Laced Impulse

by Combs, Sasha

  No matter what he’d thought earlier; he wouldn’t argue with himself about Bianca anymore. He inhaled their scents. “Man, oh man.” He thought to himself. He loved the smell of their sex. It didn’t get any better than this. He wondered what was next? This had to be his change for something far better than what he’d known from before.

  *************************

  It was late; far too late for anyone to be moving about noisily in the house. Yet someone was obviously in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards and counter drawers. Mot sat up in the bed. His eyes lowered, seeing Bianca asleep, half covered beneath the blanket. He wanted to hate himself for doing this. Making love to a woman under the influence of a drug that might very well spell her doom. But he couldn’t. And that’s what galled him. Who was he, to make snap decisions for her? He’d been the sober one; deluding himself with lies. Persuading himself that come sunrise, there wouldn't be even a morsel of guilt. It was still dark, but morning was fast approaching. And just like the turn of the planet. Just like the weather patterns that skirt clouds across the sky. Mot had also moved from feeling one way; switching to something else. He didn’t know what was to blame for his sudden conversion. The way she hummed that mindless tune in her sleep. Or had it been her suddenly waking, crying out Greta’s name; pleading and begging Henrik to stop her.

  “Fuck.” The word came out like a whisper but the sentiment didn’t change. He hated that everything about their time together had been so perfect. She’d been absolutely flawless, in every sense of the word. He could still feel the sting on his flesh; areas where she gripped him, digging her nails in his back. She’d screamed out his name, and he was quite certain that Sven had heard them.

  “What the hell.” He said. His voice was low, so as not to wake her. He eased from the bed, pulling up his pants, then he searched to find his shirt. When he’d made the decision to sleep with her, he’d not considered the full ramifications of his actions. Yet, even now, he couldn’t be wholly angry at himself. He wasn’t honestly apologetic for what he’d done. How could he be when being with her felt so good? It had been so right. He crossed the floor, but before he reached the door, he heard light tapping coming from the other side.

  Mot opened the door. He raised one finger to his lips, indicating to Sven to be quiet. He stepped out into the hall, closing the door when he was out of the room. Mot guided Sven down the hall, taking him into a sitting area where they could feel free to talk.

  Sven’s eyes were red rimmed. The man looked to have not slept at all. He said...

  “Richard has returned...”

  “Where is he? Is he all right?” Mot was heading out of the room to find his colleague when Sven stopped him.

  “Mot... Your friend is fine. I told him, he might want to take a shower and rest for a while. I thought I might fix him some food. He’s had a very difficult night but you’ll be glad to know that his mission was successful.”

  Mot’s voice changed. He took command, transforming to his role as an agent.

  “Pack your things. We’re out of here in less than an hour.”

  Sven studied him for a few seconds, then he hurried to the area where he’d been earnestly studying. Mot returned to the room to check on Bianca. She was still asleep and he was grateful for that. He didn’t know what lay ahead for them. He didn’t know if getting out of the country undetected would be easy. A woman was dead and Richard had been left to deal with Henrik. For now, he had only one concern. His primary objective was to safeguard Bianca. He couldn’t let her die and he would do whatever it takes to ensure that she remains alive.

  They were minutes away from leaving. Bianca still lay resting and fast asleep. Mot had helped her by putting on her dress. She smiled. Cooperated. Then she kissed him, her body went limp, then she slumped back on the mattress. After three deep breaths; she was out again, dead to the world. He kissed her brow, then rose to check on Sven and Richards progress. In the living room, Mot heard an exchange of low voices. He noticed his friend and fellow agent, earnestly engaged in conversation with Sven. Mot joined the two men. Questions rose; concerns about the drug, Henrik and doing what was best for Bianca.

  Richard handed the vile to Sven.

  "Can we trust Henrik?" Mot asked the question more to Sven than Richard.

  "I think we can." Sven replied. He recalled the way Henrik had treated Bianca kindly. It was obvious to him, that the German was attracted to her.

