by C. J. Lyons
“You have a program that can hack into the security and bypass it?” Ryder asked.
“Not quite that good, but almost. This phone was Tommaso’s. I sent it to my Russian friends to break the encryption. They found a security app coded to his biometrics and aimed at one location.”
“The containment lab.”
“Bingo. They dug into the root code and retrieved the design’s master override codes. And they reprogrammed it to my biometrics.”
“Great.” Rossi sat up, excited. “So you can destroy the lab?”
“Once I get my thumbprint onto one of the lab’s scanners.”
“Then we’re in,” Ryder said.
“We’re in.”
Chapter 49
I FELT WORLDS better after a hot shower and getting dressed in my own clothing. Ryder had left a tray with breakfast—heavy on the fruit and protein—along with my medication on a table in the bedroom. He’d arranged the blueberries and raspberries in the shape of a heart. The child-like innocence of the gesture in the midst of what we were facing made me laugh.
I was glad he hadn’t waited for me to finish in the bathroom. As brittle as my emotions were, I would have cried instead of laughed if I’d had to face him. At the very least, we would have ended up on the massive four-poster bed with its thick, welcoming duvet and silk sheets. If that happened, I doubted if I’d have the strength to ever leave his arms.
Along with the breakfast tray was a tablet. I knew the time difference meant waking Louise, but I had to check on the children, so I took a chance that she was near her computer.
“Angie? You’re all right.” Louise’s voice powered through the tablet’s speakers once we were connected for a video chat. I lowered the volume. Her eyes grew wide. “Wow. Love the new look. Very Mad Max.”
I rolled my eyes. Then sobered immediately. “I didn’t get the cure—there isn’t one. Not yet. Francesca said with my stem cells she could make one, but honestly, she’s nuts. We’re talking megalomaniac, I want to rule the world, James Bond villain level of wackadoo. And I looked at Tommaso’s research—he was headed down a blind alley.” I blew out my breath, hating to put into words my greatest fear. “Maybe there is no cure.”
To my surprise, Louise actually grinned. She looked ghastly—her eyes were sunken with circles of exhaustion, and she looked like she’d lost weight in the short time since I’d seen her last. Add in her toothy grin and I almost had to look away from my friend.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” she said. No trace of fatigue in her voice. In fact, she sounded downright jovial. “Francesca and the rest of your family might be round the twist, but they’re also bloody genius when it comes to immunogenetics.”
“Don’t toy with me, Louise. What did you find?”
“It’s not a cure. But,” her voice upticked with excitement, “we have a definite treatment. Better than what Francesca shared with us.”
“Really?” I hated the hint of desperation in my voice, but I was starving for some good news. “What is it?”
“Well...I can’t take full credit. It’s a combination of Francesca’s and Tommaso’s research, plus my clinical observations of your case progression, and Geoff, along with some of his geeky friends.”
“Geoff? How did he help?” Louise’s husband was a biostatistician, not a clinician. His work was in identifying epidemiologic trends, not treatments.
“Turned out fortuitous that Devon sent him and Tiff home to London. Because while Tiff and Grandmama have been burning through Geoff’s inheritance, Geoff got a bit obsessed with Tommaso’s research then shared it with some of his equally obsessive friends in the UK.”
“Doctors?”
“Of a sort. Veterinarian immunogeneticists.”
“Veterinarians?” Then it hit me. UK. Of course. “Studying mad cow disease.”
“Exactly. They were fascinated by your particular mutation.” She said it as if it was something to be proud of. “But realized that in addition to the prion genes, there’s another genetic anomaly that you carry. Specifically, your genes that produce aquaporin are highly activated.”
I blinked, trying to access memories about aquaporin but with no success. Tommaso must have never mentioned it to Leo. “ER doctor here. I don’t speak gene-geek. Translation, please?”
“Aquaporin is the chemical in cerebrospinal fluid that washes away the detritus the brain’s cells produce on a daily basis. It’s most active during deep stages of sleep.”
