Under Fire

by Scarlett Cole

  Six looked over at Cabe, and they both shook their heads.

  “It came from two doctors at Yale University looking at the medical records of soldiers who had died from mustard gas poisoning in the Great War. They were trying to find an antidote for the weaponized poisonous gas because World War II was on its way, but instead they noticed that many of those who’d died had had a very low number of immune cells. So they figured that if mustard gas could kill good cells, it could probably kill cancerous ones too. It’s a bit more complicated than that, obviously, but that was pretty much the start of chemotherapy as a cancer treatment. In short, it’s not uncommon for many of these cures to walk a very fine line between medicinal brilliance and poison.”

  Talking science calmed her. It probably wasn’t a conscious thing, but he noticed the way her voice lost its uncertainty as she spoke. “I had no idea,” Six said. The whole time they’d been in his office, he’d remained perched on the desk while she continued to roam around and move things. It might drive many people nuts, but he found it quite endearing.

  “Most people don’t realize the connection, but that’s what makes the sample so dangerous. It’s not uncommon for there to be occurrences of espionage between one lab and another. Or for someone to get the smart idea to steal a sample and attempt to either sell it to another lab or blackmail the lab it came from to deliver it back to them. Neither of those things ever work, because everybody assumes the sample is compromised. But it’s just weird how Ivan and Vasilii are acting.”

  “Ivan Popov?” Six asked, becoming more and more intrigued by her problem, especially now that it involved somebody he knew and didn’t particularly like.

  “So, why did you come to Six?” Cabe interrupted before Louisa could answer.

  “I can’t decide whether going to the police is the right thing. Will I get fired if I go around my boss to the police to ask them directly for an update? Is there a way for me to figure this out a little more before I make a career-ending decision to push Vasilii and Ivan? I don’t know.”

  She looked straight at him, a rarity. “I just thought you might be able to give me some advice.”

  “It isn’t the kind of thing we do. You need a private investigator, or in all honesty just call the police,” Cabe said. Six ran his hand over his face. He wanted to help her, he really did, but as much as it annoyed him, Cabe was right. This really wasn’t the kind of work they got into. But he could definitely help her think it through some more.

  “Hey, Cabe. What did you want when you popped your head in?” Six asked, shooting him a look that he hopefully understood as “Fuck off, you asshole.”

  Cabe looked between Six and Louisa. “Fine,” he huffed. “I just wanted those files on the job we have coming up at the start of next month.” Security for an energy company’s engineers in Venezuela. Six reached behind him, grabbed the folder off his desk, and handed it to Cabe, who promptly left the room.

  “It’s okay,” Louisa said, head down as she walked to the door. “It’s fine. I’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Louisa. Wait,” Six said, jumping to his feet. “I can talk this through with you. Isn’t that what you came here for?”

  “No. You know what, I’m overreacting. It’s okay,” she said, attempting to square her shoulders but then letting them fall in defeat. “Just saying it out loud to you guys made it sound silly.”

  “Well, call the police right away if you get worried.” He reached for her wrist and realized how small it was in his hand. “Or even better, call me. You’ve got my number.”

  She turned and left his office, and he heard the soft click of the security doors.

  Screw Cabe.

  Fuck the rules.

  It was partly his company. And he’d decide for himself what kind of work he took on.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe he left me after I bought him a car. He said the hospital trip had been a wake-up call about our age gap, and that he didn’t want to be a caregiver. I’m only fifty-five for goodness’ sake.” Her mother, Antonia, poured a small measure of port into the vintage cut-crystal glass that she’d had Louisa carry out on a silver tray. “Are you sure you don’t want one?” she asked.

  Louisa shook her head and focused on the roar of the ocean as waves crashed onto the shore that ran along the front of her mother’s Torrey Pines Road home. The large patio that ran the full length of the property was accessed through the living room and was shaded by a large pergola that was covered in large, sweetly scented violet blooms of wisteria.

