by Penny Reid
But then Seamus—who was clearly the dirtier, sneakier fighter—reached for the brass lamp on the side table. Dan saw this, and blocked his arm, leaving his right side undefended. Seamus took advantage of the opening and grabbed Dan’s throat, forcing Dan to twist back and away.
While this was happening, and before Seamus’s fingers could close completely over the lamp, I grabbed my bag of heavy documents, rushed forward, swung it around once, and whacked him square in the face.
Seamus’s neck snapped back, he stumbled, tripped over his own feet, and crashed to the ground. His hands came to his nose as he rolled to the side.
“You dumb bitch! You broke my nose!”
Dan moved like he was going to kick his brother in the ribs, but I stepped in front of him, placing my hand on his shoulders and pushing him back.
“They’re just names. Please. Please don’t. He’s not worth it.”
Dan wasn’t looking at me, he was looking at his brother, his eyes dark with murderous rage. “Get the fuck out of here.”
“Or what?”
Dan stepped around me, grabbed the lamp from the table, and advanced on his brother. He yanked, tearing the cord from the wall and ripping the lamp shade from the bulb.
“Dan. Wait. Stop. Please.” I reached for his arm, but it was no use. He didn’t shrug me off or push me away, but he was too strong. I might as well have been trying to stop a speeding train.
He crouched behind his brother, taking the chord and wrapping it around Seamus’s neck. He pulled.
“Oh fuck,” Seamus said just before he couldn’t say anything at all.
Yanking him up and back, Dan leaned close to his ear as his older brother kicked and struggled, grasping at his neck.
“Now you listen to me, you worthless piece of shit. You don’t talk to her. You don’t look at her. You don’t think about her. She doesn’t exist to you. If I see you near her, if I catch talk that you’ve said her name, I will find you and not even a fucking UN resolution will keep me from dissecting you alive. Do you understand me?”
Seamus did his best to nod.
Standing suddenly, Dan let his brother drop to the floor with a painful sounding thunk. He then moved to Seamus’s back while the man was gasping raggedly on the ground. I tensed, bracing for another blow, but Dan merely reached into the back of his brother’s pants and retrieved a gun. Then, stepping on Seamus’s ankle and placing a knee on the back of his other leg, Dan retrieved a knife and another gun from his boots.
“You come here to kidnap her? Huh?” he asked, wiping the blood from the side of his mouth with his hand and then checking the weapons.
Cold dread slithered over me, down my neck and spine, like a bucket of ice water. I stared at Seamus while he struggled to breathe, and he stared back. His eyes were large with some emotion I couldn’t read.
Dan placed the guns on the stairs, then moved back to his brother, patting him down. When he seemed satisfied, he reached into his own back pocket and pulled out his phone.
“Who are you calling?” I asked, holding on to the banister for balance.
“The police,” Dan responded flatly, bringing the phone to his ear.
I nodded, wrapping my arms around myself and sitting on the stairs next to the guns and knife.
Dan turned to me, his eyes full of concern. “Hey. Hey—are you okay?”
I nodded again, my shoulders hunching forward. I was cold. So cold. I began shivering. I couldn’t stop.
Dan rushed to me, cupping my cheek tenderly. “Kit-Kat, I—Yes, yes. I’d like to report an attempted kidnapping. The perp is still here, but he’s incapacitated.” Dan paused for a moment, listening to the person on the other side of the call. “Sure, sure. The address is—”
The phone was knocked from his hand before he had a chance to finish because Seamus had brought the lamp down directly on his head.
Dan crumpled to the ground.
I screamed.
Without thinking, I scrambled for the gun, standing on the stairs and flipping off the safety. “Get away from him!”
Seamus stared at me as he stumbled back, dropping the lamp to the floor and showing me his palms.
I stepped around Dan. Perhaps it was stupid, but my first instinct was to protect him, stand between him and his brother. “I swear to God, I will shoot you if you touch him.”
