Hybrid - Forced Vengeance (8 page)

He groaned inwardly. How would the young socialite react when he tried to limit her activities? He hoped her father had briefed her extensively on security protocols.

The president rose. “Mr. Erik Knight, I am pleased to introduce my daughter, Monique Bridget LaSalle.” The father’s voice revealed his pride. Erik stood up, as did the aide.

She blushed perfectly. “Father, please – you embarrass me.”

Erik discerned a flash of typical teenager under her refinement. He was counting on her being more down to earth than the impression she was trying to impart this minute.

He mentally compared her size with that of his daughter. She was no more than five foot three – and that was with spiked heels. “Ms. LaSalle.” Erik nodded, doing his best impression of the unimpressed American.

“Monsieur Knight.” She extended her hand with wrist bent.

In France, it was customary to gently kiss a young woman’s hand, but this gesture was also designed to put him in his place in society – beneath her. He raised an eyebrow, which was enough to trigger an involuntary response from her. She lifted her wrist slightly closer to his face in a persistent gesture.

Erik took her hand gently, knowing that the young woman took this as a personal victory. Erik released her hand without kissing it.

“Your daughter is beautiful beyond words, Mr. President,” Erik said while he flashed the young lady a warning. He needed to assert his authority, immediately. He was not someone to be toyed with or tested. It was obvious his hard gaze put young Miss LaSalle off balance.

He smiled inwardly. He had somewhat followed protocol, but now Miss LaSalle knew he wouldn’t play by her rules. If she regarded him as merely another hired employee, he’d never gain her respect – or her trust. In order for this situation to work, Monique LaSalle had to respect him and his decisions when it came to her safety. She had to view him as her life insurance for the next half year.

“Well said, Mr. Knight.” Jean-Paul pulled out a nearby chair for the president’s daughter and guided it closer to the table as she sat down.

“Please forgive my tardiness, Papa, Mr. Knight,” Monique began in heavily accented English. “I was unavoidably detained.” To Erik, her omission of Jean-Paul in her greeting confirmed her lack of respect for the hired help.

“You are excused, daughter.” The president’s face clearly reflected a father’s pride.

“Are we discussing politics?” Monique asked, her voice betraying her excitement.

“No, my dear, we are discussing your security while you tour around the country.”

The young socialite shrugged then wrinkled her nose as a servant poured her a large glass of light purple liquid. Erik’s senses caught the unfamiliar scent emanating from the freshly opened decanter – alkaloid compounds, pharmaceutical in nature. His gut tightened as he saw Monique raising the glass to her lips.

Erik grabbed a spoon from a tray and hurled it at the young woman’s wrist with deadly accuracy. “Don’t drink that. It’s poisoned!”

The spoon struck the nerve bundle in the young woman’s wrist, causing her hand to go numb. Her grip on the glass was broken, and it tumbled onto the table, its contents staining the white tablecloth.

“Ouch!” she screamed, more in surprise than in pain.

The president and his aide watched in shock while guards rushed in to subdue Erik. The president rose and motioned the guards to stop. “What the hell is going on?” President LaSalle asked him.

Before they could react further, Erik was by the young girl’s side, rubbing sensation back into her numbed hand.

Erik pointed accusingly toward the open decanter of juice. “Whatever is in that pitcher has been poisoned, a strong alkaloid poison derived from a plant oil. Somebody’s not wasting any time here, Mr. President.”

“Come, come now!” the elder LaSalle exclaimed in disbelief. “How could you possibly know such a thing?”

“Have your people check the contents if you doubt me.” Erik turned his attention back to young woman, applying gentle pressure to her wrist trying to restore sensation to her hand.

Jean-Paul studied the remaining fluid in the spilled glass. The man reached in and rubbed two of his fingers into the remaining liquid, then put a finger up to his nose and sniffed. His eyes popped open.

“Dear God,” he murmured, his face losing color. “This pomegranate-grape juice smells and feels foul.” He slumped into his chair, wiping his fingers on a starched handkerchief. “Pierre, your daughter is the only one who drinks this particular cocktail. This was set out just for her.”

