The Animal Under The Fur Page 10

  The sound of keys clanking fills my ears—Ceci coming home—and I’m rocked out of my paralysis to quickly scoop my briefing materials into my satchel and flop back onto the couch.

  “Hey,” she calls as she drops her bag onto the kitchen counter. She’s dressed in a smart gray pencil skirt and white top that complements her dark skin, her hair pulled into a tight ponytail. She looks absolutely fierce and not surprisingly got the job at Turquoise Waters. She’s been working the brunch shifts as the maître d’, coming back for a small break before changing and returning to waitress dinner. She says she’s been loving it and that Christopher sounds like my biggest fan. I’ve refrained from acknowledging her latter comment.

  “Hey,” I call back just as I turn my screen to my last Scrabble game.

  “What did they need you for at the office today?” she asks as she carries two oranges over and hands me one.

  I find myself tearing into the fruit like it’s a certain person’s face.

  “Whoa.” Ceci raises her brows as she falls into the couch beside me. “That bad, huh?”

  “They put me on a project with Carter Smith.”

  She’s silent for a moment, blinking once, twice, before keeling over with laughter.

  “I do not find this funny.”

  She snorts as she tries to compose herself. “I’m sorry, Nash—I’m sorry—I just—” She breaks down again, and I’m about to leave, when she holds up a hand, telling me to stay. “I’m sorry,” she repeats again, breathing out a few final chuckles while wiping a tear away, “but this is amazing. Karma really handed you one this time.” She doesn’t try to remove the smile plastered to her face.

  I scowl. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you, Nashville Brown, have to actually work with someone you don’t get along with instead of run away from them.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Nash, come on. Don’t be obtuse.”

  “Obtuse? Why, Cecilia Williams, did you finally download that word of the day app?”

  She throws an orange slice at me, her gray eyes narrowing. “Don’t be a hag.”

  I give her a syrupy smile while popping her ammo fruit into my mouth.

  “What I’m trying to say,” Ceci begins again, “is that you only have two modes of dealing with something you don’t want to. You either A”—she holds up a finger—“turn and run as fast as you can in the other direction, or B”—she holds up another finger—“make it run as fast as it can in the other direction.”

  I give her a bored look. “I fail to see your point.”

  “That’s not dealing with something.”

  “Actually it is.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Okay, let me clarify. It’s not a healthy way of dealing with something.”

  “What do you know about being healthy? You use peanut butter as dip for Cool Ranch Doritos.”

  “Don’t try and use your evasion tactics with me.” Ceci waves a hand. “Besides, the only ones who need to understand my relationship with peanut butter and Cool Ranch Doritos are me and my peanut butter and Cool Ranch Doritos.”

  “You are so gross.”

  “And you finally need to learn to work through your people issues. I understand it’s hard. Don’t forget. I was right there with you at Bell Buckle and all through high school, but we’re grown-ups now. We need to move on from why we were there, who we were, and like you told me, need to start making some healthy changes.”

  “Well aren’t you little Miss Dr. Phil today.”

  “Nash,” Ceci says with a resigned sigh. “I’m not trying to get all Oprah on your ass. I just love you and know how sweet—yes, sweet!” she repeats when I make a face, “you can be. Not to mention loyal, funny, and a blessing to have in a person’s life. I want other people to see that too.”

  “Why?”

  “Because”—Ceci smiles—“I think it’s a sin to keep you all to myself.”

  “Ugh, you’re such a Hallmark card.” I shove a pillow over my face. Suffocating seems really appealing right now.

  My couch cushions shift. “I can be a great teddy bear too!” Ceci squeals before latching on to me with one of her vicelike hugs.

  “No, Ceci! Don’t. I hate ‘Bear Hug Time’!” I squirm under her grasp, but it’s too late. She’s already started to sing.

  “Bear Hugs! Bear Hugs! When you get hugged like a bear, you forget all your cares! So open your arms, and let’s get to huggin’ so we can feel all the lovin’!” she croons.