  "What makes you so sure?” Mot asked. “This drug could be another poison."

  "Not likely." Sven said. " But... I can understand your concern."

  "Sven...tell Mot what he needs to know. Tell him why we should trust that Henrik wouldn't chance double-crossing us."

  Sven frowned saying...

  "I’ve witnessed Henrik. He’s usually the seducer and his charms are never rebuffed. Women are naturally drawn to him and he uses this too his advantage. But when he was around Bianca...I saw a side of him that contradicted everything I thought I knew about the man. He was kind to her; never lurid in his approach. He flirted yet, his attempts appeared to be genuine. Actually... I think Henrik was attracted to Bianca."

  He stared at Mot, not wanting to say more than necessary. He'd heard the sounds throughout the night. Cries of passion. The beds headboard slamming more than twice. But somehow, his meager explanation had sufficed but not for the reasons he'd wrongly suspected. Mot recalled his initial reason for requesting Bianca. He'd thought she was just the sort of woman who'd infuriate Greta. Bianca was beautiful but Greta was more than spectacular. She'd traveled the world rooting out the best in plastic surgery. She was wickedly cunning. A shark with piranha proclivities. While the exact opposite could be said about Bianca. She was a natural beauty. An angelic creature with Cupid standing in her shadow; bow drawn, arrow aimed, pointedly at waiting hearts. What man could resist that? She had that duel thing on her side. Sweet and demure in public but a hellcat behind closed doors. The perfect bait that was sure to drive Greta insane with jealousy. Bianca was a woman capable of beating Greta at her own game. Now he understood. Sven had been saying that Henrik had fallen prey to Bianca and that more than explained his reason for handing over the mind altering drug.

  ***************

  Chapter 10

  More water colors or not? Or maybe glimpses, that unearth revelations.

  A barely noticeable sigh. One finger jerks reflexively. Breathe out through the nose, now fill the nostrils with air again. Test the connection. Wiggle, now flex the toes. A mechanical dialogue echoed in her head; repeating commands, then demanding answers.

  Since joining The Agency, Bianca's phone calls home were carefully scripted. She couldn't tell them anything about her new job. She couldn't share her accomplishments nor explain the huge lapse that gradually spaced out her calls. The further she dug in, parts of her life were erased from the grid. Computers that held information leading back to her. These entities. These storage devices. Anything that could undermine The Agency; this data was systematically scrambled, then destroyed. She'd come to know this during her recovery at The Agency hospital when no one bothered notifying either of her parents; telling them about her recovery. Her life as she knew it was rewritten and she couldn't reveal this to anyone. Not her mother, her father, nor her dearest friends. She couldn't explain why this cautionary measure had been employed.

  Right now, trust was an essential commodity. She'd made her choice the moment she realized the true nature of this job. That's what made her recovery so difficult. Except for her therapist, there weren't any other sounding boards in her life. Not even the one person she'd wanted to see most.

  Another thing that gnawed at her, once her brain wasn't a bowl of mush; this query had nothing to do with her health. It had to do with the agents and the Greek system of lettering that ranked their stations within the agency. During her recovery, she hadn't dared ask about Mot or Richard. By way of the doctor; she'd overheard things, while he'd stood at the foot of her bed. His
attention had been fixed on his computer pad. Reading notes, that told about her admission. She heard the doctor say...

  "Hmmm." A sound made while he'd been introspectively considering his thoughts. Her eyes had been closed but she wasn't really asleep. She listened further.....

  "Her name isn't an acronym. But...here in her chart, it states that, she was brought in by Mot and he's epsilon." There'd been someone else in the room but until that moment the person had stood silent. The voice was shrill, suggesting the person was female. She responded saying....

  "The chart is correct. Mot brought her in but she isn't assigned to either of the assault teams. She's relatively new to the agency. Actually, I think this was her first field assignment. That would place her on the Alpha team."

  "That explains a lot. There was something about her that suggested to me, she wasn't a trained killer."

