Chapter Four

“She’s awake.”

“It’s been three hours. It’s time for another dose.”

“Won’t be long before the other wakes too.”

A hand touched hers and disturbed the IV tube in her arm. Addey’s eyes were thin slits. She was lying on the floor of a private airplane. The engine rumbled her torso, turning her stomach into an acidic cage of fighting butterflies. Two men tended to her body. One man was covered in sweat, the other enjoying a glass of Scotch. Beside her, another man was asleep. His face was drug-relaxed. He was like her—taken, manipulated, being delivered somewhere.

“Whu, what am I doing here?” The effort of talking threatened to send her back into the deep chasm of a coma-rest.

The Scotch drinker stared down at her without a word. He slugged back his beverage and shook his head as the other fitted her IV bag with a dose of a clear substance.

Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, and she returned to sleep.

 

 

The engine’s churning was no more. She was in an isolated room this time. She rested on a cot with a fibrous blanket on top of her. It was dark green, army issue. The bedsprings were shift sensitive. The room was sterile with the tang of bleach and unkempt skin. They had supplied her with new clothes, but no makeup, or deodorant, or the niceties of a female. Thank God I’m not on my period right now.

The room was empty aside from a sink, a mirror and the stranger.

She yipped in fright and pulled the blanket over her body, though she was fully dressed. The painful blush and sting of embarrassment quickly turned into reproach. “Who the fuck are you? Who let you in?”

The stranger sitting beside her bed was in his midthirties. He wore a Yankees fitted ball cap, black tie, black button-up shirt and beige khaki pants. The holster around his hips was loaded with mace, a radio receiver and a .22 caliber pistol. His freshly shaven face was warm, the smile genuine, though he had tired eyes. Everybody she’d met through the last few days had that look of deep exhaustion. These people were working overtime without a vacation. She also noted his curly, licorice-black hair and tanned skin. He was of Mexican heritage.

“I apologize for being the creeper leering at the side of your bed.” He extended his hand, leaving it out until she shook it. “My name is Richard Cortez. I’ll be your advisor. You’re one of the unlucky people who fell into their midst. I understand your fear and anger. It’s in everybody I meet.”

“My name is—”

“Addey Ruanova. You’re the daughter of Carlos and Norma Ruanova. They married in 1977. You were born in 1981.” He eyed his clipboard. This was the part of the job Richard seemingly relished. “Oh yes, you made the A honor roll in second grade. Your t-ball team went to the state championship, but you lost to the Sharks. You busted your head on the pavement skating downhill once. Ten staples in your scalp. Ouch.”

He paused, waiting for a reaction. Something about taking in her life’s accomplishments and downfalls returned her to normalcy. “Keep going. What else do you know about me?”

Richard arched his brow inquisitively. “Okay. You were part of the drill team for the first two years of high school; then you started working at the Sunshine Motel full-time. You sold blood on a regular basis, fifty dollars a pop. You lost your virginity to Mario Martinez. You guys rented out a room at your workplace under a fake name. But you regretted it. Didn’t the school call him the Wesley Snipes of pussy?”

“Yeah, whatever the fuck that means. And how the fuck do you know that?”

“Hey, you asked.”

“And for the record, Mario did get me into the hotel room, but he drugged my drink. I was sixteen. Other friends were supposed to join us, and oh, oops, they mysteriously didn’t show up. It seemed like the entire sophomore-class football team was in cahoots with Mario.” She smiled darkly. “He paid for it, though.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, he did. Deke broke his arm, blacked both his eyes and slashed the guy’s tires.”

“He deserved it. That’s the only time Deke did something destructive that I supported.”

“Is Mario the reason you don’t date?”

“You’re getting personal, aren’t you?” She pointed at his clipboard. “Can’t you check your notes? They should tell you.”

“Actually,” he pointed at the paper, “no—they don’t. Fill in the juicy details, would you?”

She tossed the blanket aside. “Men can go shove their sticks into a wood chipper. That’s my stance on dating.”

She looked at the Band-Aid and the cotton ball on her left arm. When her foot touched the floor, she realized her right ankle was strapped with a metal box. The steel was two inches thick, firm but not circulation cutting. A blinking red dot flashed on the side of the box. “Is this a tracking piece?”

“A lot of money and time has been put into procuring your services. It’s ugly and intrusive, but I assure you, it’s for your safety as well.” He lowered his eyes. “Your job isn’t exactly safe.”

The vagueness accompanying her new job, the contract Mr. Quinn had urged her to sign without properly reading the fine print, the sedative that had delivered her from a plane to what she could safely bet was a boat—commercial-size too—increased her aggravation. “Will you tell me what my job exactly is? Am I drilling oil? Standing in tanks of piranha? How about a government spy? Do I get disguises and a voice modulator?”

Richard burst out laughing. “You, you’re funny. You have more chutzpah than the average sucker. Oh, you’re going to be good at your job. You might even survive your contract.”

That ripped the humor from the moment. He continued to yuk it up, unstrapping his backpack and digging into it. He produced a manila folder, a sticker holding the flaps together. “My job is to disseminate this information to you. You are required to read it. It’s about eight thirty in the morning. We’ll be floating along for another twelve or so hours. Would you like me to bring you something to eat? The government provides awesome rations. You want steak and eggs, perhaps an omelet? Or maybe you like Belgian waffles or blueberry pancakes? We have an open bar. Some like to drink up. Understandably so, because this is quite a harrowing experience.”

He said when she didn’t reply, “My condolences for your brother. I’m very sorry.”

She lowered her head and kept silent, but then she asked him, “Can I be alone? I’m not hungry right now, thank you.”

Richard understood. “Yes, of course. Read the packet. For your safety, read it. Oh, and you’re required to read it, so please read it.”