by Dyal Bailey
“Of course I downloaded the video file.” He looked at the movie that was paused on his computer. It showed Günter in a deep crimson leotard and a black satin scarf doing a pirouette next to an amazed and resplendently dressed Hank Tankers. Antonio smiled at the video screen in admiration.
“No, I didn't mind you leaving his new hair extensions in, but his wife was a little put-off at folks finding him in that dress.” Antonio pulled out his iPad and typed a couple of notes. “Perfectly understandable. He did make a rather rotund Marguerite. Honestly, I don't know many men who could have lifted Hank’s body in the first place.” He twirled his pen as if it were a knife. “And Günter, you really outdid yourself with that pink carnation between his teeth.” He put down his pen and opened a velvet–lined box with his recent purchase inside, an East Indian dueling knife. He took it out. “I'm serious. And if I didn't know you for the artist that you are, I’d have sworn those dangle-hoop-earrings were already his. Listen, I’ve got to go, but text me when you get back to New York. I have a family matter I need to discuss.”
He ended his call just as Uncle Mezzo entered the room and looked at Antonio’s desk. “I guess you got something big brewing; I see you got your colored pencils out again.”
Antonio shrugged.
Mezzo picked up Antonio’s yellow pad and flipped to one of Antonio’s recent mental outlines. “This,” he said thumping the page, “This here is freaking beautiful. Better than that modern painting crap that you’re always paying a fortune for.”
Antonio smirked and nodded in recognition of the compliment.
Mezzo handed him back his pad. “So, what is it?”
Inhaling deeply, Antonio looked up at his uncle. “Remember in high school when I went to that seminar and met Buzan?”
“Buzan, yeah. Didn’t he end up marrying into the Furtivo family?”
“No, you’re thinking of Duzan. Tony Buzan is a big time author and lecturer.”
“Yeah, yeah. The speed reading guy.”
“Well, something like that.” Antonio pointed to the page. “Anyway, at the seminar they showed us how to make these things. They’re called mind-maps, and you draw them to help you think. See these words in the big box in middle of the page? Those are either a topic or question that I need to think about.”
“And what are all these wavy colored lines. They look like the veins inside a leaf or the branches of a tree or something.”
“Yes, it does look like leaves on a tree or rivers running into streams, but it’s a kind of outline. The lines are curvy because out in nature, things are curvy. And by drawing what’s natural, it helps me to think easier.”
Mezzo scratched his head as if digesting what his nephew had said. “And this word at the end of the line? Brute-force. I know what I mean by brute force, but what do you mean by brute-force?”
“Brute-force is a mathematical term. It means to go all out and exhaust all options until you get the job done.”
Mezzo grinned and slapped Antonio on the back. “Now you’re talking! Hah! I told you it was freaking beautiful.” The two of them chuckled together for a moment, until the older man’s face turned suddenly solemn.
He handed Antonio a photo of his cousin, Joey, and his wife. “I’m sending Joey out of town on business. He leaves tonight, this way he won’t ever need to know what really happened.” Mezzo gave him several knowing blinks.
Antonio looked up at him and they locked eyes. “Don’t worry. His house will be clean when he gets back.”
His uncle nodded, tapped the desk in affirmation, and left.
…
Micah was whistling in the kitchen of his cabin. It was his day off, and he was enjoying every minute of it.
He held a tiny wine glass in his giant hands under the water flowing into the sink and began to marvel at the glass’s delicacy and strength. His thoughts turned to Rafaela––so delicate, yet so strong––and he became still. Just the thought of her made his blood start pumping and his head and chest become hot. Putting down the glass, he splashed water on his face. In mid-splash, he heard a knock at his door and jumped. He dried off his hands and made his way to the door. Opening it, he thought his daydream had conjured her up.
“What are you doing here?”
Rafaela stood staring at him, her hands clutching a floral arrangement. She bit her bottom lip and crashed the flowers and their vase at his feet. Her fists clenched.
“What, you didn’t like them?” He gawked at her, surprised.
She shook, her face flushed. “That’s not the point. I like my privacy. How the hell did you know where I was staying? No one knew where I was last night.”
“How did you find out where I live?” he replied matter-of-factly, crossing his arms playfully.
She didn’t respond, but he saw that he had deflated her.
After a few moments, he smiled. “So, you wanna come in and have lunch?”
She stared at him in disbelief. “What?”
For the first time in a long time, she had no idea what to do. And she hated it. He always had this effect on her. It was both annoying and surprising that he was still able to twist her around like this. If she knew what was good for her, she would run. But she never was good at doing what was good for her.
Thirty minutes later, he was carting her lunch plate away. Returning for her tea glass, he grazed her arm with the back of his wrist. Their eyes met. Uncomfortable, she diverted her gaze, but moistened her lips.
Abruptly, she stood up. “I need to go,” she stated, inhaling his delicious, musky cologne. It engulfed her senses. She held her breath.
He turned to her, standing too close. “Of course you do.”
“Dr. Jacobs is expecting me back at the lab.” She crossed her arms and felt her flesh warming. She was not doing this. She was getting out of there right then.