  They talked more. The woman doctor talking the most and the way she dropped her Gs; Bianca assumed more than likely, she'd been raised in the South.

  After listening for a while, a frenzy of questions flooded her brain because no one had ever bothered to explain the agency's system of levels. This had never been a part of her training. But nothing as flimsy as that had ever stopped her in the past. Curiosity had gotten the better of her, causing her to seek out answers but mainly her questions were due to Mot. And because of her fascination over the elusive agent, she'd unearthed enough to understand what she'd just overheard.

  At The Agency, each skill set and specialty; these units are identified by an assigned Greek alphabet. As a new agent, Bianca had been assigned to the alpha division. While she'd been with Mot and Richard; it didn't slip her notice that he referred to Richard, using a common name. She'd assumed, more than likely due to his assignment abroad; Richard had too be no less than a delta agent. But the epsilon squad; these were an elite group of men and women. The other agents, like her, they never attended any of the highly classified training sessions that were specifically reserved for them. She'd only come in contact with a few of these agents whose names didn't seem like real names at all. The kappas, thetas, psi and epsilon's. These groups of agents used codes in leu of their real names or fake personas. But code names were the only thing these groups had in common. She didn't know much about these special divisions but after deciphering a message from a kappa, sent to Vance; she'd assumed that this group of agents were all explosive experts. Blowing up whatever The Agency deemed needed to be destroyed. But, after listening to the doctors, while they'd thought she'd been asleep. Now she knew about another cloak-and-dagger group. The epsilons. Besides being intelligence operatives; they possessed other skills. They were judge and jury. Assassins. They were left to deal with the worst of the worst; relying only on their mastery. This realization had stunned her because, if it was true. The doctors had confirmed that Mot wasn't an ordinary agent like her. He was an epsilon. A practiced and experienced killer. This had been an eye opening moment. A mind blowing eclipse. Then, in an instant, her brain quivered. A piano strummed a chorus; playing soothing music in her head. A flood of curses swam forth. Her anger swelled; tired of her brains deceptions. Was this real or not? Had she really heard them? Perhaps this was a dream and soon she'd waken. If a house could be haunted, she was sure the ghost would choose her head over brick and mortar. How much longer would she be tormented. Unsure of truth or fiction. The sound of feet moving, carving out inches, then feet; distancing the shoes in a far off direction. The quiet in her head pushed out the sounds. A burning sensation pricked her hand, then slowly spread out, engulfing her arm, then her head. She was drifting again. Medication. Antidotes. She asked herself... When, oh when would this all finally end? When it did, she wondered if she would miss hearing the sound of the music. She was alone now. She didn't know how, but she'd rightly sensed it. Then she considered, if her brain couldn't be trusted, perhaps her tongue would be her advisory.

  Eyes too tired to open, remained closed. She licked her lips, then tested the use of her tongue.

  "Mot." She whispered, liking the sound of that. No longer caring whether she was sane or as looney as a ditzy dud.

  "Mot." She said again.

  Now, she rested. Hearing his name had the power to sooth her because she may not have trusted her brain, but her gut persuaded her to believe what she’d just heard.

  **********************

  Weeks later

  The kettles high pitched sound wailed in the kitchen; shooting sprays of hot steam spitting from the spout. Bianca paused the screen, not wanting to miss the unfolding plot. Six weeks had passed and in one day her medical leave will have ended. After being cleared by the medical flight team and deemed fit for air travel, she’d been plucked from a precarious situation that swelled with uncertainty. While the plane flew over the Atlantic, nurses and doctors worked to begin the detoxification of her body. Mot and Richard had been right to follow Sven's suggestions. The lab director at The Agency was flabbergasted when his eyes first sighted the compound. Using a powerful electric microscope; down to the tiniest atom, the formula began unfolding. According to the doctor, had he treated her without knowing anything about the formula's properties; without a doubt, Bianca more than likely would have died. The designer of the formula had rigged the compound with a booby trap. He'd created a bond that would react badly when mixed with the most commonly used neutralizers or antidotes.

