Chapter 2
The hospital door clicks closed, and the sound strikes like an axe against marble. The constant throbbing on the back of my skull aches with the pain of a thousand knives pricking skin. I brush a hand over my forehead, and a pull on the back of my hand sends a painful tearing sensation up my arm. I squint to see the source of pain, and light intrudes with another blade to my temple. Thick, semi-transparent tape covers a needle dug into the back of my hand.
“It’s the IV,” a masculine voice rumbles. “Remember? It’s for fluids. You were chronically dehydrated.”
The doctors and nurses have told me this. My bad for forgetting about the IV in my hand. Dried blood colors the underside of the milky white medical tape.
“You tried to rip it out earlier. Does it hurt?”
“Everything hurts.”
“Let me get a nurse for some pain medicine. They cut you off this morning.”
“No.” I inhale deeply and rest my hand on my thigh, eyes sealed shut. “I don’t want pain meds.”
“I get that. I’m not a huge fan of them either. At least, I don’t like it when they put me off my game. What was the dehydration about? Did they withhold water?”
Bile rises in the back of my throat as I visualize the water bottle I drank from. Thin, crinkly plastic with a green label. Not again. “Anton poisoned the water. I couldn’t trust them.”
“Was he there with you in Cambodia?”
“Not for long. The water out of the pipes was tinged brown. It needed to be boiled.”
“That sucks.”
If I wasn’t in so much pain, I’d laugh at the Jolly Green Giant’s succinct way of summarizing the situation.
My eyelids are closed but damn this pain. And what’s worse, a tanned, hairy beast occupies the space behind my eyelids. I can’t believe I thought that monster was handsome. From here on out, I’m sticking with nerdy scientists. Maybe someone has done a study on that. How would you structure it? Group men by physical attributes, IQ, and career, then rank prowess in the bedroom, and what…likelihood to kidnap someone and stick them on a sailboat?
Heavy footfalls pace the room.
Bep. Bep. Bep.
Stir. Stir.
Is he dragging his feet?
Nausea swirls, and the discomfort extends from my throat to my abdomen. Peeking through eyelid slivers, I make out his dark, bulky form. I could ask him to leave, but I don’t want to be taken again.
“Can you not move?”
“Sure. Sure. Sorry.” He plops down in the armchair by my bed with a round of loud squeaks. The squeaks stop, replaced by an air noise. I crack an eye. He’s breathing. Too loudly.
As if that’s not enough noise, he sighs and stretches. His back cracks with his stretch.
“You don’t have to stay here. Go back to the hotel.” I’ve spent much of my life in hospital chairs. They suck. At one point, I considered medical school, but my hatred of hospitals diverted me onto another path.
“Nah. I’m happy hanging out here.”
“I don’t want you to stay here.” The most direct approach is the most effective approach, and while I do like the safety of him, the man is far too loud. He is a noise creator.
“I get that,” he says. “But Knox and Sage won’t rest easy if you’re alone.”
“But you’re loud. And it hurts.” The tips of my fingers knead my temples so he shouldn’t require further explanation.
“Tell you what. Let me get you some pain meds. I get not wanting to feel groggy, but you’re already groggy, right? You’re not going anywhere for the rest of the day. You might as well sleep. I’ll stay here. I’ll be on lookout. And if you’re sleeping, you won’t hear me.”
The chair squeaks because he probably can’t be quiet. But he’s made some good points. The pain is awful. With the nausea, it must be a migraine. My skin hurts.
“What do you say?”
He’s waiting for me to consent. I suppose pain meds in a supervised setting are acceptable. “Yes. Okay.” His shadow remains. “Please.”
Minutes later, a second pair of footsteps, lighter and without as much sliding noise, accompany his heavy footfalls.
“You’re in pain?” a feminine voice with an unfamiliar accent asks.
“Yes.”
She talks me through what she’s doing, and a coldness creeps up my arm as the medicine infiltrates my body.