Seamus wiped blood from where it was dripping into his eye. “He knew,” he rasped. “You told him.”
“What?” I shifted my weight back and forth on my feet, not understanding his meaning. “What are you talking about?”
“The guy said,” his voice was rough and he paused, like speaking was painful, and backed up slowly, “he said you were playing him. He said you were using him.”
“Who?” My hand was shaking and I forced myself to hold still, bending my elbow, gritting my teeth. “Who said that?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, shaking his head, reaching behind him, presumably for the doorknob.
He opened the door, slowly, and I watched him. His eyes were no longer defiant. If my instincts could be trusted, they looked . . . remorseful. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to shoot him. But I couldn’t let him leave, could I?
Tears blurred my vision and I rolled my lips between my teeth to stay my wobbling chin, taking two steps forward, but to no purpose.
I don’t know what to do. What do I do?
“Tell him—” he grimaced, his hand coming to his throat. He paused in the open doorway, looking at me. Just looking.
I blinked away the tears, staring at him.
“Tell him I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Leave.
Just leave.
He nodded, making me wonder if I’d spoken my thoughts out loud.
His eyes dropped to some spot behind me.
And then he slipped out the door.
Chapter Twenty-Four
U.S. Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act: Originally passed in 1938, this act subjected new drugs to pre-market safety evaluation for the first time. This required FDA regulators to review both pre-clinical and clinical test results for new drugs.
—FDA.gov
**Dan**
“…”
“What?”
“…”
“You want to say something, just say it.” I glared out the window of the penthouse rather than glare at my phone, watching the ant-sized people below. I followed a guy in a black suit with my eyes as he walked down Pearl Street before turning into the park.
“You’re in a bad mood,” Quinn said from his side of the call, all matter-of-fact.
I didn’t respond.
He was right.
I was in a bad fucking mood.
I’d been in a bad fucking mood for five days, ever since my tirefire shitdumpster of a brother tried to kidnap my wife. Seamus attempting to kidnap someone didn’t surprise me. Hell, Seamus attempting to kidnap a billionaire heiress made perfect sense, in its own twisted way.
But, his own brother’s wife? That was some fucked up shit.
“Yeah. What else is new?” I grumbled finally.
I kept my eyes on the guy in the park. He walked past a bench, stopped, turned around, walked back to the bench and sat on it.
That was weird, right?
No.
It wasn’t weird. Since last Wednesday, I’d been seeing threats where none existed and acting like an agitated asshole on the daily. Rubbing my eyes, I shook my head. I needed to get a grip.
When I’d awoken, after Seamus had knocked me over the head with my Grandma O’Malley’s favorite lamp, I came face-to-face with a paramedic. My first question was, “Where’s Kat?” Once I saw she was okay, my second questions was, “Is he dead?” Because if he wasn’t dead, I was going to kill him.
For the record, he wasn’t dead and I hadn’t killed him.
Yet.
Seamus had disappeared. Kat told me how he’d left, with her holding the gun on him and that piece of shit apologizing as
he backed out the door. Apologizing. What the fuck?
“You have a concussion, dummy. Why aren’t you resting?” Quinn didn’t sound upset, and he didn’t sound curious. He just sounded like Quinn.
“I have been resting. I’m resting right now.”
“You’re on a treadmill.”
“But I’m not running. I’m walking. I’ve been stuck in this hotel room since they discharged me from the hospital.” My eyes narrowed on the guy in the park again; he looked like he was talking on his phone. “But you know this, so I don’t know why I’m telling you this again.”
“It’s because you need to complain to someone.” This came from Sandra, her voice sounding like she was yelling from the other side of the room. When she spoke again, she was closer to the receiver. “You need to commiserate.”
“I do?”
“Yes. You do,” she said, sounding reasonable. “You’ve been through an ordeal. Ordeals require commiseration. You need to talk through your feelings, otherwise PTSD may manifest. So, please, commiserate.”
I stared through the window, my eyes now on the skyline. “What? You mean, right now?”
