an. Guest review responses below:
Guest 1 Yay! I am glad you're still interested in this universe I too am excited to mess with the storylines given all the changes leading into it. Overall Season 3 was my favorite, but some parts of the general plot made less sense when you sit and think through them. Sasha is still at war with who she was, who she is, and what she wants to become, yes. I think this chapter might clear up a couple things on where in the timeline we are, and what that means for where her headspace is. In canon, Season 3 kicked off on May 14th, 2014 — the 154th day of Michener's presidency. Also… I'll be completely honest that I cannot wait to reach the Tom/Sasha reunion either, ha! That chapter has been written for a while. Things are very different compared to the show.
Guest 2 Thank you! Your review made me smile, haha. I hope it fulfills your need for agony, romance, and drama (and Tex and Pablo).
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Said the Joker to the Thief
there are many here among us
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Danforth Campus, Washington University, Busch Laboratory, St. Louis, Missouri
"There'a—" Tex meandered around the oversized white desk centered at the head of the administrative space "—anythin' you want me to look for, while I'm over there?"
Above the keyboard, Rachel's fingers hovered.
"We'll have a few days'a downtime before Commodore arrives." He perched in the singular available space not littered with journals, his ankles crossed over foot and wrists resting atop the rifle butt hanging from his neck.
The pang with which she'd become so intimately familiar still fired even a year beyond her last contact with Michael. "You're a good man, Tex."
"That ain't the answer to my question."
Rachel caved and glanced up. "No," she whispered. "I think I've come to accept that the chances that Michael survived are slim to none." She left unspoken the irrational hope that he was simply stuck somewhere with no means of communication. Surviving, perhaps, on the outskirts of civilization as she'd instructed… and yet, even the most isolated regions of the globe were beginning to encounter their vast network of local partners. The world map pinned to her whiteboard, which only two months prior had been so void of recent data, was now littered with post-its regarding demographics.
She wheeled to an adjacent desk where a different computer processed the latest genetic profiles uploaded remotely by Roland Milowsky. Beside it, another compiled real-time global reports from various CDC officials who'd survived or discovered they were immune. "Somehow I can't quite picture you in Asia," she mumbled while reading.
"You been?"
"Several times. It's one of the most prolific regions for a number of infectious diseases."
Behind her, she heard him stand. "After three tours in the Middle East, I was more interested in stayin' as close to the US as possible."
Again, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. "Yet we found you in Guantanamo?"
His head tipped. "Needed that sweet cash money, baby. After all the shit those journalists spread? They started offerin' contracts I couldn't pass up."
Rachel grinned and resumed monitoring the incoming data. "Well—I'm not sure that the presidential ration budget is a match for such a lucrative appointment, but I'll be sure to recommend he throw in a few extra cards."
Tex chuckled, pacing past the desk toward the entrance of the laboratory. "For you? I'd work for free."
Rachel rolled her eyes. Winking, he tipped his cap and retreated, only pivoting again when she called out, "Look after yourself, Tex."
For a moment he held her gaze, sincere before mischief arose. "Oh, don't worry about me, darlin'. I'm invincible."
He left to resume his security post, she assumed, and she was once again surrounded by the sterile humming of laboratory equipment. The origami rose still resided within her pen holder; a bright pop of color in the otherwise whitewashed space, and she pondered it.
Another perfectly good man whose feelings she couldn't seem to requite.
Shanzhai, Guangdong Province, New China
If she'd cared to admit it, half of her resistance in coming to Shanzhai was for the simple fact it made her skin crawl to be surrounded by so many people. Today—it was a ghost town. Most every ship had abandoned the harbor in preparation for the storm. The stalls and vendors were packed up and hunkered down, the bar that reminded her of the pirate stories she'd read as a child, emptied; its stools and tables tied down with shipping rope in the center of the space, and the various colorful bottles she'd come accustomed to seeing behind the bar-back, were gone.
Even the barkeep's parrot was missing. She could tell that Pablo was on edge, scanning the too many vantage points for them to cover with two guns. No damn way they weren't being watched. She came to a stop just before the bar. Waited for several seconds in tense silence before glancing both at Jesse and Pablo.
