Enhancement (Black Market DNA Book 1)

by Anthony J Melchiorri

For business purposes, he had used tracker cards. The prepaid data that came with the cards also meant that he could pick one up from the local CVS, call his illicit business associates, and throw the card away without any permanent communication records attached to his name. The only agency with copies of his communications might be the NSA. And they were too busy allegedly seeking out cyberterrorists to rout out any trite synthetic gene enhancement dealer wannabes. It wouldn’t be worth their time trying to ID him or the people he called on the tracker cards. He racked his brain, trying to remember the manual contact number for Jordan. It had been almost two years since he’d called his friend’s so-called business line. Self-assured by his independent wealth and the illegal safeguards he could afford with it, Jordan could not be bothered by such inconveniences as constantly buying and throwing away tracker cards. Chris tapped in the first numbers that came to mind.

  A gruff, low voice answered. “Who is this?”

  Chris hung up. It wasn’t Jordan. His second, third, and fourth attempts did not work either. When he cursed, Tracy poked her head out from the bedroom. “What’s up? Can’t get a hold of him?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t remember how to connect with him.”

  “Some friend, huh?” She vanished back into her bedroom.

  “I think we’re just going to need to drop by his place.”

  Tracy entered the conjoined living room and kitchen area of the apartment, slipping on a brown leather jacket. “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “It’s the only option we have.” Chris frowned. “Man, I wish I had a coat right now.”

  Tracy laughed again. “I’m afraid what I have to offer won’t cut it.” Her lips drew tight. “Do you think he’ll be happy if we just drop by his place unannounced? Kingpin drug dealers, as you describe him, don’t seem like the kind of folk that like surprise visitors.”

  “He’s not a crazy drug lord. Stop saying that.”

  She held up her hands in a defensive gesture. “All right, all right. You need a cup of coffee, Mr. Attitude?”

  “No, no.” Chris buttoned up his shirt. It still smelled of an unappetizing mixture of rainwater and sweat from the day before. “I could go for a clean shirt, though.” He straightened out the shirt sleeves and exhaled. “Jordan was a decent friend of mine from Northwestern. Ended up out here in Baltimore, too. So it’s not like he’s just a shady, underground overlord.”

  Moving over to the portable freezer box on her counter, he pulled out a couple of the samples that they had selected to bring to Jordan. “We aren’t going to be able to transport these for long. Without any idea of what might be in them, we can’t just throw them in our pockets, you know?”

  Tracy shrugged. “What do you think we should do, then? I still don’t think it’s a good idea to take the whole thing. I’m not risking it, no matter how much you vouch for this guy.”

  “Fair enough.” He grabbed a cup from her cupboard.

  Filling it with ice from the icemaker on the refrigerator door, Chris turned back to Tracy. “Do you have any foil for the top of this?”

  “Sure,” Tracy said. “You know, I’ve got a cooler that we can take, too. It doesn’t get as cold as this guy.” She patted the negative-eighty-degree portable freezer. “But it’ll help.”

  “Yeah, yeah. That’d be good.”

  While Tracy dug through her closet, Chris deposited the two plastic vials in the red plastic cup filled with ice.

  “Here it is.” Tracy deposited the cooler on the counter. “Found it under a couple lawn chairs in the storage closet. Don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve used any of that.”

  He smiled. “Maybe when this is all over, we can go on a picnic.”

  “A little cold for that, don’t you think?”

  Chris looked back out at the window. Instead of yesterday’s freezing rain, a light snow floated down. Snowflakes glimmered as they caught rays of light beaming from streetlights.

  “Are we going to get going, or you just going to daydream?” Tracy pinched Chris’s arm playfully. “Come to think of it, what happens if Jordan isn’t around?”

  “There are a couple people we can try to track down, if we need to.”

  “That’s fine and all, but what about the samples? You think that’s wise to risk letting them thaw? I’m worried whatever’s in them will denature if we don’t get them to a decent freezer, and I’m not talking about your run-of-the-mill icebox.”

