When, after several seconds, her eyes focused on her host, she was surprised to see a warm smile on his face. Don Espeñosa’s eyes swept her body, lingering on the delicate, flowing lines of the white peasant dress and the colorful silk sash tied about her waist. Jennifer’s short, coal-black hair had been softened ever so slightly with an orchid just above her right ear. The man’s gaze left a tingle of self-awareness that made her notice the tropical evening breeze across her bare arms and shoulders, the feel of the sandal straps between her small toes.
Don Espeñosa stepped forward, taking her hand and raising it gently to his lips, the surreality of the moment making her head spin.
“Welcome to my humble home, Señorita Smythe.”
116
“Welcome to my humble home, Señorita Smythe.”
The petite young girl standing before him opened her mouth as if to say something, but the shock of hearing her real name robbed her of her voice.
Don Espeñosa smiled, lowering her hand from his lips. He had been looking forward to this meeting more than anything he had done in a long, long time. It was quite funny, really. In almost any other scenario, he would have personally supervised the videotaped torture and killing of someone who dared to touch his personal bank accounts, then posted the video on the Internet as a warning. But his standard response didn’t fit this situation.
Somehow, this teenage girl had hacked a network of banks and casino security systems in a way that all his high-paid computer experts hadn’t begun to figure out. Combine that surprising fact with the discovery that she was a runaway whose father worked on Dr. Donald Stephenson’s top-secret Rho Project in Los Alamos and you had Jorge’s full attention. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t rape and kill her, but he would take his time deciding.
The drug lord bowed his head ever so slightly. “I must apologize for the conditions in which you have been kept. Had I not been away when my people brought you in, I would have ensured that you received proper treatment. Unfortunately, some of those I employ can be a bit overzealous in their efforts to protect my interests.”
Leading her to the small table, Don Espeñosa pulled out her chair. “But let us defer such talk until after dinner.”
The speed with which the girl regained her composure amazed him. A soft smile spread across her lips as she slid into the chair he held for her.
“Thank you, Don Espeñosa.”
The don moved to his own seat, a snap of his fingers bringing two members of his wait staff to the table.
“May I offer you something to drink? Some wine, perhaps?”
The young lady laughed, her easy, comfortable manner surprising him once again.
“I’d rather have a Diet Coke if you have one. Otherwise water’s fine.”
“I think we can manage that.”
Jorge spoke a few words in Spanish and one of the servants scurried away as the other poured a small amount of red wine into the don’s glass. Jorge swirled the red liquid several times, smelling the aroma before taking a sip. Seeing his nod of approval, the servant filled his glass, set the bottle on the table, and began serving the appetizers.
As the first servant returned with the Diet Coke, Don Espeñosa leaned forward so that his elbows rested on the table.
“So, Jennifer…it is okay if I call you Jennifer?”
“My friends call me Jen.”
There it was again, that unnatural maturity and self-confidence.
“Very well then, Jen. What do you think of my city?”
Jennifer paused, her gaze taking in the city nestled in the valley below his hacienda. The purple sunset crawled across the sky above the western mountains, its rich palette forming a backdrop to the lights that were just beginning to wink on across the valley.
“Glorious.” The tone of her voice confirmed the sincerity of Jennifer’s comment.
Throughout the appetizers and the leisurely meal, Don Espeñosa continued to study the girl. To observe the way she enjoyed their casual dinner conversation, one would never suspect that she had been held prisoner in a filthy cell for more than two weeks, probably wondering just how she was going to die. Jorge had been around many self-confident people that would have crumbled under similar circumstances.
But there was something else about this girl from Los Alamos, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, something that raised the small hairs along the back of his neck whenever he really focused his attention upon her. Madre de Dios. What was there about this child that could do that to him?
As the servants cleared the dessert plates, leaving them alone to sip their after-dinner coffee, Don Espeñosa hardened his voice.
“Now that you’ve had a chance to enjoy your dinner, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me why I shouldn’t kill you here and now.”
For the first time all evening, Jennifer Smythe allowed her eyes to lock with his. Never in all his life had Jorge seen anything like them. The way they reflected the candlelight made him dizzy, as if he were standing on the edge of a great precipice, looking down into depths no living soul had ever seen.
And as Don Espeñosa stared into those eyes, he answered his own question.
117
From the place where Raul floated in the stasis field, high up on the far northeastern wall of his wounded home, he stared down at the one who had just entered the room. No matter how much he hated the man, he had to admit, Dr. Stephenson had balls. Not the standard brass ones either. Knowing the kind of mastery Raul had achieved over the alien systems, the man must have juevos of tempered steel.
Raul let his mind roam the neural net, manipulating the lighting until it formed a virtual starfield, a simulation of the starship hurtling through space as it exited a wormhole. The effect made it appear that Raul was a god, hurtling through the heavens as he levitated high above the strange platform of alien equipment.
“Having fun?” Stephenson’s voice was as flat and unimpressed as if he was watching a child playing hopscotch on a chalk-marked sidewalk.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Raul responded, amplifying his voice so that it boomed through the room, the reverb level shaking some of the instruments hard enough to produce a rattle.
