by Jordan Dane
Before she built up a good head of steam, Christian countered, "Save the bogus indignation, J. I think you and your employer are accustomed to being the big fish in a very small pond. Maybe you're used to getting your way. Only this time you picked the wrong swimmin' hole . . . one a little far from home and chocked full of piranha."
She held his gaze for a long moment, only a hint of emotion lingering. Then her face eased into a blank slate. The picture of composure. Her voice low and menacing, she leaned closer to him.
"Piranha is a delicacy here in Brazil, an aphrodisiac. I plan to eat my fill." Chin held high, she turned away, dismissing his insinuation.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Guess I figured that."
A sex kitten like Jasmine needed an aphrodisiac like Paris Hilton could use more media attention. He settled back in his seat and stared out the window, letting the drone of the taxi engine settle between them.
Eventually, the bustling city tapered to residential neighborhoods, then ultimately to a dirt road that cut a swath through the dense jungle—civilization only a faded image in the rearview mirror. Red dust kicked up behind them. But through the lush greenery, Christian caught a glimpse of an impressive complex in a valley below. Genotech Labs.
A wall of security and armed guards surrounded the place. Good thing he called ahead for an appointment. Their passports would serve as ID. The facility director agreed to meet him only after he claimed to be investigating Charboneau's abduction, and that he would be accompanied by the man's bodyguard. Dropping Jasmine's name got him in.
But Christian knew she would be nothing more than an albatross around his neck at the genetics facility. A double agent. Getting at the truth ranked low on her list of priorities if it meant betraying Charboneau in any way. Whatever her reasons, she'd be of no use to him. The mysterious woman might even toss a few obstacles in his path.
Yet with that thought, he gazed out the window and focused on the imposing facility ahead, resisting the urge to smile. Because of Jasmine's strong reaction, he knew he was on the right track.
He only hoped it wouldn't be too late for his father.
Lying on his back, Nicholas opened his eyes after hearing the sound again. At first he thought he'd been dreaming. A damned nightmare. But something had rushed by his ear, kicking up dirt. Awake now, he held his breath. Listening. His eyes searched the darkness, but nothing took shape.
An endless void. Pitch-black.
A musty mineral smell swept over him, coupled with the recurring chill and the stench from his own body. He rose from the cold ground. His muscles ached with the torture of how he'd slept. When he moved, tiny feet scurried away, deeper into the inky black.
"Foul beggars. You had better keep your distance or I'll—"
"Or you'll what, Nicholas?" A man's voice resonated from the dank tunnel. A sinister whisper. "Perhaps you're not capable of intimidating even a rodent . . . in your present circumstance, that is."
The voice sounded familiar. His mind raced with possibilities. He hadn't seen anyone approach. How had this man gotten so close without detection ... or a light to guide him? More than likely, in his exhaustion he'd allowed it to happen.
"Yet you haven't shown your face. Now why is that?" He kept his voice stern.
A crunch of dirt underfoot to his left. The man crawled out from his hiding spot, flipping a switch to a large flashlight. A blinding glare. Nicholas held a hand up, blocking the intense light. His eyes watered with the strain.
"And still, you won't let me see you," he said, provoking the man. "Are you a coward?"
A low menacing laugh echoed in the cavern. Eerie shadows gyrated along the wall as the stranger moved.
"Even now you taunt me. I do not think that is wise, do you? Given your predicament . . . You have the attitude of a man in control of his own destiny. And that is far from the truth."
With the light lingering in all the dark crevices, Nicholas used his limited eyesight to scope out his surroundings, hoping to find a means of escape. He'd been right about the cave and the locked jail cell. Metal bars caught the reflection. Beyond his cell, a yawning chasm held most of its secrets. Massive boulders glistened with their own sweat and the incessant droplets from jagged formations overhead. Decades of time passing drop by drop.
His perverse host spoke again.
"Besides, my face is unimportant. I've only come to learn more about my enemy ... to look into the eyes of a man without reverence for life."
