September 21, 2005
Four Weeks Later
It wasn't until they started sharing their lives as husband and wife that Mac fully realized Harmon Rabb Junior was not a morning person. Granted, she had seen some evidence of it during their working relationship, but the commute from his apartment to JAG headquarters had generally been enough to put him on an even keel before he arrived at work.
She also learned that he routinely hit the alarm clock's snooze button up to its maximum three times before the discipline of his military life kicked in and forced him to roll out of bed. Going hand-in-hand with her time-telling skills, she on the other hand, had never needed the mechanical intervention.
Despite her assurance that she would prevent him from oversleeping, Harm stubbornly insisted on setting the alarm every night. However, it didn't take her long to figure out he was doing so to good-naturedly goad her; for while they could no longer go head-to-head in the courtroom, their competitive nature was still strong and remained a fundamental part of each of them.
So this morning, just like every other, she slid the switch to the 'off' position before the clock blared its obnoxious alarm. And like every morning, having completed step one, she proceeded to use a more creative way to wake him. Depending on her mood and time available, she had resorted to such extremes as hot breakfast in bed to ice cubes; and from butterfly kisses to knee-weakening massages.
Today, she ever so lightly ran her finger down the spine of his nose, gratefully noting all vestiges of the baseball bat accident had disappeared. His first two nights after returning from Washington had been fitful -- a combination of jet lag and physical discomfort. But there had been no more nightmares, forgotten or otherwise.
As for drawing a blank on the circumstances regarding Admiral Spencer's death, Harm eventually recalled reading an article in the Navy Times. The retired officer had died quietly in his sleep of a stroke. His passing had occurred during Harm's time in the CIA. Having discussed it, they both chalked up Harm's earlier failure to recall the details of the obituary to fatigue. As far as why he mentioned Spencer in the first place, both believed it was due to them being more in tune with each other's thoughts.
On her elbows, Mac again made another pass down Harm's nose. In response to the on-going titillation, Harm abruptly grabbed her wrist before she could pull away and claim innocence. Not letting her go, he slowly opened one eye before the second followed suit. Eventually the upturned corners of his mouth belied any annoyance.
Mac giggled. "Morning."
Rather than vocally return the pre-dawn greeting, Harm simply rolled over on top of her. Capturing her mouth with his own, he drank in the smell of her – her essence, her hair, her lingering perfume. It never failed to soothe him, ground him, and send him seeking more.
Before he could set out on his quest in earnest, Mac got in edgewise, "I can't be late today." And unlike many mornings, she reluctantly made her escape. "But you can join me in the shower."
"Oh like that's going to save time."
"Suit yourself. But don't you dare fall back to sleep. I have a lot to do and can't be late."
"Why can't you be late? Is something important happening?"
Halfway out of bed, Mac tensed, gripped her pillow, and gave him an alarmed look. Seeing her concern, Harm immediately regretted his flippant tease. "I'm joking."
"You better be," she said, swinging her pillow and nailing him in the chest. "Now get it in gear!"
"Will you relax. The party isn't until tonight."
"Harm, you have no idea what goes into something like this."
Swinging his own pillow, Harm grinned when he scored a direct hit on Mac's retreating six. "Sure I do. It's all based on pragmatic thinking, common sense, and good manners."
"Spoken by the man who originally thought diplomacy was mysterious and pretentious," Mac said over her shoulder, making a beeline for the bathroom.
Giving her solitary access to their one bathroom, Harm lay in bed and listened contently as Mac began humming. It was the first thing he discovered about her when they started sharing their lives as husband and wife. In the midst of trying to identify the melody, he heard the unmistakable sound of the mouse trap being sprung in the basement; and that brought him to the second thing he learned about her.
It wasn't that she was afraid of mice. In fact, at first she really didn't mind them hanging around. But that changed the day she found the telltale signs of one chewing on her chocolate bar. It just happened to be the same day she found one swimming in her cake mix batter. That's when she made him put traps in the kitchen and basement.
