“I don’t know,” said Desh. He was about to continue when the door opened and two men walked down the stairs. As the first man came into view, both prisoners recognized him immediately. The wiry black-ops agent who had called himself Smith.
The same could not be said for the man who followed him. He was in his late forties, of average height but slightly overweight. He was wearing gray suit pants, a blue-striped oxford dress shirt, and black wingtips. He had a small mouth and thin lips, and blond-brown hair that was parted down the middle. There was something about the man that was unsettling, as if the sight of him had set off subconscious alarms that he was a dangerous predator, despite his unassuming appearance.
“Kira Miller,” the man said smugly. “At long last.”
He put his back to the workbench and hoisted himself to a seated position on the table facing the prisoners, his legs hanging down casually. Smith remained standing, ten feet away from the workbench and facing in the same direction.
“Who are you?” demanded Kira.
“You don’t really think I’m going to answer that,” he said in amusement. “Call me Sam, and let’s leave it at that. And to anticipate your next question, we’re in what is called a safe house. There are four heavily armed men upstairs whose job it is to follow any order I give.”
Desh had no doubt from their respective postures that this was Smith’s boss, which meant he was also probably the man they had been calling Moriarty. And he had access to a safe house and considerable legitimate authority. Not surprising.
“So you must be government,” guessed Desh. “Sam as in Uncle Sam? Is that supposed to be cute or just psychotic?”
The man moved in a blur, much faster than his appearance would have suggested. He pushed off the table, took the few steps to where Desh was immobilized on the floor, and kicked him savagely in the gut, leading with the point of his black wingtip. Desh tightened his stomach just in time and tried to turn away, but his stomach took the full brunt of the kick, and he reeled from the blow. Pain signals bombarded his nervous system.
Sam, calm again, returned to his perch on the table. “I don’t like your tone, Mr. Desh,” he said, as if reprimanding a grade-schooler. “You will address me with the proper respect. My business is with Dr. Miller here. The only reason you aren’t dead yet is because I’m trying to figure out how you factor into this. But I would watch how you speak to me. I’m not that curious.”
Desh didn’t respond as the man who called himself Sam turned once again to Kira. “How’s the head?” he taunted.
“What did you do to me?” she demanded.
“Oh, we’ll come to that, never fear. But first we have some other business. I don’t suppose you’d want to make this easy and just give me the secret to the fountain of youth? The GPS coordinates for that buried flash drive of yours would work just as well.”
She said nothing but glared at him icily.
Sam held out his palms innocently. “I didn’t think so. Worth a try, though,” he said, shrugging. “I thought this might be a bit of a challenge. After all,” he added, the corners of his mouth turning up into a cruel smile, “you were willing to let me barbecue your brother.”
Kira’s eyes blazed like twin suns. “You son of a bitch!” she screamed hatefully, pulling against her restraints.
He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Son of a bitch?” he repeated, amused. “I would normally take offense, but you are technically correct. Mom was a bitch. How did you know?” he added wryly.
“I will kill you,” she growled. “If it’s the last thing I ever do.”
Sam was unimpressed. “You’re hardly in a position to be making threats, my dear.” He shook his head in mock regret. “But I see now that killing your brother probably ruined any chance for us to have a romantic relationship.”
Desh could tell that Kira was seething inside, but was fighting to stay calm so she wouldn’t give this Sam the added satisfaction of getting a rise out of her. The man was purposely pushing her buttons to cloud her thinking, and Desh knew he had to do something to intervene. “So you’re the one who broke into her condo,” he said, risking the point of Sam’s shoe to deflect the conversation from its current course. “And stole her treatment.”
Desh braced himself for an attack, but none came. “That’s right.”
“But you aren’t enhanced now,” noted Kira, having already regained her equilibrium. “Why not?”
“You of all people know that running your brain at warp speed takes a lot out of it. Can’t do it every day.” He paused. “But if your real question is, did I run out of pills? the answer is no. I didn’t. What’s more, I have a molecular biologist working for me who’s almost managed to duplicate your work. Another month and I’ll have a lifetime supply.”
“And will he be signing his own death warrant when he succeeds?” said Kira.
“Why ask questions to which you already know the answer?” Sam shrugged. “Everybody dies sometime.” He tilted his head and grinned. “Except for maybe me and you, my dear.”