Revenge

by Meredith Wild

  Tristan

  My blood floods the tube, filling it in seconds. My normally steady, patient heart is racing. No amount of mental fortitude will slow it down being this close to the man who designed, or at least manipulated, the drug that wiped my memory. He seems harmless enough. So detached from the gravity of what he produces that he can hardly be blamed for the results. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself since we walked into this sad excuse for a lab.

  “You say you get flashbacks?” Mushenko flickers his gaze up to mine a moment before removing the needle and capping the tube. “Here you go.” He hands me a patch of gauze to hold against the pricked skin.

  “Every once in a while. Nightmares usually. Except for one time, several of them hit me all at once. Back to back over a couple of days.”

  He frowns thoughtfully. “Was there something you did to trigger such a rush of them?”

  “I was injected with a heavy dose of SP-131 after getting shot by a tranquilizer dart. Got me telling the truth. Also unlocked a shit ton of my memories.”

  He lowers onto a nearby stool. It squeaks under his weight. I can faintly hear the murmur of Townsend and Isabel in the other part of the lab, but I’m too eager to hear Mushenko’s theories to let them distract me.

  His gaze pings around the room, like he’s connecting a series of invisible dots. When a long time goes by this way, I clear my throat, breaking his concentration. An irrational fear grips me as I work up the nerve to ask him what I truly need to know.

  “Can you reverse it? Will enough SP-131 unlock the rest of my memories?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I don’t usually”—he waves his palm in the air—“undo things. I work with a set of test results, usually tests that have gone wrong, admittedly, and then I use the data and alter the serums to satisfy other needs.”

  “Like forced amnesia.”

  For the first time since I’ve been in his presence, Mushenko has the decency to look tentative.

  “I—I’m contracted to explore the possibilities. I’ve done important work.”

  “I don’t care about your accolades. I need you to undo it. I need my memories back. How much is it going to take?”

  The prospect of having them back is making my chest tight. It’s irrational how much I crave them. I’ve survived so long without my past. My life can go on just fine, but none of that seems possible right now.

  Mushenko rises, arms crossed, and begins to pace around the room. “I’m contracted by my employer. I don’t really take on these kinds of assignments.”

  “You take Townsend’s money.”

  He pauses and gives me a guilty stare. “Those are small exchanges. We have military contracts. I have important work—”

  “I don’t care if the Pope wants you to cure the blind.” I stand. My next words are quiet, threatening, and precise. “You’re going to reverse it. I can tell you get off on this shit. I’m throwing a fun problem on your lap. Work it out. Unfuck my brain, or you’re going to have bigger, less fun problems on your hands. How much is it going to take?”

  “It’s not that simple. The work I do… I’m not paid for my precision. I throw a dart and try to get close to the target. I do some testing here. Minimal testing. They have a team that does the rest when it matters. I could try, but I can’t promise you the results you want. I can’t promise it’ll go back to the way it was before the drug was administered.”

  I breathe through my nose, trying to control my heart rate and the rush of adrenaline coursing through me.

  “How much, goddamnit?”

  His answering sigh is heavy with defeat. I’ve left him no other choice. “Ten thousand is fine.”

  “How long?”

  He shrugs. “A few weeks, maybe.”

  “Make it a week and I’ll double it.”

  He shakes his head again. “If I rush it and it’s wrong, you won’t care how much you paid.”

  What he’s saying makes sense, but I’m not feeling rational right now. I’m feeling desperate. That’s the kind of thing that gets a man killed. As driven as I am, I have to question if my memories are worth the risk. Do I trust that Mushenko’s Frankenstein potion flowing into my bloodstream won’t mess me up even more?

  A voice inside me is screaming that I can’t walk away without trying.

  “Townsend knows how to reach me.”

  He nods, his energy a dim flicker next to what it had been moments ago.

  “What do you know about Felix?”

  He lifts his brows high enough that they disappear under his mop of hair. “I haven’t worked with it. Not in its final form anyway. They send the winners to a different department. They don’t make it here.” He chuckles and gestures to the lab outside, an operation that can’t be anywhere close to meeting regulations.

  “Elysium Dream was an iteration of it, though.”

  “Years ago. No doubt it’s come a very long way since it was given to you.”

  “Can you find out more about it?”

  He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off before he can tell me no.

  “You said they gave you the failed test results, right?”

  “Sure. Some, not all. My God, there are thousands of failures. Tens of thousands.”

  “Then get your hands on the Felix tests. Surely you have some contacts who can scrape some up.”

  He licks his lips and cants his head back and forth a few times. “It’s possible. It’s a brand-new drug, though. It’s a Rolls Royce next to anything Chalys has ever put out. Anything related to Felix will be highly sensitive. I’m not exactly”—he waves his hand around again—“you know, top of the food chain.”

  I walk to the door and place my hand on the knob. “Find me the antidote. Then find what you can on Felix. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Townsend leaves a large roll of bills with Mushenko and takes vials in return. We step out just as a train grinds loudly over the tracks and heads north, giving me a good idea.

  “Take the train back,” I say to Townsend. “We’ll meet you in the city later.”

