Chapter One...
where we meet our principle characters and discover
something went terribly right in a terribly wrong way!
where we meet our principle characters and discover
something went terribly right in a terribly wrong way!
“You have got to be kidding,” Dr. Beatrice Fine said upon looking up. Her pristine lab coat whispered
as she slid from the stool and moved away from her microscope.
The man with the gun ran his free hand over his short, designer-cut crop of unnaturally shaded wheat-
brown hair causing the artistically placed gold tinted highlights to bristle like porcupine quills under the
harsh lab lights. He sneered at her. The fine, thin swathe of his more naturally toned lighter brown
moustache added to his melodramatically sinister expression, one he’d worked to achieve since
adolescence. She knew because she’d caught him practicing it on his fifteenth birthday. Twenty-one
years later, and not much in the cast of his face had changed.
The chip he’d had on his shoulder as a teen was still firmly in place, too.
“When have you ever known me to kid, Bea?” he snarled.
The answer was easy: Never. He lacked a sense of humor, even a warped one. Bea had known Skip
Geary all his life, and because she had, should never have hired him to be her assistant. Former
assistant, thank God.
When Skip had tendered his resignation six months earlier, he had made her one of the happiest
women alive. Today, not quite so cheery.
He had come dressed for espionage with cocktails, wearing a cashmere turtleneck in a rich,
impenetrable shade of ebony, wool slacks of jet black, both topped off with a dark charcoal corduroy
sports jacket – an outfit more suited to an academic fund raiser than clandestine theft.
The tail of his coat flew out slightly as he turned to glance at the man busy further back in the lab. A
mercenary, she guessed, by the way he efficiently affixed a series of detonation devices around the
room. He probably didn’t have a sense of humor either. Odd that she seemed to be hung up on that
quality. Particularly when it looked like her time on Earth had nearly run out. And if it had, she really
needed an amusing tale or two to tell St. Peter to wheedle her way through the Pearly Gates. Her life
had not been filled with stellar humanistic achievements beyond those in the lab. And even those didn’t
merit the appellation of “Save the World” type discoveries, although some models and starlets might
think differently.
She worked in the cosmetics industry, for God’s sake! Not exactly the high-minded goals for the future
she’d boasted of in her youth, but a capitulation to big bucks in her bank account despite the downturn
in the economy. There was always a market for youth, even if it was only pseudo youth in a bottle.
Despite the years she had devoted to brewing up better moisturizers, pore cleansers, and sun block,
she didn’t plan to make her stand against the Angel of Death in the lab. What a terrible epitaph – blown
to smithereens along with the accouterments of her trade.
On her birthday, no less. Not that she’d planned anything special to celebrate sixty-five years on the
planet, fifteen of them spent with her head in a series of chemistry books and another forty of them with
a beaker in her hand. No, the celebration she’d had in mind was to run one final series of tests –
unnecessary tests, really – on her latest formula. Her ground breaking formula. The day before one of
her creations went to the volunteer human guinea pigs had always been tense though.
Before her sat a perfect six-foot tall circular vat, every inch of the tempered glass constructed
specifically to withstand the weight of the vast amount of ivory, slightly pearlescent, lotion brewed in it
earlier that day. Her discovery, the ultimate epithelial restoration recipe, would never bear her name, but
ER-6900 would make Basternak and Searle Pharmaceutical Laboratories, her employer, billions in
worldwide sales by flogging it to women in search of younger appearing skin.
And here stood Skip Geary, the weasel, trying to stop the wheel of progress before it truly started
rolling. Did stealing the formula and destroying all evidence that she had ever been involved in its
creation, have any hope of succeeding? She doubted it. Hold it up for a few months perhaps. But stop
B&S from moving ahead on the project? Hardly.
“You weren’t supposed to be here, Bea,” Skip said, using the gun as a lecture aid, waving it slightly to
indicate more than just the lab. “What happened to the champagne toasts when the clock ticks you over
into another year of this pathetic life?”
“Gone along with your late mother,” Bea said. “It takes two people to keep some traditions alive.”
She stared at the putty-like compound and wires attached to a digital screen as the mercenary in the
Skip’s employ pressed the last explosive in place against the smoothly curved side of the vat. The
display read: 4:59. The countdown had already begun.
“The file’s nearly downloaded. You can grab the drive on your way out, Geary,” the mystery man said.
“That’s Dr. Geary,” Skip snarled, then sneered at Bea. “There’s still enough time to get a sample before
I leave. If you will watch Dr. Fine —”
The sound of the far door closing behind the mercenary cut Skip off.