In Mandarin, she called out, "I'm here to make a trade."
Stillness answered.
The only sound was that of the wind-beaten burlap canvases tethered to form a roof that provided shade from the usually brutal midday sun.
"I know you're here. I'm not leaving," Sasha tried again.
The heavy sound of a door resonated, and a familiar face emerged from the archway that led to a hidden alleyway. It was the barkeep. He didn't go by a name, and he never spoke, not to her at least, but he took his time looking first at her, then Jesse, and finally Pablo. His head jerked in an explicit instruction to follow.
He was unusually tall for a man of Chinese descent. Well over six feet, lean and muscular, though he wore today a sweatshirt instead of the wife-beater he normally donned, and his dark hair was tied back into a small bun. When they reached a peeling pale blue door, Pablo hung back.
"I'll keep watch."
Jesse brought up the rear and closed it behind them while the barkeep ascended an open stairwell. Before the plague, Sasha assumed this building had been used as an apartment complex, and its lower floors kept for storefronts. Its walls were covered in textured unfinished plaster in a putrid faded yellow and adorned with dozens of propaganda posters depicting the late Chinese President, Xi Jinping.
After ascending three flights, the barkeep led them into a familiar hallway, guarded by several men holding automatic rifles. Her grip tightened on the MK strapped under her right arm. The door to what was formerly Wu Ming's domain creaked open, and the barkeep shuffled into the center of the room and addressed a new man who sat behind a table. It was darker inside than the last time she'd been here. The windows were boarded up, and a gas lantern provided the only illumination.
"She says she wants to make a deal," the barkeep announced in Mandarin.
The new man leered at her and left his chair to stand. He was short, Sasha noted. At least two inches less than her five foot nine, and his hair was slicked back with so much gel it appeared wet. His cheekbones were high set, eyes hooded and beady, face clean-shaven but free of any signs of aging, and he wore a loose button shirt that was at least one size too big. No identifiable muscle mass; a brief assessment that left her feeling somewhat better that she could take him if she had to—at least long enough for Pablo to hear the shots and bail them out…
The barkeep exited the room, and Sasha approached. "So, what do they call you?" she asked in Mandarin.
"Chuán Xìnrén," the man responded.
Her eyebrow quirked. "The Messenger?" Sasha glanced at Jesse. "Original."
In a mark of arrogance, he postured, confirming her assumption that he understood English just fine.
Sasha pursued the room, making intentional eye contact with the three other men sitting beside a hookah at her three o'clock. "Does Wu Ming know you've taken up shop in his old digs?" The man squinted. "Or are you working for him?" No answer forth came, she tilted her head. "Maybe you're in bed with Peng too?"
That got a reaction, the man sneered and spat on the rugged wooden surface between them. Sasha slipped the backpack from her shoulders, avoiding the saliva to rest it against the table, and produced a CDC case. "I need to know where he went."
'The Messenger' leaned closer, and she popped the latches. "Good for three more weeks," she confirmed, flashing the use-by label on one of the vials. The man clicked his teeth and pointed to her left wrist. Something cold spread up her sternum. "That's not for sale." In left peripheral, she noticed Jesse frown.
He leaned back and folded his arms, staring at her. Her jaw clenched, and after several moments of impasse, she pulled something from her inner jacket pocket. It scraped audibly when she slid it forward. Again, Jesse glanced, but Sasha remained focused on watching The Messenger open a drawer from which he produced a loupe to inspect the stone. A sense of infidelity tore through her, and she told herself that Andrew would want Jesse to have answers, but there existed no such justification for choosing to barter her engagement ring over Tom's watch.
He turned the setting over several ways, the small magnifying glass comically close to the diamond, and if Sasha had to guess, he had no clue what he was looking for, but after a full minute of scrutiny, he finally pocketed the ring and motioned for one of his men to take the case.
"Americans," he drawled in broken English. "MSS want rouge pirate."
"Yeah, we got that part. Wu Ming. Where did he go?"
