Enhancement (Black Market DNA Book 1) Read online

  But he closed his lips tight again. He couldn’t do it. At least, not yet. He promised himself he would tell her. Besides, it wasn’t as important or nearly as shameful as the reason he’d gone to prison. Right?

  “Thanks for your understanding.” He squeezed her hand. “What about us?”

  She smiled, weak but reassuring. “We’ll see how things go. Randy gave you a chance at Respondent and I tend to trust his judgment. I’ll need to think about this, but I might give you a chance, too.”

  “I appreciate it.” Chris felt as though the single phrase could not express the gratitude that burgeoned within him, but he could say nothing more for fear of breaking down. He’d spent far too long wondering if life could be normal again, and Tracy had, unbeknownst to her, flattened the levies that barred those emotions from overwhelming him. Now, she seemed too considerate, too forgiving for what he had done. He vowed he wouldn’t take her understanding for granted but could not help wondering why she had not already stormed off in disgust.

  Tracy offered a limp smile and shrugged. “You seem like a better person now than the one that would do stupid shit like sell illegal enhancements. But don’t mess up.” She shook her head. For a moment, she turned away and her face twisted, her lips drawn tight and her eyes narrowed.

  “Something wrong?”

  “I used to run track in college. Ran both the four hundred and eight hundred meter.” She exhaled. “So, while we’re being honest: I got kicked off the team for doping. I understand what it’s like to want the extra advantage, to think you’re above everyone else. I always wanted that extra...that extra oomph that I just couldn’t seem to get naturally.”

  “That’s nothing compared to what I did.” Chris’s forehead wrinkled in concern.

  “Hey, shut it while you’re ahead.” Tracy’s lips cracked into her familiar, playful smile. “I’m trying to justify this thing between us to myself.”

  ***

  The smell of stale beer permeated Cowboys and Poets. Horseshoes hung on the walls next to framed couplets from Tennyson, ropes and hats were draped next to a sculpture of Poe’s raven, and moving holopaintings of stampeding cattle neighbored Walt Whitman’s famous Leaves of Grass portrait.

  Chris’s eyes settled on the portrait of Whitman. If any of the tacky decorations in the dive bar blended the themes of cowboys and poets, it was that portrait. Whitman, with his manicured yet rugged beard and a broad-brimmed hat atop his tilting head, surveyed the rest of the bar with a stolid expression that bespoke a quiet confidence.

  “Well, you going to join us or you going to ogle Walt?” Randy grabbed Chris’s shoulder, and deep laughter exploded from him.

  Chris smiled. “I’ll take care of the first round.”

  Tracy squeezed his elbow as she settled into the booth under the portrait with Kristina, Paul, and Randy. “Thanks, doc.”

  As Chris made his way toward the carved wooden bar that served as the true centerpiece of the establishment, Randy’s voice pierced through the noise of laughter and conversations of the other patrons. “I heard Whitman was a dandy. You know what I mean?” His laughs followed Chris through the mix of professionals that had descended on the bar for happy hour after work and others whose happy hours started at 11 a.m. and ended at bar close.

  Chris ordered a pitcher of Beaver Dam Blue and took it back to the table. Randy’s cheeks, red with laughter, made him appear as though he’d gotten a head start on the drinks.

  Several pitchers later, their conversation had turned from work projects to the Baltimore Ravens’ chances in the playoffs to criticisms of President Hartson’s cybersecurity policies. Kristina, her eyelids half closed, looked at Paul with a lopsided smile. “I think I better take off. Too much of this and I won’t make it home alive.”

  Paul, at the end of the booth, stood in a hurry. “Oh, well, in that case, I’d like to make sure you do indeed get home alive. I mean, we kind of need you on the colon project.”

  Chris noted the interaction, for the first time realizing that he and Tracy might not be the only couple engaged in an office romance. He shared a look with her and she shrugged back.