But even with all her 'Marine Might', she agonized over the decision to do so the first time she heard one of the creature's pitiful squeals when the trap didn't instantly put it out of its misery.
Hearing the frantic cry and the clip-clap of the trap striking the floor as the captured vermin continued to struggle for release, Harm did what he always did. He groaned, rolled out of bed, and went to finish what the trap started.
The deed done, he returned upstairs and turned his attention to more pleasant thoughts and surveyed his closet. Because of a coin toss, he readied his clothes for not only the day but the evening as well.
When the flipped JAG medallion landed in his favor, Mac had resigned her commission and promptly found a position in the Defense Attache Office at the U.S. Embassy in London. The DAO performed representational functions on behalf of the Secretary of Defense and Secretaries of the military services, including the SECNAV and the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
As operations coordinator, Mac managed several assistants who worked under the Defense Attache. Included in her scope of responsibilities was overseeing a plethora of social events hosted by her boss, including the full-blown, formal affair planned later today.
It hadn't taken them long to learn that Mac's new position came ready-equipped with a role for Harm as well. For when it came to diplomacy, there was a long-established tenet in the diplomatic service that spouses were expected to uphold their end of the arrangement as well. Thus Harm was well accustomed to attending the evening functions in which Mac was involved.
While the extracurricular duty made for some long days, the burden was eased given the close proximity of their workplaces. For the U.S. Embassy was located on Grosvenor Square, right next to the Navy Headquarters Building where Harm's command was located.
But though their offices were only fifty yards apart, it might as well have been fifty miles given the rare occasions that their paths crossed during normal business hours. To compensate, they commuted together, driving one vehicle into London, unless one of their arrival or departure needs changed or conflicted, in which case the mass-transit trains served as backup.
Today they would be traveling together, both staying in town until tonight's dinner dance. The same event Harm has feigned ignorance about earlier. And the same event that required a wardrobe change. Thus he carefully put his formal Navy mess dress, complete with gold cummerbund and shiny, black shoes, into the garment bag. He then spotted what Mac had picked out for the evening.
Looking at the alluring dress, there was a hint of melancholy in his sigh as his shoulders slumped. Under normal circumstances, the dress would fulfill high expectations. But tonight there would be little opportunity to capitalize on the enjoyment while they followed proper protocol. A protocol that required they mingle separately with the crowd, facilitate chitchat, and generally help make all the guests feel welcome. At least the conversations were kept blessedly short, a requirement if they were to meet and greet at many people as possible.
"Do I at least get to sit with you at dinner?" Harm asked when Mac exited the bathroom.
"Of course. I might even save you a dance. But don't be late. It's chaos when someone can't make it at the last minute or brings an unexpected guest," Mac warned, her mind already going through a mental checklist of details.
"Round tables, Mac."
There was a silent beat before Mac's laughter rang out and once again brightened the early morning hour. Harm smiled, his simple statement having elicited the response he intended.
As their pre-work routine unfolded, they both fondly recalled how Mac had once agonized over the complicated process of proper seating placements. Aggravated with the task, she verbally took Harm's head off when he tried to help. In the end, she contritely admitted his suggestion to use round tables was an acceptable alternative listed in the 'Manual for the Modern Diplomat.' From that point on, she relied on the ovals to provide as many people as possible with 'seats of honor' and deal effortlessly with last minute changes to the guest list.
---------------
"How could you!"
"So she speaks after all!" Harm replied, unlocking the door to their flat, barely getting out of the way as Mac stormed by after the long day.
The ride home had been done sans conversation, both steadfastly listening to the radio to avoid talking about the situation until they got home.
"Why were you late?"
"Like I told your secretary when I couldn't reach you, something came up at work that required me to go to RAF Daws Hill. I did everything in my power to get back in time for dinner."
"How conveniently vague – something came up."
