Savage Beauty (The Arrow Tactical Series Book 5)

Chapter 10

If he leaves, it’s fine. I work better on my own.

“She excels in solitary sports, without a team. I love the idea of a dependable after-school program, and I agree with your ethos that they need physical activity after school, but I know my daughter. Sticking her in a gym with other kids will not make her happy. If you have a swimming program, horseback riding, fencing, anything that’s more of a solo sport. I’ll pay extra, but that’s what my daughter needs.”

Mom planned our activities on the car speakerphone. Her cell phone didn’t work well within the hospital. Inside the hospital, even if she could hear the person speaking, most often they couldn’t hear her. She had that conversation on my first week of an after-school program. What an awful, horrific program…after school. I forgave my parents for sticking me in it, only because Sam explained they didn’t have a choice. They didn’t know if they would be available to pick us up from school because of Sage, and Mom didn’t want us to be home alone for too many hours. Not that they ever asked, but I would’ve preferred to be home alone.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m on your team. No one else’s.”

I blink, returning from a momentary memory flash. Why am I remembering Mom? Team. It’s a trigger word.

“I don’t really work well on teams.” But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t tell him. He’s convinced Origins is involved, but if he knew everything, he wouldn’t be.

“Well, that’s okay. I excel at teams. High school football MVP. Military. As I’m sure you know from Sam, we’re all about teams. I’ve got enough team skills for both of us. But it all starts with being upfront with each other.”

And if you tell him, and he leaves, that’s fine. You excel at solitary endeavors.

I ball my hands up, push my shoulders back, and say, “In the compound, I was checking for blood type, like I said. But I was also doing HLA testing.” I pause. He’s silent. “Do you know what HLA testing is?”

“No.”

His answer does not surprise me. “HLA stands for human leukocyte antigen.” I don’t glance up to see if there’s a flicker of recognition because there won’t be. “Antigens are proteins on the cells in the body. Out of over a hundred different antigens that have been identified, there are six that have been shown to be the most important in organ transplantation. Except in cases of identical twins and some siblings, it is rare to get a six-antigen match between two people, especially if they are unrelated. A person can make antibodies against another person’s HLA antigens. Antibodies can result from blood transfusions, pregnancy, infections or even a viral illness. Having one of these events does not mean a person will make antibodies, but they could. If a recipient has strong antibodies against a donor’s HLA, the risk of rejection is high, and they would decline a donor for that recipient. Of course, kidneys are very successfully transplanted between two people with no matching antigens. But that doesn’t hold for…” He is so silent, I risk a glance up. He’s not getting it. “I was testing the people in the compound and recording if they would be suitable organ donors. I also tested for HIV, diabetes, and a few other things, although they didn’t have the tools to test for everything they should have been testing for.”

My knees bounce high of their own volition. It’s as if I’ve lost bodily control. One sturdy, weathered hand with veins that split into a v settles over my knee. Tension eases and I close my eyes. Just say it. He’ll either leave or he won’t. “The people in the compound? Working on the computers? I created medical records for each of them detailing their compatibility for organ recipients.”

“You believed they had your sister. You had no choice.” Is he trying to make me feel better? What I did was wrong. Those people didn’t have a choice. And while I don’t want to think about it, my bet is they take more than kidneys. If they select one of those people based on the records I created, there’s a good chance they won’t survive. You can’t donate your heart and survive. If that was an ethically viable option, I would’ve given mine to Sage long ago.

“They had records of people needing organs. I selected the best candidates from those I had tested. Two people. I selected two healthy people for organ harvesting.” I squeeze my eyelids as tightly shut as they will go. “From a practical viewpoint, I can understand organ sourcing from those in society who are poorest. Especially if their families are compensated. If you take the emotion out of it, when we have displaced human beings who are struggling, it’s a solution for all sides. But it’s wrong. No matter how much I want the option, it’s wrong. But I comprehend all the sides. Sage has already had one organ transplant. It’s not unusual for a second transplant to be needed, especially since she had one so young, and she won’t be top of the list. She’s already had one. Worldwide, there’s a massive organ shortage. And there are others who are simply denied organ transplants by hospitals that don’t want to take the risk. And if you have money and you can save someone you love…” A dizziness hits me, and I have to breathe and put a hand to my chest. The movement is what I call pulling-a-Sage. “I could’ve refused. I did it willingly. And then those people…they were gone. Selected by me. And I kept looking at the others.” Not really looking, hearing. Listening to them beg to leave. Cry. “I didn’t refuse to do the work. Not at first. I selected two people to die.”

