Kelly laughed sweetly. God, he was cute when he was flustered. "It’s fine, really," she said, touching that rock hard arm again.
Hunter rotated his head, still resting it against the locker. "Really?"
Kelly nodded. "Mmmhm.” Her watch buzzed with an incoming text. “Hey, I gotta go. Ill see you later, okay?" She could barely contain the butterflies that were flopping around in her belly.
Hunter smiled and Kelly’s heart skipped a beat. His teeth were prefect and his face looked like it had been carved by a Renaissance master. She could just sigh and stare at him all day. And run her fingers through that hair, and trace the outline of that bicep—a warmth grew in her middle and it shocked her into action.
She leaned forward as he opened his mouth to reply and kissed him on the cheek. Just a quick peck, but long enough for her lips to register the warmth off his smooth skin and the spicy-sweet hint of aftershave.
Without giving him another second to compose himself, she spun on her heel and walked as fast as she could—and remain upright—down the hall to the nearest exit, where she blasted through the door and stepped to the side, slamming her back against the brick wall and taking a deep, shuddering breath to clear her head.
"Oh, my God, what did I just do?" All her senses tingled on overload. The air was crisp and clear—a perfect autumn blue sky hung overhead and the sun warmed her skin just right. The rough concrete wall she leaned against tickled her skin and her knees felt weak.
She took another deep, calming breath, then composed herself and set out across the school grounds toward the parking lot. Fishing in her purse for her keys and cellphone—she so had to call Tracy—she didn’t even notice the ugly white plumber’s van parked next to her car.
Phone already at her ear as she reached out to push the key fob’s unlock button, Kelly didn’t notice the van’s door slide open on well-oiled hinges despite the rusted panels. Only when she saw the scowl on an ugly man’s face reflected in her car window did she turn around.
"Whassup girlfriend?" asked Tracy over the phone.
"Who are you?" Kelly demanded.
"I am here to carry out vengeance in the name of Allah," the man snarled. He reeked of onions and other spices she couldn’t identify. Garlic, mostly.
"What—?" Kelly blurted, backing up from the menacing man in stained, filthy overalls. Her butt bumped her car and in a moment of panic she dropped her phone. The noise it made when it rattled against the asphalt echoed like a gunshot in Kelly’s ears.
"Kells? What’s going on?" Tracy called from under the car. "Kelly!" Her voice was tinny and distant.
Distracted by the phone, Kelly looked up in time to see the man lunge at her. She tried to scream and kick like they’d taught her in that lame self-defense class her dad had made her take, aware at last that her life was in danger. The big man was too fast though—a damp, sweet smelling cloth mashed into her face, throwing her aim off, and Kelly only managed to kick her cell phone under the car.
Undaunted, Kelly took a deep breath and prepared to unleash the mother of all screams when everything went black and she had the strangest sensation of flying. Or maybe the man had lifted her off the ground? Kelly didn’t know and didn’t care as unconsciousness enveloped her.
5
Resolution
Los Angeles, California
Martin Enterprises, Inc.
Pacific Research Facility #3
Dr. Norman Yang adjusted the glasses perched on his nose and stared at the latest batch of test results. Patient 141, part of the off-the-books human testing they’d been running for the past 36 months, was finally showing the improvements all the other subjects had exhibited much earlier.
He leaned back in his chair, grimacing as the wood creaked. Right there, right in front of him, was the long-awaited proof he’d promised Desmond. The philanthropist could take this to the press and announce a 100% efficacy rate now. He crossed his arms. This was the Holy Grail. Patient 141 hadn’t accepted the Elixr treatment like every single other patient...until now.
Yang leaned in toward the readout on the screen. But why? What did we change?
Yang knew he should be celebrating with the others in the next room. He could hear the cheering and clapping. Someone would bring Desmond in for congratulations any minute. Then the speeches would start, and knowing Des, the press would be assembled before dinner. It would be a long night at the lab, but Desmond Martin was not one to waste a second when it came to increasing PR equity.