“Then I suggest you get serious and come over here where we can discuss something of importance.”
The anger that bubbled up inside Raul could not be contained. He knew he needed Stephenson, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hurt the man, just a little. Just to let him know who he was talking to. Just to teach him to show a little respect.
As if it were a part of his own body, Raul grabbed control of the stasis field, amplifying the lines of force so that they solidified into an invisible net, dropping it from above so that it draped Dr. Stephenson’s body. Then he began to squeeze.
The corners of Dr. Stephenson’s mouth twitched in what Raul at first thought was a grimace, but which spread ever wider until he recognized the expression for what it truly was: a grin. With no more effort than it took him to step from the shower, the deputy director stepped forward, passing through the force field as if it weren’t there.
What the hell? Raul lashed out, smashing an empty metal case beside Dr. Stephenson and then throwing his full will into a wall he erected directly in front of the man. Once again, Stephenson stepped through the stasis field, his eyes locked on Raul as he moved along the narrow walkways between the machines that filled most of the floor space.
Raul scanned the neural network, running a full set of diagnostics on the equipment that powered the stasis field generator, on the generator itself, and on the computing systems that he used to control it. All were operating normally. Then how in God’s name was Stephenson moving through something that would have contained a full-blown fusion reaction?
The physicist stopped almost directly below Raul and then began slowly rising up through the air until they stared directly into each other’s eyes. Raul’s disbelief at what he was seeing almost made him miss the cause. But there it was in the data strea
m that swam through his neural net.
It wasn’t that Stephenson was unaffected by the stasis field. Somehow, he was overriding Raul’s control. That particular shipboard system was responding to both of them, and where their wills were in conflict, Dr. Stephenson was winning. It was responding to a higher master.
“Are you ready to hear what I have to say?”
Dr. Stephenson’s grin departed, leaving his face as cold as the machinery behind and below him. As Raul’s anger and frustration gave way to amazement, he felt himself nodding in affirmation.
“Good. As much as I appreciate what you’ve been able to accomplish so far, I have a new project for you.” Dr. Stephenson paused, his eyes studying Raul like a rat in his lab. “I think you’ll get a thrill from what I want you to do.”
Raul recovered his equilibrium enough to speak. “Like what?”
“Let’s just say that if you can do this, you’ll be able to reach out and touch someone.”
A sudden light dawned in Raul’s mind. “God in Heaven!”
Stephenson repeated his earlier question. “You ready to listen?”
Raul was.
118
Mark glanced across the car at Heather, the age lines of a thirty-year-old lightly etched in her perfect face, her hair cut fashionably short, her beautiful brown eyes hidden behind the dark sunglasses that she now wore whenever they were in public. The precaution against being observed in one of her white-eyed fugues had become so habitual that she now often forgot to take them off. Mark knew that if he reached over and removed them right now he would see those eyes gone white.
The last two weeks had taken a toll on both of them. Thanks to Heather’s power and her relentless speed reading of every piece of news and rumor on the Internet, they now knew where Jennifer was. Medellín, Colombia. They had confirmed it by performing a complicated subspace triangulation to the signals from the missing alien headsets.
Putting together the money for the trip had been the easy part. Heather could win at any gambling game, from poker to roulette. The craps tables were her favorites since she could throw the dice with such amazing accuracy that she only lost to avoid standing out. Even the slot machines proved no challenge to her savant mind. Within a few minutes of watching, she could determine the way any machine’s random number generation algorithms worked. Game over.
They changed from casino to casino, from game to game, intentionally losing to throw off suspicion, but steadily building the cash they would soon be needing. Heather always seemed to know exactly when to back off on her current winning streak.
The real problem had been getting the passports and visas needed to get into Colombia. These weren’t the type of documents you could just whip up at your local FedEx Kinko’s. But Las Vegas abounded with people who, for the right price, could produce whatever fake documentation you needed.
Only a couple of blocks to go now before the car reached their destination. If everything went perfect, they’d walk in, plop down the envelope with the seventy-five thousand dollars, pick up their documents, and go. If everything didn’t go as planned, well, that’s what Heather was working out the odds on as he drove. She wouldn’t have the last pieces of data she needed until they walked into the building and met the person who awaited them.
In the meantime, they had rehearsed the most likely scenarios a dozen times. Mark felt stretched taut, like a cable holding some great span of bridge. Only the bridge that he supported was this girl he loved more deeply than he would have believed possible. It must have happened ages ago, but it was their mutual quest for Jennifer that had brought him to the full realization of his feelings.
And he hadn’t even told her. How could he? With all the pressure she was under, how could he lay that on her?
Mark turned right off of Oakleigh onto Evening Dew Drive. The neighborhood was upper middle-class residential, just east of the ridgelines rising up to Frenchman Mountain. Certainly not the kind of place you’d expect to find an illicit print shop for hire. Mark pulled into the driveway just as the late-afternoon sun disappeared behind the high peaks to the west.
Reaching across to gently squeeze Heather’s shoulder, his voice nudged her. “Heather. You with me?”