  “Don’t talk about that shitty project again.” Randy pointed at Kristina with a wobbling finger and slapped the table with the other. Her empty mug jumped and fell. It rolled across the table until Chris caught it. She mouthed the word “Thanks,” and he nodded back.

  “Maybe it’s time we all call it a night,” Chris said.

  Randy lifted the half-empty pitcher. The beer sloshed and splashed around. “Let’s finish this one off before we go.” He leaned forward with squinting eyes and slurred words. “Let no good beer go to waste.”

  Paul and Kristina declined, apologizing, and left.

  “Fine,” Tracy said. “But it won’t be our fault if you feel like shit tomorrow.”

  Randy laughed again. “Shit. Colons. You’re funny.”

  Tracy rolled her eyes.

  “All right, I’m going to grab a smoke first.” Randy tottered out of his seat and out the back door.

  Earlier that day when Randy had been far more sober, Chris had presented him with a prototype of the new delivery system for replacing the tumor-suppression genes. The engineered vector system protected by DNA-based material microparticles had achieved nearly seventy-five percent delivery efficiency.

  “Shoot for at least ninety-five percent,” Randy had said. “An undelivered quarter dosage is just money that we’re wasting in production because you can’t do it right.”

  When Chris had brought the news to Tracy, she’d shaken her head and responded with a curt, “Shit.” Even if they developed an efficient new system that day, the verification assays for the cell culture tests would take a couple of weeks. He had been given an extension when the first deadline couldn’t be met. Now the new target date was just a week away and they would have to push back the animal trials.

  Yet Randy would not let them work late into that Thursday night. He’d demanded that they come out for a couple of drinks, and he’d hear no excuses.

  “So, you think we’re going to get this done on time?”

  Tracy shook her head, a tangle of hair falling in front of her eyes. “Hell, no. But I did have a new idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Modified DNA,” Tracy said. “No more plasmid DNA. We can improve the efficiency of our gene delivery with modDNA.”

  “But that’ll take weeks—maybe a couple of months.”

  Tracy shrugged. “Your delivery system seems flawless to me. It’s my part of the project that needs reworking. Plasmid DNA has never been the most reliable method of genetic therapy, and I was just lazy when I started the project.”

  “There’s no world in which I can imagine you being lazy.”

  They toyed with the idea for a while, exchanging ideas, an electric wave of excitement shared between them. They outlined their plans on their comm cards. It occurred to Chris that that Whitman, still guarding them from his portrait, would likely disapprove of their inability to enjoy each other’s company without reverting to conversations regarding work.

  “Randy might not be happy about the delay, but this will at least work.” She looked up from the comm card. “What do you think, doc?”

  Chris’s triumphant smile drooped and his face drew up in concern. “Randy’s been gone a while. Maybe I should go check on him.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Tracy said, the flush of enthusiasm in her face draining away. “I wouldn’t want to find him drowned in a puddle of his own piss outside or something.”

  He laughed but couldn’t prevent himself from entertaining the idea. It might not be too far from reality. He stood up from the table. “I’ll go take a look. Want to make sure our tabs are square so they don’t think we bailed?”

  Tracy raised an eyebrow. “Is this just a ploy to get me to pay for your drinks?”

  “Take my comm card.” He handed her the card and walked to the back of the bar. The bartender no
dded at him as they caught each other’s eyes, and Chris picked up his pace. Maybe Randy had passed out outside. The January night held a biting chill that would be liable to leave its mark on anyone foolish enough to underestimate the cold.

  Chris pushed open the back door and looked out into the alley. Dumpsters sat against the walls of the alley. Bags of trash, a couple ripped open and left spilled on the ground, sat next to the dumpsters. The weak yellow glow of the light above the door provided only a pitiful guard against the shadows filling the alley. “Randy?”

  There was no reply. He stepped out, letting the door close behind him. He turned the handle again, but the door remained closed, locked to the outside. “Dammit.” His breath curled up in soft white plumes, and he rubbed his arms against each other to warm his skin.

