The Gender Experiment: (A Thriller)

by L. J. Sellers

  “The director thinks Wilson downloaded files from the clinic, so search and destroy.”

  He was dismissing her. “Yes, sir.” Devin saluted and strode out. Every minute counted now. But it wasn’t her fault that Seth Wozac had finally spiraled out of control. When the major had assigned her to terminate the four subjects who’d become obsessed with fire, she’d been given a flexible deadline. A secondary objective was to make them look like accidents so no one ever linked their deaths or their bodies. But Taylor Lopez had made the connection and shared her findings, so now expediency was critical.

  Devin doubted that Lopez would make a good operative. She was too old to start the training. Most of the other Peace Project operatives had been conditioned and placed in their respective countries as teenagers. Devin was grateful to be stateside. She didn’t know if it was because her father hadn’t wanted to risk her life in a foreign country or because he liked having her around. Or maybe she just wouldn’t have blended in well enough. The major had talked about the operatives and their long-term mission a few times when he was drinking heavily and it was just the two of them having a late dinner. Devin loved those moments when she felt like his confidant. They almost made up for the commander-subordinate way he treated her most of the time.

  She stopped in the mess hall, grabbed some rations, and headed out of the compound. She needed a shower and some sleep, but both would have to wait.

  After a dozen phone calls, she located the motel where Wilson had stayed the day before. The Jetta wasn’t in the parking lot, and a stop in the office revealed that Wilson hadn’t paid for another night. He was moving around. Smart. But not good for her. She decided to check out Wozac’s situation in the hospital before she spent more time looking for the reporter. Wilson might have fled back to Denver.

  The biggest concern was that Wilson would go to his friends at the Post—or write and publish an exposé himself. He had to be stopped. Devin still didn’t understand how the morgue attendant and the reporter had connected. Unless they were old friends. The staff that monitored the subjects kept only intermittent track of them, unless they displayed problematic behavior like the fire-starting tendency. The four pyros had been under close supervision for a year before the major had decided to shut them down. The monitors, desk clerks mostly, were not privy to that order or suited to carry it out.

  At a traffic light, Devin keyed the hospital’s name into her GPS and promptly circled back. Located near a big city park, St. Paul’s was easy to find. As she drove, daylight faded in the cloudy western sky. Devin welcomed the coming darkness. She would need all the cover she could get for the hospital mission. So risky! Waiting for Wozac to be released would make the termination so much cleaner. Could they afford the time? She pulled over, found the number, and called the medical facility. Pitching her voice lower, Devin said, “This is Detective Miller with the Colorado Springs Police Department. I need to question a patient, Seth Wozac. Is he still in the ICU?”

  “Just a moment.” The woman put her on hold for a second, then said, “Yes, but he’s stable, and they’ll probably move him to another floor tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I can transfer you to the second-floor desk, so you can ask about talking to him.” The hospital clerk lowered her voice to a whisper. “You should know there’s a psych consult requested for him.”

  “Why? What did he do?” Devin wanted details.

  The clerk cleared her throat. “As strange as this sounds, he operated on himself to cut out a uterus.”

  “That is strange,” Devin said, reacting how she thought a cop might. But it wasn’t strange to her. She thought about the ovaries in her otherwise mostly male body. She’d never give them up. They made her who she really was. “Don’t bother transferring my call. I’ll come in.” Devin clicked off. Now that she knew Wozac’s injuries would keep him in the hospital for days, she had no choice but to move forward immediately. An idea began to form, and her shoulders relaxed. She might just pull this off—without getting arrested. But if she were detained, she would go silent. Her father’s secrets were safe with her, even if she were convicted and sentenced.

  The tension returned to her body. She was about to take two more lives. She would honor them, like she had the others, with tattoos that represented their souls. As a fire-starter like the other three subjects, Wozac would be another flame added to the fire inked on her forearm. She would have to think about a new design for the reporter. But not now. Devin got back on the road and worked through her plan. She needed a jacket like a detective would wear and a needle full of dope. A stop at the Goodwill, followed by a smash-and-grab in Heroin Alley. This might even be fun.

