Countermeasure
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chris Almeida & Cecilia Aubrey
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Countermeasure - Copyright © 2011 by Chris Almeida and Cecilia Aubrey
Edited by Emmanuelle Hertel
Cover art by Chris Almeida
Electronic book publication January 2012
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the authors.
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Countermeasure
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Our journey toward publishing
Countermeasure
has been a long and curious one, therefore our list of acknowledgements is equally long and curious. We would like to thank the following key people who were instrumental in the birth of our series.
To the Role Playing group Order of the Midnight Breed (OMB) for having taken both of us in and made us fall in love with writing all over again, reigniting our flames and desire to make our own world of fantasy known to readers.
For all the amazing support and encouragement as well as for being the official hardcore fans, guinea pigs, proofreaders, and cheerleaders of this series: Candy Chapman, Harriet Vallero and Micquleta Williams.
For proofreading and help with our research on France and all things French, Anders and Nina Karlsson.
A big thank you to Lisa Fitzpatrick for the great insight into the pharmaceutical industry.
To Alan Langford for the many discussions and consultations on technologies used in the book.
To Joann McGee, Sarah Davis, Heather Von Ohlen, Hope Sloper, Karen Lorio Piper, Sandra Zapp, Lori Freeman and Jennifer Murray Thompson for the continued laughter and friendship during the writing of the series.
And, of course, to both our families for being the drive behind the machine.
We love you all.
Marcus Aurelius
The Darkest Hour
The night was pitch black.
A dark blanket of clouds covered the starry ceiling, blocking the moonlight. The sea raged, slapped against the side of the vessel, and threw the seventy-foot yacht from to side to side as if it was a child’s toy. On their own, the thunder and clamor of the rain as it hit the water were deafening, but fearful cries also filled the air—screams that came from the yacht’s cabin and dissipated in the storm’s din, adding to its eeriness. In between her whimpering and screaming for help from God, a woman prayed. Her words, somehow heard distinctly above nature’s rage, were deliberately isolated and directed toward a non-existent audience. Zooming in on the cabin, the scene unraveled as if on a movie screen. Another voice was also heard—a man’s voice, its despair almost palpable.
“Maeve!” the man cried into chaos.
“Conor! In the galley!”
He fought the wild swings of the yacht and the water splashing from both the sea and the sky to reach her.
The bizarre film-like spectacle shifted and the scene came into focus. A dark-haired man staggered into the cabin’s galley as a petite blonde woman moved forward to meet him. Taking her tightly in his arms, he gently kissed her forehead as tears streamed down his face, mixing with the salty sea water that soaked him through.
The couple cried, deep pain emanating from their embrace.
He cupped her face in his hands. “I don’t think we’ll make it any closer to the coast than this,
a ghrá
.”
“I don’t think I can do this Conor.” Her voice was full of pain and longing. “I can’t leave him behind like this,” she added, looking into the man’s eyes.
“We won’t make it Maeve…we have to do it this way.” He held her tightly as she began to wail. Her cries were magnified by the howl of the wind and the rain hitting the yacht.
“Are you sure we can’t find a way, any other way out of this nightmare?” Her trembling words hit a nerve, like a serrated knife through flesh, cutting deep.
“I’d do anything to avoid causing you or him any pain,
a ghrá
…but we have no other way out.” His voice also trembled with the realization of the enormity of the situation they were in. “I am sorry, Maeve…so sorry this had to end this way.” He wrapped one arm around her slim waist, cupped her head with his hand, and pressed it to his broad chest. “We have to try, Maeve…at least that. He’s a man now. He’ll be okay.” Words spoken to reassure himself as much as her.
“He’s a man but he’s still my son—my child, Conor!” she cried in desperation. “I can’t…I can’t….” Panic seeped into her words. Conor knew he had to act quickly to snuff her indecision to follow through with their possible salvation. There was no other way.
He shook her gently and lowered his eyes to her eye level as if he was handling a child. “Maeve, love…I know this is painful, but we need to get off this yacht—now!” His firmly spoken words snapped her out of her panic and she grew quiet. “Now, Maeve. Let’s go.” He took her hand in his and started toward the steps leading up to the deck.
The bizarre cinematic zoom happened again, but this time it focused close, very close, on Maeve’s face. Her eyes lifted. She looked directly into what would have been the camera’s lens. “Don’t believe them, Trevor.”
Trevor Brennan sprang up in bed. A scream froze in his throat, his heart raced a mile a minute, and a cold sweat beaded his entire body. He rubbed his face with his hands and then covered his eyes with them. He rested his elbows on his bent knees while he tried to control his breathing and irregular heartbeat. “Fuck!”
He’d crossed paths with nightmares about his parents before, but nothing this real, nothing this detailed. Questions and doubts plagued Trevor even after all those years—ever since Stephan Connellan, his father’s best friend and right-hand man at Brennan Enterprises, had informed him of their disappearance four years ago. Stephan had harbored similar questions since day one, but as time went by and Trevor’s parents still hadn’t been found, their hope had dwindled until the last little flame had been snuffed by uncertainty. For Trevor and Stephan, life went on, regardless of how painful it had been to do so without them.
But after tonight’s nightmare, Trevor’s hope and need for closure was back in full force. He needed to know, needed to be sure. He lay back in bed and planned his course of action. “No stone unturned.” His words echoed in the room.
Second chances
Cassandra James slapped her badge
against the ID plate at the entrance door and rushed to the bank of elevators. Stifling a curse, she pressed the button to call the car. “This is the third time I’ve overslept. Bob is going to lynch me,” she mumbled, tapping the “Up” button multiple times. When the doors opened, she hurried into the brushed-steel cubicle and pressed the button for the fifth floor, where James Security Agency was located, followed by the “Close Door” button. “Come on, come on and close already, damn it!” she exclaimed loudly, hitting the button again impatiently, breathing a sigh of relief when the doors finally closed.
Cassandra leaned back against the handrail and absent-mindedly rubbed at the scar on her left hip. One would think the wound wouldn’t trouble her after two full years. Instead, the sore scar tissue was the reason she was late that morning. She’d spent the entire night tossing and turning, the pain bothering her through the long hours of the night. It was worrisome, since lately it only ached when something was off or about to happen—a kind of weird premonition device attached to her hip.
The ding of the elevator bell shook her from her reflections and she burst through the doors as they opened. Kelly, her father’s assistant, called out as Cassandra hurried by her desk, “You’re late!”
Cassandra waved her off and kept walking. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Kelly stood, leaned over her desk, and added a subtle warning, “Your father is in a mood. The meeting has already started in conference room three.”
Thanking her, Cassandra peeked through the glass and saw the team sitting around the conference room table listening intently to her father, Robert James. She took a deep breath to center herself and quietly entered the room, taking the closest chair.