"That's simply not true." He raised his chin and squinted into the beam of light, mustering his audacity. "I value my own."
"Ah, yes, you do. For once, you speak the truth. And the lives of others be damned, is that it?" The man's profile, outlined in the pale light, triggered a memory for Nicholas. His voice teased that recollection, but still, the man's face remained in the dark recesses of his mind.
"What happened—" Nicholas stopped, not sure he wanted to know the answer to a question that had plagued him since he first opened his eyes in this place. "Where is Jasmine . . . my bodyguard? If she's dead, I'll—"
"Threats? Always with the threats. Even now." The man laughed. The sound rumbled through the cave—cruel and haunting. Superior. "She is no longer your concern."
Jasmine dead? The pain of the man's insinuation gripped him hard. His gut twisted with the image of her beautiful face mired in death. A sickness rose hot in his belly.
"You'd better pray I don't make it out of here, friend." He spat contempt with each word.
Finally, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. The dark-skinned, sun-creased face pulled from his memory, the one who pretended not to speak English. The man with the AK-47, his kidnapper. The jailer now had a face.
"So your heart is not made of granite, I see. Too little, too late, I'm afraid."
What the hell does that mean? he wondered.
The man tossed a section of the newspaper to the dirt floor of his cell. "Seeing you think of me as ... a friend." Sarcasm punctuated the man's use of the word friend. "You shouldn't mind doing me a favor. Hold the front page across your chest and smile. A man like you must enjoy a good photo op."
With reluctance, Nicholas played along, minus the smile. He leaned over and picked up the paper. The sooner he got on with this, the sooner he'd be free. His abductor took a couple of quick photos. The flash caused Nicholas to wince, not his most flattering shot.
"Don't worry about your appearance, my friend. You won't be leaving this place."
"What?" Had he heard right? "What do you mean?"
"My people have suffered far too much because of men like you. Users. And until recently, I saw no end in sight. But now, I can make a stand . . . for my people."
"I don't get it. Why kidnap me and bring me here? What's the point? You could have killed me at the hotel."
"I have to admit. At first you were just another rich American to be ... harvested. But I have learned why you come to my country, and it sickens me. I know all I need to about you." The man shone the light in his face. Nicholas raised his hand to shield his eyes. "For crimes against the people of Brazil, you will die here. I think that is more fitting."
"What crimes? Who's been talking to you about me?" He raised his voice in objection, filling it with indignation. "I demand a lawyer ... or someone from the American consulate. There's been a mistake."
"Justice has been dealt, sir. Demand all you want. No one will hear you. Then maybe you will understand what it feels like to be without power." The man turned to leave, taking the light with him. Shadows surged in his wake. His voice echoed. "And these rats you despise so much? They will become your only companions ... until they pick your bones clean."
"No! I tell you, someone has lied to you. I'm a businessman from America. I have done nothing wrong. You can't do this," he demanded as he gripped the bars, his lungs burning. "Damn it, don't go. Come back here!"
But with each step the man took, the flashlight flickered into shadows. And as the light faded, Nicholas felt
hope drain from his body.
"Don't... do this."
He always imagined going out in a blaze of gunfire, a fitting send-off for the life he'd chosen. Hell, no one lives forever. But dying in this rat infested squalor? No, he couldn't die here. Not here!
Mahogany and black leather. Tasteful decor. The office for the facility director of Genotech Labs had been well-appointed. Family photos told Christian what was important to Dr. Tyson Phillips. Smiling happy faces framed in gold were strategically placed at every angle of the impressive suite. Only now, the man's somber expression contradicted his attempt at idle chatter.
"Thanks for meeting with us." Christian sat in a guest chair across from the man.
"It's always nice to speak to another American. Don't get me wrong. My family and I love it here, it's just that . . ." Dr. Phillips held a pen in his fingers, tapping an end of it onto his desk. He cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes. "What did you say your name was again?"
"Christian Delacorte . . . from Chicago." Christian handed him a business card.
