by Ellery Kane
“Only what Paul told me,” Dr. Donnelly replied. “Zenigenic developed it by accident early on, way before General Ryker got his hands on it. It was never intended for use by the general public.”
“By accident?” My father was leaning in toward Dr. Donnelly, unable to contain his curiosity.
Dr. Donnelly nodded. “Apparently, Onyx began as Emovere—one of the initial formulas. After the trial run went horribly wrong, they made some adjustments, a tweak here and there, and voilà—Emovere! When Zenigenic started bidding for the government’s Guardian Force contract, they manufactured Onyx as their secret ace in the hole.”
“What do you make of this?” I passed a copy of the wire transfer to Dr. Donnelly. As he read, his hands shook a little.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“One of those secret Zenigenic facilities Grimley told you about.”
“Impossible,” he mouthed. “Completely imposs—”
The front door opened wide, and Dr. Donnelly jumped, his glasses taking a literal nose-dive onto his lap. “Oh my!” he exclaimed, a noticeable tremor in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” Max said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” String was just behind him, not yet visible, standing on the porch. I tried to catch Max’s attention with a tiny wave, but he was oblivious. “Can we come in?” he asked. I shook my head at Max, but his eyes were focused on my father.
“Max, this is Doctor Donnelly.” I hoped my deliberate enunciation would trigger his memory. “Remember? The one I told you about.”
“Are you okay, Lex?” Max asked, holding the door open for String. “You’re talking kinda funny.”
I sighed. It was hopeless. With one long, lanky-legged step, String came inside.
Dr. Donnelly reacted as expected. Standing from the sofa, stumbling backward toward the kitchen, he gasped for air, releasing it all in one long, high-pitched burst. He tripped over a chair and fell to the ground, still scrambling on his knees for an exit.
“Dr. Donnelly!” My father and I ran toward the rumpled professor, helping him to his feet.
“Hey, I remember him. The professor,” String announced. “It’s okay, man. I won’t hurt you.”
Brushing himself off in an attempt to regain his dignity, Dr. Donnelly glared at String with disdain. “Why are you associating with this criminal?”
“That’s harsh,” String countered. “I prefer morally challenged.”
“String!” Max scolded him, pulling him by the arm into the guestroom.
“It’s complicated,” I told Dr. Donnelly. “String is not the bad guy here.” I considered my words, then amended them. “Well, at least not the worst guy.”
“I’m so sorry.” My father apologized, as he helped Dr. Donnelly back into the living room. “I think you lost these.” He handed Dr. Donnelly his glasses, their frame bent beyond repair.
“I really can’t stay any longer.” Still unsettled, Dr. Donnelly tucked the misshapen glasses into his shirt pocket, his hands trembling, and walked toward the door.
“But what about—?”
“Alexandra, I’ve told you everything I know, probably more than I should have.” He walked out onto the porch, his eyes like a pendulum, moving back and forth.
“I was just wondering…” I paused, waiting for Dr. Donnelly to protest, but he didn’t. “In your office that day, you said Onyx wasn’t available on the streets. Are you sure about that?” Dr. Donnelly averted his eyes, as I held up the wire transfer, my finger on the one hundred million dollar total.
He twittered nervously to himself. “It’s ironic. I asked Paul that same question the last time I saw him. He was talking about the rumors, telling me how dangerous Onyx was, how all the street gangs were clamoring for it. Naturally, I was curious. So, I asked him.”
“What did he say?”
“Not yet. That’s what he said. Not yet.”
CHAPTER FIFTY - FOUR
RETURN TO SENDER
AS SOON AS MY FATHER closed the door, we both began talking at once.
“You were right, Dad.”
“I was right.” He repeated my words in disbelief. “Guess your old Dad still has a journalist in him after all.”
“Who was right about what?” String sashayed in from the hallway, Max following in his wake, looking embarrassed for him.
“Really?” I frowned at String. He held up his hands in surrender.
“C’mon, you have to admit, the professor overreacted a little.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” I asked. “I thought my dad said you couldn’t stay here.” I glanced at my father. He was silent, but his narrowed eyes spoke volumes.
