The Target (11 page)

An older woman in sweatpants approached, her wrinkled face curious but not fearful. The dust rag she held indicated she was there to clean the building. Kiya scrambled to come up with something plausible. “I’m helping Dominic. He hurt himself at the gym and needed to come here to pick up his cell phone.” Which she still had in her pocket.

The woman gave her a skewed stare of skepticism. “He looks passed out. Are you his girlfriend? You’re not supposed to be in here.”

“I know. We’re leaving. He just needed his phone.” Kiya started forward. Thank Allah she looked young enough to be Dominic’s girlfriend.

The cleaning lady’s hands were on her hips now. “I have to report this.”

“Please don’t. He could get fired.” Kiya reached for Dominic’s pocket, hoping to find a wallet. “We’re supposed to get married. He can’t afford to lose his job.” The wallet was thin, but he had a couple of fifties. Kiya shoved the cash at the woman.

She frowned, hesitating, then reached for it.

Were the cameras catching this? “We’ll get out of here.” Pushing the wheelchair, she trotted down the hall. If the cleaning lady called the police, Kiya would be long gone before they arrived. But if the woman reported the incident to her boss, the ProtoCell executives would know about the theft. And her client had been adamant that they not find out. This could hurt her chances of negotiating a bigger payment.

* * *

Cheryl Decker woke to the sound of her daughter’s sobs. She threw back the sheet and glanced at the clock. She’d only been in bed for an hour. Exhausted, she trudged into the center of her house. The sobs came from the kitchen. No surprise. Her nine-year-old girl sat on the floor in front of the locked refrigerator. She had a roll of paper towels in her lap and had eaten a chunk off the end.

Not again.
“Amber, sweetie.” Cheryl knelt down and hugged the poor girl, who couldn’t help herself. The Prader-Willi Syndrome gave her a ravenous appetite she couldn’t control. “We’ve talked about this. It’s better to wake me up and let me get you some real food.”

Amber looked up, eager. “What can I eat?”

“We have some leftover fruit salad. I’ll get the key. Do not move.” She kept the key hidden, changing the location every couple of days. Her daughter never stopped looking. Cheryl had tried keeping the key in a locket around her neck, but Amber had woken her too many times trying to get to it. Neither of them ever got enough sleep.

Cheryl retrieved the key from a hidden pocket in the clothes hamper and returned to the kitchen. Amber had stopped crying and was now seated at the table with a bowl and a fork. “I’m sorry, Mom. But I couldn’t sleep. My belly hurts.”

It crushed her to witness her daughter’s psychological pain. Even worse, she hated herself for keeping all the food locked up. But she had no choice. With free access, Amber would eat nonstop and quickly become morbidly obese. Her child’s life was difficult enough without more teasing from other kids. Cheryl had tried keeping only small amounts of food locked up, but grocery shopping daily had worn her down. Her time was better spent finding a cure for the heinous disease.

The product she’d just submitted to the FDA—‌after nearly a decade in development—‌had turned out to be an excellent weight-loss treatment for adults, but it hadn’t helped Amber’s genetic disorder-driven appetite. A devastating personal blow, but the profit would fund a lifetime of research. She would never give up. Treating Amber with unapproved therapies was illegal and could land Cheryl in serious trouble, but what else could she do? The house was leased, she had money in several bank accounts, and she was prepared to leave the country on short notice if necessary.

Cheryl dished up fruit salad for both of them, giving Amber most of it, then sat down at the table. “There’s a new medicine we can try, if you’re up for it.” Assuming K, her freelance agent, came through tonight.

Amber looked wary. “What do you mean?”

“It’s an implant, so I’ll have to make a tiny incision in your abdomen.” That was the only downside to ProtoCell’s soon-to-launch device.

“Will it hurt?”

“No, we’ll numb the area first. I’m optimistic that it will help you.” She gave her a special smile. “It’s one of my best projects.”