  Low, urgent sounds echoed down the alley, just beyond the neighboring building. Edgar Street could be seen at one end of the alley. Halfway toward Edgar, shadows bathed an alcove. He crept toward it. The voices became less muddled as he approached.

  “...vectors now. We need the specimens intact.”

  He thought he heard Randy’s voice, but it sounded more sober than in the bar. “Please, I haven’t had a chance. How was I supposed to...?”

  “I don’t care. Boss don’t, either. You’ve been talking to them, haven’t you? Trying to sell us out?”

  Chris froze against the wall. There was nowhere to hide from the two gigantic beasts of men facing the alcove. With their backs turned to him, their dark overcoats provided an ominous curtain that hid whomever they threatened.

  “I can’t. Not now,” the hidden person said.

  Chris felt certain now that the voice belonged to Randy. He tiptoed closer, his mouth open to say something.

  A sickening crack sounded as one of the large men shoved their victim to the ground. “This is your last chance.”

  Now Chris could see Randy huddled, struggling to his knees beyond the two aggressors’ legs.

  “He’s worthless,” one of the men said. “He’s already said too much, and it ain’t worth our time trying to get anything else from him.”

  Randy reached up. “Please. Please.”

  Chris took a slow step backward. He needed to do something, but these men were large. Almost as big as Lash had been. He took another step back.

  But he could not leave Randy with these two. He dug into his pocket for his comm card.

  The card was gone, missing. Dammit, he had given it to Tracy.

  Chris inched away. As he crept back, his shoe crunched on the neck of one of the empty beer bottles littering the alleyway.

  Randy caught his gaze before the other two pointed. “There. There.” His finger shaking, he pointed at Chris.

  The two men looked at each other. Without a word, the one lunged after Chris. The other lashed out at Randy and stabbed the research manager over and over with a silver knife.

  Chris turned to run. Randy’s screams devolved into bubbling gurgles that chased after him. He sprinted.

  A vise-like grip around his arm stopped him cold. The man that had given chase lifted him with one hand around his neck, pinning him against the cold brick wall. Chris swung his arms and legs. Even when he connected with the man, the giant didn’t flinch. Nothing seemed to register within his attacker’s icy blue eyes. No anger, no pain.

  His assailant’s hand squeezed tighter around Chris’s neck. A violent urge to cough made him gag, his tongue stuck to the top of his throat. He thought he heard the door just down the alley open and close. If only he could scream out. Maybe someone could help him.

  Chris wished that Lash was here now.

  Lash. Save me.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Chris’s vision blurred and he stopped flailing his arms. This would be it.

  The grip around his throat loosened. The powerful hands held him by the shoulders now. Another man had shown up beside the attacker. Lash.

  Chris blinked. He struggled to regain a semblance of lucidity. No, it wasn’t Lash. He was still in prison.

  “That’s him,” the second man said.

  A flash of worry lit up the assailant’s blue eyes. He set Chris on the ground but did not let him go. The vise-grip tightened on Chris’s shoulder with the same strength that had almost killed him.

  The two men looked at each other, seeming to confer without a spoken word. Chris’s throat throbbed, already sore and bruising. Ghost pains from the stab wounds in his side flared up, ignited by the attack.

  “I think we should take him with us,” the second man said, breaking the silence.

  A sudden flare of sirens sounded. The echoing screams of the police cars could not have been more than a block away. Though the attacker still held Chris in place, they paid him no heed.

  “Shit. Do you think they can ID us?”

  “Boss won’t like that.”

  The door to the alley opened. Two shapes appeared in the gloomy alley light, their shadows stretching across the overflowing dumpster across the way.

  One of the voices, startled, called out to them. “Chris?”

  The two men sprinted back toward Randy. The research manager lay still and made no sound as the men scoured his pockets. As the sirens grew louder and spinning red and blue lights lit up the brick walls, the attackers dashed away. Despite their size, they vanished from the alley as a police car rolled in from the opposite end.

  With their car parked, two officers got out and rushed toward Chris and Randy. One called out on her comm card. “Two suspects, headed south. Males. Both appear to be six feet in height, dark clothing and coats.” The other officer knelt down by Randy.