String sat down on the sofa, smiling at me. “Tell her, Max.”
Max took a tentative breath. “String has an idea.”
“That makes me nervous.” I exchanged a smirk with my father.
“I was thinking,” String began. “There may be a way to expose Augustus, but you’re going to have to trust me.”
“We’re listening.” I prompted him to continue, ignoring my father’s head, vigorously shaking no.
String leaned back, his face breaking into a wide grin. “I say we give Augustus exactly what he wants and then some.” As he spoke, he pointed his finger at me and then back to himself. “You and me … and my little friend.” Reaching into his pocket, String produced a small, round object with several wires attached. It clinked when he set it on the table.
“What is that?” I asked.
My father answered for String. “A listening device. A bug.”
Just before sunrise the next morning, String and I were sitting in the back of the Van Sant security van at the end of a long alley a few blocks from Augustus’ makeshift office—my father’s agreement to the plan contingent upon their participation. If we weren’t back at the van in exactly twenty-four hours, they would come looking for us.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” String asked calmly, taking his sunglasses from atop his head and carefully resculpting his hair in the rearview mirror.
I nodded.
Concealing his eyes with the dark shades, he turned to me. “Do you trust me?” I was surprised he cared.
Shrugging, I answered, “Sort of. Max trusts you, so I guess I do too.”
“Not a resounding endorsement, but I’ll take it,” he replied, half-smiling. “Let’s go then.” With a nod to the armed muscles in the front seat, he opened the door, and I followed.
“Wait,” I called. “There’s something we have to do first.”
String stopped and waited for me to continue. “Hit me,” I instructed.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Hit me!” I repeated. “Augustus will never believe I went willingly.” I took a step toward him. “Do it!”
String sighed, taking a glance back at Van Sant’s men—both had heads down in their cell phones, pretending to ignore us. “Are you sure? I do have this.” He raised his shirt to reveal a gun tucked into his waistband.
“You didn’t seem to have any problem trying to suffocate me before.” I gave him a forceful push to the chest. “C’mon, Sebastian.”
Rolling his eyes, String warned, “Just remember you asked for it.” Swift as a returning boomerang, he backhanded me, knocking me a few steps away from him. Without hesitation, I ran toward him—his face, pure astonishment—and punched him in the jaw.
“What the—” String bent over, rubbing the side of his face, where a red mark was already turning to a bruise.
“I told you,” I explained, shaking out my hand. “He’d never believe I went willingly.”
String laughed. “You punch pretty hard for a girl.”
“Remember that,” I said, as he cinched my wrists with a rope. With each step we walked toward Augustus’ building, my dread intensified. He would be waiting for us. Before we left that morning, String texted Augustus: Gus—I know you’re mad, but I need to see you. Got a special return package for you that I’m hoping
will make us even.
Not even a minute later, Augustus replied: If it’s the package you lost, be here at 7 a.m. Otherwise, don’t bother.
String lowered his head and whispered under his breath. “We’re almost there.” Up ahead, I saw one of Augustus’ men standing guard outside a door, watching us. Tightening his grip on my wrists, String growled loudly, “Walk faster.” I pretended to resist him, wriggling my hands wildly.
“Is this the package?” the man asked.
“Yep. Return to sender.” String snickered.
“Gus is waiting for you upstairs,” the man said flatly, unsmiling. He opened the door, revealing a dark, narrow staircase, and ushered us inside. Here goes nothing, I thought to myself. The door shut behind us. Its heavy thud—like a hammer strike to the hard ground—was the last thing I heard.
CHAPTER FIFTY - FIVE
TRUST FALL
A PERSISTENT TAPPING against my foot woke me. Before I opened my eyes, I knew I was back in the closet. The smell—a vaguely dank odor—was the same. String sat across from me, handcuffed, nudging my leg with his boot. The right side of his forehead was swollen, his temple darkened. The pounding behind my eyes led me to suspect mine was the same. The rope String secured me with was gone. In its place, metal cuffs.
Our eyes connected, but neither of us spoke. String’s mouth turned up in an almost grin, but I was unnerved. This was definitely not a part of the plan.
