Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“Absolutely,” Laurel said.
The door opened.
Two people stepped inside. Dr. Bertra Yannish and a man with dark hair.
“That’s John Fitz,” Viv muttered. “He kidnapped me. Asshole.”
The air shifted with them, sharp with chemicals and damp wool.
“Nicely done,” Bertra purred to Vexler. She wore brown jeans, a fitted white shirt, and a brown leather jacket that looked smart against the shirt. Her hair was tied back, and her eyes were heavily lined in black, deliberate, and cold. She crossed the room without hesitation and leaned in to kiss Vexler, her fingers brushing his collar. “I was a little worried about your sniper proficiency,” she murmured, lips against his. “But your kidnapping technique? Two solid stars.”
Fitz folded his arms, face still, tone flat. “I got the girl.”
“You know I’m a federal agent,” Laurel said. “You’re staring down the death penalty.”
Vexler gave her a brief glance. “That assumes any of this ends in a courtroom.”
“Tell me about the attack. When is it?” Laurel asked.
“Saturday,” Fitz said. “I need another half an hour with the last canister tonight.”
“Make me a smaller one, too,” Bertra said. She smiled at Laurel.
Laurel’s stomach dropped.
Fitz winked at Laurel and then turned back to the door and exited quietly.
Laurel shifted, sliding her arm off Viv’s shoulder, but the girl leaned back into her.
Laurel kept her eyes on Bertra. “So what’s the plan? I take it you’ve gone rogue with this yew tree compound.”
“‘Rogue’ is a bit dramatic,” Bertra said, already moving toward the storage locker across the room. “Let’s say we’re operating outside traditional constraints.”
“You’re going to kill civilians.”
“Not many,” Vexler said. “Just enough to make the message clear.”
Laurel’s jaw locked. “There are buyers?”
“Several organizations from many countries,” Bertra said. “Saturday is just the prototype run.”
Laurel’s pulse kicked, but she didn’t show it. “What exactly does the compound do?”
“It attacks the brain,” Bertra said, her voice clinical, almost bored. “Originally, it showed promise for treating certain forms of dementia. Neuro-regeneration, receptor reactivation, even brief moments of lucidity. But when concentrated with an enhanced binder, the compound triggers acute cortical lesions. Subcortical areas first, then it spreads. The subject becomes erratic. Manic. And then, very quickly, dead.”
Laurel didn’t move. Her muscles had gone still in a way she recognized, right before everything in her wanted to fight.
“We’ve been trying to refine it,” Bertra continued. “Ideally, we’d be able to modulate reactions. Induce calm. Even create obedience. Willing subjects. But as of now . . . the death curve is the only reliable result.” Her gaze slid over to Abigail. “You could’ve been useful in that phase. But with your sister being FBI, I couldn’t exactly reach out, could I?”
Abigail’s smile didn’t touch her eyes. “We started working together a year or so ago.”
Bertra shrugged. “I wasn’t told about this application until recently. Why, do you want in now?”
Abigail looked at her. “Sure.”
“I don’t believe you,” Bertra said.
“I don’t either,” Vexler muttered.
“You’re a shitty lawyer,” Abigail said, flat and unimpressed.
Vexler turned his head slowly. “I’m an excellent lawyer, and I’m really going to miss the law,” he said, like it had been a fond memory.
Abigail cocked her head. “Where are you going?”
Vexler glanced at Bertra. “Somewhere without an extradition treaty. Somewhere warm. Expensive.”
Laurel cut in. “Where’s the attack?” She already knew.
No one answered.
Laurel’s jaw clicked once before she spoke. “It’s Genesis Valley Community Church, right? They’re having some Spring Worship Day Saturday. We’re close by, and it’s a closed environment.”
Bertra smiled faintly.
“Of course,” Laurel continued. “You can’t really want to do this.”
“I’m attending the celebration,” Bertra said, glancing down at her clothes. “Though I may change my boots.”
Bile rose in Laurel’s throat. How could the woman even contemplate such a thing? “Is the compound liquid?”
“No,” Bertra said. “Aerosol.”
Laurel’s stomach dropped. That changed everything. “What’s the viability window?”
“About fifteen minutes,” Bertra said. “If the subject doesn’t inhale it, they live. If they do, that’s it.”
Laurel ran the numbers in her head. Crowd size. Airflow. Exposure time. It didn’t matter. Everyone was going to breathe it in.
Bertra gave a small nod toward the door. “Fitz is making you a special little canister with your name on it. I can’t wait to see your brain fry.”
Viv whimpered and drew closer to Laurel.
Kohnex leaned across Abigail to stare at her. “Don’t fret, little one. I have the universe on my side.”
Laurel cut him a look. Did he actually believe what he was saying? The detached, self-justifying delusion of it? She couldn’t parse whether he was lying or had fully subscribed to his own warped narrative.
Viv’s eyes filled. A single tear slid down her cheek, cutting through the grime. “I’m sorry about this, Laurel. This is my fault.”
“This isn’t your fault,” she said tightly. “I didn’t know Abigail’s lawyer was a war criminal in a leather jacket.”
Abigail leaned forward to look past her. “But you got in that trunk because of the girl.” Her eyes locked on Viv. “It is your fault we’re here.”