“No, it cannot be,” President LaSalle whispered with dread. “Not here, in my own home!”

Monique’s composure collapsed. “Father, I could have been killed!” She turned toward the detective with tear-filled eyes. “You saved my life, Mr. Knight. I don’t have the words to thank you.” She wrapped her arms around her torso, as if warding off a sudden chill. “Dear God, they really do want to kill me.”

Erik felt sorry for the young woman who was coming to terms with some unpleasant facts regarding her station in life. “It’s okay, Miss LaSalle. I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he whispered. Erik read the fear in the eyes of the president and his aide. Martin Denton was right; this was truly a job for him, for the hybrid.

She raised her eyes to Erik with new respect. “You can call me Monique.”

He forced out a reassuring grin, then grabbed a nearby empty metal pitcher off the table. “They had their shot; now it’s my turn,” he announced crushing the empty container in a fit of anger and disgust.

The president and Jean-Paul gasped but otherwise remained silent. Erik relaxed and let the anger run its course.

The anger of an Esper was far more potent than any human fit of rage. He called a guard then breathed deeply. Now was the time to plan and calculate. Later he would need to open the warrior part of him for this assignment, but for now the detective and OSA agent needed to take charge.

“Have the juice pitcher dusted for fingerprints and the content analyzed for the type of poison.” He gave napkins to the guard. “I’m not counting on success here but maybe our assassin isn’t as clever as he thinks he is. Use the napkins to hold the pitcher.”

 The guard left, holding the pitcher at arm’s length.

“I want names.” His terse tone defied anyone to challenge his authority. “Who made this breakfast? Who set this table? I want a list of anyone who had access to the kitchen and this room in the last twenty-four hours. Also, I want to know who made this particular juice concoction this morning.”

The detective looked at the president and Jean-Paul. “I trust the law enforcement agencies have facilities to analyze and identify the toxin?” At their nods, he continued.

“Jean-Paul would you get a list of pharmacies that stock toxic plant oils? This is a concentrated poison and had to be purchased somewhere. These compounds have a very short shelf life so this was a recent acquisition. I want to know who bought plant alkaloid compounds within the past week. There has to be a record of a sale somewhere; maybe we’ll get lucky.”

The guards, waiters and Jean-Paul hesitated, looking toward the president for guidance.

“Do exactly as he says.” LaSalle roared the words like a wounded lion. “Treat this man with the respect you would give me! His requests are my requests; his questions are my questions. In this matter Mr. Erik Knight speaks for me and will be obeyed without question.” LaSalle turned back toward his daughter who was struggling to cope with the attempt on her life.

LaSalle placed a hand on Erik’s shoulder. “I owe you a debt that I cannot repay, Mr. Knight. Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome,” the detective said, “and please call me Erik. I was never big on formality.”

“As you wish, Erik. What is our next course of action?”

“We relocate your daughter to a secure location. Then we sit down with your security staff and come up with a plan to protect your daughter, both here and on the road.”

Erik watched as several guards escorted the shaken young lady back to her bedroom.

“I have a funny feeling that we’re going to have a lively six months, Mr. President. I believe our fanatical friends were hoping for a quick kill.” Erik closed his eyes and thought. “Whoever is behind this failed attempt is very familiar with me, and was probably hoping to avoid a direct confrontation.”

“Why? Was this an act of desperation?” the president asked.

“I honestly don’t know.” The detective decided not to pull any punches. “Either this was an attempt to embarrass me by having your daughter murdered under my very nose which would most likely further the wedge between our governments – or this was a message to convince you just how deadly these fanatics really are and force you to capitulate for fear that you may be next.” Erik shrugged. “Or both.”

“I would have to agree, Erik. This truly could have been the worst of a bad situation,” the president said while his aide nodded in agreement.

“Yes it is, Mr. President, but we’re not beaten. Word has probably already spread. Our assassin likely knows he has failed and lost face. In some circles that works in our favor,” Erik was remembering Jeremy Storm. “Let’s talk to your security forces. We need to interview the people who served us breakfast and see if we can uncover a bad apple – or in this case, a bad pomegranate. After that we’ll design a thorough security plan for your daughter’s upcoming travels.”

