GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  Fear, unyielding anxiety, anguish, and a simmering fury dominated what few thoughts that had eluded the invasive tormenters, paralyzing her humanity.

  Camila reached for a cup of water—the ice long since melted—and her wrist clumsily bumped it over, her coordination as careless as a drunk who'd just consumed a liter of vodka. She didn't curse or hurry to grab paper towels to clean up the mess on the shiny metal desk.

  She touched her face, swollen from lack of sleep and shedding more tears than she ever thought possible. Beyond her tousled appearance, she could see fluorescent lights dangling from the twenty-five-foot ceiling, and the dark man leaning against the railing on the second-floor metal landing—just a few feet from the only exit. A holstered blade crossed the man's chest, an automatic weapon gripped in his fingers. Neither he, nor his equally sculpted partner who swapped places with him every twelve hours, had spoken a word since she'd arrived five days earlier.

  But their menacing presence amplified the seriousness of her dilemma.

  Her daily schedule had been printed off, laminated, and posted in about twelve different places in this massive laboratory filled with expensive equipment. She knew what was expected of her every minute of the day. Until the day.

  Camila palmed the spilled water, sending a small ripple dripping off the sloped edge of her desk. She peered upward, and the man's expression remained stoic. She closed her eyes and touched the wet hand to her face and massaged her cheekbones, temples, then her eyes. She repeated the process three more times, each one unclogging the web of guilt and anger in her veins, allowing blood to flow to her extremities, to feel a bit more human.

  Even though her mission was so very inhumane.

  She took in a slow, deep breath and felt more neurons firing in her brain. Her fucking brain. It had been the source of her rise to prominence in the field of information technology, where she'd long believed she was destined to leave a permanent imprint. And she did, at least briefly. Her visionary reputation led to interviews from prominent media outlets, and corporations across the globe courted her like she was royalty, her brilliant touch sure to change any company's bottom line to gold.

  But her intellectual aptitude had also ignited a rush of creative ideas within her—ideas to enable a change in culture, impacting future generations from her homeland in Brazil, possibly to other third world countries where children were treated like meat and, at best, a commodity. And that is when she thought she'd truly found her life's calling—even though some would say the cause was rooted in revenge. If that was the case, then so be it, she'd thought. She had felt little to no guilt—given her experiences as a little kid growing up, surviving off the streets in and around Rio de Janeiro.

  She had clung to The Cause far too long, her logical side blurred by the possibility of a true transformation—and yes, making people pay dearly for their sins, past and present. She'd been a trusted advisor, a change agent who had helped develop and influence the movement. It became not only a dream or a goal, but her sole mission in life. It had purpose. It had meaning. It would change the world.

  The end would justify the means, she had convinced herself.

  What followed—when she finally awakened from her naïve dream state—was pure hell. Without her knowing, the Chosen Ones, she believed, had set her up all along, and her demise not only as a thought leader but as a contributing member to society evaporated faster than the moisture tingling her face. Her mission had been thwarted, at least in the purest sense.

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, and concentrated on trying to maintain her mental equilibrium. Far too many times, she'd allowed her mind to run rampant, ending in a guttural feeling of betrayal—to those she loved, to herself, and eventually to people she'd never know.

  Whirling around in her swivel chair, she scanned real-time reports on a single monitor, a line of code followed by a row of results. Thus far, her latest software release had proven to be quite effective.

  But at what cost?

  She turned left and eyed today's schedule. Five more minutes. She only needed to last five more minutes until she could hear his sweet voice.

  Camila arched her spine and scratched the back of her neck, then opened the source code for the program that could shift the power paradigm globally.

  “Separate your emotions from your work,” she whispered to herself.

  Four thirty-two-inch monitors outlined her main workstation. To her left sat a rack of servers that could launch a rocket if necessary. That wasn't her mission, unfortunately.

  The lab was state of the art, a multimillion-dollar facility that most people in her profession could only dream about. Her former profession, she liked to remind herself.

  A brief image entered her mind, the day she'd interacted with Michael at Swan Massage Therapy. A good-hearted soul who had felt his share of pain, that much she could see. But he didn't let it burden him, consume him. He only wanted to help alleviate some of her pain. Michael's blue eyes radiated vitality, and his sharp wit and attractive smile made her heart flutter. He was fun, eager to learn, open to listening. How many men in this world had such a kind heart?

  A hollow bang jerked her arms on the keyboard. She quickly deleted her errant information, then turned to gaze at the second-floor entry.

  The guard unlatched four different locks then opened the thick metal door.

  Camila couldn't watch the man enter—the man who was responsible for her caged existence, and so many other deeds that shot bile up to the back of her throat.

  “I see you are doing your work, on schedule,” the man said as his boots tapped each step of the metal staircase. “Do you have the latest reports to show me?“

  His accented voice grew closer, but she kept her back to him.

  “We had to run another data sync overnight. It just finished about an hour ago. So I ran the queries, and the reports are being built off their own server. It will display on the fourth monitor over there.” She pointed without looking up.

  She heard a leather jacket crinkle as he leaned on the table. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him nod.