Jasmine wandered the room, keeping her eyes trained on the man. She hadn't said a word since coming into Dr. Phillips's office, even when she'd been introduced. Christian learned long ago silence could be a useful tool. Most people felt the need to fill the void in conversation—especially when they had something to hide. Apparently, Jasmine understood the concept.
"Ah, Chicago," the man repeated. A forced smile. "Yes, you said you were here about Mr. Charboneau. I recognized the name of Ms. Lee as his bodyguard." He turned his head and kept an eye on Jasmine, who stepped behind his chair. She enjoyed her little game of intimidation.
The facility director continued, "His kidnapping came as a real shock."
"Yes, I would imagine." Christian nodded.
The doctor seemed to expect his visit and acted like they'd met before. He should've been more curious, like any outsider to a case. Phillips should have wondered whether he'd been hired to investigate the kidnapping, or if his protective services firm was responsible for Charboneau's security from the start. Did Jasmine work for him? Was he working with the local police? Did he have any inside information to share? But none of those questions occurred to Phillips. Instead, the man looked like he'd bitten into a habanero pepper and couldn't spit it out.
Christian pulled the photo of Rodrigo Santo from his pocket and handed it to Phillips. "Tell me, Doctor. You ever see this man?"
The doctor pursed his lips and shook his head. "No, can't say that I have."
Again, the natural question would be for Phillips to ask if the man in the photo was connected to the kidnapping, but he didn't ask it. Very strange.
"Tell me, Doc. The kidnapping. Does this kind of thing happen often in Cuiabá?"
"Unfortunately, more times than I care to admit. It's become a means of support for a struggling economy, I'm afraid." He swallowed, avoiding Christian's eyes.
"Looks like you have a nice family. You say they like it here?"
"Oh, yes, very much."
Another strained smile. More silence.
"Boy, they gotta hate all the added protection. Do you keep your family under lock and key, like the way you do at this place?"
"What do you mean? They come and go—" The man stopped himself and backpedaled. "It's not that bad, really."
"If abductions are so commonplace, why haven't you added any protection for your wife and kids? Especially right after the incident with Charboneau."
He had baited the doctor, and the man knew it.
"I do hope they find Mr. Charboneau soon." Phillips shifted his eyes to the pen in his hand. Tap tap tap. "He's been a staunch supporter of our work here. Without his backing, our funding will be severely limited."
"Who are the other supporters of this facility?"
"We're privately financed. I'm afraid that's confidential." Another roadblock.
Until he spoke the words, Christian hadn't thought about other potential backers for such research. All this time, he'd convinced himself his father had ulterior motives, for his own personal gain. And the man may still be up to his nose hairs in illegal motives, but what about others who might capitalize on this endeavor? Would Jasmine know the players involved? Keep an open mind, Delacorte. His old man thrived in a world of smoke and mirrors, a labyrinth of illusion to obscure the truth. Nothing would be simple.
Phillips cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Why are you here, Mr. Delacorte? I'm not sure I can help."
Alarms blared in Christian's head. The doctor's body language told him the man was a bundle of nerves, wrapped way too tight.
"I'd like to understand why Nicholas Charboneau was in Brazil . . . and his connection to genetics research. Can you help me with that?"
Before the facility director answered, another voice interrupted.
"Dr. Phillips has already said he can't help, but perhaps I can."
Jasmine's eyes flashed anger as she recognized Captain Luis Duarte. He leaned against the doorway, dressed in his khaki uniform, eyeing Christian with suspicion.
"If you have questions regarding the investigation, it would be best to direct them to me." The captain crooked his lips into a half smile.
"I'll take you up on that, Captain." Christian returned the man's grin. On the outside, he kept a confident facade, but on the inside was another story. How did Duarte have the inside track on everything? "But first, I was hoping to get a tour of this impressive facility. Can that be arranged, Dr. Phillips?"
All eyes went back to Phillips. The facility director looked for a reprieve from the police captain, but none came.