She turned toward him and nodded. “Good to go.”
“Okay then, let’s get it over with.”
Mark reached across the seat for the envelope of cash, but Heather stopped him. “Let me take the lead. Just stay by me and watch for my signal.”
Although Mark felt prepared for anything, this wasn’t good. Her last vision must have taken her down one of the more unpleasant paths.
Opening the door and stepping into the driveway, Mark shrugged. “Whatever you say, boss.”
As he followed Heather to the front door, he willed his face into a mask like he had observed on some of the high-roller bodyguards at casinos downtown. Ignoring the doorbell, Mark rapped three times on the door, then twice more.
Listening carefully, he made out the footsteps of three men, two moving away as the other approached. Three heartbeats matched the movements. A door closed softly just before the front door opened.
The man who smiled out at them looked like any male head-of-household a census-taker would expect to meet in this neighborhood, a neatly dressed blond-haired, blue-eyed man in tan cotton Dockers and a Michael Jordan golf shirt. Even the sandal straps matched the tan lines barely visible on his feet.
“Mr. Billings?” Heather asked.
“Yes?”
“I’m Amanda Fowler, and this is my associate, Jason. I believe you were expecting us.”
“So I was. Please, come in.”
Mark stepped in first, his eyes scanning the interior in a way Mr. Billings noticed. As soon as the door closed behind Heather, the warm smile faded from the man’s face.
“You have my money?”
Heather patted the fat envelope. “I would like to see our documents first.”
Billings smiled, this time allowing a slight sneer to warp his lips. “Follow me.”
Heather stumbled slightly, and Mark reached a hand out to support her arm, thankful that the sunglasses hid her eyes.
Billings paused momentarily, looking at Mark. “She on drugs or something?”
“Cut the small talk and show us the documents. Then you’ll get your money.”
“Fine. No need to get pushy.”
Billings led them into a small study just off the dining room. A large executive desk occupied the center of the room, and Billings slid into the chair behind it, reaching down into a drawer as he did.
“Easy,” Mark said, stepping up beside him so he could see into the drawer.
“What? You think I’d pull a gun on you? In this neighborhood?” Billings pulled a large manila envelope from a file and emptied its contents onto the desktop.
Heather flipped rapidly through the passports and visas, then slid the cash-filled envelope toward Billings, watching as he counted. “Satisfied?”
The smile returned to Billings’ face. “Actually, I’ve run into some unexpected costs associated with the urgency of processing your order. I’ll need another twenty-five grand.”
“No. We’ll pay the agreed price and not a penny more.”
Billings cleared his throat, and as he did, Heather nodded toward the closed door behind him.
Mark exploded into action, his thunderous sidekick catching the door as it started to open, the violence of the blow ripping the hinges from the frame and catapulting it back into the garage, sending two large men rolling backward into a jet-black suburban.
Continuing his forward momentum, Mark’s fist crashed into the jaw of the nearest as he attempted to bring a gun around. Without bothering to watch him hit the ground, Mark grabbed the right arm of the second man, feeling the muscles in the three hundred pound frame tense with effort as he struggled to wrap his massive arms around Mark’s body.
With a yell of satisfaction, the big man dragged Mark toward him. What happened next cha
nged the yell into a scream. Mark’s grip tightened, snapping the bone of the right forearm, sending the sharp end jutting out through the skin, accompanied by a spray of blood that robbed the big man’s face of color. Without releasing his grip, Mark pivoted, sending his elbow crashing into the side of his opponent’s head. The sound of the heavy body hitting the floor was like a dropped watermelon. The screaming stopped.
Mr. Billings froze, too shocked by the explosion of violence to move.
Heather leaned in close, her voice barely rising above a whisper as she gathered the documents into her handbag. “As I said. Not a penny more than the agreed price.”
“F…Fine.” Billings’ eyes remained locked on Mark as he moved back into the office.
As they turned to leave, Heather turned toward him one last time. “Make sure this closes our business dealings. I’d hate to send my associate back for a more vigorous discussion.”
Billings swallowed. “We’re all done here.”
“Good.”
Mark walked Heather back to the car and backed out of the driveway. As they rounded the third corner onto East Washington Avenue, Heather leaned forward and vomited onto the floor mat.
“Oh, Christ,” she muttered as the gagging subsided. “That’s so gross. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. I felt the same way after I broke Priest’s neck. At least until the asshole shot me in the butt with that tranquilizer dart.”
Heather laughed. “But you don’t have to sit here smelling it.”
“Oh, I smell it.”
Her elbow caught him in the shoulder, interrupting the grin just as it got started.
In a matter of minutes they were on highway 147 headed west out of Las Vegas. Vomit cleanup would have to wait for a truck stop on I-15, somewhere along the road between there and Salt Lake City.
119
Freddy Hagerman leaned back against the tree in the darkness, feeling the rough bark through his wet shirt. His breath panted out hard enough to scrape the skin from his throat. As a child, his mother had always given him a shot of Jack Daniels and honey to cure a sore throat. If he survived the night, he vowed to revisit that treatment. Hold the honey.
Immune Page 34