  I try not to vomit on the both of us. “Bear Hug Time” is a devil-worshiping song they taught us at the orphanage. Once the words are spoken, you can’t get them out of your head for days.

  “I hate you,” I pant as the song begins to spin on repeat in my brain.

  “Aw, I love you too.” She grins.

  Like trying to hold in a fart, it proves too painful, and I let out a laugh. Ceci beams before hugging me tighter.

  And this time, I hug back.

  That night I dream of something I’ve conditioned my mind to never dream of, so when she materializes, it takes me a second to remember who she is.

  But of course I know her, for how can someone forget their mother?

  The images aren’t like a picture though. I can never see her eyes or nose or mouth. Her whole face is a smudge in a painting. But that’s okay, because the things I can bring up are more important. Like her scent, lilac with lemon; her laughter, light and ever-flowing; and her touch, calming and soft.

  These dreams terrify me, for I know they won’t last. Even in my current peace within her arms, I know the next part is coming. For when I’m with her, so is he, and the darkness is quick to follow.

  At first the man’s just a shadow that hovers close by, watching us smile and play, and at first I’m not scared of him. The three of us are happy. He’s strong and lifts me high in the air until I giggle and squeal. We laugh, she, he, and I, because again, we’re happy. But then I sense my mother’s worry. Her heartbeat gets louder, thump, thump. Gets faster, thump, thump, thump. And we run and run and run before we hide. Stay quiet, my little flower, she whispers. Be very quiet. More shadows dart by. Quiet, little flower, she says again. Quiet.

  And I do.

  I stay quiet.

  So quiet.

  Quiet for the both of us.

  Quiet until I can’t hear or see anyone because I’m alone.

  And she’s gone.

  But don’t worry, Mommy. I’ll keep quiet.

  Always and forever quiet.

  Until you come back.

  Choking on a breath, I snap my eyes open. It’s the middle of the night, my apartment dark, with Ceci’s soft snoring filtering in from across the hall. I listen to her rhythmic breathing as my own slows, and my fingers loosen from where they’re clenching my sheets. The ceiling fades in and out of focus as I stare up at it. It’s been years since I’ve been plagued with that dream, and with a decisive twist of a deadbolt, I keep my mind from exploring why. Instead I throw off my comforter and get dressed. Even though I still have three more hours of rest, I know I won’t be going back to sleep. For when it comes to dealing with what might be waiting for me if I do, Ceci was one hundred percent right—I will not hesitate in turning and running as fast as I can in the other direction.

  26

  3

  UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

  MEXICO CITY, MEXICO: 0800 HOURS

  The flight to Mexico City went by quickly, and the drive to our base to meet Jules and Carter went by even quicker. Time enjoys playing cruel jokes like that. When you dread starting something, it bends the space-time continuum to get you there faster.

  The base is connected to an American bank that’s on the west end of Paseo de la Reforma, a wide avenue that runs diagonally across the heart of Mexico City. The larger portion of headquarters resides underground, like most do. It makes it easier to muffle sound when testing equipment, and even simpler to eradicate the building if necessary by c
ollapsing it in and flooding it. Intelligence agencies are big on those types of insurance plans: learn everything, share nothing. My own personal motto.

  Akoni and I split up when we get there. Him going to gather his Inspector Gadget trench coat of items while I make my way into the weapons warehouse. It’s a large gray hangar that sits ten floors below ground level. Entering, I immediately spot Carter on the far side of the room, his tall form dressed in dark jeans and a black T-shirt as he and a specialist look over a few tables lined with guns. Upon seeing him, I immediately do an about face, deciding to check out the toxins they’ve made for me first, which thankfully are contained in an airtight glass lab on the complete opposite side.

  Introducing myself to the resident scientists standing by, I’m led into a disinfectant chamber to be blasted clean before entering the lab. There’s something about being in a Clean Room that gives me a weird tickle of joy. With everything contaminant-free, quiet and contained in their petri dishes and freezers, my oversensitive senses feel normalized. I pick things up easier, and my concentration comes more naturally, not having to block out all the superfluous noise. It’s the one time I get a glimpse of what it must be like to be a normal human, and while somewhat boring, the simplicity is almost breathtaking, the constant buzz in my ears gone.

