The Athena Factor

by W. Michael Gear

  “Lymon, I’m so tired, I’ll never remember, but it’s nice to know.” A pause, then a sleep-softened, “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  She was asleep that quickly.

  Lymon lay there, painfully aroused, his heart thudding against his ribs. The woman he loved more than life lay beside him, her body heat stirring a sexual desire like he had never felt before. And that added guilt to his whirling thoughts. How could he feel like that while Christal was undergoing … what?

  He blinked up at the ceiling, forcing himself to imagine Christal’s face, wondering where she was.

  Be safe, Christal. He swallowed hard. What would it be like if she wasn’t? What if they found her body in a ditch somewhere out beyond San Bernardino? No one should die like that. Alone, frightened, degraded, and abandoned.

  Sheela’s breath purled on his cheek.

  The shit’s in the fire now.

  32

  In for a penny, in for a pound, Hank Abrams thought. Where had that saying come from? How many years had passed since anything worthwhile sold for a penny a pound? He looked down from the Gulfstream II’s window. The Rocky Mountains were glowing in the morning light.

  April slipped into the seat beside him. She flipped her burnished red hair over her shoulder and gave him that challenging smile that made his blood race. “Neal and Gretchen are asleep in the front seats. Anaya’s going to be out for at least another couple of hours.” She pulled her muscular leg up, propping it on the seat back in front of her. “So, how’s it feel to be in the six-figure salary bracket?”

  He shot a look past her to where Christal lay propped uncomfortably across the aisle, her mouth hanging open. Drool had dried on her shirt. Her arms were bound to her body with silver duct tape. Her eyes, half-open and slightly dried, reminded him of a dead woman’s, the stare empty.

  “That’s what she’s worth? A hundred grand?”

  April seemed to find that amusing. “Probably a lot more. The Sheik found her enchanting. He’s got a thing for women. He’s fascinated by blondes and redheads, but—I think it’s something cultural—he just craters for a brunette.”

  “Wait a minute. You mean we stole Christal for … what? A harem?”

  April twirled a long lock of hair, a knowing amusement in her eyes. “I like you, Hank. You really have a sense of indignation. A harem? No. At least, I doubt it. Maybe, if Anaya’s into it, she might make a play for him. The Sheik’s a little different He’s a watcher.”

  Hank swallowed hard. “You guys are white slavers? Is that it?”

  She turned, leaning so her face was close to his. Her steely gray eyes were alive with excitement. “No. We’re not going to hurt Anaya. We just need to find out what she knows. That’s all. If she’s not a threat, we’ll take a sample, reimburse her for her time, fear, and inconvenience, and let her be on her way.” She ran a finger along his temple. “God, what do you think we are?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.” He took her hand in his, pulling it down and folding it in his so she wouldn’t remind him of his sexuality—or hers. “I think it’s time you tell me just what Genesis Athena is all about.”

  April nodded. “That’s how we drum up business. It’s the hook that brings in the clients.”

  “Clients?”

  April freed her hand and settled back in her seat. “What you became part of last night is one of the world’s newest and potentially most profitable businesses. I told you, we don’t do anything illegal.”

  “Just kidnapping and transportation across state lines. That’s major jail time that we’re into right now.”

  April shrugged. “Not if she’s released with compensation. Like I say, the Sheik’s interested in her.”

  “Yeah, so what? He watches her? Then gives her a couple of bucks and lets her go?” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that, Christal Anaya forgets she was lifted from her apartment and hauled across the country against her will?”

  “Probably so.” April watched him speculatively. “You see, we don’t want her body. We just want her DNA.”

  “Excuse me?” Then it hit him. “That’s what the little devices you gave me were for?”

  “Uh-huh, and had she not tapped our phone service in Colorado, we’d have taken our sample, added her to our catalog, and she’d never have been the wiser.”

  “So, what do you do with the DNA? Patent her genetics?”

  “Sometimes, yes, depending on different genes people have.”

  “I thought that was the province of biotech labs. That drug companies and things were filing those kinds of patents.”