Mac kicked off her spiked heels then started stripping off her dress, choosing to deal with the complicated clasp herself rather than ask for help. Meanwhile, Harm fumbled with the rugged zipper on the duffle bag in which he had stuffed his soiled uniform.
"Can I explain?" he asked.
"Not right now!"
"Fine! Obviously things worked out for the best!"
Mac spun around to face him. "What do you mean by that!"
"You said he wasn't on the guest list. So I assume he just took my vacancy at the dinner table!"
"Well it sounds like you know more about it than me!"
Harm impatiently gave up on the stubborn zipper for the time being, choosing instead to get out of his formalwear. Stripped to the waist, he shouted, "What are you talking about!"
"The whole brotherhood, cloak-and-dagger mentality. I thought you left that all behind!"
"You think I had something to do with him being there!"
The slamming of the bathroom door was Harm's answer.
Thirty minutes later, Mac felt much better. Calmed by the scented lavender candles and aroma of chamomile oil in her bath water, she toweled off, taking time to indulge in her favorite body powder. Tying off her bathrobe, she captured the fragrance and exited the room, equally ready to apologize, forgive, and forget. The need to do so was made all the more urgent given her upcoming work responsibilities. Responsibilities requiring she leave for Paris first thing in the morning, accompanying her boss for a working weekend with their counterparts in France.
Last minute changes to the agenda left little time for personal excursions and sightseeing. Thus she and Harm changed their own plans, deciding recently that it made little sense for him to join her. Consequently, it would be their first separation since being married. In light of their squabble, she now regretted the decision, hated the need to go, and wanted nothing more than to make it up to him.
"Harm, it's your turn. Where are you? We need to talk about tomorrow."
She found him standing motionless in the small laundry room, holding the white shirt the stubborn duffel had finally given up. Coming up behind him, she wrapped her arms around his bare waist, resting her head on his broad back. "I'm sorry about earlier. Put the laundry off until tomorrow so you have some hot water for your shower."
When he didn't answer or move, she relinquished her hold, and moved around to face him. "Harm?"
"I'm sorry, Mac. What did you just say?"
Frightened by the look on his face and the way he had a white-knuckle grasp on the shirt, Mac asked instead, "What's wrong?"
Suddenly realizing he had a death grip on the garment, he relaxed his hold, tossing the shirt into the hamper. His hands free, he pulled Mac closer, their foreheads meeting. "Bad day."
"Want to talk about it?"
"It has to do with why I was late."
"I'm ready to listen."
"There's not much to tell. The MPs called me to Daws Hill when they smelled decomposing remains in a metal shipment container off loaded at the base."
Startled by the news, Mac pulled back. "That's terrible!"
"It smelled so bad, you know the kind of odor that just sticks in your nose and to your clothes. It made me so sick I lost my lunch. I can still smell it."
Mac ran her hands across Harm's tense back, feeling the slight tremor coursing through it. "Do they know who it was?" she asked quietly.
To break the tension, Harm smirked embarrassedly before tightening his grip on her. "It turned out to be a dog, a family pet of one of the Marines recently transferred there. It went missing just before the family moved. When it returned home and found them gone, it must have crawled into the shipping container and lay amongst their belongings, unbeknownst to the packers."
Mac sought Harm's lips. "I'm sorry I didn't give you a chance to explain earlier."
"And I'm sorry for overreacting," Harm countered between breaths, his hands making quick work of the white, terry-cloth belt around Mac's waist.
Mac's hands found the zipper of Harm's trousers. "Do you want to talk about Webb?"
Harm blazed a trail of kisses down Mac's neck. "No. Do you?"
Mac returned the passion with a trail across his chest. "No. You remember I'm leaving for Paris tomorrow morning?"
Harm cupped one of Mac's breasts in each hand. "God, I'm going to miss you. It'll be a lonely weekend."
"Let's make up for that now."