  “We’re very excited to share what we’ve prepared for you today,” Dr. Falto Pérez says, a tiny bald man with wide brown eyes. Nodding for me to follow, he shows me to an area filled with vials. “It’s rare we get an Op with such an extensive portfolio in toxicology,” he chitters exuberantly as he pulls forward a silver case, his white lab coat shifting stiffly under the fluorescent lights as he clicks it open. I give him a small smile. Out of all the specialists in the intelligence field, I’ve always respected the scientists the most. Not only because of their obvious cognitive advancement compared to everyone else, but also because when SI6 first brought me in as a child, they were the kindest people there. When they could have easily made me feel like a lab rat during the DNA tests to determine my A+ abilities, they never did. They always addressed me by my first name, played games with me, and made a point to explain exactly what they were doing and how it would work. It’s what got me initially interested in the human body and how to manipulate it. As technology and science advanced, I only became more obsessed. The things we’ve learned we can do are absolutely beautiful and completely terrifying.

  My ideal combo.

  So it’s no surprise that I find myself raptly watching a video MRI of a brain with its prefrontal lobe being clouded, inducing short-term memory loss.

  “Amazing,” I say as I turn to read the listed details of the toxin Dr. Pérez just showcased. “And this can be transferred into spray form?”

  “Oh yes.” He nods, picking up a can that looks like traveling hairspray. “We actually prefer it that way. Less painful for the recipient, and you won’t need to get as close. You’ll have to wear a breathing mask though, but that comes standard. See here.” He pulls off a small cylinder stuck to the side. “Just bite on this piece, and the face mask will expand around your nose and mouth.”

  I graze my fingers along the ridges of the collapsed mask. “And how long has it been recorded to last?”

  “The canisters you’ll be provided have TML, temporary memory loss, for up to three hours. We feel this is sufficient in getting you out of the situation you’re in and far enough away so that you can go dark before anyone starts looking.”

  “Wonderful.”

  The doctor beams before showing me a couple more serums they’ve customized for me, mainly involving temporary paralysis, hallucinogens, tracking liquids, and of course, extermination. Christmas came early this year.

  Eventually I have to do weapons because I’ve exhausted every other option waiting for Carter to leave that area, but I see he’s still cleaning a gun, bent over the range table where four target dummies rest in the distance. My fingers curl into fists at my sides as I stomp forward knowing he’s purposefully been taking his sweet-ass time. Stepping beside him, I’m unable to ignore the scent of a woman’s day-old perfume that lingers on his black T-shirt. It mixes aggressively with his male and cinnamon scent, as if to say I was here. Remember me? I’m guessing flight attendant, and I sneer in disgust before taking in what’s in front of him.

  “Jesus, what are you preparing for? Armageddon?” I glance over his pile of semiautomatics, handguns, and a submachine gun.

  “Funny, I’ve been using the same nickname for you too,” he says while continuing to wipe down the chamber of a Chiappa Rhino, a revolver known for its accuracy due to its ability to recoil straight back.

  Suppressing the desire to show him how truly apocalyptic I can be, I start collecting my standard arsenal from the nearby racks. An assistant steps over to help, but I wave her off. My needs in this field are minimal; I grab only two Glock 17s with silencers, a Beretta LTLX7000 shotgun, and by far my favorite, an FN Five-Seven, all of which are biometric. Though I appreciate and respect them, I’m not big on guns. I feel less in control with them. I prefer hand-to-hand combat given that the closer I am to my opponents, the easier I can pick up on their temperaments and determine their next moves. There’s no life in a gun, and your target is often too far away to read. Unless I’m standing downwind. If that’s the case, then game on.

