. To Miranda, he said, “You said Gomes showed you an FBI badge?”
“Yes.”
Wilson’s throat constricted. Into the phone, he said, “Rick, stall Forrester until I get there. Don’t let them interview Devi.”
“I’ll do my best.”
After disconnecting, Wilson helped Miranda into his Charger’s front seat and jumped in. He activated the dashboard light and sped toward the highway.
“CIA?” Cristina shook her head, as if she could shake away the madness. “You’re full of shit.”
“It’s true,” Mitchell said without taking his eyes off the road. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”
“Stop lying. If you’re CIA, show me your badge.”
“We don’t carry badges. You’ll have to trust me, okay?”
“Trust you? Very funny. After you faked your death?”
“I was deep undercover. If you knew the truth, they would’ve gone after you.”
“Who? Zero Dark?”
He glanced at her, eyebrows raised. “Yes. How do you know about them?”
“A lot
has happened, Mitchell.” Cristina pressed her palm against her forehead. “What the hell’s your real name, anyway?”
“James, but you can stick with Mitchell. I’ve grown accustomed to it.” He tugged at his collar. “I know this is all confusing—”
“Confusing doesn’t even come close. How do I know you’re not Zero Dark?”
His lips pressed into a thin line. He veered onto the beltway. “Because I worked with Jorge Silva.”
Her mouth went dry. “Dad?”
“Jorge was our lead agent on Zero Dark. He had the most intel on their operations, their technology.” His cheek twitched. “Two years ago, he called me. Told me he’d learned the identity of Zero Dark’s leader.”
“Quinn.”
He nodded, apparently unsurprised Cristina knew the name. “Jorge arranged a meeting the next day with me and our field director to reveal all the names and identities of those involved in Quinn’s network. But Quinn killed Jorge and his wife two hours after we spoke.”
Cristina’s heart sunk. Santos was right. Everything she knew was a lie. She analyzed Mitchell’s face, hands, tone of voice. He seemed to be telling the truth. She wasn’t sure if that made anything better or worse. “So you still don’t know who Quinn is?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea. Jorge discovered a connection between Zero Dark and a DC-based pharmaceutical company.”
“ReMind.”
“Exactly. Quinn uses an encrypted chat protocol to communicate with his team. I can’t crack the encryption, but I was able to triangulate their origin. He’s here in DC under an alias.”
“You think he’s hiding as a ReMind employee?”
“I think he’s in control of ReMind.”
Cristina’s heart beat faster. “Julius Simmons.”
“Zero Dark has a vested interest in ReMind’s research. Their new drug plays a major role in Quinn’s plans. He’d want to oversee it personally.”
Cristina’s pulse pounded in her ears. Recognate—that was the drug. It wasn’t working properly, and people were dying. Zero Dark believed she knew how to fix it. But she didn’t, even if she might have once upon a time. What would they do to her if she never remembered? “Why did you visit me in the hospital? Don’t lie to me.”