“Plus Mr. Bradford’s problem is bone-related. As an orthopedic surgery resident, that’s your specialty,” Hellman quickly added.
Shaking her head, Liliana faced the FBI agent. “What I can do is limited. I’m not an expert in genetic engineering or its
complications.”
“But you are apparently familiar with the problems created by the Wardwell gene therapies and how to control that damage,”
Dr. Hellman insisted.
Before she could answer, Whittaker jumped into the fray. “We need to know if Bradford’s bone loss is continuing and the extent
of the gene replication in his body. We may also need you to administer the inhibitor complexes and improve on them. I assume
that this is similar to what you’re doing with Ms. Shaw.”
Liliana couldn’t dispute those statements. “I do have
some familiarity with those processes, but again, it’s limited. If Bradford isn’t presenting the same symptoms as Ms. Shaw—”
“The FBI can help you assemble a team with more expertise in the genetic-engineering area, as well as skilled lab personnel.
Since the FBI hopes to recover the other patients shortly, we’ll provide the facilities and supplies, plus pay for your time
and all expenses. Anything you do, however, will be need-to-know. No statements to the public or anyone other than your immediate
team.”
There was a tone in Whittaker’s voice that had a note of finality, as if this was a done deal whether or not she agreed. Glancing
at her administrator from the corner of her eye, she noted that he was nodding emphatically, as if he, too, understood there
could be no argument. His next words confirmed it.
“I will make arrangements with the hospital board so that you may revise your schedule here at the hospital. Dr. Rojas, as
well, if you wish for her to assist.”
Heat blossomed deep in her center because she was once again being controlled by others. By men. Rising slowly from the chair,
she inclined her head in Hellman’s direction and then faced Special Agent Whittaker.
In measured tones, she said, “I appreciate the confidence you have in my abilities and know that this could also be a wonderful
opportunity to assist Ms. Shaw.”
Whittaker narrowed his eyes as he examined her. “I hear a ‘but’ there, Dr. Carrera.”
There was definitely a big but there, and it wasn’t just feeling as if she had no control over what she was expected to do.
She didn’t like the vibe coming from Whittaker. She suspected he was demanding and didn’t tolerate differing
opinions. But on top of that, she wasn’t quite sure he was trustworthy. Because of her suspicions she said, “I have to think
about this offer, Agent Whittaker.”
Without waiting for their reply, she stormed from the office, determined to be the mistress of her own fate.
Jesse paced the short width of the cage in which he had been imprisoned for almost nine months now. It was where Edwards and
Morales had taken all their former patients when they had left their facilities at Wardwell Laboratories.
They had been caged like animals, since the two scientists no longer thought of them as humans. Or maybe they never had.
More than once Jesse had tried to escape but had never made it farther than the door to the warehouse holding the cages. A
combination of Taser blasts and the powerful mind-altering drugs used to control the patients had kept him a prisoner. After
the third attempt and an injection that had made his brain seem like grape jelly, Jesse had stopped trying to escape, focusing
instead on surviving in the hopes that someone would set them free.
And now it seemed like that moment might be at hand.
Back and forth, back and forth he paced and went slowly mad as he waited for Morales to return. He didn’t much care for the
little man, but the scientist was the key to his freedom and to the safety of his little sister.
So Jesse continued to pace, his anger growing with every second that passed, until his rage was so alive that it became stronger
than him.
Stronger than his will.
With a blood-curdling scream, he stalked to the back of his cage, where his captors had placed a heavy body bag, and began
to punch it, his big fists pummeling the inanimate bag. In his brain it was Morales he was beating to a bloody pulp.
The first few punches stung his fists, and he reminded himself of the damage such pain meant. Every little injury produced
bone, even in places where bone was not meant to be. So Jesse somehow mustered control over the animal within and measured
the force of his blows, relying on the quantity of them to drain him of the violence created by the genes Wardwell had implanted
in his body.
A fine layer of sweat covered him by the time he finished, and deep depressions showed in the bag. Glancing down at his hands,
Jesse noted they were slightly reddened but undamaged. Of course, the almost imperceptible hardening of his skin across his
fists had helped protect him from further hurt. Unlike the harmful repairs on other parts of his body.