"My thoughts exactly," Harm replied, his shower and earlier trepidation long since forgotten as they headed for the bedroom.
-------------------
Harm leapt out of his skin -- skin that was dripping with sweat. His dry mouth gave up a final scream that continued to reverberate in the room long after he dislodged his racing heart from his throat. Falling back against the clammy sheets, he lay still and regulated his breathing. Taking back control of his heaving chest amidst the charged silence, he set his mind to recalling any remnants of the fleeting nightmare.
By a cruel twist, the alarm clock chose that moment to uncharacteristically sound its Friday morning alert. The unexpected intrusion elicited a startled cry that was drowned out by the high-pitched wail. Embarrassed by his reaction and the realization that his 'morning wood' was in full blossom, Harm grimaced and turned on his side to deal with the annoyance.
It wasn't until he successfully swatted the snooze button that he realized dejectedly Mac's side of the bed was empty. It wasn't until he smelled the remnants of their lovemaking that he realized he already missed her. And it wasn't until he picked up the note on her pillow that he realized his hands were trembling.
Studying his shaking fingers, he couldn't help but voice the gnawing fear. "What's happening to me?" Immediately rebuking the little voice that said he should get checked out, he flopped back on the bed. Self-medicating, he curled tight around Mac's pillow and drifted.
When the alarm startled him from the sound sleep he'd fallen into, he silenced it permanently, not giving the third snooze reminder a chance to kick in. As he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, he turned his attention to the paper he had forgotten he was holding.
Harm, We got to sleep so late gr . I didn't want to wake you. I'm staying at the Hotel Champerret Elysees. The number is +33(0)1 43 80 22 19. Better yet, use my cell. I'll stop by your office Monday morning when I get back. Love, Mac.
---------------
Focusing on work, Harm stopped thinking about the uneasiness his forgotten extracurricular sleep activities had caused hours ago. Skipping lunch, he finished his fifth and last meeting of the day right on schedule. Checking his personal voice mail, he frowned when he realized he had again missed Mac's call. Each of them had now left two messages. Meaning in four attempts they had failed to connect with each other. Calling it a day, he left a third message on his way to his SUV.
"Hi, it's me. I'm on my way home. Try me again if you get a chance. Love, ya."
Harm snapped the phone shut and pulled out his keys. His thoughts turned to what he was going to do with a Mac-less weekend just before the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. A moment later, the nicotine-spearmint smell behind him alerted him to someone's presence the same instant he felt the barrel of the gun pressed between two ribs.
"Who are you?" Harm asked calmly, his voice masking the rising tension building throughout his body.
"You don't remember?"
"No."
The woman tossed her head back and laughed. "Very good, Rabb. You're not supposed to."
The position of the gun and the woman's grasp on his belt caused Harm to lean back into the woman's embrace. "What do you want?"
She smiled. "You. Now don't do anything stupid. Just get in your car."
"No."
"If you want to see your wife again, get in the car -- now. Passenger side, I'm driving."
"My wife?"
The woman leaned closer into Harm. To any passersby her posture conveyed a tasteless display of overt affection as she whispered in his ear, "You sound intrigued."
Alarmed by the threat, Harm took it seriously when the woman flashed a picture of Mac standing in front of the Hotel Champerret Elysees. Flicking the switch on his key ring, he unlocked the electronic doors.
"That's a good boy. Now get in."
Sliding across the front seat, Harm was unprepared for the pain that bit into his side when the woman pulled the gun's trigger. He slumped heavily against her, feeling the keys pulled from his hand while she whispered in his face, "Sleep well."
Trying to pull away from the woman's cigarette-laden, TicTac-camouflaged breath, he only accomplished unleashing another barrage of confusing dreams.
-----------------------
(begin dream)
Hearing footsteps echoing through the large hangar, Alan Blaisdell looked up from the large map on the table.
"Well the prodigal son returns," he said, squashing the last dregs of the smoldering cigarette butt with his heel.