  The short block near Highland Park where many of the city’s heroin addicts hung out was strangely empty. Fuck. Now she needed a new plan. Devin cruised the street slowly, just in case a druggie emerged. No luck. As she was about to drive off, a silver Toyota turned down the block. After it passed, Devin parked and watched the vehicle in her rearview mirror. Two shaved-head thugs in baggy jeans got out and walked toward a seedy apartment building. Go now!

  Devin shot out of her SUV and sprinted down the sidewalk, closing the gap in seconds. They heard her coming at the last moment and turned, with startled expressions. She punched the taller guy first, coming from underneath to break his nose. The second thug started to run, so she slammed a foot into his back and knocked him to the ground. The first guy swung at her, his other hand gripping his bloody nose. But he was dazed and slow. She easily blocked the punch, snapping a bone near his elbow. The sound echoed in the empty street. The pussy bellowed like a steer on its way to slaughter and dropped to his knees. The second guy, already on the ground, rolled over to face her. Eyes wide with terror, he shouted, “What the fuck?”

  “Give me your stash. All of it! Or I’ll break your face too.” While the thug scrambled for an inner pocket, she pulled out her Beretta. “If I see a gun, you’re dead.” She glanced sideways and slapped the tall guy’s face. “Shut up and give me your stash too.”

  Still moaning, he didn’t comply.

  The prone man shouted, “He’s not carrying! Just me. Here, take it.” He shoved a pocket-sized leather pouch at her.

  Devin grabbed it and ran back to her SUV. The druggies weren’t likely to call the police, but addicts and criminals were often too stupid to know better. Inside the car, she pulled on the used business jacket she’d purchased and removed her sunglasses and baseball hat. A peek in the leather pouch revealed about three grams of H, five needles, and a spoon. They’d planned a little party. Perfect. Devin started the engine and drove off. She would stop in a few blocks and prep the heroin overdose somewhere safer. She’d done her homework and knew a hundred ways to end a life.

  Fifteen minutes later she pulled into the parking lot at the hospital. When she didn’t find a space in front, she drove into the garage and ended up on the third floor. Despite the full lot, no people were around. She grabbed her bag of disguises from under the seat and applied a layer of dark bronze foundation, then popped in brown contacts. After she used the touch-up gray hair color, the hospital staff would describe her as “older” and “brown-skinned.” And male, of course.

  Voices caught her attention and she looked over at the entrance. A young man pushing another young man in a wheelchair. Holy shit! Jake Wilson was taking Seth Wozac out of the hospital. Devin shoved her supply bag under the seat and slouched down. Yes! She was finally catching a break. This whole clean-up assignment had gone sour for her when the old woman at the clinic had been added as a rush job. One more mission, and she would be done. Too bad the targets weren’t likely to take a drive up into the canyons where she could run them off the road and not have to see them die.

  When their engine rumbled, Devin started hers in unison. She hoped Wilson was still driving the ugly Jetta. So easy to follow and spot. She heard the car pass behind her, waited ten seconds then pulled out. An extended family crossed the space in front of the
entrance, and she had to wait for the old man bringing up the rear. Move! Her targets were already leaving the parking garage.

  Once the family had cleared, Devin pressed the accelerator and squealed around the corner. Someone yelled at her to slow down and she did. Hitting a pedestrian would derail her mission. Besides, she could guess where the targets were heading. Either to a motel on Nevada Avenue or Wozac’s house. The man had nearly bled to death twelve hours earlier, so he probably needed to be in bed. The two men might stop at a pharmacy for a prescription or at a burger place, but they weren’t going far.

  At the bottom of the exit ramp, she went right toward Fillmore Street and was rewarded with the sight of the Jetta moving toward the main intersection. But she was too close! Devin pulled off and tucked in between two parked vehicles. Wozac’s monitor had sent the subject’s home address earlier, so if she lost them, she could drive straight there and wait. Unless they were headed for Denver, where they could disappear into the city. Now that Wilson possessed clinic files and his little girlfriend was gone, he might not stay in Colorado Springs. He had worked for the Denver Post, so he could be headed there to share his findings.