“Yes, Stripper Eyes, right now,” Sandra ordered; then I heard her say quieter, like she was whispering, “You can listen if you want, but I’ll take it from here.”
“Wait.” I frowned. “What did you call me?”
“It was a compliment. Accept it in the nature in which it was given.”
I shook my head, she was confusing me. “Is Quinn still there?”
“Yeah. I’m here.” He paused, cleared his throat, and then added robotically, as though being prompted, “Please commiserate.”
I huffed a laugh, imagining Sandra feeding him lines on the other end. Man, it felt good to laugh. It also hurt. My lip was mostly healed, but Seamus had bruised a few of my ribs. He was a dirty fighter and they were still sore.
“Good. Quinn, listen, you all set for this weekend?”
“Why aren’t you commiserating?” Sandra asked, her voice taking on the peculiar quality she used when trying to psychoanalyze one of us. “And how is Kat? Has she visited her mother yet?”
“Yeah,” I grumbled. “She went Sunday.”
“You didn’t go with her, did you? I mean, you were resting, right?”
“No.”
Kat’s visit to her mom was a sore subject for me, put me in a worse mood.
“No to which question? Did you go with her or did you rest?”
“No, I didn’t go with her. Yes, I rested.” I rolled my eyes, ignoring the pain in my brain at the movement.
We were supposed to go visit Kat’s mom last Friday. With my hospital stay and everything, the visit had been canceled. But Kat needed to go see her mom, needed to tell her about her father’s death, so she’d gone on Sunday. Without me.
“She should go back soon, next week, when you’re better. Make sure she’s not avoiding.”
I made a face. “Give us a break, Sandra. Things have been nuts.”
Honestly, I didn’t know if I wanted Kat to go back to see her mom. She’d come back from the facility all sad, her eyes red from crying. Seeing her that way landed like a punch to the gut and I hated it.
“Dan the Security Man—” She sounded like she was getting ready to make a threat.
So I cut in, “Sandra the Shrink, I have fifteen minutes until my ma gets back and she’ll shit a kidney if she finds me on the phone. So let me talk to Quinn.”
“Fine. But when I see you on Saturday, there will be commiseration. Give Kat a hug for me.”
“Understood. Now put Quinn back on the line and tell him to take me off speaker.”
The phone made a sound, like it was being passed from one person to another, and then Quinn said, “Okay. I’m walking into the other room.” What he didn’t say, Away from these nutjobs.
He didn’t need to say it; it was implied by his tone. That also had me smiling.
“You all set for this weekend?” I asked again. “Everyone still coming?”
“Yes. We’ll all be there. We’re leaving Chicago early, should arrive before ten. Betty made the arrangements for transportation from the airport, so we’ll meet you at The Langham.”
“Good. That’s good.” I knew Kat was looking forward to seeing her friends.
They’d offered to come out this past weekend, but with me recovering from a concussion and Kat freaking out about me recovering from a concussion, it wasn’t a good time. Also not a good time, Kat not letting me do anything for the past few days other than stay in bed—without her—and rest.
Man, I fucking hated resting. I’d made up my mind, I was never going to retire. Resting was for the dead.
“And you’re bringing Wally? How is he?” My eyes sought out the guy in the park again, he was still sitting on the bench talking on his phone.
“Yes, we’re bringing Wally. He’s good. I think Sandra and Alex are going to get a dog.”
“Hey. That’s great.”
“Yeah.” Quinn cleared his throat again. “So, listen, I don’t have any new information on Seamus. He’s disappeared.”
“Disappeared.” I closed my eyes, but then quickly reopened them when my balance went wonky on the treadmill. “How is that possible?”
“Alex tracked him as far as Harvard Street. He was on foot. And then he passed into a shadow. He never came out. Our people there haven’t seen him since.”