His private phone buzzed inside his desk, sounding like an angry hornet. Desmond was already calling him. That didn’t bode well for getting an early night—Norman had wanted to head out first thing tomorrow for a weekend trip to see his daughter. Though estranged, his wife was amenable when it came to quality time with their daughter, Kelly, and Norman Yang intended to make the most of every second with his precious child. She was in high school now, and soon would be off to college, and then...well, he didn’t want to think about her growing up that much. He got to see her rarely as it was. Once she went to college, he’d likely see her even less.
Yang forgot about the test results for a moment and imagined what it would feel like when his daughter moved away for college. Anxiety fluttered in his chest. How would he protect her, guide her, and help her when she was a thousand miles away…surrounded by beer and boys and temptation?
He sighed and opened the drawer, only glancing down at the phone briefly. The number that he was expecting—Desmond Martin—wasn’t there. Instead an ominous "Unlisted" was the only clue as to his caller.
Great. Now the press had his new private phone number. He’d have to go change it. Again.
Resigning himself to fate, he put the phone to his ear and answered it’s incessant ringing. "Hello?"
"Is this Dr. Norman Yang?" asked a well-enunciated female voice.
Norman pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He wasn’t ready for this crap yet. He hadn’t even talked with Des about the new results. He hadn’t even studied the new results himself. "Yes," he sighed.
"Father of Kelly Yang?"
Norman looked at the phone. "Yes," he answered in a firm voice. "Who is this? Is Kelly okay?" Thoughts of car accidents flickered through his mind and he calculated how long it would take him to drive to Seattle. He stood and grabbed his car keys.
"She is fine, however her continued health is conditional upon your behavior." The woman on the line had a strange accent he couldn’t quite place.
What the hell? Yang’s breath caught in his throat. "I—I don’t understand…wait—who are you?"
"Your new employer."
Yang stared at the phone again. "What?"
"You work for me now, Dr. Yang. Me and my associates."
"Is this some kind of sick joke?" He listened, anger swelling in his chest as whoever was on the other end of the line shifted the phone around.
This is ridiculous. He put the phone on speaker and tapped his messaging app. Desmond had some of the world’s best hackers and security experts on permanent retainer. He’d be able to trace who—
"Daddy?"
That one word sent a shockwave through Norman’s heart. He collapsed into his chair, his free hand gripping the armrest hard enough to leave impressions in the hard material. The phone shook in his other hand.
"Daddy, is that you?” said Kelly’s voice. “What’s going on? Who are these people?"
More shuffling sounds, then Kelly cried out for him again and was silenced with a slap. The accented female voice returned to the line.
"Do I have your attention now, Dr. Yang?"
"D-don’t hurt her…please…" he breathed.
"We have no wish to harm your daughter, Dr. Yang. We only need her to ensure your compliance. Please close the messaging app you just opened. If you try to contact anyone regarding this…arrangement…you will get your daughter back piece by piece. Do you understand?"
Jesus, God…
Yang closed the app with a t
rembling swipe of his finger. "W-w-what do you want?" he stammered, his mind reeling.
"You are responsible for creating the Elixr for Desmond Martin, are you not?"
"Y-yes…but—"
"We want it."
The laugh that bubbled up from his throat was so sudden he couldn’t stop it. Yang cleared his throat. "Why? We’re about to give it away to everyone on the planet…for free…"
"We still want you to deliver the Elixr, and you will. But you will deliver our version of it. Before the rest of the world gets it.”
"I…" Norman blinked. Jumping from hypothetical to hypothetical in the span of a few heartbeats, he puzzled out that if Elixr could be tweaked, the nearly universal infection rate would mean…
Oh, my God…what have we done?
"Dr. Yang? Do we have an accord?"
He delayed answering, thinking of a way he could modify the CRISPR strain to make the gene-editing virus totally harmless.
"Daddy!" Kelly screamed. "Help me! Do what they want! He’s got a knife! Daddy!"