  “I’m going to have to drive home soon,” she answered, turning to face her mom. After three strangely quiet days in the lab, as they took stock of where they were after disposing of everything in the lab, she’d asked Ivan about updates, but he had no new information to share. So she’d come to get her mom’s opinion on the situation, but as soon as she’d arrived, her mother had started in about her latest romantic disaster, so she’d decided to save the conversation for another day. “Mom, I have to ask, are you really surprised that Lucan left? And I’m judging him, not you, with that question. Daddy wouldn’t want you to be alone—that isn’t what this is about—but some of these men are twenty, perhaps thirty years younger than you. It’s almost like you’re not mutually dating them. You get to take them out, but they never take you out with their friends or families.”

  Her mom sat back in her chair. “I’m not some naïve old woman, you know.”

  “I know, Mom. But you are incredibly generous. And have a big heart. And somehow these men are getting under your skin.”

  Antonia took a sip of port. “The dating world has changed so much since your father and I met. Somebody suggested that I should use a dating website because I’m lonely, Louisa. I really am.”

  Louisa thought long and hard about how to answer, because in a strange dichotomy, since meeting Six, she’d felt very faint pangs of loneliness herself. “I get that, Mom, but loneliness isn’t a good enough reason to settle. And it’s never going to work if you have to buy their attention.” Every single man her mother had dated was perfectly handsome, all with pretty faces and smooth tongues. They’d flatter her mother and flirt. But a handful of them had shown their true colors. One of them had made a pass at Louisa as her mother was in the kitchen while they celebrated Christmas two years ago. “I wasn’t aware there was a younger option,” he’d said as he slid his hand along her thigh and up her skirt. She’d slapped him, and he’d left. At first, her mother had been distraught at his sudden disappearance, but once Louisa had explained exactly what had happened, her mother had been more concerned that he’d left wearing the Breitling Navitimer watch she’d given him only hours earlier.

  She thought of all the pretty faces that had passed through the house since her father’s death. Every man had been a slick con artist who’d been with her mother for no other reason than what she could provide.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry that so many of these men are total shitbags. Maybe you should join a dating site, but I have to believe that joining a discreet high-end matchmaking service might be the better way to go.”

  Her mother sighed and took another sip. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to join me for dinner at the Hansens’ house tonight? I know they would love to see you.”

  A night with the Hansens was absolutely the last thing she wanted. Especially if their newly divorced quantum physicist son was home. As much as she loved science, after hours of listening to him go on and on about the superposition of states and quantum decoherence and their effect on reality as we perceived it, she’d be ready to poke her own eyes out with one of the ridiculous wooden toothpicks he insisted on chewing after dinner.

  Louisa stood and took another deep breath. There was something about the ocean that just did her soul good. “I have a date with some work and some great horror from the fifties,” she lied. Well, apart from the horror, which was her usual Thursday-night routine.

  “When are we going to talk about y
ou and dating? We should talk about that handsome young man who came to my aid,” her mother said good-naturedly.

  “I have plenty of time to worry about dating,” Louisa said, her usual stock response. Not ready to talk about her messy feelings toward Six, she pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She stayed a little while longer, listened to her mother’s endless gossip, then kissed her good-bye and jumped into her car.

  Her phone vibrated as she started the engine, and she checked her message.

  Where do you live? Do you mind if I swing by later? 6

  Six. Even though she was still embarrassed that she’d thrown herself at his mercy two days earlier, she quickly typed her response.

  Why are you swinging by?

  Wanted to discuss a couple of things with you.

  Well, that told her the sum total of nothing, but she texted her address before she changed her mind.

  He responded immediately. It’ll be late. Don’t wait up if you get tired—just text me and let me know.