"Home." He rounded the table, and after exchanging a look with Jesse, they followed. A red bead curtain divided the main living space, and the small pieces of wood sounded like a rainstick when they shifted. The next room contained stacks of gold bars from the federal reserves, but it was a map pinned to the wall that The Messenger aimed to show. Looming in the threshold, Sasha parted the beads and held them open, ducking her head through, but uncomfortable stepping into an area with a singular exit. Especially when that exit led back to The Messenger's three remaining comrades.
He pointed to Beng Mu Cun; a coastal town closer to the Qiongzhou Strait almost 400 miles southwest. "Mother—" he tapped the map again "—MSS s'threaten, Wu Ming, mother."
When Jesse and Sasha emerged, Pablo pushed away from the crumbling wall he'd been leaning against. "And?"
"Peng's using Wu Ming's mother as leverage to control him," Sasha answered.
The skies were ominous, clouds so heavy you couldn't tell it was midday, and all around the sound of wind ripping through fabric, and palm leaves droned.
"Where?" Pablo yelled over the noise.
Sasha shook her head. "Beng Mu Cun—no way we can make it in time." As though to illustrate her point, Sasha felt the first tepid drops of rain upon her skin. Blinking, she looked up and around, gaze landing on a torn sail twisted around a power line running between two windows on the upper floors of the buildings surrounding them. She pointed. "Wind's still heading north, northwest. It's been that way for two days, and the ships over HF were reporting from at least a two-hundred-mile range."
"God damnit," Jesse muttered. "She's right—we head back now or we're riding it out here."
Pablo surveyed the buildings, a grimace upon his face. "Rather take my chances in somethin' made of steel and concrete, thanks."
USS Nathan James, Wanshan Archipelago, 30NM from Ngong Shuen Chau Naval Base, Hong Kong
Hunched over a plastic-lined waste basket, Ray Diaz heaved again, an IV that was taped to the hull against which he slumped, rather than hooked to a pole, replenishing fluids and electrolytes flowing into his arm. For two days the James had been hammered by thirty-foot swells as she battled to make it to shallower waters. Their progress had been significantly hampered when they'd been hit by navigational radar. Left with no choice, they'd been forced to idle until Peng's Destroyer moved beyond their path, and the storm had been on them since; broke the waves head-on, lest risking a hit broadside that could capsize them.
Eventually, they'd reached the relative shelter of the Archipelago compared to the violent open seas. The swells were smaller but higher in frequency than the deep plunging motions of before, but the wall of the eye was upon them now, and without reputable weather tracking, no one could estimate how much longer Bill would rage. The sound was unlike anything Ray Diaz had heard; like a banshee had taken up residence in the James' ductwork to ignite her wrath.
Moving with a wide set stance to stabilize himself, Doc Rios arose from the floor where he'd been sitting—his desk chair laid down and tethered along with every other non-fixed item—and patted the young sailor's back. "Those anti-nausea meds should kick in soon, just hang in there."
While the ship rocked relentlessly, Danny pondered the fact that he'd never used the bunk straps before; not once in his decade of service had he weathered a storm at sea. Prior to his mission in the Arctic, his time spent on ships was limited to catching transport and launching black ops that usually saw him, and his team in and out within forty-eight hours.
The door of his officer's stateroom opened, Cruz stumbled through a box of pop-tarts and a few other packaged goods in hand that he tossed at Danny.
Reflex's sharp, Danny caught the box before it hit him in the face.
"Dinner's served," Cruz grumbled.
Danny inspected it. Strawberry. At least it was his favorite kind, but he'd kill for something warm and fresh—even if their new cook, a transfer from a base with survivors, couldn't live up to Bacon's legacy. Galley couldn't operate in these conditions, though, so processed goods were it.
Only after he'd finished the third bite did Danny realize the James was no longer rocking. He lowered the pop tart, and unhooked himself from the bunk, standing for the first time in days without being thrown off balance. "It's stopped."
Javier, too, paused. "We must be in the eye."
Hong Kong, New China
"You sure the building's sposed to be swaying like this?"