"Okay! Okay!" Norman cried, his soul twisted in anguish. "Please, don’t hurt her—I’ll do it, God damn you! I’ll do whatever you want!" he said, dropping his head to his desk to hide his tears.
After a long moment, the woman came back, purring in his ear. "Very good, Dr. Yang. Instructions will be given to you momentarily. Keep a close watch on your email. And remember, speak of this to anyone, and your daughter will suffer the consequences. We are watching you."
"I won’t say a word—I swear!" he said, his vision blurring. "Please don’t hurt my baby girl…" he choked back a sob.
"Check your email, Dr. Yang. I will contact you soon."
The line went dead.
Norman stared at the phone for a long moment. Had that just happened? Was he dreaming?
The chime from his computer, indicating he had a new email, made him flinch as if he’d been slapped. He spun his chair and logged in to his email program.
There it was, a glowing, red flag of proof that he wasn’t dreaming. The message, appearing to originate from his own email address, contained a list of instructions and rules for contacting his new employers, and a picture of his daughter, blindfolded, chained to a bed in a darkened room, with a hooded figure looming over her. The knife in the person’s hand flashed in the light from the camera and looked wicked-sharp and lethal, poised as it was over his daughter’s chest. A large scalpel.
“Oh, God...” he moaned, hands coming to his face.
The door to his office crashed open and one of his assistants burst in, carrying a sheaf of papers. "Norman, did you see?" he asked, holding up the top page.
Yang quickly turned away, busying himself with papers on his desk, presenting his back to the door. "Yes, yes, I saw—" he said, irritated at the interruption.
“Martin’s on his way, he’s called a—"
"Can I have a minute?" Norman snapped, sharper than he’d meant. Sweat beaded on his temples and his cheeks were wet with tears. He glanced over his shoulder.
His assistant smiled and looked at him. "Sure, no problem, boss. Congratulations—this is your Nobel moment."
When the door shut again, Norman stared at the email, memorizing the instructions, as he wiped his face. Despite his gut torquing fear, curiosity got the better of him. Why would they want to transpose the first peptide base? The list of demands made little sense. He adjusted his glasses and peered close to the monitor. The modifications in the in the email showed his tormentors only had a crude sense of how genetic editing worked.
He smirked. Amateurs. Fucking amateurs. Goddamn terrorists.
Anger consumed him. His hands balled into clammy fists. They’d taken his daughter and arrogantly demanded he do their bidding, like he was their slave. They wanted the modifications ready in 36 hours, to coincide with the initial Elixr volunteer doses.
A plan developed in Norman’s mind. He’d do what they wanted because he wouldn’t dare risk Kelly’s safety. But he wasn’t a man to just meekly roll over, either. Ignoring the repeated calls and texts from his colleagues about Desmond’s upcoming impromptu press conference, he got to work.
Kidnap his daughter would they?
You want a weapon? I’ll give you a weapon, you bastards. I’ll give you a fucking weapon that’ll bite you in the ass.
He pounded away at his keyboard, modifying the codified instructions used by CRISPR to create a viral transplant that, on first glance, would be exactly what the kidnappers wanted. If they had a world-class geneticist in their employ, that person would see through Norman’s ruse with little enough effort—but if they had a world-class geneticist, they wouldn’t have had to kidnap Kelly to get him to do their dirty work, would they?
Yang smirked as he worked, his fingers flying over the keyboard. Threaten me, will you? Kidnap my daughter…see what happens now, assholes.
His phone buzzed again. He glanced down, not even pausing in his work. Desmond. The boss would have to wait, or do his little dog and pony show without Norman Yang to take the brunt of the questions. Sweat dripped onto his glasses. Yang decided he wouldn’t go down without a fight, though it may mean sacrificing his career—Desmond wouldn’t be happy about a no-show at a press conference.
Instead of giving the terrorists a bio-weapon, he’d engineer it to kill them instead.
6
Return on Investment
Los Angeles, California
Martin Enterprises, Inc.