“Okay. Fine. I guess . . .” I shook my head, lifting my hand to grip the handle at my side. “I guess that makes sense. No one knows Boston better than him. If he wants to be lost, he’ll be lost. Tell me, what’s going on with Kat’s cousin? Any new movement there?”
“Yes. Did you know Kat sent Janie some financial reports? From Caravel?”
“Yeah. Kat mentioned something about it.”
Despite my protests that I was fine, Kat hadn’t gone into work until just yesterday. At first, when I’d been taken to the hospital and forced to stay overnight so they could observe me or some bullshit, she’d slept in the chair next to my bed. She wouldn’t lay with me because she didn’t want to jostle my head, she’d said. Then, when I was released, she’d worked from the penthouse at The Langham.
Even worse—not to sound like an asshole ingrate—my ma had taken the last few days off work and stayed with us in the penthouse. Me on one side of the suite, Kat on the other—in a different bedroom—and my ma in the bedroom between us. I didn’t know how it was possible, but we’d had less privacy in the penthouse than we’d had at my mother’s house. Go figure.
As soon as Kat made it into Caravel on Monday, she’d sent Janie the financial reports. She was still working on getting her hands on the full list of Caravel’s drug portfolio. It was taking a while to get the list since the folks in operations were being dickheads (my words, not hers).
I knew all this because that’s all we’d been able to discuss, more or less, since my mom was always close by, keeping an eye on me, making sure I didn’t do anything strenuous. She felt guilty about telling me to make nice with Seamus. That was obvious. She didn’t need to, but she did. So she tried to take care of me.
But her guilt had kept me from second base with my wife.
For five days.
We hadn’t done anything but kiss like siblings for five fucking days.
But anyway, back to now and Quinn and the financial reports.
“Janie thinks she found something, but she needs more time,” he said. “She’s hoping to have answers before Friday.”
“Anything you can tell me now?”
“I don’t really know. She said something about Caravel buying up a bunch of smaller laboratories and companies, starting around the time Caleb Tyson became CEO. She seemed to think this was significant as the source for the extra money.”
“What about Caleb’s empty bank accounts? Does she have any idea what happened there?”
“No. Janie doesn’t . . .” Quinn sounded like he wanted to say more.
�
��What is it?”
“Marie knows that Kat asked Janie to help.”
I waited for him to continue. He didn’t. “So?”
“So, Marie was talking to her boyfriend, Matt, about how Kat has concerns with Caravel, but Marie obviously doesn’t know the specifics. And you know how Matt is into artificial intelligence stuff?”
“Not really.” I didn’t know Matt well. I’d only met him once, at the hospital when Janie and Quinn’s, and Fiona and Greg’s babies had been born.
“He’s a big deal in the field, so he knows all this stuff about robotics and all the main players in the industry.”
“And?”
“Matt went to school with an AI guy who ended up at Caravel as a research manager after grad school, working on ocular implants that use AI to help people see. It’s risky, and Matt said this guy had a lot of difficulty getting approvals for the bench research when he worked at Caravel.”
“What’s bench research?”
“In this case, I think it means he was using animals before he could use humans. This ocular implant could be a game changer for people who have been born blind, and this guy, Dr. Branson, was let go from Caravel last year. Research and development money in his department was cut back.”
“When last year?”
“May.”
That caught my interest. Caleb had cashed in his stocks in April.
Quinn continued. “This is the strange part: Dr. Branson received a bunch of money right after he was let go—I mean, he received funding the very next day—to continue the research.”
“That is strange. Where is he? Is he still in Boston?” Maybe I could stop by his research facility and take a look around.
“No. He’s no longer in the US. He was set up with a laboratory and clinical facility in St. Kitts.”
I searched my mediocre knowledge of world geography and came up empty. “Where is that?”
“It’s a Caribbean island. Janie thinks it makes sense for Dr. Branson to move his research to a small Caribbean island if he was having trouble getting approval from the Food and Drug Administration. Janie says these small islands usually don’t have the same ‘ethical treatment of human subjects’ requirements that the US and other developed nations have.”