Within minutes of her leaving the room, the throbbing in my head eases, as does the nausea.
I twist my head into the pillow, angling it so I can better observe the odd, burly, Nordic man who has posted himself as a lookout. His shoulders are broader than Knox’s, and he has lighter hair. He’s the opposite of Anton Solonov, the hairy man I mistakenly fancied to be a mafia cover model.
“Do you have any tattoos?”
He snorts. Or maybe it’s a half laugh. It’s not a full laugh. “Yes, I do.”
Hmm. Not the exact opposite of Anton Solonov.
“Anything I can do for you?” he asks.
“Can you stop breathing?”
“Ah…”
“You can leave now. I’ll be fine.” I hope. I close my eyelids, letting him think I’m falling asleep.
When Sage was in the hospital, once she fell asleep, my parents said we could leave. I’m pretty sure there were evenings when Sage feigned sleep so we would leave.
“No can do. But I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse.”
“That’s an ignorant saying. Mice are unaware of the building they occupy. They would make the same level of noise whether in a church or a bowling alley.” The chair squeaks. Because of course it does. The man probably weighs close to three hundred pounds. “How much do you weigh?”
“Two-fifty. Why?”
“I was close.”
“You were wondering how much I weigh?”
“You said Knox and Sage won’t rest easy unless you’re here. Why?”
“Well, based on what I heard of your conversation with Interpol, you are aware of what happened. You were abducted. And you had to be rescued. We’d prefer to not have to rescue you a second time.”
“You think Anton will come to find me again?” I won’t go with him. I won’t go anywhere near that man.
“Why do you think he took you? It’s just me and you here. I don’t care if you broke the law. But if we know the truth, we can better protect you. We can provide a better assessment of what level of danger, if any, you might be in.”
For whatever reason, I visualize Anton in his dingy white tank top on the boat, and my stomach churns. I force my eyes open to erase that unappetizing image. “The man from Interpol seemed to think it was something I was working on.”
“The organoid stuff?”
“You wouldn’t get it. It’s complicated.”
Cool air flows through my nostrils. Tension has replaced the unbearable pounding in my cranium. I listen, and maybe the pain medication dulled my hearing, but I don’t think I hear him breathing.
“Try me. I’ll disregard anything that’s outside my IQ range.”
I narrow my eyes. Is that sarcasm? If so, it’s uncalled for. I was simply being direct. I don’t want to close my eyes because my stomach can’t handle any more nauseating images, so I focus in Max’s general direction.
“I oversee two studies. In one, we use stem cells to create artificially grown miniature organs.”
“Whoa. Impressive.”
“Exactly.” He does get it.
“Fully functioning organs?”
“Well, no. Not yet.” The cells can only be viewed and studied with a microscope. “We’re going to get there, though. We’re also experimenting with using adult skin cells to regenerate functional human heart tissue.”
“And what part of that is illegal?” His seat squeaks, and the soles of his shoes tap the floor.
“Are you against using stem cells?” My temples pulse, and I grimace. I don’t wish to debate ethics with this noisy man.
“Nah. I’m only asking ’cause you’re based in the Cayman Islands. That was kind of our assumption.”
Oh. Right. “There are fewer restrictions and oversight. What we’re doing with stem cells and with our organoids is… It doesn’t matter. It’s not illegal, per se.”
“All right. It’s not illegal. Any guesses as to why someone would hire an international assassin to abduct you? I mean, they kept you alive, and this guy’s skillset is in killing, so?—”
“Red Notice. That’s what the Interpol man said. My fantasy of him being a mafia guy wasn’t far off.”
“Your what, now?”
“Forget I said that.” I scowl at his grin. It was a first impression and a prime example of why first impressions should not be trusted. The guy was a monster. But I don’t need to worry myself with that guy. This Max guy is correct. What I need to figure out is who did this to me. Who do I know that would know how to hire an assassin? “How hard is it to hire an assassin?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to figure this out. Who would do this to me?”
