Chapter Five
I kicked the small round object, which was in fact a grenade, then turned and threw myself across the desk. Catching Wentz in the gut, I dragged us both to the floor as a thunderous sound filled the room. Everything shook for a moment, then went silent, and for a second, I was sure I was dead. There was nothing. No sound or pain. No sense of here or there. Just an odd floating sensation a lot like the feeling you get when your board leaves the ground and you’ve got nothing but air between you and the world. Other than Sheltie, Cain was the only other person I’d jumped to—and they were both Sixes. I didn’t know if it worked with Nixes, and I said a silent prayer that this wasn’t the moment I’d have to find out.
Like a rubber band, everything snapped hard into focus. One second, nothing—then boom. The next, hurt city. There was screaming—lots of it—and a persistent buzzing that matched the painful twinge in every one of my limbs. It was like the time I’d wiped out doing an ollie down the hill in Memorial Park trying to show off for Gina Thim, my ninth grade crush.
I was alive—which meant Wentz was too. I hoped.
When I managed to pry open my eyes, all I could see was smoke and dust. “Wentz?” I tried.
“Mr. Wentz!” a baritone voice bellowed through the din. “Mr. Wentz, can you hear me?”
In response, someone beside me groaned, then coughed. A shuffling sound—fabric rubbing together—but no actual words.
“Over here,” I yelled between coughs. The air was full of dust, making it impossible to get a lungful of clean oxygen. It coated the inside of my mouth and throat, tiny, gravely particles sparking another round of furious coughing. “We’re behind—” I coughed and waved away some of the smoke, then shoved a piece of the desk off my leg “—what’s left of the desk.”
The sound of rushing footsteps and a jumble of voices filled the air. A moment later, someone gingerly hefted me to my feet. Something solid slid under me and I was urged to sit. “You okay, kid?” a man asked. “Can you hear me? What happened?”
Everything was still a little blurry, but when he came into focus, I saw a broad shouldered man with a neck like a tree trunk and arms to match. “I’m Nader Dean, head of security. What happened?”
What happened? Obviously an explosion happened. He needed a diagram?
“Stop drilling the guy and give him some room to breathe, Nader,” Wentz wheezed. He climbed to his feet with the help of two men in matching suits as Nader frowned. “Someone threw a grenade through my office window—a really crappy thing to do, by the way. Doug here saved my life.”
“Damn it, Frank,” Nader cursed. He flicked a piece of something—it looked like a chunk of the ceiling—from Wentz’s shoulder. “I warned you to get out of this office. The ground floor isn’t safe.”
“I like this office,” Wentz countered, dusting off the front of his jacket. He flashed Nader a huge smile. “It’s got a great view.”
Nader’s eyes bulged. Something told me the guy was wound tighter than fishing line. “A great view? Are you insane? It overlooks the employee parking lot!”
Wentz shrugged. “I like the parking lot.” He turned to me, expression slipping momentarily into the serious zone. “You all right?”
“For someone who almost had his head blown off? I’m killer.”
Wentz clasped both hands together, seriousness lasting no more than three point five seconds—probably some kind of record for the guy. “Great. Let’s go see what’s taking our breakfast order so long, shall we?”
Unable to speak, I watched him head for the door like nothing happened. Nader, though, had no problem forming a sentence. “I’d think twice about coming back tomorrow, kid. Frank’s personal assistants don’t usually last long.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
Nader shrugged. He surveyed the room, lips tilting downward as he bent to retrieve the remnants of a slightly singed notebook. Tossing it to me, he said, “Short life spans.”
…
I caught up to Wentz in the hall where he was talking to Donna. I couldn’t help noticing how close she stood to him, every once in awhile resting a hand on his shoulder and leaning in almost as if she wanted to kiss him. He didn’t seem to notice, chattering on and on about misplaced files. I caught a word here and there—something about the private server—but that was it. The guy was totally oblivious and I could tell it drove Donna crazy. She kept batting her eyes and angling her shoulder forward, attempting—and failing—to get his attention.
Devin stood to the left of them, pale as paper and eyes wide as she watched the chaos from a safe distance. Security moved fast, having already roped off the area, and it made me wonder exactly how often things like this happened. It was almost like they had a system in place, which led to the other question—exactly what had happened? It couldn’t be Denazen. There’s no way they’d risk harming Wentz. At least not before they got what they were after.
Wentz started on his way again and I hurried after him. The guy didn’t stand still for very long and it was starting to make me a little dizzy. “Keep up,” he said, rounding corners and pushing through doors without slowing. He led me up a set of narrow stairs and through one last hallway before stopping in front of a metal door guarded by two men with guns.
“Morning, Jims!” he said cheerfully. Not at all like a man that had almost been blown to bits. Whatever he was smoking, I wanted some.
Neither man returned the boisterous greeting. Hell, neither man even blinked.
Wentz sighed and tapped the shoulder of the one on the right. “It’s my goal in life to get at least one of them to laugh.” He shook his head. “I’ve been at it for two years now. They’re starting to crack, though. Yesterday, Jim number one twitched!”