  I can’t deal with Townsend’s mouth right now. I need time to work things out. Refocus. Figure out our next steps.

  “Fine. I have a little business to take care of anyway.”

  “You on the job?”

  He grins at my challenge. “Working for myself now, Red. No one calling the shots but me. Nice try, though.”

  I don’t completely believe him, but I’m too distracted to care. Townsend strolls casually away. The dynamic shifts instantly, and I’m grateful for the break. Not just for Isabel’s sake, but the sit-down with Mushenko still has my thoughts in a tangle.

  We get to the car. The second the doors close, Isabel begins.

  “What did he say to you? You were in there a while. Can he help?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  The possibility of reversing what Townsend gave me is more than a passing hope. It’s a loud and all-consuming prospect that changes the shape of everything else around it. The sudden unsteadiness I feel is disturbing and dangerous. It’ll be weeks before I have any answers. I have to put this away. Banish it from my thoughts and carry on.

  “Well, what did he say?” Isabel presses, making the task impossible.

  I start the engine and rest back in the seat. I circle my hands around the steering wheel, letting it chill through my fingers. Isabel’s palm gently covers one. She’s warmth and affection when I’m doing everything I can to strip myself of the emotions terrorizing me.

  “Are you okay?”

  No.

  But I owe her a better answer than that.

  “Mushenko isn’t sure if he can reverse it. He’s going to try. And while he’s at it, he’s going to work on getting some files on Felix. Anything that might point to faulty trials. By the time he digs anything up, it could be too late. I don’t know.”

  I don’t meet her eyes. She draws her touch up to my shoulder, then across my chest until she re
aches the place over my heart. I close my eyes and grip the wheel tighter. I feel her body shift, her heat at my side, her comfort and her love warming the places in me trying to go cold.

  “It’s going to be all right,” she whispers. “Whatever happens, we have each other.”

  I shake my head, suddenly furious with her comforting words and whatever they’re masking. “Right. All of you and a fraction of me.”

  “Don’t say that.” She does nothing to hide the hurt in her voice.

  My eyes flash open as her hope clashes violently with mine. I twist to face her, breaking the embrace. “That’s what we’re talking about though, isn’t it? Giving you back pieces of me that you wish you still had. And if this doesn’t work, worst case, Mushenko will make soup out of what’s left of my brain. Or maybe nothing will change at all. And then there’s a slim chance that he’ll get it right and I’ll be the old Tristan again. Except nothing’s ever going to be the same, no matter what.”

  Her warmth slips away. It’s agony in the wake of my words—words that cut me just as deeply. She looks out the window, fingertips pressed tightly to her lips. I resist the urge to tug her back and apologize. But what good would it do? I’ve already landed the blow.

  Her voice is shaky and soft when she finally speaks. “Selfishly, I wish you could remember us and how we were before. But some people waste their whole lives wishing for more than they have. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wishing for you when I already have you.”

  We seem caught there for a long time, somewhere between grim acceptance and devastating loss. I’m no closer to working it out when her phone vibrates. She retrieves it from her jacket and stares at the screen too long.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Blake Landon.”

  ISABEL

  “Why exactly did you bring this to me?”

  Landon’s pointed question serves as his abrupt greeting. I’m still in disbelief that he’s reached out. I was beginning to think he’d accepted the information on Pope for his own benefit and I’d never hear from him again.

  I take a few seconds to collect my response, trying to sound steadier than I feel. “I’m looking for something specific. I thought you could help me if I helped you.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  I swallow hard. Be careful, I remind myself. “Does this mean you’re going to help me?”

  “You can tell me what you want, or I can hang up. I’m not putting my ass on the line unless you want to come clean with me about what’s going on.”

  I shoot a sideways look to Tristan, who’s staring at me intently. His hands are still wrapped around the steering wheel like a vise. Landon’s sharp tone is a slash through my best intentions to take care in what I reveal, lest I put us in even more danger. Because he’s listening. He’s actually considering it.

  “I was looking for financial records for Chalys Pharmaceuticals. There are some in the file I was given, but not enough.”

  “Why are they important?”

  “Chalys is involved in something…big. I was hoping to make some financial connections to other people who are involved.”

  “Elaborate.”

  Shit. Here goes nothing.

  “They’re releasing a new drug called felixedrine, otherwise known as Felix, and branding it as a cure for opioid addiction. The cornerstone of their marketing plan is to flood the streets with illicit drugs and create a wave of overdoses so devastating that Felix will be in every headline across the country as the answer to the crisis. It’s…terrible.”

  A long pause. I pick at a frayed thread on my jeans and hope to hell I’ve piqued Landon’s interest once more. The threat of him hanging up is real and something I’m willing to avoid at nearly any cost. Mushenko may be able to dig up some dirt on the dark side of Felix, if one exists, but he’s useless when it comes to the bigger plan.

  “Why do you care?” he asks, breaking the tense silence.