  With Sven's help, assisting the medical flight team, they began titrating a compound that would be the base for the antidote. Mot had sat close by, reassuring Bianca throughout the flight. He even followed alongside the stretcher, when they moved her to the fifth floor medical wing at The Agency. Due to the classified nature that shrouded this intelligence offshoot; secrecy was their top priority. They employed numerous contingencies to cloak their existence. Even down to the simplest things and that included a fully equipped laboratory and a medical facility staffed with every specialty. The Agency took care of their own and their hospital was far better than any private or public medical facility.

  Upon arriving to her private room, it took less than three hours and the medical team was administering her first round of injections. Due to the overdose given my Greta, the doctors didn't chance detoxing her to rapidly. Flushing the drug from her body could lead to any number of ill-effects. Tissue sloughing around the injection sites, liver damage or far worse; a cardiac arrest. When the thick milky substance flowed through the tubing, in an instant; Bianca found herself giving way to sleep. The days and nights melded together, adding to the loss of more time. It wasn't until she'd been on the medical unit for ten days; when asked, the staff would actually answer her questions, orienting her to place and time. By week two, she'd stopped asking because she had the television to provide a point of reference. Each day, a psychiatrist would make his rounds, with a list of questions to ask. Who was the current president? In what year did the colonies declare their independence? Tell me the names of both your parents; where and when they met. In the beginning, she had problems answering every question correctly and he explained that this was normal. The drug she'd been given didn't only alter her senses. It had affected her memory; dislodging short and long term recollections. He also assured her, by flexing these muscles with questions; the daily drills were a form of exercise. She was rejuvenating her brain cells. Helping her memories come alive. At three weeks, during one of her sessions, Bianca had answered each question correctly without giving one wrong response. She had told herself, this was her conquered milestone. The turning point, ushering in her discharge to go home. But she'd been wrong. When her doctors were assured that her mental state was intact; the notation on her chart read that her debriefing could begin. She spilled everything; recounting events as she remembered them. In exchange, they explained everything that occurred after she’d been poisoned. Telling her about the overdose that had striped her mental capacity. To her, the compound sounded more like LSD. A drug so potent, its hallucinogenic affects could last a lifetime, leavi
ng its victim permanently crippled. She also learned about Greta and Henrik; the two people responsible for her nightmare. Even though her recovery had taken time; she'd only had minor cuts and bruises to contend with. She considered her wounds after Director Vance explained that Greta had died by her hand. She didn't know how she felt about this and her feelings were doubly conflicting when she considered Henrik and the part he played in her confinement. To enlist Henrik’s cooperation, Richard had to promise that he wouldn't kill the man. Hearing this; Henrik gave up the formula easily. The two men agreed on a meeting place. The exchange was to take place on a subway beneath the cities streets. Richard met him there, and Henrik held up a vile containing the elusive drug. He wanted Richard to see that he’d brought him the compound as the two men had agreed. Richard’s palms had dripped sweat. He told himself, this was too easy. Something had to go wrong. They each were standing at opposite ends of the car. When he looked at Henrik, there was a strange expression on his face. A calculating mask. As they approached a stop, Richard moved forward but with each move, Henrik moved further away. He appeared to be moving in a direction that would take him into the adjoining car. If he did that, Richard would lose sight of him. But that hadn’t been his plan. The other car wasn’t Henrik’s aim. The German couldn’t have timed the exchange more perfectly. When the train stopped, Henrik threw the plastic vile in the center of an exiting crowd. Richard had to hustle to prevent someone from stepping on it, then crushing off the sealed cap. When he retrieved the container, his hand had been mere inches away from a descending foot. If the man had stepped on his hand, the thick pair of large sized biker boots would have surely crushed any one of the five bones of his hand. Brushing off his good fortune, Richard had stood with his prize gripped tightly in his palm and as he'd expected, Henrik was long gone. His eyes scanned the area, briefly not wanting to waste time looking for a man who wouldn’t be found. But he had what he’d come for and Henrik had been a man of his word.