The brain’s trash collector. “So it cleans up damaged proteins like prions? But in patients with fatal insomnia, not only are they making tons of prions, they’re not sleeping, so their body never has the chance to flush the prions out?”
“Exactly. Given the severity of your genetic mutations, you should have been dead long ago. In infancy, from hydrocephalus caused by producing too much CSF, or killed by your fatal insomnia before you hit puberty.”
She was still smiling, which freaked me out, but I knew that meant there was an upside coming. “But, because your body produces aquaporin both day and night, and it’s not tied to the diurnal sleep cycle like in normal people, your fatal insomnia progressed more slowly and with less damage than expected. I suspect this is also why your symptoms improve after each of your fugues.”
She was right. I hadn’t thought of it before because the other side effects of the fugues were so unpleasant, but my actual fatal insomnia symptoms had improved—that had been how I’d been able to fight Leo last month. “My fugues are actually helping me?”
“Not as much as a good night’s sleep or time in the isolation tank would, but yes. Now that you’re controlling them, they’re acting like a meditative state, which allows your aquaporin to work more efficiently. I need more EEG tracings to be certain, but that’s my working theory.”
I tried to wrap my head around the fact that my two potentially lethal genetic defects had not only canceled each other out but had combined to create a synergy that had brought me my unique gifts. “How does this translate into a treatment? I can’t spend my days in the iso tank, and neither can the kids.”
“We have drugs that can stimulate production of aquaporin. They’re benign, little chance of side effects, and they should slow the progression. Again, not a cure. But I’ve begun the children on them, and we’re already seeing improvement.”
Finally, I allowed myself to relax and actually smiled at her. More than smile, I found myself blinking back tears. “The kids, they’re going to be all right? At least until we can create a cure?”
“It’s a short-term fix at best, and we still need to monitor them closely, but we bought ourselves some time.” Typical Louise, the cautiously optimistic neurologist.
“Hang on, let me get Devon.” I ran downstairs to the living room, where Devon and Ryder were huddled over Devon’s laptop. “Devon, Louise needs to talk to you.”
He leapt to his feet, almost knocking a coffee cup off the table, but Ryder caught it before it sloshed onto the computer. “Is it Esme? Is she okay?”
I handed him the tablet. “I’ll let her tell you herself.”
He hesitated before taking the tablet.
“It’s good news,” I assured him.
He took the tablet into the other room. A few moments later, a whoop of delight reverberated through the walls.
Ryder glanced up. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to—it was all in his face as he pulled me down to his lap and snugged his arms around me. “Told you to have faith.”
“You did.” I turned to him and kissed him. “Now all we need to worry about is stopping Francesca before she can unleash her prions on the rest of the world. And then get back home, find a real cure, and get it to the kids.”
He froze. Just for an instant, but I felt it. “You don’t want me to go. You want me to stay here, where it’s safe, let you and Devon face them alone?”
“It is your DNA she needs,” he replied in the reasonable tone of a general planning his strategy
.
I jumped off his lap. “Neither of you have been there, know the layout. Plus, you don’t have any medical knowledge. Not to mention the fact that I’m immune to the prions, and you aren’t, so if anything, I should be going alone, leaving you behind.”
Silence thudded between us. He took his time climbing to his feet, not looking at me, not looking anywhere as he gathered his ammunition.
Then he let loose with a barrage. “Just this once, will you listen to me? I mean, I know you have this grand idea that the only way to save the world is if you die. Right from the beginning, ever since that first night we met, seems like all you’ve done is run off to try to save everyone on your own, even if you might die trying. Well, that hasn’t worked out so well, has it? You have to trust me. No one can do it all by themselves. Not even you. I know you want to protect me and everyone else; you think you’re expendable, that you’re dying anyway, so what’s it matter? It does matter. You matter. And if you want to beat Francesca, if you want to stop this, then you have to stop trying to do everything yourself. You have to have faith. In you, in us. In a future.”