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.” I expect Max to look at me the way Mom did after I was sent to the principal’s office for screaming at the girl beside me in class when she wouldn’t shut up so I could hear the teacher. I had been right. But also wrong. Hence the serious, disappointed look. I know better, and therefore I should be better.

But the lines around Max’s eyes are soft, as is his forehead. His jaw is relaxed, and his lips aren’t pressed together like he’s holding something in. There’s no judgment. His hand remains on my knee, warm and comforting.

“My reason for telling you all of this is to show you Origins can’t be involved. There was no research going on in that compound. What they were doing in that place wasn’t connected to Origins. It’s not even connected to my research. They were simply determining which of their employees would be a satisfactory organ donor. And ‘employee’ isn’t an accurate descriptor. You and I both know those people were modern day slaves. You can’t count them as indentured servants because they have no plans of ever letting them go.”

The warm squeeze over my knee heats the right side of my body.

“I heard those people. Heard their stories. Many of them responded to a job posting. The promise of a better life for themselves. They were promised a well-paying job that would allow them to send money back home. They lied to those people. But it took me weeks to stand up to them, and even then, I backed down.”

I try so hard to be a good person. To do what is right. My parents would be so disappointed. It’s good they won’t ever know what I did.

“Sloane. I get it. If someone I loved needed an organ, I’d understand the other side too.”

“I don’t just love Sage. She’s my responsibility. And she’s my only person. I don’t like most people. They annoy me greatly. Sage is my one person.”

Which is also why it would be incredibly selfish of her to go against medical advice and have a child.

“I get it.”

“Would you quit saying that? You clearly don’t get it, or you wouldn’t still be touching me. Places like that are the reason black market organ transplants have lower success rates than US records. They aren’t testing for everything they should.” A small voice nags that’s not completely true. “That, and I suspect people who wouldn’t be approved for an organ transplant seek these alternative options. You know, alcoholics, drug addicts, maybe people with a disease who just wouldn’t be approved because in other markets, long-term viability is a factor in placement on the list. So, those factors also negatively impact success rates.”

He’s silent, and I bow my head under the weight of judgment. I can’t stand it when other people do bad things, and yet I do bad things. I knew better, but I felt torn because I understood the why. That had to have been why they picked me.

“You said Interpol estimates they have around ten thousand people in compounds like the one I was in?”

“This one organization. Yes, that’s what they’re saying.”

“Well, that’s ten thousand organ donors. In the US alone, over one hundred thousand people need organs. The United States includes approximately four percent of the world’s population. You can extrapolate that worldwide, the number of people in need of an organ in any given year is significantly larger than one hundred thousand. It’s easy to understand why the black market for organs is a multibillion-dollar business. Obviously, I knew this. My research strives to find an ethical solution to organ needs. But when I first arrived in the compound, logic reasoned, it made sense. It’s how the world works. The fittest, smartest, and most adaptable survive. But then I heard them. They had darker skin and needed showers, and they smelled, but the more I heard them, and got to know them, there was simply no justification. And yet, I kept testing them and updating their records.”

His other hand finds my other knee. “Hey.” His voice is soft. Dare I say, compassionate? Toward me?

“Sloane, you gotta remember who you’re talking to. I killed people for a living. And I was damn good at it. I’m not one to judge. But I can see it’s eating at you. And you’ve got to let it go.”

With those words, with his hands on me, it’s easier to breathe.

Sometimes it’s harder to breathe around this man, but right now it’s easier. It’s a paradox. It should be one or the other. Not both.