  Devin got back on the street, wishing she’d taken a different vehicle from the compound. Hers was too big and black and noticeable. But the reporter had probably never seen her SUV, so she just had to hang back and be careful. As she drove, she watched ahead to the intersections. The important thing in tailing a car was spotting when it turned.

  The boulevard suddenly split, and the van in front of her blocked her from seeing which way the Jetta went. Devin swore out loud and guessed left. Even if they were planning to travel to Denver, they would likely stop at Wozac’s first to get clothes or his cell phone or whatever. Wozac had left his place in an ambulance the night before, so he wasn’t prepared for an extended stay anywhere.

  Her guess was correct, and ten minutes later she spotted the Jetta headed up Hagerman Street, where Wozac lived. Even from a distance, the small brick house looked old. Wilson parked on the side lawn under a tree, and the two men walked around to the back. Devin parked two houses down and studied the home. Windows near the bottom of the wall indicated a basement. Wozac probably lived in that space. She had perused his file, and he didn’t seem to be employed. He’d been on her termination list all along, but she’d saved him for last, wanting to get all three Denver hits done first. She knew his basic info, but hadn’t cased his house or habits yet. Having to rush the job annoyed her, but nailing the two men together was a plus. This could be ideal. She could make it look like a drug deal gone bad. Shoot the first one she encountered, then give the second one an overdose and wrap his hand around the weapon. Or maybe the other way around. She would be prepared for both scenarios.

  Devin crawled into the back seat, opened the locked weapons case, and extracted an untraceable handgun. She preferred to use her Beretta or Remington rifle, but the little Colt would seem more appropriate for a small-time addict. Although considering Wozac’s self-surgery, maybe a straight suicide would be best for him. Either an overdose or a gun to the head would be effective, and a flash-bang would stun both guys long enough to get needles into them. Did she still have one? Devin leaned into the cargo area, rummaged through her toolbox, and didn’t find one. Crap. She’d used her last flash-bang on Hurtz to subdue him before throwing him off the balcony. Devin took off the blazer she’d planned to wear into the hospital, put on a baseball cap, and jumped from the vehicle. Time to just go for it. The targets might be stopping in the house for only a few minutes.

  The neighborhood was surprisingly quiet. A young girl on a bike rode past Devin without looking—hell bent on getting home before dark. Devin strode across the street and covered the distance to the brick house in a few seconds. At the last moment, she readied her handgun and loaded needle. Soon, this phase of the project would be over, and she could ask for a different assignment, maybe relocate to Washington State to help monitor the second generation of subjects. She’d had enough killing. And maybe it was time to get away from her father.

  Chapter 27

  A few minutes earlier

  Jake stepped into the basement apartment and glanced around. Seth’s living space was stark—a couch that he obviously slept on, a TV, and a game console. Two brown boxes with clothes draped over the edges occupied a corner near the tiny kitchen. The only natural light came from two rectangular windows at the top of the front wall.

  “Hey, I’m fine. You can go.” Seth stood near the door, looking embarrassed.

  Jake was ready to get the hell out. The place was depressing, and Seth wasn’t exactly Mr. Friendly. Still, the man had fresh stitches and a killer after him. “Do you have enough food for a few days? Or a fresh bandage for your, uh, incision?”

  “Dude, you sound like my mom. Just go.”

  “Okay. My number’s in your phone if you change your mind.” Jake walked out into the narrow subterranean walkway. Concrete walls held back the dirt of the side yard, and the steps led up to a patio. A shadow crossed the grass above him. Instinctively, Jake bolted back inside. Seth hadn’t moved, and his mouth dropped open.

  “I think the assassin is here.” The words came out in a rush of panic. He turned to lock the door but didn’t see an obvious mechanism. A thud sounded on the other side, as though the killer had jumped down into the entrance rather than take the steps. Shit! He needed a weapon. The only thing in Jake’s line of sight was a long skateboard leaning against the wall next to the door. He grabbed it with both hands, stepped off to the side, and prepared to swing it hard.