“And Sage.”
“Why do you say, ‘and Sage’?” He’s got my full attention. “They were lying about having her.”
“They were lying to you, but someone hired guns to come after her. Twice. Not Anton, but other men with the same skill set. Killed one of my buddies who was defending her. Which is another reason I’m sticking by your side. We want to find these bastards.”
Dizziness sets in. The room spins ever so slightly. “You’re sure about this?” I think back to Mr. Viognier and Knox. “They didn’t tell me any of this.”
“You didn’t ask them any questions, did you?”
“Why wouldn’t they tell me?” I push up off the pillows. “Is Sage safe now?”
“Yes.” He’s at my side, hand on my shoulder. The man’s hand is enormous. It spans from the nape of my neck to my arm. His skin is warm–no, hot. It’s as if he’s radiating heat. “You don’t need to worry. We’ve got you. And Sage. Knox isn’t going to let anything happen to Sage. He loves her.”
“No, he’s a family friend. We’re not that close.”
The mattress sinks with his weight. I shift my legs away from him, giving him more room. He wears an odd expression. Amusement, perhaps? But I didn’t tell a joke.
“You missed a bit. Knox and Sage…they’re an item now.”
I study him for any hint he’s joking. “Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“She had a crush on him when she was younger.” I think back to the way she would act around him. I’d teased her.
“Well, then, I guess she’d say you getting abducted was a good thing.” He’s grinning.
“No. She wouldn’t.”
“I’m joshing with you, Watson.”
I don’t like jokesters. “Mr. Hawkins, can we try to stay focused? If someone might come after Sage, then we need to figure this out.”
“Alrighty. I agree with you there. How valuable is this research you’re doing? Sounds pretty valuable to me. Are there competitors who might try to nab you?”
“Competitors? No. It’s not… Everyone considers what I’m working on to be a long way from earning out. So much so I had to beg to continue. They gave me another project to oversee. Comparatively, the other project is boring. I’m testing to determine the most effective dosage of rapamycin for anti-aging purposes. There’s a lot of money to be made if you can get the dosage right, but we’re hardly the only ones working on it. Once they discovered that patients taking it to prevent organ rejection were aging slower, it became a field day to every skin care line out there.”
“You don’t sound impressed.”
“Organs or wrinkles? Which is more important to humanity?” One of his thighs presses down on the hospital bed, and the metal grinds under his weight. His muscular thigh is probably the width of both of mine. “Did you play football?”
“Talk about left field. I thought you wanted to focus.”
“I do. But you’re huge.”
“You’re an interesting one, Watson. I never know what you’re going to say.”
“I say what I think. Keep me on track.” I snap my fingers. It’s a technique I learned that helps to sharpen my mind. Bring my brain to heel. “Mr. Viognier. I told him I’d been working on a report when I was abducted. He seemed to think that’s why I was taken.”
“The report you were preparing for peer review?”
I rub the point of my finger between my eyebrows and visualize the report. “When they put me on that other project, it was only natural I’d fear they’d pull funding on the long-term project. It won’t earn out, whereas this other one will be an ATM machine.” It’s a phrase I overheard an investor use once. “I had to do everything I could to preserve funding.”
“For the organ research?”
“I wouldn’t fight for wrinkles.”
“Of course not.”
He gets it.
It all clicks. “That report. The data I found from accessing the databases we subscribe to. Someone must’ve been alerted when I was accessing those external databases.”
“Okay. But if someone feared you would share data, why not just kill you?”
I bite at my thumbnail and pull my finger back, surprised at the length of the nail, but happy it’s clean. Grime had been building up beneath my nails in that filthy compound.
“I don’t know why they wanted me alive. But someone did. I heard the guards warn people more than once they couldn’t hurt me.”
“And in Cambodia, you said you were testing the people?”