Gestation Day 38

Shanda Kerwin-Knight saw the rifle, but had no time to react. She heard a muffled concussion and felt a soft impact against her left breast. She looked down to see the feathered tail of a dart protruding from her chest. She plucked the dart from her body and tossed it to the ground. As she looked up, three heavyset men ran toward her.

When they were within reach, she showed her displeasure with a solid front kick to the nearest man’s groin. The man fell over gasping in agony. She wasted no time meeting her other two attackers. Her well-timed right cross struck the second man’s jaw with a resounding crack. This man, however, didn’t fall like the other. He grabbed her arm with unyielding strength. Meanwhile the third man tackled her, toppling her and his fellow attacker into a heap.

Having nothing to lose, Shanda grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked, ripping follicles from scalp. The frightening shriek of surprise gave her hope. An elbow approached her face, but she was unable to avoid the blow. She rolled her head in the direction of the elbow, minimizing the impact. Jagged streaks of blue lightening filled her vision as the blow struck her head. In a fit of fury she squirmed free of her attackers. She ran toward the safety of the nearest building but her legs were sluggish, refusing to obey her command. The world tilted, and her ears rang with an annoying buzz. The two men gripped her arms. As much as she tried to fight, her body betrayed her, and she surrendered to the oncoming darkness.

* * * *

The low hum of an air recirculation system woke her from the terrible dream. She opened her eyes, struggling to focus on unfamiliar surroundings. Her head throbbed and her limbs felt heavy.

As she sat up, the realization that she was naked had her reaching for the sheets to cover her torso. She spied her clothing neatly folded on a nearby chair.

She looked around: A fair-sized room, three white walls, and one clear – likely made of glass or plastic. A sofa directly opposite her bed looked inviting. A bar refrigerator and kitchenette were set up near the sofa and a coffee table sat against the opposite wall, next to a sink, mirror, toilet and shower stall. A heavy gray curtain hung from a ceiling track around the lavatory as if someone had gone to some effort to ensure a modicum of privacy.

Shanda spied a moving camera mounted inside a clear concave shielding. She wrapped the bedcovers more tightly around her body, shielding her from prying eyes and then fetched her clothing.

Her muscles were rubbery, and each step took great effort and concentration. She nearly stumbled twice before reaching her clothing. Something was desperately wrong. She took the garments and gave the camera a disgusted look. She reached the protection of the gray curtain, drew it closed and dressed.

She traced the outline of her upper body. Fingertips paused at bony protrusions on her once soft shoulders. Her eyes followed her fingertips in the mirror as they probed the indentations of her protruding ribcage. Her hand caressed the tight skin of her stomach. Her hip bones protruded from her torso and the feminine roundness in her lower stomach had vanished, replaced by a taut abdomen.

“I must have lost at least fifteen pounds. What the hell happened to me?” she wondered aloud.

She put on her bra and was somewhat satisfied as she still filled it. But her jeans hung loose and sagged upon her hips, yet she knew they were form fitting the last time she had them on. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. How long had she been asleep?

Her face had been washed clean of make-up and the once neon purple that highlighted her hair was now faded and dull. Despite fear and confusion Shanda felt somewhat better once she was dressed and less exposed to the camera.

She drew the curtain back and walked toward the clear wall. Seeing no obvious door, she absently placed a palm against the clear barrier. A slight tingling coursed through her hand, uncomfortable but not unbearable. An electrical field? What was its purpose? Clearly, it wouldn’t deter her from approaching the transparent wall.

“This is some sort of jail cell,” she whispered with a sinking feeling in her chest.

Following a moment assessing her situation, Shanda straightened to her full height and walked over to the camera unit. She waved her hands wildly. “Hey in there, what’s going on?” She then put her hands on her hips, awaiting some kind of answer.

Then the horrible truth hit her. “Erik!” she screamed as she clutched her head. “Erik, baby, where are you?” The link she depended on so much was gone, severed.

Shanda closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, focusing her telepathic energies inward, to the one thing in this world that mattered to her most, her husband. She pictured his face, strained to get a reading on his mental imprint.