  The door flew open and barking suddenly filled the space outside. The man in the dark jacket crossed the threshold, and Jake brought the skateboard down hard, striking the side of his face and arm that held the gun. The killer made a soft grunting sound, shook his head, and spun toward Jake. The barking ceased as a dog latched onto the back of the intruder’s lower leg and sunk in his teeth.

  The assassin cursed loudly and twisted around. He jerked up his gun and fired point blank at the dog. The loud crack boomed off the walkway’s concrete walls. Seth, already in motion, rushed straight at the assassin, who was still turned toward the dying dog. Before Jake could jump in, Seth shoved the killer out, slammed the door shut, and locked the bolt at the top.

  The assassin still had a gun. “Get down!” Jake dropped to the floor and began crawling toward the corner.

  New voices outside—a woman crying and a man shouting for someone to call 911. Footsteps retreated rapidly up the concrete stairs. The killer was fleeing! Jake stopped crawling and turned back. Seth was flat on the carpeted floor in front of the entry—not moving. Jake’s heart skipped a beat. Was Seth dead? “Dude! You okay?”

  Seth held up a hand but didn’t lift his head or make a sound.

  Had he been shot? Not likely. The door was intact, and Jake had heard only one round of gunfire. Still, Seth could have pulled out his stitches and might be bleeding internally. Staying low, Jake hurried over to the prone man. “Hey, are you bleeding?”

  Seth finally raised his head. “I think I just blacked out for a moment.”

  Jake didn’t know what to do next. The police were likely on the way. And if he stuck around, they would probably take him to the department for questioning. And if the obstetrics clinic had video surveillance of his data theft, he could end up in jail. Avoiding all that was in his best interest.

  Jake stood. “I have to get out of here before the cops arrive. You should probably leave before the killer comes back.” Jake didn’t want to take Seth with him, but he would if the injured man needed a ride.

  “Just go. I’ll be fine.”

  Jake didn’t buy it, but he had to get moving. The FBI agent would be arriving soon, and he needed to give her the clinic data. He couldn’t do that from a jail cell, and she might not bother to find him there. “Should I call an ambulance for you?”

  Seth sat up. “Hell no. I’ll grab my backpack and go out the back gate. I have a frie
nd down the street.”

  The back gate sounded good to Jake too. But he needed the car and leaving now was the only option. Jake patted Seth’s arm. “Stay safe.” Heart still pounding like he’d run a mile, Jake bolted out the door and almost plowed into a woman kneeling next to the dead dog. “Sorry.” He pushed past her and jogged up the steps. “The shooter’s gone!” she called through sobs.

  After a look around, Jake charged across the short strip of lawn to Taylor’s car. A few neighbors stood along the street, and an elderly man paced next to the home’s front porch, talking excitedly into a cell phone. Jake climbed in the Jetta and backed out to the street. He hoped no one would take down the license number. He drove away, trying to look casual and not like someone fleeing a crime. Still, he glanced at every vehicle on the street and checked his rearview mirror. The assassin could be waiting to follow him again. Or the killer might go after Seth. As the fourth name on the hit list, Seth might be a priority for the researchers, which would explain why the man in black had been at the hospital and picked up their tail.

  Relief washed over Jake. Maybe now that he wasn’t with Taylor or Seth, he might not be a target. That would leave him free to investigate. He drove toward Nevada Avenue. He needed to move to a new motel, but that might not be enough. Maybe he should buy new clothes and some dark hair dye and scissors—change his whole appearance. He checked the time on the dashboard: 6:35 p.m. When was Agent Bailey supposed to arrive?

  A paranoid thought hit him. Maybe he couldn’t trust her. She might be tracking his phone right now and be somewhere on standby with a team of men in black suits, ready to swoop in and arrest him. Maybe it was time to get the hell out of town and forget this whole crazy mess.