Harm smirked. "It was only four weeks."
The older man carefully sized up his most talented employee before grousing, "Yeah, but it was a week longer than expected."
"You missed me. I'm touched."
"Dream on. What's wrong with your voice?"
Harm smiled warmly. In the time he had been gone, his newest mentor hadn't changed. Blaisdell's gruff demeanor still did little to hide the sincere concern that lurked beneath the worn, exterior façade.
"Sore throat, last remnants of a bad cold."
"Must have been a hell of one. You've lost weight."
"They kept me busy. I hardly had time to come up for air and grab a bite to eat."
"How did it go?"
"Fine. Do I detect worry?"
"I just don't like my people being pulled out from under me. And not everyone has the constitution for the kind of work Premier Executive Transport Services requires," Blaisdell answered warily, closely watching Harm's reaction.
Harm shrugged and looked around at the few planes in the area. "I can't deny the line of work really wasn't my cup of tea, but their hardware sure is better to fly."
"Oh yeah? What did they put you in?"
(end dream)
----------------
As Harm lifted his splitting head, he rubbed the ache in his side where the dart delivering the strong sedative had entered. His blurry vision rapidly focused on his new surroundings, though his words were still slurred, his brain sluggish, and his head felt as if someone had taken an ax to it. "You work for PETS …"
"Pets?" the woman asked, casually blowing another ring of cigarette smoke in his face.
Harm coughed. "… Premier Executive Transport Services."
Straightening Harm's body in the seat, the woman yanked the shoulder straps tighter. "What makes you think that?"
"It's their jet," Harm answered, carefully looking around the plane that had been his to fly for four weeks.
The sleek Gulfstream G550 was the longest range, business aircraft in the world. Manufactured in Savannah, Georgia, by Gulfstream Aerospace, it was often purchased by the richest CEO's at a cost of $46 million each. Capable of holding 14-19 passengers, depending on how it was configured, it could fly 6700 miles before re-fuelling. With seven windows on either side, the cabin was 50 feet long and a little over 7 feet wide. For most people, the height in the middle was an adequate 6'2".
"How do you know it's the same one you flew?"
Harm coughed again. "I didn't say I flew it."
"You're right. You didn't. But we both know you did, so how do you know for sure?"
"The stain on the carpet," Harm answered lethargically, a wave of dizziness forcing him to close his eyes.
"Yeah, it's a pity. Now drink this, it'll help neutralize the sedative."
Harm turned his head to the side. "No."
"Drink it!"
"Sissy, need help?"
Harm turned his head back to meet the new arrival. There was little doubt the two were related, their faces both having the same bone structure, their eye and hair color exact matches. Likely brother and sister, given the appellation used by the large man, perhaps even twins.
"No, Gregor. Everything is fine. You did good," 'Sissy' answered.
"Gregor did good. Gregor did good," the man repeated, clapping his hands in a child-like gesture.
"… strong, cheap labor," Harm whispered.
The words were no sooner out of his mouth when Harm's cheek erupted in fire. The woman's hand had struck him hard, the contact creating a sharp crack in the air, no doubt audible throughout the plane. "You don't get to say that!"
Meanwhile Gregor paced nervously in the limited space. "Don't hurt 52 … don't hurt 52."
"It's okay, Gregor. Go take a seat in the back. We'll be leaving soon."
Harm gingerly rubbed the stinging result of the woman's fury, noting the shadow of doubt, or was it fear, crossing her face. Clearly the man was mentally challenged and likely the answer to how the woman could have manhandled his limp body from the SUV into the plane. But that didn't explain why he had voiced the insensitive thought in the first place. Nor explain the increased anxiety building in his gut ever since learning his whereabouts or the woman's apparent association with PETS.