Sasha side-eyed Pablo. "They're designed that way to withstand earthquakes. The flexibility stops them from coming down. It's fine."
Throughout the years, Sasha had seen her share of nature's fury, but she could admit that this was violent. Wouldn't be surprised if Shanzhai was leveled by now. She glanced at Tom's watch. Seven hours in, and they'd yet to meet the eye. Those peppered lights she'd come accustomed to watching every night were gone; everything beyond their glass walls, black—and while they had a generator and enough fuel to run it for a month—they were choosing conservation and running on candlelight. Jesse was tending over a small camping stove, the smell of gas mixing with the tofu and spam stir-fry she was cooking, and the only other distraction came from Jesse's speakers.
At least the music dulled some of the noise… just not the kind in her head.
Sasha left the aluminum storage chest she'd been sitting upon and walked to an area several feet removed that had functioned as a logistics hub before their ramshackle group of smugglers were killed. A large map of Guangdong province was spread out. Stacked beneath, depictions at varying scales of the region. They were notated with smuggling routes. Warehouses marked either green or red… but they'd still yet to place the giant 'X' over Guangzhou.
She perched on a different crate, legs stretched before her while fiddling with Andrew's wedding band in her pocket and trying to ignore the guilt over letting hers go. So lost in thought, Sasha didn't register Jesse approach until a cardboard to-go box was brandished close to her nose.
Ripped from musing, Sasha blinked and removed the hand from her pocket. "Thanks."
Jesse made a quiet sound in response and sat on an adjacent crate. They ate in silence for a few minutes before she spoke. "If Peng knew Wu Ming was helping us, why didn't he just kill him?"
That was the right question. And it was a question Sasha had pondered almost exclusively since leaving The Messenger's lair. "Because he needs him… and I can't figure out why when there's an entire harbor full of mercenaries for hire that can smuggle things in and out of the county."
"You think they know each other?" Jesse hedged.
Sasha examined it and then shook her head. "No. My contact would have flagged that."
Jesse peered at her. "This the same contact who's been dark since that warehouse?"
Regret washed across Sasha's features. Only ever two reasons to go dark: he'd burned them, he was dead, or both.
"There's something bigger going on here," Sasha finally conceded. "I don't buy that it was bad timing… but if Peng knows enough to burn my contacts—then why the hell are we still alive?" she paused. "It's not like he doesn't have eyes all over what's left of Hong Kong. He was the Minister of State Security, for god's sake. I wouldn't be surprised if he already knows I was here as a diplomat before the plague and put two and two together."
Pablo, who'd been eavesdropping, sauntered over. "Now you're talkin' my language."
"We're gonna pay Wu Ming that visit… and then I need to figure out how to make a call without Peng intercepting it, and using what we've been doing as an excuse to start a hot war with the US."
A slow and satisfied grin spread across Pablo's mouth, and he stepped closer to squeeze her shoulder. "Nice to have you back."
"Still far from taking the oath," she warned. "But I can concede that we do not have the resources to get to the bottom of this without bringing in help."
He let go, her words unable to sour his triumph. "It's a start."
Jesse waited until Sasha had finished eating, and Pablo returned to his bedroll before murmuring, "The other night… you didn't tell him what day it was, did you?"
In her pocket, Andrew's ring seemed to increase in weight. May 2nd. The day her bloodwork came back and changed her life. Sasha ran her tongue across her teeth though her lips remained closed. "No," she answered, words barely louder than a breath.
It helped, Sasha realized, to have someone else who remembered Andrew. Who knew without needing to explain because she'd been part of their lives.
"Whose watch is that?"
But sometimes, it ushered guilt.
"Drew wasn't a watch guy," Jesse pressed when no answer forth came.
Her pulse jumped in her throat; the memory of Tom's lips vivid as though yesterday. "I'll explain another time."
Jesse must have read her confliction because, uncharacteristically, she let it drop, spinning some more noodles around her chopsticks.
In the lapse, it registered that the rain had stopped. Sasha peered at the glass, watching rivulets of water chasing random patterns down the panes.
"That's the eye."