“For organ compatibility.” It had to have been. But my research really isn’t related at all to what they had me doing in Cambodia.
“Can you perform transplants?”
“I’m not a surgeon. But, if anyone saw what I was working on, they’d know I was preparing it for peer review.” I clap my hands. “That’s what I need to do. I need to look at that report again and see if this theory has merit. If it does, I’ll spread it far and wide. Then there’d be no need to come after me. Or Sage.” My throat is dry. Parched. “Can you get me some orange juice?”
There’s a pitcher of water by the side of the bed, but I don’t want water. It’s too heavy or…I don’t think I like the taste. I used to, but not now.
“Sure.”
He picks up a phone and places an order for orange juice. This place is nicer than the hospitals back home. There’s even a view of an expansive lawn. When Sage was in the hospital, her view was usually of a parking lot or the side of another building.
“Are you up for food? Want dinner?”
“Tomato soup.” The advice I administered to Sage holds true for me, too. I need my strength to travel. If my immune system is lowered, I might get sick after the flight. Around twenty percent of passengers develop cold symptoms after a commercial flight. I once read that up to eighty percent of travelers have some negative symptoms, ranging from digestive tract issues to flu-like symptoms after vacation travel, but they did not cite the details of the study. This is not vacation. Most definitely not vacation.
If they were after me for that report, wouldn’t they go after others that I worked with too?
“Am I the only one they came after? What about Dr. Kallio? Is she okay?”
“No one else from the laboratory has been reported missing. When your sister called your place of work, they informed her you resigned.”
“I would never resign. This research is important to me. I need to talk to Dr. Kallio.”
“That’s probably not the best idea.” He’s seated in the chair. The side of my hospital bed must have been uncomfortable. “Remember what the Interpol suit told you? Red Notice? Not a good idea to go barging back.”
“I need to let her know I didn’t resign. My research projects.” I push up off the bed and ignore my scratchy sore throat. “Mr. Hawkins, I need to get back to them.” The light in the room feels brighter. I need to go.
“Call me Max.”
“Max—”
“Sloane.” He says my name slowly, imbuing it with care and an unstated request to listen. “We need to take this slowly. Someone burned down your sister’s home in Asheville. These theories are good, but we need to proceed with caution.” An uneasy feeling washes over me. “Whoever hired Anton Solonov, and the other two tangos, Omar Cardenas and Alexis Flores, is still out there.”
“They killed someone?”
“Felix Hernandez. A good man. One of the best.”
“They told me they had Sage and that they wouldn’t hurt her.” None of this makes any sense. But they killed someone. And burned down Sage’s home?
“Who told you they wouldn’t hurt Sage?”
“The man in Cambodia. Not Anton. Another man. I don’t know his name. He said he’d hurt Sage if I tried to escape. But I was skeptical of the photograph he showed me. But I still did what he wanted. He could’ve hired anyone to do what I was doing.” The pulsing in my head intensifies, and I place my forehead in my palm.
“Sloane, none of what happened is your fault. But it’s important you accept that you can’t go waltzing back to your office. Someone hired these men. For all we know, it could be this Dr. Kallio you’re mentioning.”
“No. She’s my friend. But there are others.” We’re always looking for investors. Maybe someone else…maybe someone felt the report I put together would curtail investment? I compiled the data to prove our lab is a solid investment and my research will earn out, but maybe they looked at the cancer rates and interpreted the data differently?
“Sloane…whoever is behind this is powerful. You’re still coming off the meds. Let’s take it slowly. Maybe you’ll remember more. But waltzing back into your office before we have some answers is not an advisable game plan.”
“Mister…Max… Is that your full name?”
“People call me Max. It’s short for Maxwell.”
“Fine.” I blink. Focus. I need to figure this out. The puzzle pieces need to fit together. “That Interpol guy…he asked your team to share any reports. Is there an incident log? I need to know everything.”