  “Looks promising,” he said.

  Her eyes glazed over as a rush of emotion engulfed her every thought. She had a hard time deciphering her feelings, certainly a combination of disgust and unadulterated hatred, knowing this man held the key to her speaking with the purest love of her life.

  She needed him as much as he needed her.

  He moved two steps closer, then stared at her.

  “How have you slept, Camila?”

  Her breathing sputtered as she gritted her teeth trying to hold back the eruption simmering inside. She had to ignore his question, his desire for small talk. She could take none of that. Camila only wanted to speak to one person.

  A minute passed with no movement or words.

  “I can see you are still working hard, following the schedule as planned,” he said, pacing behind her. “That is good. We have three days to finalize the product, fully tested, complete with instructions. Tomorrow I will bring in two others to ask questions, review your code, verify the documentation. You will be ready, won't you?“

  Her mental battle raged inside, almost certain when it all came out that she'd be compared to Robert Oppenheimer, one of the prominent scientists who invented the atomic bomb, possibly Shiro Ishii, the forefather of biological weapons for Japan during the dawn of its radical imperialistic days. How could she continue to use her mind to create a killing machine—a weapon of mass destruction? A WMD that no one could imagine, let alone stop—at least not for years.

  The WMD be damned, she couldn't take this separation and pending threat any longer.

  She turned around her chair and stared into Franco's steely eyes, her chest heaving with built-up emotion.

  “You know what I want, what I need,” she said, a lonely, anguished tear rolling down her face.

  “Ha. Today you have earned it, my Camila.”

  Franco matched her gaze
, reaching in his jacket, and pulled out a cell phone. He slid his thumb across the bottom part of the screen, tapped four numbers, then two icons.

  “She is here,” he said into the phone. “Put him on.“

  “Here you go. Enjoy.”

  She grabbed the phone with two hands and pressed it against her ear.

  “Hi, Juan, it's Mommy. How's my little man? Are they treating you well?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Today

  “You sure we don't need to rush her to the hospital?”

  Those were the first words Andi thought she heard, although the voice ended with an echo and danced in her head for at least twenty seconds.

  Slowly, her eyelids parted.

  One person, no three, stood by her bed. Now there were six. She blinked and found one man, his round, dimpled face just inches from hers, grinning like he'd just...Wait! That was Trevor. She swallowed. Air caught in her throat, and she almost choked. She attempted to reach out, to grab the curly-headed man, his smug, orgasmic face. She felt her arms swat wildly, not connecting with anything other than air. Still air.

  She shut her eyes and felt a light breeze sweep over her shoulders, bare, uncovered. Her arms lay on a stiff sheet, gingerly draped across her torso. She relaxed a bit. Fingertips brushed her cheek then paused at her neck. Was someone checking her pulse? She could feel a tiny thump inside, a sign she was alive. But in what state? And where?

  Focusing like she was on the third leg of a triathlon, Andi attempted to tear away the mental scar tissue, to emerge from this strange feeling of existing but not living, dreaming but not imagining what she wanted. Or was she?

  Suddenly, a gentle, large hand touched her arm.

  “Andi?”

  She felt her head squish around on a thin pillow, a loose bedspring or some object protruding into her lower back. A wave of energy popped open her eyes, and she knew she existed in this world.

  “Michael?” Her voice was hoarse.

  “Want some water?” he asked.

  She made out his face, at least a couple of days of stubble, a small groove between caring blue eyes.

  “Yeah, that would be nice.” She tried to use her stomach muscles to sit up, but a zap of pain shot to her leg.

  Michael could see her struggling, and he cupped the back of head, brought it to the straw, and she slurped over and over again, finishing with an, “Ahh.”

  She lifted an arm and rested it on her forehead. “Man, I feel like I've been run over by a truck. I'm just not sure if that was the worst sleep of my life, or the best.”

  She turned and expected a quick-witted one-liner from Michael, but he was half-facing the wall, his lips curled up at the corners.

  “Examining the corner of the room for some reason?” Her brain felt more alive, her own tongue growing sharper by the minute.

  “Uh...I, you know...you're not feeling well, so I don't want to embarrass you.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, now both arms stretched above her head.

  He put his hand to his head.

  “You're looking like that Greek statue, the Thinking Man,” Andi said.

  “But I have on all my clothes.” Michael scooted his body farther away from the bed.

  “What?” She looked down and saw that by raising her arms her left breast had been exposed.

  “Jesus!” she shouted and quickly pulled up the sheet. “Tell me you didn't see that.“

  “What was there to see?”

  “Huh? Are you actually going there?” the strength of her voice had returned.

  “No, I didn't mean that.”

  “Mean what exactly?”

  She could feel both eyebrows reaching for the stars.

  “I just saw a little bit—”

  “Okay, I'm a small-breasted woman, I admit it.”

  “No...”

  “No? You think I have—? Wait, why am I talking to you about this? I'm completely confident in my body. Mostly.”

  “I meant I only saw a little bit of your breast.”

  “I see, a little bit of my breast, that's all, huh?”