After viciously smothering the cigarette butt in an armrest ashtray, the woman shook three green Tic-Tac's into her hand. Breathing deeply, she popped them into her mouth while nervously rattling the remainder in the plastic container. Getting herself under control, she said, "You can call me Cynthia. Sissy is reserved for my brother. It's his attempt at pronouncing my name," she grinned.
When Harm didn't reply, Cynthia pulled out the same picture of Mac that had coerced him before. When he refused to acknowledge it, she produced a newer one as well and grabbed his chin until he couldn't help but look at them.
"She looks like she's having fun. Cooperate and you'll both be enjoying a Monday night romp in your bed. Refuse and a simple phone call ends it all."
Harm immediately recognized the Eiffel Tower. Mac was centered between her boss and another male colleague as they posed for a happy group picture. He shoved the sting of jealousy aside, or was it a sense of betrayal? It didn't matter; the pictures had gotten his attention.
"Now drink it."
Knowing his thought processes weren't functioning at a hundred percent, Harm begrudgingly drank the glass of milky liquid. Amazingly fast, the chalky drink lifted the mental fog that had hovered around him since he woke and found himself in the Gulfstream's cockpit, sitting in the pilot's seat.
His mind firing again on all cylinders, Harm decided Clayton Webb was involved. His surprise appearance at the Embassy party had to be more than coincidence. He had arrived too late to cross paths with the CIA agent, but Mac made it perfectly clear Webb had been there. But why? Where Webb stood these days, personally or professionally, was a mystery to Harm. More unsettling, however, was why the Company felt they had to strong arm a U.S. Naval Captain back into its employ. In any event, one thing was certain – without more details, there was no way in hell he was going to put Mac's life at risk.
"What's this all about?" Harm demanded.
"I need a pick-up and delivery made."
'I' not 'We' Harm thought. Did he have a rogue agent on his hands? "Why the coercion and subterfuge?"
"You'll see. Heathrow Control has given us clearance to take-off and we won't get to Staszow unless you first get us out of the hangar."
"Euro-Weather is reporting eastern Poland is blanketed with fog," Harm stubbornly replied.
"Quit stalling! The Gulfstream is equipped with EVS. Yet here you sit playing games! I assure you the threat against your wife is very real."
Harm remained quiet, biting his lip. Finally, he checked the aircraft's Enhanced Vision System that made landing in lower-visibility instrument conditions possible. It was then Cynthia knew they would get to the pickup site. And she still had her ace-in-the-hole to get them back.
Harm completed the pre-flight checklist, at least the items he could do tethered to his seat. When he was done, he turned to the co-pilot's seat. "There's no smoking on board."
"The hell there isn't," the woman shot back, intending to chain smoke from here on out.
----------------
Harm had landed the Gulfstream on the small runway at Staszow once before. It was a simple courier run squeezed in between countless hops zigzagging both the northern and southern hemispheres. Hell, it was no wonder he had gotten sick and lost weight. He hadn't stepped foot in his apartment or slept in his bed the entire assignment.
He remembered the asphalt runway wasn't in as poor condition as some of the places Blaisdell had sent him, but neither was it anywhere close to meeting FAA standards. The handful of cars in the parking lot suggested the small airport did little, if any, passenger business. The large, aluminum quonset structures, on the other hand, likely meant cargo was the airport's main trade. And on this late, foggy, Friday night, that meant the red and blue lights illuminating the runway served as the only welcoming committee, hospitable or otherwise, in sight.
"Taxi into Building 13."
"Thirteen, that's comforting," Harm said warily, slowly maneuvering the aircraft to the building the woman pointed out. The eerie fog, sparse setting, and lack of human activity gave the place a ghost-town quality that sent shivers up Harm's spine. (((It's worse than the last time.)))
"Gregor, wake up. We're here."
"Time to eat?"
"Time for what we came to do," she answered, producing a set of handcuffs. "Not you. You're staying," she added when Harm started to reach for the release mechanism on the pilot restraints.