  “Chris! Are you okay?” Tracy crouched next to Chris, her long hair loose and tickling his face.

  He tried to smile. “I survived a stabbing, remember? I’ll be okay.”

  She didn’t laugh. Instead, she pulled him close to her, burying his face in her chest. She said nothing until he asked if she could give him space to breathe. “Of course, of course.”

  One of the officers. “Sir, we’ve called emergency medical personnel.” She tugged on Chris’s collar and examined his neck. “Did they do anything else to you?”

  Chris shook his head.

  “I know you’ve just been through a lot, but did you happen to see their faces? Can you describe them to me?”

  He described the two men’s ominous figures, their dark overcoats and collared shirts. He described his assailant’s vivid eyes, his pale skin and rugged, expressionless face. No scars, no tattoos. He had not gotten a good look at the second man—his vision had still been hazed in tears and a fading consciousness—but he detailed the man’s dark brown skin and deep brown eyes. The man’s nose had been bent, maybe broken before.

  “You saw how big they were, right?” Chris said. The footprints in his apartment...maybe they were the right size, but he didn’t mention it to the officer. His eyes glazed over.

  “Sir, is there something else?”

  “Blue eyes on one, brown eyes on the other with a crooked nose,” he repeated. “That’s all I got.”

  When she appeared satisfied, she left and joined up with her partner.

  Chris shivered, wondering what those men had wanted, why they’d spared his life.

  “Take my coat.” Tracy draped her jacket around his shoulders.

  He cursed at himself for being such an inconsolable, pathetic wreck. It was a miracle he had ever even tried to penetrate any underground markets with his illicit genetic enhancements. He wasn’t meant for such things. Couldn’t even handle this strange alley mugging.

  Tracy helped him stand, his back against the brick wall.

  Randy had not moved from where he had been attacked. Blood pooled around his body and a hint of copper hung in the air.

  “He’s dead,” Chris said, indicating Randy’s still form.

  Tracy nodded.

  “I didn’t think...” He shook his head. “I should have said something. I should have done something.” His stomac
h churned.

  “No, there was nothing you could do.”

  “I watched this happen.”

  A couple more patrol cars arrived on the scene, along with an ambulance. One of the paramedics approached and asked Chris to sit down for a quick assessment. He waved the man off as he marched toward the first two officers on the scene. Both talked with the bartender now as the man described how he had been about to take out the trash when he had seen a man choking Chris.

  He tapped on the shoulder of the officer that had first run to Randy. “Do you know what happened? Have they caught the guys yet?”

  The officer offered up a consolatory smile. “Have you seen a paramedic?”

  Beside him, the paramedic stood with arms across his chest. “He won’t let me sit him down.”

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Christopher Morgan.” He folded his arms across his chest.

  The officer held out a hand. “I’m Officer Dellaporta.” When he didn’t take it, she continued. “Mr. Morgan, once the paramedics have looked at you and you’ve sobered up, we’ll ask you for a statement. Your descriptions have already been helpful. I’m sorry for what you must be going through right now.” She glanced at Tracy. “Why don’t you wait with your friend?”

  Chris stepped toward the officer. “There are two killers running around out there. They just murdered my friend. Do you have any idea what’s going on? Shouldn’t you be doing something about this?” The vessels in his neck bulged amid the bruising. “I mean, you just let them run away.”

  Officer Dellaporta’s partner motioned to excuse himself from the bartender. “Sir, please calm down. There are other officers on patrol looking for the suspects right now. Again, I’m sorry, but we’re doing what we can.”

  “Doing what you can? Randy’s dead.” Chris held up his hands. This time, they shook not out of fear or cold but in frustration. Now he felt certain about the footprints, the men. But the officers wouldn’t believe what he knew to be true. Something more than a street robbery had just taken place.

  “I’m sorry, sir. Please, once you have calmed down, we’ll take a statement about the mugging.”