“Do you still have it?” I mouthed soundlessly, glancing at his pocket.
He nodded.
“Well, well, well…” Augustus’ voice chilled me, as he opened the door. “Look what the cat dragged in. Two of my favorite people.”
I stared straight ahead, willing my face into blankness. Augustus pulled String by the arms just outside the doorway. He grunted with the effort, but he never took his eyes from me. I could sense his excitement. Oomph! A forceful kick to the stomach left String doubled over, grimacing. Picking him up by the back of his collar, Augustus pushed him forward down the hallway. “You must really think I’m stupid, Sebastian. I know what you’ve been up to, consorting with the enemy.” I was the enemy, of course. “I’m going to have a little chat with my former employee,” he told me before securing the door.
I stilled my breathing, quieted my thoughts, listening for any sound. There was nothing. I realized I was worried about String—I cared. I could only hope he was as skilled a con artist as he thought. That morning, before we left, I overheard him in the kitchen talking to Max.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Max asked him. “Augustus is unpredictable.”
String sighed. “Maximillian, I know people. And I know Augustus. If I don’t do this, I’m going to prison or…” He left the rest unsaid. “Besides, I thought you’d like that I was helping your friends.”
“I do. It’s just that—” I peered out from my bedroom, my heart warming. String’s lanky arms were wrapped tightly around Max. It was unexpected, reminding me of something my mother often told me. “People are complicated,” she always said. “Never just one thing.”
A sound from outside the closet startled me. I pressed my ear to the door. “It’s up to you now. You can still save yourself. Get rid of her and we’ll call it even.” The unmistakable hiss of Augustus. “I’ll give you some time to ponder that, Sebastian.”
The door opened with an unceremonious creak. As if he was discarding a bag of trash, Augustus tossed String inside without another word. He had left his mark all over String’s face. His right eye was swollen shut, his lip busted. Inching himself along like a worm, String pushed back into the corner of the closet. He took an audible breath and raised his head to look at me. Fearful Augustus may be listening, I said nothing but raised my eyebrows at him, asking the question—the only one that mattered. String nodded and gave me a feeble thumbs-up. The listening device was in place.
I watched as String lay down on his side—pressing his bruises to the cool floor—and closed his eyes. He didn’t open them again for a long time. When Augustus returned, his footsteps signaling his impending arrival, I nudged String awake.
“Decision time, Sebastian.” Augustus announced. He was alone—no witnesses. String was instantly on, getting to his feet. From the door, he towered over me, his face hard and unreadable. If he was pretending, he was better than I thought. “Get up. Now.” String kicked at my foot. I stood, feeling dizzy. I could feel my blood whooshing through me straight to my head. “Time to go.”
Augustus slapped String on the back, congratulating him. “Smart choice, young man. You won’t regret it.” He uncuffed String and handed him a vial and needle. “We may be needing this,” he added, with a sly grin.
Finally, Augustus looked at me. He leaned back against the wall, watching me with disinterested amusement. Even now, as he was plotting my final moments, he couldn’t resist toying with me. “Isn’t it funny how fast they move on?” he asked cryptically, waiting for me to respond.
String grabbed my upper arm, squeezing it tight, and pulled me from the closet. “Walk,” he said. I dug in my heels, refusing to budge. “Let’s go,” String commanded, shoving me forward. His push dropped me to my knees, my head still fuzzy. His disgust felt real. I looked up at him, registering his eyes—vacant and determined. “Get up,” he barked. I clasped my cuffed hands together and swung at him.
As String’s head snapped back—his face contorted in shock—Augustus laughed. String readied a fist and aimed it at my face, but Augustus stopped him. “I do admire your fight, Ms. Knightley, futile though it may be.” He handed String a gun. “If she hits you again, shoot her in the knee.” String nodded, nudging me forward with the gun’s barrel.