Pulling his arms behind the seat, Cynthia handcuffed Harm's wrists together before making sure his seatbelt and shoulder straps were still secure.
"I guess this means I can't use the little boy's room."
Expelling yet another circle of smoke in his face, Cynthia smirked. "I'm afraid the sedative and its counteragent are natural diuretics. Hold it, or make another stain. Suit yourself."
Harm considered his choices. The stain on the rug was coffee. But if he didn't get to a men's room soon, the next pilot might find something less acceptable in his seat.
Popping more Tic-Tacs in her mouth, the woman ignored his discomfort and flipped a switch, triggering open the Gulfstream's hydraulic cargo bay doors. She then vacated her seat in the cockpit and headed towards the roomier cabin area.
No longer in sight, Harm could only listen as her fist rapped on the passenger hatch. Shortly after, a series of short, staccato thumps originated on the other side. Seemingly satisfied with the coded response, Cynthia opened the hatch and dropped the stairs. If nothing else, Harm was grateful for the wave of fresh air that helped dispel the smoky cloud lingering in the cockpit.
"Gregor, let's go."
----------------
Alone, Harm squirmed in his seat, the need to urinate growing more urgent. To take his mind off it, he concentrated on the echoing sounds in the metal hangar. He heard the two sets of feet pound down the expandable steps. Shortly after, the unmistakable putter of a jitney started. Spotting the dingy-yellow vehicle, he craned his neck, watching the two-pronged forklift maneuver a metal shipping container towards the middle of the jet. His eyes followed the activity.
However, once it neared the fuselage, it was no longer in his field of vision. But he soon heard and felt the distinct metal-on-metal grating vibrate through the aircraft. Given its size, the six-foot square container would only leave a few cubic feet of space in the storage compartment -- a tight squeeze, no matter how you figured it.
After the container was in place, the jitney was silenced and relative silence ensued. Relative silence until an extra pair of feet on the metal steps increased the number of passengers to three. Harm's head swiveled around, but not quickly enough to identify the newcomer who immediately retreated to the well-stocked beverage bar at the back of the plane. Gregor, on the other hand, chose to remain closer to the cockpit.
"Who's your friend?" Harm asked wanting to sound derisive, but failing miserably. The long day, lack of food, powerful sedative, and futile attempts to free himself from the seatbelt restraints and handcuffs had taken their toll. His head lolled forward until his chin rested on his chest.
"Need to know," Cynthia answered, frowning as her shanghaied pilot closed his eyes.
"And after I make this delivery, will I know too much?" he asked tiredly.
The woman reached into her pocket. "Time will tell," she answered, snapping the small ammonia capsule in half before wafting it beneath his nose.
Harm's head shot up, seeking escape, but finding none. Seeing the outright disdain on his face, Cynthia smiled. "I have go-pills if you require more invigoration." When he didn't answer, she tortured him with another pass of the capsule.
"Stop it! I'm awake."
Seeing that he was more alert, Cynthia reached behind his back and unlocked the handcuffs. She then handed him a piece of paper. "See to it that you stay awake. Now let's go. Those are the coordinates for the delivery."
Reading them, Harm's stomach lurched. "No. This can't be. I won't do it."
"Yes you will. You'll do it for him," she said, adding a photo to the paper in Harm's hand. "He's nearly two. I believe he inherited your features. Let's hope he got my brains."
Fighting the creeping fear the words engendered, Harm looked at the small, pocket-size photo, the kind taken at Walmart around Christmas. To the unsuspecting soul, the little dark-haired boy with bright eyes might very well have been his son.
"I've never banked sperm and I certainly didn't copulate with you."
The woman, seemingly having a veritable picture album at her disposal, produced yet another photo. She thrust it at him. "Are you positive?"
Harm's eyes immediately darted to the image. When his mind finally caught up, his face conveyed disbelief. Before he could pose a single question, the woman pulled the photo away and simply said "Need to know. Now let's go."