  April leaned back and took a deep breath. Hank couldn’t help but watch her breasts swell the fabric on her thin silk shirt. “You’re thinking about US patents. Hank, there’s a whole world out there. Genesis Athena is an international company. We have labs in the Persian Gulf, in Africa, Europe, and Australia. We even have a ship, a large—”

  “ZoeGen,” he whispered.

  “That’s right. You’ve been aboard. With the Sheik, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So,” she asked, “now that you’re getting the idea, are you in, or out?”

  “Why me?”

  “You’re Bureau trained. You did a good job with Anaya. We watched you. That was smart action on your part when she dropped everything and went to Toronto. Even smarter when you followed her to Colorado. Sometimes in multinational companies like ours, simple things are forgotten. We didn’t think of putting a warning system in place in Colorado. Now, we’re notified immediately if anyone walks in the door and starts asking questions about Genesis Athena. Finally, you were right about the planning at Anaya’s. You handled her perfectly. She never knew what hit her. In short, if you decide to throw in with us, we think you’ll be a formidable asset.”

  “And how does Verele fit in?”

  “He’s legit. His company provides security when we have people in New York. That’s all. He doesn’t ask questions; we don’t speak out of turn.”

  Hank felt a fluttering in his gut. “So, what happens if I say yes?”

  Her nose wrinkled with her smile. “I’ve been looking for a partner. Gretchen’s good, but, you know, she’s got issues. I like you, Hank. I think you’ve got potential. I mean, you were great in the sack. It’s been a long time since I’ve made love with a man who wasn’t intimidated by me.”

  “Besides great sex, what’s it pay?”

  “We receive fifty thousand a job plus royalties.”

  “Royalties?”

  “Two percent of what the company makes per specimen. For Julia Roberts alone, Gretchen and I stand to make a couple million.”

  “What do you mean, Julia Roberts?”

  “Remember when her sheets and trash were stolen? That was us. I did the parasail jump from the helicopter. We got plenty of good solid Roberts DNA out of her sheets and the tissues she used to wipe her makeup off.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “We’d love to do him, too. Imagine what he’d be worth! The problem is finding a sample. And you’ve got to prove who he is. You know, people won’t fork out that kind of money unless they know they’re getting the real thing.”

  “Wow.”

  “The clincher is there’s no law against taking another person’s DNA for profit.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a whole slew of laws against cloning. Not just in the US, but around the world.”

  “Not in Yemen,” she reminded, “and certainly not on the high seas. That’s what I meant when I said that we’re not breaking any laws, strictly speaking.” She jerked her head toward Christal. “And we’ll make sure that she doesn’t bear a grudge by the time we’re through. Trust me on that.”

  Hank glanced unsurely at Christal. “And if I say no?”

  “We ask you to sign a nondisclosure agreement, pay you a hundred grand for your silence, time, and consideration, and hope you’ll think it over and change your mind. I’ll be sure to give you a number wh
ere you can reach us.”

  He chewed his lip for a moment, aware of the challenge in her eyes. “So, how’s Gretchen going to take you finding a new partner?”

  April leaned close and kissed him. “She’ll get over it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She traced her tongue around his ear. “When we get to the ZoeGen I’ve got a private cabin and a couple of weeks of vacation. It’ll be like being on our very own cruise ship.”

  “I hate waiting that long.”

  She rose up in the seat, glancing forward. “You ever had sex at forty thousand feet?”

  “Nope. The Bureau made us fly economy class. It’s tough when you’re folded into a center seat next to a little old lady.”

  She reached over and unbuckled his seat belt, pulling him after her. “Come on. There’s a fold-down bed back here. We’ll have to be quiet, but they’ll be out for hours.”

  “Are you crazy?” he asked, glancing back at where Neal and Gretchen’s heads were lolled two rows away.

  “It’s the only way to be.” She led him back to the rear and folded down the little couch across from the tiny galley. Before he could protest again, she had his belt unbuckled, his pants unsnapped, and his fly down.