The SlimPro was based on her glucagon-peptide research via a slow-release implant. A decade earlier, Brickman, the bastard, had dumped her, stolen her idea, then fired her. She’d recently learned he was weeks away from launching the product and had decided to sabotage his first, small batch to force a recall and setback. Which is why she needed K to steal a few from their lab before she contaminated the test run. That way her daughter would have a few that weren’t tainted. Each device would last six months or so, and during the next year, Cheryl could reverse engineer the device to see what Brickman had used to encapsulate it. Cheryl desperately wanted the SlimPro to fail because Brickman didn’t deserve the profit. Even more, she wanted the SlimPro to work—‌because it would validate her peptide idea and possibly change Amber’s life.

Because Prader-Willi was so rare and profitless, no pharma companies were working on a cure. The one clinical-trial drug Amber had tried a few years back—‌which had failed to get approved—‌had been developed by a parent, like her, whose child had the disease.

Amber had wolfed down her snack and looked at her with pleading eyes.

“No, sweetie. Get a drink of water and go back to bed. I’ll make you a big breakfast.”

“I don’t want the implant. I just want to eat!” Amber slammed her bowl into the sink, cursed like a sailor, and stalked off.

Cheryl bit the inside of her cheek to keep from yelling. As much as she loved her daughter, she often hated living with her. Again, Cheryl considered her options. Institutions wouldn’t take her, and Amber’s father didn’t know about her. The girl was better off without him. The
black forest
thought crept in again. Amber might be better off dead than living with her condition. The girl’s IQ was far below average, her facial features were unusual, she lacked muscle tone, and suffered from insomnia. Her daughter would probably never live on her own. The thought terrified Cheryl. Was it too late for mercy?

A moment later Amber came into kitchen and hugged her. “I love you. Thank you for making medicine for me.”

Cheryl blinked back tears. “I love you too.”

Her daughter went back to bed. Watching her pudgy body shuffle away was bittersweet for Cheryl. After growing up with a father who’d been obsessive about her own weight, followed by years of research into weight-loss products, the universe had given her a child with Prader-Willi Syndrome. A bitter slap in the face. Yet, Amber’s condition had recharged her drive to pursue the world’s most important—‌and potentially rewarding—‌research. Too bad her grandfather had been a jerk, who’d become ashamed of Amber and had avoided seeing the girl. Cheryl would never forgive him.

Her cell phone beeped and she went to find it. A text from an unknown number. The message was simple:
I have the devices.

Thank goodness. Her freelancer had been successful. Cheryl texted back:
Meet me at the Cantina in twenty minutes.

She threw on clothes from earlier and pulled fifty thousand from the safe under her bedroom floorboards. Half for the job K had just completed and the rest as a down payment for the sabotage she needed next. She’d borrowed the money, plus more, from one of TecLife’s investors and hoped it was the last personal loan she would need before Slimbiotic hit the market and sold well enough to pay it all back. Max Grissom, her founding partner at TecLife, didn’t know about the spying or sabotage. He thought great research and optimism would take them to the top. Cheryl knew better. The business was full of people who would do anything for money, recognition, or both. She was done playing by the rules. Amber’s life depended on her success.

She stuffed the cash into two zippered pillowcases, then put those into an old backpack, hoping it would be less likely to attract a mugger’s attention than a briefcase would. Next she tucked her Smith & Wesson into her waistband under her shirt. She wasn’t going far and she lived in a nice neighborhood, but still, her heart pounded with anxiety. This was the most she’d ever paid the woman she knew only as K. And bad things happened to people every day. That was why she’d stopped reading and watching the news. It only escalated her natural paranoia and made her reach for her own medication too often.

Cheryl looked in on her daughter, double-checked all the windows and locks, then hurried out into the humid darkness. She almost never left Amber alone, but the girl was sleeping and this was an important exception. Cheryl needed to get the SlimPro now so she could begin analyzing it first thing tomorrow. The product was set to launch next week, and she planned to hire K to sabotage it as well. If SlimPro hit the market with success before her product, Slimbiotic, would always be second and possibly have a fraction of the sales—‌even though it was less invasive. Doctors were creatures of habit like everyone else. Once they started prescribing something or using a technique that worked, they were reluctant to try something else. Especially one that would be hard to explain to patients without making them squeamish. But with the right marketing message and branding, they could get around public perception.