He stole a breath, ready to argue over any protests I mounted.
I stood, unflinching. For once, I didn’t duck for cover. I took it, listened, and examined each and every one of his arguments. Because I realized this was too important for me to let fear get in our way. Not my fear of dying—my fear of him dying, of losing him, of being left alone to live without him.
“This time, we do things my way,” he continued. “This time, we do it together. I have a plan, and it’s a damn good plan, but it won’t work if all you do is rush in and kill yourself. What do you say? Are you in this with me, together?”
“Yes.” As soon as the syllable escaped, a feeling of calm certainty came over me.
Not Ryder. His pacing stuttered—I’d caught him off guard. He spun to face me. “What? Just like that?”
“I was wrong. You were right.” I smiled at his confusion, closed the distance between us, and reached a finger to his lips before he could protest. “I was wrong. I’ve screwed things up over and over because I keep trying to do them my way, alone. This is our last chance to get it right. So, what’s the plan?”
Chapter 50
DEVON SPENT THE day putting the final polish on their plan while Angela rested and Ryder gathered their supplies. They were going to make their move on the island tonight. New Year’s Eve.
As he sipped his coffee—no wine, not tonight—and looked out over the flat’s rooftop terrace, Devon smiled as he remembered the look on Ryder’s face when he learned that Venetians didn’t usually celebrate the New Year with fireworks—a necessary part of his plan.
That was before Devon used the Kingston name and fortune to convince several cruise ships in port to host their own festivities and added a barge conveniently located near the Lazarettos’ island, loaded with a generous supply of fireworks. A few lavish bribes took care of the rest.
Tonight was the last night that anyone would ever need to fear the Lazarettos. He, a bastard guttersnipe former gangbanger, was going to destroy them. The least they deserved after what they did to his Esme. And that bitch, Francesca? If he had the chance, he’d strangle her with his bare hands.
Devon savored the view of the opera house for another long moment before going back inside. Time to boogie-woogie, as Esme would say. Well, he’d never actually heard her say it, but it was the kind of thing he imagined a happy, healthy girl would say.
It was early afternoon back home. When he returned to his room, before changing into the wet suit Ryder had bought him, he called Flynn via video.
“Everything all right?” she asked by way of greeting.
“Yes, we’ll be heading out in an hour. Just thought I’d say hi to Esme before I go.”
Her smile was warm and genuine. Was she going soft on him?
“It snowed last night.” She turned the phone around.
There was a moment of jostling, and he realized she was using a crutch to hobble over to the window. She’d moved the families from the tunnels to the Kingston brownstone—easier for Flynn while her leg was out of commission and less stressful on the parents. The tunnels had served their purpose, but as Flynn had argued when she called two days ago to inform him of her decision, kids need fresh air and sunshine.
“See her?” The view out the window was a winter wonderland. The children were laughing and tumbling through the snow. None of them freezing, no signs of the vacant stares he’d seen in them just a few days ago. “She’s there, making a snow angel.”
Devon couldn’t label the feeling that washed over him. More than love or fatherly concern or joy...contentment? Was that what this warm glow centered in his chest was? Was this what normal people felt, watching their families while getting ready to leave for work, knowing that what they did would make their children proud, protect their loved ones?
He had no clue. He’d never felt it before.
Ozzie bounded into the camera’s frame, rolling in the snow, destroying the carefully crafted snow angel as he toppled onto Esme. She laughed and hugged the dog, rubbing his belly.
“Want me to go get her?” Flynn’s voice came through.
Devon swallowed hard. His grip on the phone tightened as if it was a lifeline.
“No.” He choked on the word. “Let her play. Give her a kiss for me and tell her I said hi.”
There was a pause. Flynn kept the phone aimed out the window at Esme. “Sure. No problem. Good luck tonight.”