  His straight face curled into a snidely smile. “Well, a wee bit of your nipple too, if you want me to be perfectly transparent.”

  “Wee bit, huh?”

  “Okay, I saw all of your nipple. You happy now?”

  “I know I'm a tomboy, but I am female. There is only so much transparency a girl wants to hear.”

  She felt like she was schooling someone who already should know this, but then again, Michael was a man.

  “Therefore, I need you to—”

  “You have good nipples.” Michael broke out in laughter.

  She put her hand over her face. “We shouldn't be talking about my nipples.”

  “Fair is fair. You had plenty of opinions about my...uh, missile.”

  “No nipples, no dicks, no nothing. Deal?”

  She extended one hand while gripping the sheet with the spare hand.

  “Deal,” he said, shaking her hand.

  She glanced down at her leg, which was wrapped in ACE bandages. They felt tight around her leg.

  “I guess I'll live.”

  “Aunt Sylvia said you're healing up fine. Biggest issue, outside of the pain, was dealing with all the blood loss. You've been sleeping it off after a strong dose of morphine.”

  She grunted and raised herself to one elbow, then reached down and felt around the wound.

  “I'll still be able to run, swim, everything?”

  “You'll still be a kick-ass athlete, yes, Andi. Aunt Sylvia said to just give it some time to heal.”

  The door opened, and Susan walked in, wearing jeans, a sweater, looking much more like a teenage girl. Her hair was even braided.

  “Aunt Sylvia said I should change your dressing before you go.”

  “Go?”

  “Oh,” Michael said. “We're going to move into the apartment above Chao Town. I've already discussed it with Mr. Chao himself.“

  “Okay...” She looked around the room, as Susan pulled out the medical supplies from a dresser drawer.

  Andi ran her fingers through her tangled hair and felt knots everywhere.

  “I will wash your hair and brush it out before you leave,” Susan said.

  “Oh no, that's okay. I'm fine,” Andi said, looking around for clothes, a brush, toothpaste.

  “No, I'd like to do it for you. I want to be just like my Aunt Sylvia when I grow up. And she said to be a good nurse, you have to be a caring soul. She says that all the time.”

  Andi felt a wave of emotion come over her, and her eyes felt moist. Michael touched her hand again.

  “You guys have been so nice to allow me to stay here, take care of me. I...I don't know what to say. Just thank you, I guess.” Andi looked at Susan, who nodded and then focused on removing the old dressing.

  Michael disappeared from the room. Andi heard voices, the running of water, then he and Jet walked back into her room. Jet was chugging his favorite jug of water. Michael folded a piece of crumpled paper and slid it into his back pocket.

  “What was that?” Andi asked.

  “Nothing. Well, something, but we'll talk about it once we're in our new digs.”

  She nodded.

  “Hop, hop,” Jet said. “My little agents said they've seen some suspicious white men driving up and down alley. Can we leave here in thirty minutes?“

  Jet seemed far beyond his sixteen years, and the information he was providing was disturbing, Andi knew.

  “I'll be ready in twenty.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Today

  The door flew open and smacked the tattered drywall. A wide-eyed, chunky Chinese man with a curly mustache and red and brown smeared across his white garments took up the entire entryway, a meat cleaver spinning in his hand.

  My heart pounded in my chest, and I lunged left, putting myself between him and Andi.

  “Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. I'm just looking fo
r damn package of Styrofoam cups.” He blinked just once.

  I took in a breath and licked my lips. “Yeah, of course. I think they're hidden in that stack of boxes in the corner.”

  Turning back to Andi, who'd been rummaging through a plastic bag of borrowed clothes, she put a hand on my shoulder. “To the rescue again, huh?”

  Shaking my head, I watched one of Mr. Chao's cooks tear open boxes, set them aside, searching for the cups.

  “I saw the blade, a large man, and I just jumped.”

  “Toward me? How very chivalrous.” Andi popped me a quick wink then turned her attention back to the bag of hand-me-down clothes Susan had gathered from their neighbors before we disappeared in the thick of the night. Jet had borrowed a friend's hoopty Monte Carlo, chocolate brown with a bench front seat, and driven us to the back entrance of Chao Town. Mr. Chao had met us there, helped me get Andi up the narrow stairs to the apartment. He had a serious look in his eyes, like he knew it was best to not ask questions. And he didn't, not about her injured leg, not about how long we expected to stay.

  We'd been hunkered down in the efficiency apartment over Chao Town for two days now. Andi's mobility gradually improved, as did her pain, as long as she kept to a strict regimen of Tylenol and Advil.

  I glanced around and noticed more warts than I recalled during my first stay well over a year ago—punched-out holes in all four walls, six brown, wet splotches on the ceiling, and I thought I had seen the beady eyes of a little mouse the night before. No way was I going to tell Andi about that, regardless of her tomboy status. And then there was the inescapable, ever-present scent of Chinese food—a scent had likely permeated the pores of our skin by now.

  “Thank you, Mr. Michael and...”

  “Andi,” she said to the cook, who nodded and shut the door as he left.