"I suppose . . . maybe a quick tour." The man stood and buttoned his suit coat.
Duarte let Jasmine and the doctor pass, but held an arm across the door when Christian approached. He leaned in, his voice low.
"When you are done wasting your time here, stop by my office. I am curious why you failed to report your hit and run outside the hotel last night."
"I figured you already knew about it, Captain."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Christian didn't hesitate. "You said it yourself, this is your town. Nothing gets by you."
"And still, you believe you can hide things from me. A blood sacrifice in your penthouse suite?"
"Hey, when in Rome . . ." Christian shrugged, then reconsidered. "I can explain . . ."
"Yes, you will."
Duarte didn't look impressed by his sense of humor. And now the captain eyed the bag he had slung over his shoulder, the Macumba paraphernalia and the dead snake. Please . . . don't ask. The man narrowed his eyes. Hoping for the best, Christian raised his chin and waited to see what the cop would do. When steeped in hot water up to your pie hole, what's ten more degrees?
Duarte furrowed his brow and heaved a sigh. "My office, after your tour. And you'd better have answers to my questions, Mr. Delacorte."
The man dropped his arm to let him pass. With his footsteps echoing down the hall, Christian replayed the cop's words in his head from the night they'd met. Never underestimate the necessity to protect yourself against evil. The curse of the evil eye has its power.
Pure insight or subtle threat? With every face-to-face, the answer to that question took shape.
Plus, the man knew his next moves even before he did. How had the captain found out about their visit to Genotech Labs . . . and so soon? He'd barely sat down before Duarte made his appearance. Had Dr. Phillips told him, or did Duarte have another informant inside the lab?
Clearly, there were reasons for his growing paranoia. Even now, he didn't have to look over his shoulder to know Duarte stared a hole in his back. He felt the searing heat of it.
"What we've gained from human genome-mapping is a better understanding of how certain diseases act on a molecular and cellular level, the brain's pathways associated with the affliction." In his element, Dr. Phillips grinned as he ushered Christian and Jasmine through another massive lab.
Pointing to a
microscope, the doctor added, "And with advances in atomic force microscopy, we have improved our DNA mapping and sequencing techniques. Cell tissue yields its secrets when explored under high-resolution imaging. It may not be long before we can predict, with pinpoint accuracy, what risk a person may have for certain ailments. Then we can tailor a remedy specific to them, one without the usual side effects."
The man beamed with pride, hands on his hips. "And there are so many other gains to be made. It's an exciting field, I can assure you."
Lab technicians in white coats barely looked up from their work. A sea of white and stainless steel blended with high-tech equipment Christian had never seen before. A medicinal smell remained a constant in the air. And despite the hot temperature outside, the indoor rooms were maintained at a chilly level, probably for the benefit of all the pricey computers utilized across the expansive facility.
"Quite impressive, Doctor." Christian returned his smile, sneaking a glance toward Jasmine, who had not changed her expression. "Would this research help with natural addictions, such as overeating, addition to gambling, or . . ." He winked at Jasmine. ". . . compulsive shopping?" That finally got a rise out of her, her usual poise replaced by a threatening glare.
"Yes, yes, you're right, Mr. Delacorte." Phillips seemed pleased. "We have scientific evidence that supports this theory. I'm delighted you understand."
"Tell me how it works." His sole objective was to keep the man talking, especially as he maneuvered the doctor toward the subject he really wanted to chat about.
"The cerebral cortex of the brain stores and processes such things as language, math, and strategies. It's the 'thinking' part of you. And buried deep within the cerebral cortex is the limbic system, which is responsible for survival and human emotion. It remembers and creates an appetite for the things that keep you alive, such as good food and the company of other human beings."
Phillips used his hands to point to the areas of the brain he spoke about.
"I've heard the limbic system controls the four F's— fleeing, fighting, feeding, and fu—" Christian stopped himself, catching a look at Jasmine. "—hooking up."