Pacific Headquarters
It had been nearly a month since the last press conference. Desmond Martin rubbed a hand across his face and leaned back in his plush executive chair. He glanced out the floor to ceiling windows at the LA skyline. Secreted away in the eastern hills, Martin Enterprise’s main bio-engineering lab faced the City of Angels and watched over the teeming millions of people who waited for his Elixr.
Drumming his fingers on the expansive, polished desk next to him, Desmond frowned. A month. A month was a long time for a story to fade, to compete against Dancing with the Stars, or The Bachelor, or some other show stealing America’s ever shortening attention span. He’d made headlines around the world with that performance when he’d injected the Elixr in his own arm, live, in front of the world.
Then the waiting began. He knew it would work—it had worked in every single test subject to date—
“Dr. Yang isn’t answering his phone, Mr. Martin. Shall I send someone to check on him?"
His senior assistant’s voice pulled Desmond out of his thoughts. His frown deepened. Yang had been acting even more standoffish than normal in the past month. Sure, he’d made it clear he wasn’t supportive of Desmond’s circus-like self-injection performance…but that was no reason to blow off several calls and meeting requests over the past few weeks.
“Sir?" Edith’s voice rang out from the hidden speakers embedded in the ceiling and walls of his penthouse office.
"No, no, Edith, it’s fine," Desmond said, trying to inject a note of toleration in his voice. He didn’t think it worked.
"Yes, sir."
"Mute," Desmond called out. The computer that controlled the day-to-day workings of the building chirped in response and shut down the microphones, also embedded in the walls and ceiling. Desmond Martin liked to use voice control for just about everything from dictating emails to making phone calls, to ordering take out, but sometimes a person just needed to be alone.
"Damn it, Yang, what the hell? I need you on this…" He tapped the side of his desk and a tray slid up, revealing a slim cell phone. It was one of a matching pair that he’d given to Norman Yang last year after the press had gotten a hold of his private number. Only three people in the world knew this number—Desmond himself, Norman, and the CEO of American Telecom. Desmond leaned back in his chair and powered up the state-of-the-art phone. It was good to know people in high places.
The phone rang and rang and rang. He was about to leave a heated voicemail—again—when Yang answered on the fourth ring.
>
"Hello." It wasn’t a question.
"Norman! What’s going on—why haven’t you answered—"
"Sorry, Desmond…” Yang interrupted. “I know I haven’t…uh…"
Desmond looked out over the city and watched the sun as it hung just above the horizon. "You haven’t returned my calls, or answered your phone…you missed the last three staff meetings. I understand you’re not sleeping well lately? And what’s that noise in the background?"
"What? Oh, yes…I’m not sleeping well. I went to the doctor…did you not get the note?"
Desmond leaned forward and tapped his desk in a certain spot that made a computer monitor raise up from the glassy surface, smooth as silk. "Norman, you don’t need to give me a doctor’s note…Jesus, you’re not a temp or something. Seriously…what’s going on? And what the hell is that rustling in the background? Are you inside a paper sack?"
He typed in the authorization number and the computer traced the location of Norman’s phone. He was at home, that much was clear. Desmond checked his watch—home, on a Tuesday…at 4 o’clock? That was not the Norman Yang, workaholic scientist, that Desmond knew.
"Norman." Yang ceased his mumbling and the background noise stopped. The CEO’s voice did that every time Desmond used it. "Talk to me. Whatever is going on, tell me. I want to help. Please—let me help."
Heavy breathing, then a shuddering sob. "They took…"
Desmond waited.
"I can’t."
"Who took what—and why can’t you talk to me about it? Is it the press? Did they get this number again? I swear to God, I’ll—"
"No! No, it’s nothing like that," Yang said quickly. "I can’t talk, I’m sorry Desmond. I really need to go."
"Where are you going?"
"Anywhere—home. I need to go home."
Desmond drummed the fingers of his free hand on the desk. "Norman, you are home."
Elixr Plague (Episode 1): Vector Page 4