  April wrapped her long fingers around his stiffening penis. Her eyes were agleam, and her lips had parted in anticipation. His hands—of their own volition—began fumbling at the snap on her jeans, then shoved them down over her round hips. His heart hammered in his chest, breath hot and racing in his lungs. She clamped her mouth on his, her tongue flicking and teasing. He bit off a moan as her grip tightened painfully on his erection.

  God, he had never known a woman like her.

  Then they were on the cushions.

  He was staring into her eyes, saw her pupils expand, dark and eternal, as his throbbing penis slid into her silky sheath. She shuddered, her muscular body arching as she tightened her vaginal muscles.

  “Join us, Hank,” she whispered.

  “Yes. God, yes!” He gasped.

  Lymon checked his watch. The digital numbers 2:16 flashed at him. He turned his head to see Sheela, curled on her side. Her red hair spooled over her pillow in a soft wave. She was sleeping hard enough that she didn’t move as he slowly lowered his feet to the floor, picked up his shoes, and padded out to the anteroom. He closed the doors behind him before using the toilet in the dressing room.

  He stepped into the hallway, glancing down toward the stairs, and saw no one. On silent feet he passed the paintings and sculptures and eased down the curving stairs.

  “Lymon?” Rex’s sharp voice barked as he walked over to the little marble-topped table and reached for his helmet.

  “Yeah, Rex?” Lymon turned. Rex stood by the doorway that led through the parlor and out to the pool.

  “You and I had better talk.” Rex made a jerking movement with his head. “Not here. Outside. Just the two of us.”

  Lymon bit off a rueful smile, nodded, and followed Rex out to the poolside. There, Sheela’s manager had set up camp. Melting ice cubes floated in a half-empty glass of scotch. Two scripts were piled atop each other, and file folders held copies of stapled contracts. Rex dropped onto one of the white lounge chairs. He waved to the chair across from him.

  “She’s still asleep?” Rex asked gruffly.

  “Yeah. And, please, leave her alone. She needs the rest.”

  Rex’s hard stare bored into his. “What are you doing, Lymon?”

  “Taking care of my client.”

  “Really? Sneaking around so you can slip your dick into your client? Is that how you take care of her, Lymon?”

  Lymon leaned forward, anger welling. “Rex, I’m going to tell you this once. I don’t have sex with my clients. I never have, and I never will.”

  “Yeah, right.” He threw a gesture toward the house. “What the hell just happened up there? You read Grimm’s fairy tales to each other, made tea, and—”

  “Do you have trouble with the English language, Rex? I told you, I do not have sex with my clients. Period.”

  Rex just stared at him like he was some kind of bug. “You’re fucking fired. Get lost. I don’t want you here anymore.”

  “That’s not your decision.”

  “Lymon, I’ve told you before, you don’t want to cross me. You don’t want to put Sheela in the position of choosing between you and me. You’ll lose, pal.”

  “Don’t be an asshole, Rex.” Lymon sat back in the chair. “I’m not playing this game. For the moment, I’ve got a bigger problem. One of my people was taken last night. Christal may not be anyone important to you, but she is to me. Now, if you’re finished swinging your dick, I’m going to check on what they’ve found out about Christal, and what I can do.”

  Rex’s flat stare didn’t waver. “Stop the bullshit, Lymon. Oh, yeah, you’re concerned, all right. Have any trouble getting it up while you were worrying about Christal? Or did that just make it all the more exciting?”

  “You’re a real shithead, Rex.” Lymon pointed a hard finger. “And since you can’t seem to understand that I could have just caught forty winks up there, here’s how it lays out. If I ever …” He shook his head. “Forget it. It’s none of your business.” He got to his feet. “I’ve got things to do.”

  “Lymon!” Rex called from behind him. “Lymon! Don’t you walk out on me!”

  Lymon shut the door behind him, nodding to Tomaso, who was coming toward him, another scotch on a tray. He said, “Sheela wants to rest. If Rex demands to see her, tell him to go to hell. You got that?”