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it.” He ended the call before he could make a fool of himself, sagged down to sit on the bed. This was it. Tonight he saved his daughter—and all the other innocents Francesca Lazaretto threatened.
Tonight it ended.
<<<>>>
AS WE HEADED to the dock, the lights of dozens of boats crowded the Grand Canal. They came in all sizes and shapes, from sleek pleasure cruisers to yachts and sailboats, even several Chinese junks with distinctive square sails. All lit with colorful lights as they glided back and forth at the entrance to the city.
Despite the fact that it was still an hour before midnight, the intermittent pop of fireworks sounded throughout the city as celebrations for the New Year began. Tourists, no doubt, but every little bit helped our cause.
Devon guided us to the dock where the boat he’d rented was waiting—an old-fashioned teak-paneled pleasure craft common to Venice. Like Ryder and me, he wore a wet suit beneath his clothing. The main drawback to Ryder’s plan was that we couldn’t also wear bulletproof vests.
Ryder threw his gear bags onto the boat then helped me in. Devon took his place at the wheel, the engines roaring with eagerness. He turned to nod at Ryder, who threw off the lines then leapt on board. And we were off, moving slowly through the crowded waters of the lagoon.
We traveled in silence—there wasn’t anything more to say. We’d spent all day going over our movements. While Devon steered the boat, I sat nestled in the warmth of Ryder’s arms, reclining on the leather bench seat. The plan was simple: Devon and I would leave the boat near the grotto entrance, move into position, and wait for Ryder’s diversion to draw the guards away from the lab to the dock.
Devon and I would enter the lab and trigger the security system’s fail-safe that would destroy the prion samples. If that failed, Devon had brought plastic explosives and a detonator, but given the number of civilians on the island, that would be our last resort. We wanted to save lives, not take them.
Finally, the island with its distinctive watchtower came into sight. Like the others we’d passed, colorful holiday lights adorned its buildings and dock. The area near the grotto’s entrance was on the far side, away from the dock, and lay in darkness.
Devon killed the engine, allowing the tide to drift us close to the inlet. Neither he nor I knew how to dive, so we wanted to keep our swim as short as possible. Ryder would take the boat out farther, out of range of any searchlights from the island, and anchor
it before using his scuba gear to swim undetected to the dock.
“Be careful,” he told us as he exchanged positions with Devon, taking the wheel. “They’ve had enough time to secure the grotto.”
“If they figured out that’s where Angela escaped from,” Devon put in as he stripped off his clothing.
“Don’t risk anything on ifs. You see someone, you assume they’re armed and take them down.” He was talking to Devon but staring at me. I was the weak link—unarmed, defenseless. I hated that, wished they’d let me go by myself, but only Devon could use Tommaso’s phone with its reprogrammed biometrics.
Devon hoisted the dry bag with his pistol, ammunition, and cell phone secured inside and nodded to Ryder. We blended into the night with our black wet suits and hoods. I stood on my tiptoes, bracing my arms on Ryder’s shoulders, and kissed him thoroughly.
“Just to remind you of what you’ll be missing if you don’t come back,” I whispered, wishing I knew how to tell him what I felt. If I’d had my fiddle, I could have shown him with my music; words made for a poor substitution.
He had by far the most dangerous job, playing decoy with at least seven armed men, but he didn’t seem worried at all. Instead, he smiled, his expression calm and confident.
“Have faith.” He kissed me on the forehead, then winked. “See you soon.”
Devon slipped over the side and into the water with a quiet splash. I followed. The water was cold but, thanks to the wet suit, nothing like my swim when I’d first escaped. We stroked toward the inlet leading to the grotto. Behind us came the low growl of the boat heading back out to sea.
The tide was at its peak—Ryder had timed it that way. It would turn while we were on the island and be headed out when we left. He’d been as meticulous in planning our escape as he was in preparing our arrival, including outfitting Devon with a pistol equipped with a suppressor.