The paper said Wentz was eccentric, but this was ridiculous. Forget his elevator not going to the top—it wasn’t even getting off the ground.
He punched a code into the keypad, the door opened with a whoosh, and we stepped into a cavernous room full of men and women scurrying around in long white coats. Some wore masks, their heads bent over beakers and bubbling concoctions, while others were lost in papers, scribbling notes and checking figures.
Wentz walked with purpose down the center of the room and straight to the back where another door with a keypad matching the first sat on the wall. After punching in a code—I was pretty sure it was the same numbers as the first, which suspiciously looked like one, two, three, four—we stepped inside.
It was another office. No. Not another office. The same office. Aside from an odd glass case on the far wall, it was an exact replica of the office on the first floor right down to the waste basket in the corner and bag of Twizzlers on the desk—except these were the black licorice type and not the red.
I was about to question him, but he threw himself into the leather couch in the other corner of the room, and said, “Well?”
“Well, what?”
He waved a hand toward the door. “This is the part where you tell me you’d like to quit.”
I pulled up the chair and sat down across from him, meeting his gaze head on. Wentz was an interesting guy, and under different circumstances, I’d love to hang around and get to know him, but right now, the only thing on my mind was, where would a guy like this hide an uber-secret genetic formula? “It is? I hope that’s not mandatory, because I’m not much of a quitter.”
Wentz eyed me for a moment before chuckling. “I like you. Ya got balls.” He kicked both feet onto the couch. “We’re gonna get along great.”
“I do have a question though.”
He leaned forward, and with a waggle of his bushy brow, said, “You’d like to know why someone threw a grenade through my office window, right?”
“I’m a little curious, but believe it or not, that wasn’t it.”
“Oh, now I’m intrigued. Ask away.”
“Why did you hire a personal assistant?”
Swinging his feet around, he hopped off the couch and walked to the mini fridge on the other side of the door. The guy was like the Roadrunner on crack. Up. Down. Here. There. “That’s not what you wanna know,” he said, opening the fridge.
“It’s not?”
He pulled out two cans, popped the cap on the first, and tossed it back, then threw the second to me. “You wanna know what happened to the previous assistants. I’d bet my big ones Nader told you to head for the hills, right?”
“Pretty much.” I pulled up on the tab and took a swig without looking—and almost snarfed the liquid all over myself. “Is this beer?”
Wentz looked at me like I’d grown a pair of plump ones. “Yes?”
“It’s nine in the morning!”
He took another long pull from his can and shrugged. “Nah. It’s after ten. And we’re bonding here. It’s part of the experience. Humor me, man.”
He started pacing, and even though I itched to get my hands on the formula, a part of me was curious about what was going on here. “So, yeah. Nader? He’s a good guy, and he’s got my best interests in mind and all that fluffy crap, but if it were up to him, I’d stay locked in a room with no windows and steel walls ninety percent of the time. He’s been working for my father since he was in his teens, and he’s made it his life’s goal to keep me all safe and sound. Snug as a bug in a fortified rug, ya know what I’m saying? The dude makes it impossible to get a date. He does background checks on everyone.”
“Well, then that leads to the other question…”
He downed the rest of his beer and slam dunked the can into the garbage pail. “Why has Nader stayed at Dromere for so long? You know, I keep asking myself that same question. It’s not for the pay, that’s for sure. I keep denying him a raise in hopes he’ll move along.”
I rolled my eyes. “The grenade. Tossing an explosive through someone’s window is kind of hardcore. Someone out there isn’t your fan.”
“There are some people that aren’t happy with Dromere. My dad was a good guy, but not particularly an animal lover. It leaked out that Dromere used to do animal testing.” He held out his hands and waved them up and down. “We don’t anymore. I love animals. Well, I mean I don’t lurrrve them—if you know what I mean—but Rover and Fifi have no place in science. I even have a fish!”
“Ooookay.”
“Animal rights people can be pretty hardcore. I’ve been dodging bullets—some figuratively and some not so much. We’re trying to prove we don’t test on animals anymore, but it’s slow going.” He tapped his chin and tilted his head in my direction. “Do you think I should have publicity photos taken? Maybe with the fish?”
“Um—”
“You’re right,” he rushed on. “That’s ridiculous. The fish would never sit still long enough to take a good picture.”
I liked Wentz and had no intention of hurting him—or his company—but I needed that formula and we were wasting time. First, a test run. With a deep breath, I looked into his eyes, channeled everything that was Cain, and said, “Give me a piece of licorice.”
He threw me an offhanded wave and plopped into his chair. “No way, man. I’m generous, but no one touches the sweet sticks. Sorry.”
I sighed. Obviously the working details of Cain’s ability were going to be a problem—one I’d need to remedy. Fast. In the meantime, maybe I could find the formula another way. With what my father would call regroup and snoop. “So what will I be doing for you?”
His expression turned serious. “Very, very important things, Doug.” With a nod toward the corner, he asked, “How do you feel about air hockey?”