“Not till four o’clock. He has a cardiologist appointment.” He slipped her purse off her shoulder and dropped it to the floor. Pulling her to him, she didn’t resist. She couldn’t. All the memories were flowing through her mind.
Micah grazed her lips with his and was overcome, unable to get enough. “There’s so much,” he said.
Pressing in firmer, he kissed her, almost bruising her delicate lips, but she was right there with him. Nipping her lip with his teeth, he withdrew his mouth and began nibbling his way to her neck, where he devoured it, his hands caressing the curves of her back. His fingers found the zipper of her dress. She wanted to stop, but the feeling of his hands, so new yet so familiar, was more than she could stand. More—was all her mind could register. She wanted—no, she needed—more.
What little reserve she had left evaporated inside the increasing heat between them. She felt the cool air on her back as he unzipped her and let her dress slide down her silky undergarments and pool around her feet on the floor.
She peeled off his shirt. The feel of him, the sight of his hulk-like arms, and the purely male scent of him, ignited her. Gasping as she bathed in his raw beauty, she ran her red lacquered nails across his huge, muscular back. He responded by running his teeth over her soft and fully exposed shoulder.
Pushing and pulling what was left of their clothes off, they tossed them aside. They both wanted to hold and caress. Embraced inside one another’s arms, unable to stop kissing and touching, they clawed and drank each other in. Fumbling toward the couch, they gave up. It was too far.
Crumbling to the floor, Micah pulled Rafaela to him. Propping himself up on his hands, he loomed over her with hooded eyes and a feral need to somehow mark her by touching her from the tip of her tiny nose to the bottoms of her delicate feet. Shuddering at the thought, he closed his eyes to regain his self-control and readied himself for what he wanted to happen. What he needed to happen. He had to show her how much he truly loved her.
Chapter Seven
Mad at herself, Rafaela was dressed, but Micah was pulling her back inside his door. She attempted to fix her sex-mussed hair. “I’m not coming b
ack in.”
He nibbled her ear. “Yes you are.”
She pushed him away. “It’s 3:30, for heaven’s sake.”
Attempting to smooth the wrinkles from her dress, she glanced up to see the more-than-longing look on his face. She shook her head. “We’re never doing this again. I hope I didn’t give you the impression that—”
“Yes, you did, and now I’m hoping to make an even stronger impression.” He pulled her to him, reveling at her discomfort.
“I’ve—I’ve got to go.”
Scooping her up, he caressed her hair. “Don’t brush it, I like it this way.” His comment made her pause and he kissed her until she was lost. When she was able to pull away, he gave her a wry smile.
“Stop back by tonight. Or at least meet me for a drink.”
She didn’t respond; she was afraid to even look at him again. She kept her eyes frontward and hurried to her car.
Micah watched her drive away and smiled the smile of a thoroughly satisfied man. Going back inside, he made plans for that night. He shuffled around, searching until he found a bottle of champagne. He put it in the freezer and set the timer. Clearing the table, he found a tablecloth and a candle.
She’s back. She’s back.
He couldn’t believe it. Sitting down at the table, he gazed out the window. To feel the touch he thought he would never feel again, to taste the lips he thought were lost to him forever. It was almost more than he could stand. His eyes began to well, but he pulled himself together. He needed to keep his wits about him. This time he was determined. He wouldn’t screw things up or let someone lead him into a trap again. Never that. Never again.
Remembering the night they broke up, he frowned. What an idiot he had been. It had never occurred to him that he could lose her. And when he did, his entire life came crashing down. He thought of the hundreds of messages he left on her phone after their big fight. How she refused to answer the door, no matter how many hours he’d pounded on it. He had made one foolish mistake, but she was unforgiving back then. Now there would be no mistakes. Rafaela was his again, and this time, he would never let her go.
Micah pulled out his keys and made his way to his private office. He unlocked the door and booted-up his multitude of hard drives. Soon, all ten monitors on the wall were lit up and flashing.
He sat down and started typing rapidly. Within seconds, four of the screens showed video feeds of Gen-Bio-Lab. As he watched Rafaela walk through the entrance, he shifted his mouse and had the cameras zoom in on her face. He clicked the enter key and soon all the cameras shifted and followed her every movement inside the lab.
Now, let’s see what Bailey is up to. Micah’s fingers flew across the keyboard until he’d tapped into Bailey’s firewalled and encrypted email account. A lopsided grin found his lips. Bailey really should have used more due diligence when it came to his encryption software...
Sliding in and replacing his own encryption program for the lesser one their idiot designer had been planning had been too easy. Breaking Bailey’s codes for Rafaela’s hits had been even easier. Rafaela was the manuscript. Her handlers were named after dead American authors, her targets had profile-based character names, page references were thinly disguised GPS coordinates, and the kills were described as various kinds of edits.
It had been over a year since he had heard a whisper of where Rafaela was or what she was up to, when she finally came back into his life. Her reappearance occurred two years ago, shortly after her husband had gotten in the way of Micah’s former bosses. A few days after Brett Hawthorne was shot, they were having a meeting, when the two leaders started sweating profusely. Five minutes later, they dropped dead. Everyone in the room was amazed, except Micah. He knew exactly who was responsible.