  With traffic in her favor, it only took her half an hour to get to her Mission Hills home. The first time she’d seen it, she’d known it was the one for her, even though her father had offered to buy her a significantly larger home in La Jolla, purely because he could afford it. He’d invested heavily in the dot-com bubble, having gotten in early on companies like Google, Amazon, and eBay, and while he’d suffered some losses when the bubble had burst, he’d been smart and dumped most of his stock before it happened, making the family well over a hundred million dollars. But the ultra-rich lifestyle wasn’t really her. She had no desire to sit on the boards of charities or attend society weddings. There were days when she could only just stand her own company, let alone anybody else’s.

  She pulled up in the driveway of her half-brick, half-blue-sided home, which had white windows and wooden doors. Under the front window was a wooden bench with two pretty blue-and-white cushions she’d bought from one of her favorite online stores, and a terra-cotta planter filled with lavender stood next to the door. Odor-evoked autobiographical memory was a proven fact, and every time she smelled lavender, it reminded her of entering into the safety of her home.

  Louisa stopped the engine, grabbed her bags, and stepped out of the car. She let herself into the house, switched off the alarm, and walked straight upstairs to her office. Unpacking her bag was a ritual. It symbolized being home. She pulled out her notebook and phone, set her purse in its spot on the bookshelf, and then turned to walk toward the bedroom. Two wooden sculptures that sat on top of her filing cabinet caught her eye. They were abstract, but in Louisa’s mind, there was a back and a front to them. And one faced the wrong way. The thudding of her heart and the rush of blood whooshing through her temples sounded horribly loud.

  Quickly, she hurried over to the filing cabinet and looked around for signs of entry, but the lock was still tightly sealed and there were no other signs of disturbance. Louisa scanned the room thoroughly, looking for the slightest sign of movement. She searched the pile of the soft cream carpet for footprints, but couldn’t see any other than her own. Silently, she slipped her shoes off and made her way through her home, checking the windows, looking in cupboards, and even peering under beds.

  When she was finally satisfied that she was alone in her home and that only the wooden sculpture was out of place, she padded into the cobalt blue kitchen, the terra-cotta tile cool on her feet, and pulled open the fridge. A half-full bottle of Pinot Grigio would help scare away the jitters. The only explanation for the sculpture was that she’d knocked it somehow. She grabbed a white wine glass from one of the open shelves that ran along the wall and poured herself a generous measure. There was no point in dwelling in anxiety. Instead, she ran through the things she could do to take her mind off it. Catch up on sleep, read medical journals, jump into her pool.

  She rustled up some sweet potato and black bean enchiladas and sipped on her wine while they were baking in the oven. Nothing comforted her quite like home cooking. Thirty minutes later, she’d changed into shorts and a tank, put her hair up, poured another glass of wine, and was seated in front of the television watching the 1957 classic Night of the Demon by Jacques Tourneur.

  It was dark outside by the time the movie had finished and she took her plate down to the kitchen. Usually the dark wasn’t an issue. Normally she’d take her glass of wine out onto the wooden deck and watch the stars for hours on end. But tonight felt different. Tonight it felt edgy. The safety she usually felt inside her home was missing. Desperate to make it feel normal, she followed her usual routine. She set some popcorn to pop while she rinsed her dishes and filled up her wine glass. As she was pouring the finished popcorn into a blue glass bowl and was just about to head back to her TV, she heard a car door slam and jumped. But then she remembered Six’s text. It had to be him. A giddiness she hadn’t felt since high school trickled through her. She stood on her toes and leaned over the sink to look out at the driveway, but the automatic lights weren’t on, and there was no sign of his truck.

  Louisa shook her head and laughed. Too much drama at work, too much alcohol, and watching a horror movie were spooking her unnecessarily. Maybe she should watch one of her favorite nonhorror films, like Chocolat or Shakespeare in Love or something.

  Anything to chase away the panic.