  “You’re right. That wouldn’t be great. I mean, we’ve got others, but I’d hate to lose these.” A sudden realization coursed through him like a shock of electricity. “Shoot. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this earlier, but I’ve got a freezer in my apartment.”

  She shot him a skeptical look. “Yeah, that’s pretty much standard with a refrigerator.”

  “No, no. I mean, I’ve got a minus eighty.” He pointed to the portable freezer. “Just like this one.”

  “Why did you—” Tracy stopped, her glare replaced by a look of comprehension. “Oh. Right. I suppose we should just pick that up.”

  “Yeah, one of the things the police let me keep.”

  A brief flutter of relief shone a light through the fog of worries in his mind. At least he could solve this problem. He needed to think more, needed to stop being so tunnel visioned. If he kept his options open, he might just be able to get out of his deal with the businessman. He just might make it through all of this.

  Chris grabbed Tracy’s hand as they waited for the elevator. He wasn’t the only one in danger here. He still needed to figure out why the list contained Jordan Thompson’s name. Veronica’s, too.

  ***

  Snow fell outside the cab as they passed an array of shop fronts and restaurants in Federal Hill. Though most shared a homogenous red-brick exterior, each awning and windowsill along the streets displayed its own unique combination of colors.

  A few pedestrians marveled at the snow. They held their gloved hands out to catch the flakes. It seemed as though winter had arrived in earnest.

  As they passed Frederick’s Seafood with its black-and-purple sign glaring into the night, Tracy tugged his arm. “That’s the car.” She looked behind their cab at a car following them with its headlights off.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s the Corvette we saw at Respondent. The same one from Randy’s funeral.”

  Everything seemed like a distant memory. So hard to believe that it had been just yesterday. He squinted at the vehicle, but its curves seemed to blend into the night like a passing shadow. “Are you sure?”

  “Goddammit, yes I’m sure!”

  “Do you think they’re following us?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  If she was right, if she wasn’t just being paranoid, it would not be in their favor for these stalkers to know what they had planned. “Okay. If they’re following us, they already know who I am. Don’t you think?”

  Tracy shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  “They suspect something. Someone suspects something, anyway.”

  “Maybe we should head straight to Jordan’s. We can try to lose them on the way. No need to lead them to back to your place.” Tracy grabbed his arm. Her grip felt unexpectedly strong.

  “I’m already in danger, and if they’re following me, they probably already know where I live. Besides, they want me, not you.”

  “But—”

  Chris held up a hand to silence her. “They probably don’t even know about you, and they aren’t going to want to follow an empty cab around the city.”

  She appeared uncertain. Her lip quivered, but she nodded. “I guess so.”

  “Can I have your comm card?”

  Her hand shaking, Tracy reached into her inner coat pocket to retrieve the card. She handed it to him. “What are you planning on doing?”

  Instead of answering, Chris tapped an address onto her card. “Take the cab around the block a couple of times and then head to this address when they stop following yo
u.”

  “Following me? What are you planning on doing?”

  “I’m going to get these guys off your tail.” He opened the door as the cab slowed to a stop at a red light.

  “Sir, please pay before departing the cab.” The voice rang out from the automated pay system glowing blue in the middle console, and he held his comm card up to the display.

  Chris didn’t take his eyes off of Tracy. “Hand me one of the samples.”

  She said nothing, a confused frown drawing lines across her forehead.

  “It’d be better if we split them up. Just in case.”

  She reached into the cooler, withdrew one of the vials, and handed it to him. He stashed it in one of his pants pockets.

  “Don’t leave,” she said.

  “They’ll come after me. You’ll be fine.” Chris pushed the door open wider, and the chill of the winter air filled the cabin.

  “I’m not so sure about this.” A sudden look of worry crossed her face “If they catch you—”

  The blustery wind that assaulted his ears drowned out Tracy’s voice as he shut the cab’s door and sprinted down the street, running back toward the black Corvette. In the reflection of a café’s windows, he could see the light turn green behind him. His heart sank as the cab took off and the Corvette followed.