  Guns obviously make my job easier though, so when I do engage, I love the FN Five-Seven. With its ambidextrous controls, low recoil, large magazine capacity, and ability to penetrate body armor, it’s quite the busy bee.

  Looking back at Carter’s plethora of weapons, I pick up a Corner Shot Grenade Launcher. “Seriously?”

  His green gaze goes from what’s in my hand up to my face. “Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “If it will end my misery of your presence faster, I just might,” he says before lifting his Rhino, aiming down the sight and hitting one of the far targets right between the brows.

  He flashes me a cocky grin.

  Without losing a beat, I pick up a standard handgun, turn off the safety, and, not removing my eyes from his, take three shots at the target. From the way his gaze narrows and his jaw clenches, I don’t have to check to know I hit precisely where he shot. Three times precisely.

  My turn to smile.

  Sucking on the front of his teeth, Carter snatches up a grenade launcher and, barely giving me time to take hurried steps back, lets loose a shell. It barrels forward, rocketing toward the other side of the room before a loud BANG shakes the walls. All four targets explode in a barrage of flames, the warehouse plummeting into shocked silence while the fire crackles and smokes its final destruction.

  “I win,” Carter singsongs before dropping the launcher onto the table and returning to cleaning his gun.

  If my eyes had the power to pierce, the whole side of his stupidly defined face would be filled with holes.

  Grinding my teeth to near dust, I shove my weapons to the wide-eyed assistant and leave. Neither of us acknowledge the other’s presence for the remainder of the time we’re at base.

  A behavior, I’m hoping, we can maintain for the entirety of the trip.

  27

  Carter

  UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

  MEXICO CITY, MEXICO: 1135 HOURS

  The prop assistant backs up like a cornered rabbit, and I take in a calming breath, telling him for the tenth time what to do.

  “Give me the keys.” I hold out my hand to him.

  “If you give him the keys, you’ll regret coming to work today,” 3 says through clenched teeth.

  We’ve been having a standoff for the last ten minutes about who’ll be driving to Cuetzalan, and I’m on my last nerve.

  “Benny, was it?” I ask the assistant. He nods while glancing at 3 nervously. “Listen, Benny. Let me ask you a question. If a couple were on their honeymoon, who do you think would be driving them around? The husband or the wife?”

  “Don’t even
play that sexist card,” 3 cuts in.

  “Benny, who do you think would drive?” I repeat. The man opens and closes his mouth. “That’s it. Just say it,” I goad. “I know you have an opinion. You wouldn’t be working here if you didn’t.”

  He swallows. “El marido, señor.”

  I smile triumphantly, snatching the keys from him. “Exactly, the husband,” I pointedly say to 3, who if she were a cartoon character, would have steam pouring from her ears in this moment. Dressed in a smart black leather jacket, gray T-shirt, dark jeans, and boots, with her fiery-red hair pulled into a high ponytail, she appears every bit the hard-ass she’s trying to come across as. I’m almost curious as to what depraved torture fantasy she’s conjuring up for me as I take in her icy-blue gaze.

  “You know,” I say, walking to our assigned car located in the garage. “I specifically remember someone threatening me about not messing up the assignment. I would think not appearing like an authentic married couple would be a threat, don’t you?” I ask sweetly as I load my bags into the back of the small two-door Nissan Sunny. Cuetzalan’s streets are teeny tiny and often abruptly become stairs, so anything larger than a thimble would be worthless there.

  “Fine,” she growls. “But I’m controlling the music.” She nearly smacks my head when throwing her duffel into the trunk.

  “Whatever will keep your trap shut, swe—” Seeing her fingers twitch at her sides has me stopping short, memories of my head slamming onto a conference table replaying in front of me. “You’ve got problems. You know that?” I shut the trunk.

  “Yeah, and I’m looking at my biggest one.”

  “Oh snap! Where’d you learn that one? Elementary school?”

  3 takes a threatening step forward, but I remain still, daring her to try what she did at SI6 again, but before either of us can do much of anything, Akoni and Jules walk up, interrupting our super-enjoyable, fun conversation.