Hurrying down the block, Cheryl reminded herself that Amber’s cure was the most important issue. The millions in debt she’d accrued, both personally and professionally, while pursuing the research was a close second. Crushing Brickman’s product—‌which he’d stolen from her—‌and setting him back a few million was a sweet incentive too. She had an idea for how to sabotage the first batch of devices, but it was risky and she didn’t know if K could pull it off.

Inside the dark tavern, she found a small booth away from the bar counter and TV. She hated television, especially the news, and limited her internet use to research only. As a result, her world had become closed off, but it was the only way she could focus. The meds she took for paranoia could only do so much. She controlled it best by limiting what she exposed herself to.

Sitting in the bar, so close to home, made her nervous. Her previous meetings with K had been more clandestine, but with Amber home alone, Cheryl didn’t have time to travel. And K already knew who she was. The woman was resourceful and had let her know that she not only knew who Cheryl was and where she lived, but that she “understood her motive.” Which she’d interpreted to mean that K knew about Amber. Cheryl hated the thought, but backing out wouldn’t change the past or accomplish her goals. K might try to blackmail her someday, but she was prepared for that. She always had a backup plan, and K wasn’t someone who would be missed. If things got sticky, Cheryl would head for Saul’s ranch near the border. Her long-time friend, and sometimes lover, would help her get into Mexico if she ever needed to run.

K strolled in moments later, wearing a blond wig and a long black skirt. Cheryl didn’t know it was her until she’d bought a beer at the counter and headed her way. The woman was a master of disguises and a capable thief and arsonist. Cheryl wondered who her other clients were and what she did for them.

“Mind if I sit here?” she asked.

As if anyone was paying attention to them. But Cheryl respected her careful approach.

K sat down across from her. “I had a great evening. How are you?”

A tremor of excitement. Did that mean she’d acquired the SlimPro files too? Cheryl pulled out the little notepad she always carried and wrote:
Did you get the research?
She slid the note across the table. The bar was noisy, so even if K was recording their conversation, it wouldn’t be worth much. Still, Cheryl tried to be as cautious as possible. This woman was a criminal.

K nodded and held out her hand, a closed fist. She rotated her wrist and opened her fingers. In her palm lay three implants, each about an inch long and cased in a dissolvable polymer-sucrose blend. An electric charge ran up the back of Cheryl’s neck. The culmination of her insight into peptides’ role in appetite. She couldn’t wait to see how well the device worked. How frustrating that she would never get credit. She reached for the implants.

K yanked her hand back and closed it into a fist again. “You first.”

Cheryl slid one of the cases out of the backpack and pushed it across the floor with her feet. K casually pulled it into her lap and examined the cash. After a moment of small talk, K slipped the implants into a napkin and discreetly slid it across the table. Cheryl scooped it up, checking with her fingers for all three devices, then stuffed the napkin into her pants pocket. Too excited to bother with paper and pen, Cheryl leaned forward and whispered, “Where’s the thumb drive?”

The woman’s expression was deadpan. “That will cost extra.”

No!
The bitch. Cheryl wanted to scream. She bit her lip, then grabbed a notepad and scribbled:
That wasn’t our deal. I don’t have enough cash.

K shrugged. “So get it. Same amount.” She scooted to the edge of the booth seat.

Another twenty-five grand? She could feel her pulse pounding in her ears, but she fought for control. Maybe she didn’t need the data. But she did need K for one more job. “Wait.”

K turned back. “I’m listening.”

Cheryl grabbed the notepad and wrote:
I have another project. Let’s take a walk and discuss.

K nodded and slipped out of the booth. Cheryl tore up the paper with their exchange and stuffed it in her other pocket. She paid for her drink and left the tavern. K waited in front of the closed business next door. Cheryl walked past her, heading in the direction of her home. K called out, asking for a cigarette she didn’t really want, then quickly caught up and matched her stride.

“What’s the job?”

Cheryl kept her voice low. “Sabotage the SlimPro units in the factory before they ship. I have a contaminating agent you can add to the peptide solution.”

“What is it?”

“A bacteria that will cause minor infections.”

“What’s the timeline?”

“It needs to be done this weekend. The first scale-up batch starts Monday.” Her informant inside ProtoCell had given her the update that morning.