  For an instant, he wondered if they were just being paranoid. He stopped and watched the car make it halfway down the next block before it shuddered to a stop. In the middle of the four-lane street, the car took a sharp U-turn, almost crashing into a red Honda going the opposite direction. The Corvette came barreling toward Chris.

  He stood, his mouth agape and his feet frozen in place. Panic screamed at him to run. As soon as he could, he took a left in a connecting alley flanked by a green dumpster and two brown plastic recycling containers.

  As he ran down the alley, he saw Randy’s body in an alcove. Feathery down, soaked red, puffed out from the tears and rips in the man’s marshmallow coat, his body shadowed by a pool of syrupy blood.

  Chris shook his head to rid himself of the painful memory, and the vision gave way to a homeless man huddled in rags. As he neared the exit of the alley, he heard footsteps bouncing off the brick walls behind him. He didn’t turn around lest he lose speed and his pursuer catch him. He ran across the next street, dodging a white car.

  The screeching of rubber on asphalt signaled the arrival of the black Corvette from around the corner.

  At least one pursuer chased him on foot. Chris dodged onto a narrow one-way street. Parked cars lined both sides, and he leaned up against a small Fiat as another car drove past. It grazed him with its mirror.

  With no other vehicles racing toward him, he ran. His legs ached as he took the slight incline. As he inhaled, sharp pains stabbed his lungs. He fought an urgent desire to cough as the back of his throat succumbed to the cold air. While he ran, his thoughts flitted briefly back to his time in prison. He wished he had spent more time running during recreation.

  He grimaced as his muscles strained.

  Headlights lit up the street from behind him. He could see his shadow looming far ahead of him. The Corvette raced down the street in the wrong direction. He ignored his cramping legs and ran faster toward where the road ended in a T-intersection. Without looking either way down the cross street, he sprinted to the bottom of Federal Hill Park, its massive shape appearing before him like a giant in the night. He rushed up the cement stairs. Once, twice, he lost his footing and grasped the metal railings to right himself.

  The Corvette could not follow him here. It would have to circle the park, driving laps around the hill, watching for his exit.

  But the stairs were no obstacle for the faceless pursuer still on foot.

  “Stop, stop!”

  He could hear the man call for him in a gruff voice. But it sounded more distant as he reached the crest of the hill. He ran through the middle of the park, past the display of cast-iron cannons from centuries ago. As he reached the other side of the park, he risked a glance behind him. Streetlights framed the silhouette of his pursuer and the coat that whipped in the wind behind him.

  Chris turned again at the edge of the park, where the hill sloped dramatically downward. The stark brick-faced wall of the American Visionary Art Museum stood in front of him. His pursuer drew nearer.

  With a running start, Chris jumped at the edge of the hill and slid down the slope on his side, his feet pointed toward the black wall. Wind whipped at him and he gritted his teeth. He slid, aided by the slick grass coated with a layer of frost and fresh, wet snow, along with the steep grade of the hill.

  When he reached the bottom, he stumbled forward, moving his feet as fast as he could to retain his momentum. Across Key Highway lay the waterfront. To his left, north of the park and beyond the curve of the road, he would find those same taunting black waves of the Chesapeake. Southward, there were few places that would allow him a place to hide from the Corvette if it happened upon him.

  Behind him came the heavy grunts of his pursuer as he slid down the hill. Chris needed to get the man off his trail. A small crowd gathered around the exit of the Visionary Art Museum. If he could become anonymous in the crowd, he might stand a chance at disappearing.

  Of course, he could not easily blend in with the trickles of people milling about the museum. Most gathered in groups of two to four, not amicable to a sweat-soaked and shivering stranger in their midst. Everyone else laughed and talked, bundled in coats, scarves wrapped around their necks, and hats atop their heads.