Augustus meandered behind us, giving an agonizing monologue. “Quin always did have a limited attention span. I guess he just got tired of you. Bored. Or maybe he prefers real blondes.” Hearing Quin’s name aloud, I realized, for the first time all week, I had stopped thinking of him, if only for a few hours. Augustus came closer to me and produced a grainy surveillance photo from his pocket. I didn’t look at it willingly, but he grabbed my chin, pressing his bony fingers into my flesh, and forced my eyes to it: Quin and Emma on her motorcycle.
With Augustus following and String dragging me, we walked the stairs to the roof. “Is executing me part of your official duties as drug czar?” I asked, taking a half-hearted shot at Augustus.
He scowled at me. “I’m a hero, Alexandra. Haven’t you heard? Augustus Porter is cleaning up the streets and you, you, are getting in my way. You are always getting in my way.” String walked me to the edge of the roof.
I turned to face him. “Just do it,” I told him. “Get it over with.” He aimed the gun at my chest. I closed my eyes.
“No! Wait!” Augustus protested. “Give her the Emovere first. I want to watch her do it.”
String reached into his pocket, fumbling with his gun. The vial fell out and rolled across the roof toward the door. “Idiot! I’ll do it myself.” Muttering angrily under his breath, he scrambled away from us to retrieve the vial.
“Do you trust me?” String asked, his words familiar. I looked at him, surprised, still uncertain. “We have to get there.” String pointed to the next building over. It was a few stories down and an alarming length of blue sky away from us.
I only had time for one answer. “I trust you.” We took a running start and jumped.
CHAPTER FIFTY - SIX
SICKO PSYCHO
FOR AN INSTANT, I was flying. Then, I wasn’t. The impact took my breath away, sending shards of pain straight through me, a million little cuts. Behind me, the crumbling ledge gave way. Chunks of concrete tumbled to the ground below.
“Get up!” String was already on his feet running. “C’mon!” He jumped again, landing on the roof of the next building, graceful as a cat. “Lex!”
My hands still cuffed in front of me, I struggled to my feet. I took one glance back toward Augustus. I had to. He was barking at one of his men standing by the
door to the staircase. “Smitty! Get up here! They’re getting away!” Augustus turned toward me, resolute, and aimed the barrel of his gun right at me. But I was already gone. The first bullet struck the ground behind me, as I took flight, tumbling next to String. He pulled me up, and we jumped together to the roof of the next building below, out of Augustus’ line of fire. Smitty landed right behind, catapulting himself toward us.
“Go, Lex! I’ll be right behind you.” String slipped Smitty’s first heavy-handed punch. They were a pair of mismatched fighters, Smitty outweighing String by at least fifty pounds. He was built like a bulldog with a face to match.
“I’m not leaving without you.” I spoke the words, but I felt useless. I pulled at the handcuffs around my wrists, but they didn’t budge. Smitty had knocked String’s gun from his hand. It lay dangerously close to the ledge of the building, a short distance from where the two were exchanging blows. I ran awkwardly toward it, just as Smitty landed a hard right to String’s face, sending him to the ground. Smitty kicked him toward the edge.
“Stop!” I commanded, surprised at the power of my own voice. I pointed the gun at Smitty.
Smitty laughed, a throaty chuckle. “Are you going to shoot me?” he taunted. “Go ahead. I’d like to see it.” Alongside him, String raised his head to look at me. He seemed just as doubtful. I aimed for Smitty’s haunch and pulled the trigger. He went down like a felled tree. String and I made one last jump together to the fire escape below.
“Did you train with the circus or something?” I asked him, between breaths, as we ran back to the van. He smirked, then opened his mouth to speak, but I stopped him. “On second thought, don’t answer that…”
“I was just going to say, nice job. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Yeah, well you were pretty impressive yourself,” I told him. “A little too impressive. For a minute there, I thought…” I didn’t finish, pointing to the van up ahead instead.
“Alright, boys. Our work here is done,” String boasted, as we climbed inside. Van Sant’s men exchanged an annoyed glance but said nothing. As they sprung the lock on my handcuffs, setting me free, we listened to the audio feed from Augustus’ office on their portable radio. Even from blocks away, his anger was tangible. I heard the sound of something breaking, followed by a primal yell. String and I both giggled with relief.