  * * *

  Six hummed along to Nina singing about being misunderstood. All the important mile markers in his life were tagged with one of her songs. “Ain’t Got No, I Got Life” had blasted from the speakers as he’d been separated from Mac and Cabe when he’d been transferred from their West Coast unit to the East Coast. “I Think It’s Going to Rain Today” had played as he’d gotten dressed for Brock’s funeral. He’d even lost his virginity to Jessica McKade in the back of his dad’s truck to “Do I Move You?” The whole thing had been over before the end of the three-minute song. He grinned at the memory. His skills had certainly improved since then.

  When others had reached for the roughest and toughest rock music to get them in the mood for war, he’d reached for “Sinnerman.” And while he’d never publicly confess it, “Here Comes the Sun” had seen him through his spell in military hospital. There was a simple pleasure in listening to her on American soil for once with the windows of his truck down, even though the hour was late.

  Getting a business off the ground was a whole different ball of wax from what he was expecting. He felt kinda shitty about all the work Mac and Cabe had already done in the months they’d been out. Now it was all guns blazing as they battled to build their business. Over breakfast, he’d prepared a proposal for a contract supporting an aid convoy through Colombia. On the way into work, he’d participated in a conference call with an old CIA friend of theirs about potential coverage for an off-the-grid group in Syria. Lunch had included a meeting with a potential candidate for an office manager. In between, he’d written modules for their security-guard-training business, put an hour in at the gun range, and finished painting the medical room. Their to-do list was never-ending, and for a moment, he yearned for the days when he was just given orders to follow. His body ached in a good way, ready for a soak in a hot bath with a cold beer.

  When they’d started Eagle Securities, he’d imagined being on constant missions somewhere doing something adrenaline-filled all on their own dime and with their own rules, but for now, the days blended into a never-ending pile of paperwork. The calendar on the wall was beginning to fill up with work, though, and come October, they’d be busy. Probably busier than they could handle, but they would embrace it.

  Despite the pile of work on his desk, Louisa was on his mind. After she’d left, he’d studied his neatly organized bookshelves and wondered if she’d even realized what she’d done. She’d barely looked at the books as she’d put them back in place, but he noticed she’d sorted them by type before alphabetizing them. Which meant she’d either read every book in his collection, which he found highly unlikely, or she’d read the backs in a millisecond to
categorize them, which was equally crazy unless she was an epic speed reader.

  But it wasn’t just the books. It was her eyes. He recognized the look in them. The one that said they’d seen more than they should. The one that pleaded with him to help her, even as she’d told him she’d handle it on her own.

  He turned the truck onto her street and lowered the volume on Nina. It was a pretty neighborhood. Even by the light of all the little solar lamps that illuminated the pathways up to front doors, he could see that the lawns were greener than should be possible with the drought watch in effect. Wealth. It made people feel like they were above the restrictions and laws the common man faced. It irritated him, like it had the night of the fundraiser he’d attended. Yet he’d felt compelled to donate after Louisa’s persuasive presentation. Finding a cure for the disease was more important than worrying about who was donating the dollars. What did people’s motivations matter as long as the charity benefited?

  His tension eased, though, when he saw Louisa’s yard, which was filled with plants that he’d bet his ass were drought resistant, given her clear knowledge of plants. Louisa North was a complicated woman.

  He pulled his truck up onto the curb and killed the engine. There was an outside light turned on by the front door, but he didn’t see any lights on inside. Perhaps she’d taken him at his word and gone to bed. For a moment he considered texting to see if she was awake, but he decided to hop out of the truck and knock first. The wooden door was weathered beneath his knuckles and the sweet smell of lavender greeted him.

  Silence clung to the air until he heard feet pad across a tiled floor. There was the sound of a chain being unlocked.

  “Six,” she said breathlessly, looking at him through those long bangs of hers.

  Okay, the whole tightening in his chest could go away because there was absolutely nothing sexy about the loose gym shorts she wore. And yes, it was clear she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath that tank because, Christ … nipples … but he could be professional. He tried to convince his cock that there was nothing to see here, like a Jedi mind trick, but it didn’t work. Acting independently, it had fully decided there was plenty to take in.