  The man stood up now, just a short throw away. Chris debated calling the police or waving down a bystander. But that, too, would come with a price. They might ask too many questions. He could make up a story about the pursuer, a mugging, an attempted robbery. But it would be too suspicious given his recent police interviews. If they caught his pursuer, whatever story the man came up with would, in all likelihood, not corroborate his. If the man vanished at the sound of sirens, Chris would be no better than a boy crying wolf.

  Then there was also the matter of the plastic vial tucked away in his pocket. Given his parole, the police might be inclined—and allowed—to search his person for illegal genetic contraband. He still didn’t know what the vial held. If the police found it, it might land him back in prison.

  He couldn’t throw a crucial piece of the puzzle away, either. As he struggled to resolve these options, his hunter grew closer.

  Throwing logic to the icy Baltimore wind, Chris ran toward the museum entrance.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Chris ran across the grass toward the sidewalk and slowed his pace as he approached the curving brick building that contained the American Visionary Art Museum. He strode through the entrance, feeling eyes on his back from the crowd outside. A small beep signified that his comm card had been charged for the entrance fee. Ahead of him, a staircase wound upward, enclosed in glass. Paintings hung from the ceiling, suspended in the air. With the bright lights shining inside the building, he was blind to the night outside the windows.

  He rushed past the form of a woman constructed out of plaster and encased in bottle caps. Large wings made of goose feathers sprouted from the woman’s shoulders and, instead of legs, a serpentine tail wrapped around a pitchfork pointed at any that dared pass her on their way to the third-floor exhibits.

  A startled cry rose up from the entrance of the museum. From the overlook on the third-floor landing, Chris could see a tall man with broad shoulders barreling past others exiting through the main doors. He could make out the man’s blue eyes and swept-back blond hair.

  His heart dropped as he recognized his pursuer. He rubbed the sore bruises on his neck. Intense pain seemed to flare as though the blue-eyed man’s fingers wrapped around his neck once more. The spook squinted as he surveyed the lobby and scanned the floors.

  Just as the man’s gaze approached the railings of the third floor, Chris ducked behind a fairy dollhouse built from tree trunks.

  Movin
g through another hallway, Chris rushed toward the skywalk that connected the indoor museum exhibit with the larger warehouse next door.

  In his head, he thanked Veronica for introducing him to the place. He remembered scoffing at a couple of the stranger displays, such as the large wooden door with soiled plastic dolls nailed to it and dripping red paint. The macabre piece of art seemed much too horrific to be taken seriously, but Veronica had scolded him for not acknowledging the intent of the artist who had constructed the piece. Not to mention, the artist had been a prisoner. But he had no time to try to understand the piece any better now, and Veronica was not there to guide him. He relied upon the memories of their visits together to plan his escape.

  A few people still meandered through the exhibits, in no particular rush to depart the museum before its closing time in twenty minutes.

  Chris pushed past them into a room filled with sculptures constructed of pulsating neon lights. Vibrant blues, reds, and greens lit up the room in turns. The lights made a show of a man running from an avalanche, starting from the entrance of the room and ending beyond the next hallway. He rushed alongside the running figure to the exit. There, he could run to the new fourth floor, where holodisplays depicting the various stages of Hell lined the wall, or follow a skywalk made of glass toward the warehouse.

  Going up offered two exits: leaving from where he had come in or going down a staircase that led to the main entrance. If he went that way and his pursuer followed, there would be little chance for Chris to evade him.

  He ran across the skywalk. It was lit up with lines of multicolored LED displays. Below him, three stories down, his running shadow swept over the ground. He sprinted to the large warehouse. Another hulking shadow formed on the sidewalk below. The blue-eyed man pounded across the skywalk.

  A lonely holodisplay announced that the warehouse of kinetic art had already closed for the evening. Chris jumped over the metal chain blocking the entrance. He plunged into the darkness of the two-story building and sprinted across the catwalk. Try as he might, he couldn’t quiet his clanging footsteps. He hurried down a spiral staircase. On the ground floor, his footsteps grew quieter.