  Tomaso, generally so very in charge of himself, started. “Sir?”

  Lymon gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Just do it, all right? If you don’t, he’s going to kill her.”

  Tomaso’s dark eyes held his for a moment, and he finally nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Lymon made his way through the house, out past the foyer table, where he collected his helmet, and into the yard. Afternoon light cast a yellow glow through the trees as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, turned it on, and punched the number for the West LA station handling Christal’s case.

  Come on, Christal, let them tell me you’ve been found safe and are at the station giving a statement.

  But she wasn’t. The police had nothing to report.

  33

  Sid was starting to think he’d been taken for a ride. The cabdriver he’d hired at LAX didn’t speak English. Sid didn’t speak Spanish. He hadn’t remembered that it took so long to get from the airport to Wilshire Boulevard. But then, he’d been riding with Christal last time, sharing conversation, laughing, enjoying the odd moments of just looking at her and thinking how pretty she was.

  This time he was in the back of the cab, his suitcase propped under one arm, while traffic moved, stopped, and moved again. The slightly pungent tang that periodically rose up from the floorboards suggested that the greasy-looking stain between his shoes must have had its origins inside a human digestive tract. When he rolled the window down, all he could smell was traffic. And the Mexican cabdriver called back that he was doing something to the frio, whatever that was.

  Sid tried to think about other things.

  So, it was with relief that the cab finally took a left onto Wilshire, proceeded another three blocks, and pulled up at the curb beside a fire hydrant.

  “Estas aquí,” the driver told him. “¿Es el numero, no?” He pointed at the address on a jewelry shop window.

  “Yeah, we ought to be three doors down.” He hoped he was right. Lymon had taken him in the back way. The obnoxious odor rising from the floor made his decision for him. He forked out the thirty-five bucks, opened the back door, and hung his travel bag over his shoulder. As the cab pulled away, he took stock of the sidewalk, then started down the block. Not every business had a number over the door, but Sid had the general idea.

  LYMON BRIDGES ASSOCIATES was printed in block letters on a sign screwed into a brick wall. Sid sighed with relief, opened the aluminum
-clad glass door, and thumped his way up the wooden steps. At the top he opened a security door and stepped into Lymon’s office. He could smell coffee, the odor of wood and dust, and the slight mustiness of carpeting.

  June’s fortress of a desk stood empty, its surface cluttered with a computer screen and keyboard, a blotter, a stand of pens and pencils, telephone, and all the other impedimenta of a good cleric.

  Soft voices were coming from the rear. Sid dropped his bag on the leather-upholstered couch beside the door and walked past June’s desk.

  He found Lymon’s office occupied. Lymon himself sat behind the desk. June was half-perched on one corner, staring down at the computer monitor. Another guy, a darkly complected, fit-looking young man, lounged in Lymon’s office chair. They all looked worried as they glanced up.

  “Sid?” Lymon cried in surprise, rising to his feet.

  “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you check your machine?” Sid asked. “I called just before my flight left DC.” He got a good look at Lymon’s face, seeing the stress. “What’s the news?”

  “Nothing,” Lymon answered, then gestured around. “I think you know everyone here but Salvatore.”

  “Sid Harness,” he said, taking the man’s hand and feeling the bundled strength implied by the grip.

  “My pleasure. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Sid jabbed a thumb in Lymon’s direction. “He lies.”

  Salvatore grinned. “Then so does Christal. She told the same stories.”

  “What are you doing here?” Lymon asked, coming around the desk. “How did you get here?” He looked puzzled. “Why?”

  Sid shrugged. “It’s Saturday. I’ve got a slew of annual leave coming. I thought you might need a little help on this end. Having a tame FBI guy in the closet can be helpful.” He scuffed his toe for effect. “And on top of all that, Christal’s my friend.”

  A knowing smile molded Lymon’s lips. “Yeah, I thought so. You eaten?”

  “Not on airplanes these days. I grabbed a donut at the Winchell’s down the block from my house. That was a little before seven this morning.”