With Micah’s rare computer talent for stealth entry and information extraction, it hadn’t taken him long to find out the particulars. Soon, he was sitting in front of his computer screens eating popcorn and viewing real-time footage of Rafaela’s deadly, yet highly creative calling. And the more he watched her, the more he wanted her.
Sometime after Mr. Twain was pushed off a building, but before Mr. Steinbeck asked for a transfer, Jacobs and Puja had recruited him to come to work at Gen-Bio-Lab. Six months later and here she was in Augusta, lying in his arms. Now, he needed to figure out how to keep her there.
Smiling, he continued to peruse the emails until he found what he was looking for.
Dickinson,
Concerning the romance scene with Hvalmir, I need this deleted immediately. Also, consult your manuscript and be ready to handle punctuation errors on pages 29, 57, and 53 now and grammar issues on 90, 4, and 14 when we have our meeting. I need specific details on how and when this will be done.
Bailey
Micah typed the numbers into his GPS calculator, before leaning back in his chair.
So, some Serbian in New Orleans is next on her list. I don’t think so guys. This time she’s staying with me.
…
Rafaela and Dr. Jacobs walked from the offices at Gen-Bio-Lab and into the main lab in full decontamination gear. He stopped to study her. She bit her lip and turned away. She didn’t want to hurt him, but her recent slip up with Micah had shown her that she must. This can’t be happening to me, she thought. She knew the danger to Micah, to Dr. Jacobs, and to herself. Bailey warned her about emotional connections. She sighed as she observed Dr. Jacobs and decided the thing to do was to cut things off right then.
“Dr. Jacobs, I—”
“Don’t make any snap decisions,” he spoke firmly, a grave expression on his face.
She backed away, lifting her palms. “You know I work with the government. I have a commitment.”
His face tightened. “Then take a sabbatical. Or an extended vacation, like you’re doing now.”
Her gaze ping-ponged around the room. She released a deep breath. “There’s no way of knowing how long your project could take. It could be weeks, or it could be years.”
He tilted his head to the side. “Why would staying a little longer be so difficult?”
“It just is.” She shrugged and moved toward a microscope. Peering into it, her chest felt numb. This was the one place she really wanted to be, and she couldn’t be here. Yet, she couldn’t seem to find the strength to say goodbye. Dr. Jacobs had filled such a hole in her life, the one made by the father she’d never met. She’d not realized how much she’d thought of him as a surrogate father, before now.
Looking up, she saw him regarding her and knew what he was thinking. He was probably wondering what kind of hold the government had on her. She remembered what he had said long ago when she first took the job with the CIA.
“The government. Bah! Every government thinks it can just use up scientists like so many pieces of tissue paper.”
She saw the familiar look on his face that seemed to say, “Don’t worry, all will be well.”
She knew he felt protective of her. Because of the anomalies inside his family genetic history, he had decided his marriage would be to science. Once, he told her she was like the wife or daughter he’d never had. And it went without saying that he had given more of himself to her than he had to any other student. She had taken what he had given and made him proud. Perhaps his pride wasn’t justified, but she loved him almost as much as her Abuela. Like her grandmother, Dr. Jacobs always seemed to know what she needed—and she needed this project. It was perfect for her. It made her want to cry just thinking about it.
But what was worse was her knowledge that he needed her. He needed her and she would have to let him down.
…
Günter sat miserably on the apricot chaise longue in his New York apartment with his tiny computer on his knees. His silk pajama pants had several wrinkles from the laptop and he didn’t even care. Something like this should never happen. And his indecisiveness was crushing him.
Glaring again at the blinking screen, the catalyst of his misery, he shook his head. He always clicked t
he yellow box first when he took his daily online mood-test, but today he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Taking a deep breath, he decided on green. Then he sat back and sighed. It was happening again, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it. He could feel it coming. The terrible darkness was washing over him.
But he also couldn’t bear to leave anything undone, so he summoned what was left of his strength and completed the test.
He clicked enter and waited. Long, anguishing minutes passed. Finally, there was a ding. He opened the email in spite of himself.
Your Test Result:
Manic Depressive.
Please contact your nearest suicide hotline.
He snarled and collapsed the screen.
Suddenly, as if sent especially to torment him, his special email alert began to chime.
It was Antonio!
Why? Why right then? When all he wanted in life was to be left alone. He groaned and hesitated before eventually clicking on his mail server. He read the email and wrote down his friend’s latest cell number.
Standing up, he looked across the room at all the untraceable cell phones he kept lined up neatly on the shelf. Self-loathing overwhelmed him all over again. His arrangement of the tools of his art was way too meticulous. He wanted to fall down on the floor and weep. A true artist should be frivolous and disorganized.
He let out a mournful wail. Why, oh, why were his veins cursed to be filled with so much German blood that he was constantly obsessed with neatness? It showed from the time he organized the implements for his kills to the moment he delivered his fastidiously prepared merchandise.
Taking a deep breath, he made one more manly attempt to rally himself and hold back the urge to cry. Instead, he indulged himself in one loud, exasperated moan. Slowly, as if wading through wet cement, he forced himself to cross the room, picking up the nearest cell phone to dial.