Almost absentmindedly, he ran his hand over the dense hand-sized spot on his ribs—a byproduct of Morales’s little games, the
assorted Taser blasts, and the wildly proliferating genes. Genes he held responsible for his anger, as well, although the
little voice in his head—his father’s voice—chastised him for the lie.
He had been angry before the experiments Wardwell had decided to do illegally.
Angry at losing the one thing he loved almost more than anything else—football.
Angry about his father and the way he had cut Jesse off from his family, decrying Jesse’s sinful ways.
As Jesse began pacing the narrow width of the cage once again, he considered that maybe his father had been right.
It had been the sin of greed that had started him on the road to ruin. All those millions thrown at him by an upstart pro
football team had made him lose sight of who he was and what he stood for.
It had been the sin of pride that made him think he could do whatever he wanted because he was the best at what he did.
Sin had been stronger than him. Stronger than the values his family had instilled over the course of his life. It was the
reason his father had cut off contact, warning Jesse not to return until he had changed his ways and embraced a good Christian
life once again.
The rattle and groan of the warehouse door snared his attention.
Morales and his creepy little assistant Jack entered the building. As they stepped into their makeshift laboratory, an assortment
of howls, grunts, and groans rose up from the other dozen or so captive patients in the cages scattered throughout the space.
Jesse tuned out those almost inhuman noises, stopped pacing, and grabbed hold of the bars of his cage. Rattling them, he called
out to Morales, “You promised to let me go.”
A promise that came with a huge price tag—his little sister’s life.
Morales smiled, a tight shift of his lips accompanied by a startling glitter in his eyes. If ever there was a caricature of
a mad scientist, Morales fit the bill, Jesse thought. Especially when you put him together with Jack,
his sniveling and kleptomaniac assistant. Jack’s lab jacket pocket was filled with shiny tools and pens he had collected in
their facility.
Morales strolled over, as casually as if he was taking a walk in the park, Jack trailing behind him, his hand on the precious
treasures in his pocket.
“Not yet,
mi amigo.
We have to make sure everything is in place before we can let you go,” he said, held out his hand, and snapped his fingers.
After he did so, he peered around Jesse to the body bag at the back of his cage.
“Good. I see you’ve been exercising. It’s important that you stay fit.”
As Jesse watched, Jack wheeled another heavy bag into the large open area in the center of the warehouse. Then Jack scurried
over, bringing with him the cattle prod that Morales seemed to enjoy so well.
There was only one thing the scientist enjoyed even more—the control he possessed over his captives.
“When will I be able to go?” Jesse pressed, fearful that with each day that passed, his sister’s illness would advance until
the damage might be irreparable.
Morales raised the cattle prod. “When all is ready.”
“When is that?” Adrenaline began to pump through his system at the sight of the prod, and he felt as if his body was vibrating
from within.
Morales must have registered the change in him, since he smiled and motioned for Jack to open the door. But Morales made sure
to keep the cattle prod ready and to stay beyond Jesse’s reach.
After so many months, Jesse knew the routine. He stepped up to the other bag and began to pummel it. With each blow, he thought
about the many months of his
captivity. About his family and all that he had lost, each thought increasing the strength of his punches until Jesse pounded
the heavy bag with such force that a seam on the side began to split. Another strike with his rock-hard fists opened the tear
even further.
Morales egged him on. “That’s it, Jesse. Destroy it,” the scientist urged as he stood, the cattle prod in hand, just feet
away from Jesse.
Jesse remembered the sting of that device. The deadened and hard piece of what had formerly been flesh along his rib cage
had repeatedly experienced the bite of the prod. He had first suffered the sting of it many months earlier, when he had been
punished for interfering as another patient had murdered Morales’s colleague—Dr. Rudy Wells.
Wells had seen the error of his ways, and Jesse had hoped Wells would stop the experimentation and torture being visited on
him and the other patients.