  I’ve asked myself that same question so many times since we got here. Even as Townsend drew comparisons between me and a more philanthropic, less murder-oriented Jay, I had to ask myself again why I cared so damn much. With the money from Halo in my account and the man I love within reach, somewhere deep down I still believe we can find a way to disappear forever, even if Tristan doubts we can get away with it. Instead, Felix has become my problem. The Boswells are another day closer to executing their plan, and Company Eleven has to be stopped. Who else is going to do it if not us?

  I close my eyes and exhale a quiet sigh.

  “Twenty years ago, they killed my sister, and for the past two months, they’ve been trying to kill me because my family got too close to figuring out what they were doing. Not to mention they’re about to facilitate the deaths of God knows how many people with this plan.”

  When he’s quiet for too long, I continue.

  “If that weren’t enough, the family that runs Chalys is part of a dangerous organization. The underground kind that carries out unspeakable favors and can pull strings at every level to make something like this happen. I’m sure they’re behind this, but I need more information to find out how far this goes if I have any chance of stopping it.”

  “How did you find out about this organization?”

  “I can’t go into all of that with you right now. But I can tell you that a man named Simon Pelletier is the ringleader. It’s a small circle—only about a dozen people who carry enough power in different industries to create a web of connections that’s unrivaled.”

  “And you think you can foil this plan of theirs?”

  I gnaw on my lip and let the doubt in his tone mingle with my own fears that this is a fool’s errand. “I have to try. Wouldn’t you?”

  He doesn’t answer but says, “You think Pope’s involved with them?”

  “I think he’s part of the organization. I’m almost positive. His name came up along with a few others. Ramsey Paulson. Davis Knight. And the Boswell family, of course. Kristopher owns Chalys, but his son Vince has been involved too.” I trail off, not sure how to explain that Vince isn’t in the picture anymore.

  Landon curses under his breath loud enough for me to hear, but I’m not certain I was meant to.

  “Excuse me?”

  “This is un-fucking-believable,” he says.

  I mentally skim over everything I’ve just laid out, unsure what I could have said to suddenly upset him. He seemed so measured when we met. Calculating but sincere. Something’s different now. There’s an edge to the way he’s talking, like something snapped.

  “Is there something wrong?”

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  “But—”

  The call ends. I lower the phone and stare down at the black screen, momentarily stunned by the severed connection after all I just told him. Short of confessing whose lives have ended because of all of this—and how and why—Blake Landon now knows everything.

  “Is he going to help?”

  Tristan’s voice pulls me out of my shock a little. I shake my head, not sure if I should feel defeated or hopeful. Or worse, scared that I just told a complete stranger our whole predicament.

  “I have no idea.”

  “We have to do something,” I say.

  Tristan pushes his hands deeper into his pockets. The steady breeze coming off the ocean whips his dark hair around messily, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care as we walk a long stretch of seaside.

  I couldn’t stand the idea of being cooped up in the apartment with everything that’s happened today. I’m too wrapped up in my thoughts. Too worried about Tristan being wrapped up in his. I can almost see the struggle in his expression, but I feel helpless to bring him out of it.

  The prospect of him getting his memories back is too overwhelming to consider. I wish he held more than a few snapshots of memory of us. I think he wants that too. But the more we endure together since he’s come back into my life, the less I care about the past. It hurts and it haunts me, but w
hat truly matters is that I have him now and I’m never letting go. I could say it a hundred times. I’m just not sure he’d believe it.

  “We’re falling into the same pattern Halo was. Do you realize that?” He shoots me a critical stare.

  I blink against the sting of the wind in my eyes, forcing my thoughts back to the bigger issues looming. “How’s that?”

  “I mean Martine and your mother spent years trying to figure out ways to cause trouble for Chalys. Halo picked at the edges, barely penetrating the Boswells’ bubble.”

  “They got close enough to trigger the hit on me.”

  “After years of trying to hit a nerve. My point is that they weren’t aggressive enough.”

  I’m afraid to ask the former assassin to explain how aggressive he thinks we ought to be. I know he’s been waiting to put Kristopher Boswell’s name in his little red book, but now there’s information we need first.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but it might be a lot easier to get information from the inside than the outside. Otherwise we’re sitting around waiting for someone to drop info into our lap, and who knows if we can even trust it.”

  We walk in silence for a while. He’s right, of course. We’re relying on resources outside the organization, and every time we hit a wall, I can’t help but worry that we’re running out of time. Mateus has a line into the Company now, but he may not know enough until it’s too late. We have options. They’re just dangerous and probably not high on Tristan’s list of last resorts.

  “So what do we do?”

  Tristan’s pace slows to a stop. He turns to face me. Waves roll and crash behind him. Sunrays peek through the cloudy sky and glint off the endless sea. The picturesque backdrop doesn’t seem to match the situation we’re up against. It’s ugly and dark and far from peaceful.

  “Breaking into their offices isn’t going to be easy. Security in the building will be tight. I’m good at getting past things like that, but I’m not sure it’s worth the risk,” he says. “But the Boswell estate is close. About a half hour north of here. Until Mateus can clue us in to how the Company is involved, Kristopher is our best bet. I can scope the place out tonight. Figure out what I’ll need to get in undetected.”