Now Wells was dead and Jesse was still a captive. No one had come to save him and the others trapped alongside him in the
warehouse.
At Jesse’s delay, Morales picked up the prod and stepped closer. “Destroy it.”
Jesse needed no further instruction. He marched up to the heavy bag, encircled it in his muscled arms, and, imagining that
it was his captor, squeezed the bag in his arms like a python constricting its prey. As the seams strained, he dug his fingers
into the gaps and yanked, ripping the bag open and spewing its innards along the floor of the cage much like he wanted to
do with Morales.
Releasing the mangled bits of bag, Jesse staggered back, breathing heavily.
As he glanced at the scientist, Morales inched away, clearly aware of Jesse’s thoughts.
“If my sister gets hurt…” Jesse began but didn’t finish.
He didn’t need to for the men to understand they’d better not delay much longer.
W
hittaker tracked Mick Carrera through the lens of the binoculars as Mick ran along the boardwalk in the direction of Liliana’s
condo. He was surprised that an ex-mercenary like Carrera had become such a creature of habit. It made him and his sister
easy marks.
“Follow them. Listen in and make sure we didn’t make a mistake,” Whittaker said to his second-in-command.
“You think she’ll say something to him?” Howard asked, tugging the black knit ski cap lower on his head and slipping on a
pair of sunglasses to hide his eyes.
“Dr. Carrera is smart. I’m not sure that she’s buying into this completely. If she involves her brother—”
“We’ve got trouble,” Howard said and, with a nod, left the SUV to trail Mick.
The late fall morning was warm, the air refreshing thanks to a westerly breeze blowing in from the ocean. The scent of leaf
mold mingled with that of the sea and the dying remains of a rosebush sheltered from the cold by her condo building.
Liliana waited on the corner, watching as her brother approached.
As he came up to her, he smiled and gave her a big sweaty hug. He had already been running for miles.
“Ready?” he asked as he did every morning they jogged together.
“Ready,” she answered and fell into pace beside him. Or rather, it was safer to say he slowed to her pace as they crossed
Ocean Avenue and jogged onto the boardwalk.
They were silent for the first few blocks as she settled into the rhythm of the run, but as they ran through the derelict
remains of the Asbury Park Casino, Liliana asked, “How is Caterina today?”
“Feeling good. Your new treatment seems to be working well,” Mick replied in between breaths and then glanced back over his
shoulder, as if searching for something, before returning his attention to her.
“That’s nice to hear.” And if she accepted Whittaker’s offer, Liliana might be able to improve on the inhibitor even further
and possibly find a way to stop what was happening in Caterina’s body due to the illegally implanted genes.
So why was she still having such doubts about the wisdom of joining up with Whittaker?
“Can we stop for a second?” Mick said and pulled up, one hand pressed against his side before he immediately bent over as
if in pain.
“Are you okay?” She laid a hand on his shoulder, concern for her brother overriding all other thoughts.
He stood up and grimaced, but as he did so, he watched someone pass by them out of the corner of his eye. “Just a stitch,”
he replied but didn’t immediately begin to jog again. Instead, he delayed for another couple of minutes, walking in a small
circle as if trying to walk out a cramp.
After, he surprised her by saying, “Let’s go the other way for a change.”
With a nod she followed as they reversed direction, heading southward, back toward Ocean Grove and Mick’s home in Bradley
Beach.
“What’s up?” she asked, puzzled by her brother’s sudden alteration of their months’ old pattern.
“Why don’t you tell me?” he asked, peeking over his shoulder.
“What do you mean?” For good measure she looked toward the ruins of the casino from where they had come, but she glimpsed
nothing out of the ordinary.
“We were being tailed. One man. Well built. Possibly dangerous,” he advised and then motioned for them to cross onto Main
Avenue and off the boardwalk.
“We’re too visible here,” he explained as she shot him a puzzled look.
As they jogged up the central part of town, it was relatively quiet, devoid of the crowds the summer season would bring. For
good measure, Mick peered behind him once more, and as they neared the coffee shop, he pointed to it and said, “Let’s sit
and talk.”