“You damn bastard!” Skip yelled after him. “We aren’t finished here!”
“Looks like you are, Skippy,” Bea said. “I know how disappointed you feel, though. Good help is so hard
to find.”
He had let the barrel of the pistol drop, but it swung up now as he stepped back a pace, his right arm
stretched out straight, the gun steady in his hand once more. Barely eighteen inches existed between
the deadly barrel and Bea’s brow.
“Don’t call me Skippy!” he shouted.
The explosive’s countdown ticked down to 4:33.
Bea ignored the gun. She knew he hadn’t the courage to pull the trigger. Not on his mother’s oldest
friend. “It’s what I’ve called you most of your life, doctor. Now get over your snit and help me disarm
these things before they go off.”
“No,” he declared as petulantly as the coddled child he’s once been.
She brushed past him to study the bomb. “You take care of the ones in the office, particularly those
placed on the computer and files. I’ll see if I can disarm this one.”
“You aren’t listening, Bea. I’m not going to disarm anything. I’m going to steal your formula and blow up
you and all the evidence of your work. Then I’m going to be filthy rich. You see, I’ve already sold the
formula sight unseen to a higher bidder than Basternak and Searle.”
The countdown now read 4:04.
“B&S owns the formula, Skip.” Bea traced the various colored wires to their terminals.
“My contract says everything I do belongs to them, just as yours did. You can’t sell it elsewhere.”
“Watch me.” Skip laughed, his narrow white face contorted with glee. “Oh, wait. You won’t be able to.
You’ll be in hell with Mummy dearest where you belong.”
Bea swung around and slapped him making Skip’s head whip back with the force of her blow. “Don’t you
dare talk about your mother that way.”
She should have hit him a lot sooner, Bea thought, then he backhanded her across the mouth, knocking
her off her feet.
The timer registered 3:48.
Bea wiped at the outer corner of her lip with the back of her hand. It came away with a smear of blood.
He might have the advantage of youth, but he’d never outgrow who he was. If she didn’t feel so angry,
she might feel sorry for him. “You still hit like a girl, Skippy. But then you’re a nerd. Like me. Just like
your mother wanted you to be.”
“Bitch.” His brows met like one large dirt colored caterpillar as he practically growled at her. “Work all
you like on that timer. I can’t help you. I’m a damn chemist like you are, not a mechanical engineer or
demolitions expert. I couldn’t stop any of these fucking things if my life depended on it.”
Perhaps it did, Bea thought. She watched the timer drop a few more seconds from her life. She knew
nothing in regards to explosives other than which liquids in the lab were volatile if mixed. The act of
studying the plastique and wires had been nothing more than wishful thinking.
Skip fumbled in his jacket pocket. “All I need is a sample of the formula, and I’ve got plenty of time to get
that and get out of here. But you, Bea, aren’t going anywhere.”
When she saw the article in his hand, Bea scrambled to her feet. “A jelly jar?” What an amateur.
“Nice wide mouth and a lid that fastens down tight.” Skip started up the metal staircase that had been
wheeled next to the vat and locked in place.
Bea made a grab for him, but Skip slipped free, taking the steps two at a time. Bea scrambled after him.
The moveable stairs rattled and rocked beneath her, but she caught up with her former colleague,
trying to grab the jar from his hand.
Skip raised it out of her reach then brought it down hard, clubbing her with it, striking her temple.
A light brighter than any in the lab burst behind Bea’s eyes. Despite the pain, she hung tightly to his
arm. He hit her again, then again. But the third time was Skip’s undoing. His grip on the jar slipped so
that it tumbled end over end to smash on the tiled floor below.
“You goddamn bitch!” he screeched. In his fury, he lifted her off her feet, pushing her to the rim of the
vat. The glass side of the giant container screamed as the metal staircase scrapped along it. “Die you
frickin’ hag!”
Bea felt the edge of the vat at her back, then she tipped over into the cool creamy thickness of her
formula. It welcomed her, pulling her down into its depths. Her fingers continued to clutch the lapels of
Skip’s sports coat so, with a final effort, Bea yanked him into the mixture with her. Would Carmen meet
them at the Pearly Gates? And if she did, would she be smiling or looking disappointed in them both?
Again.
The formula convulsed around them in sluggish waves. Bea’s grip on Skip slipped, allowing him to push
away from her. She felt renewed movement in the viscosity surrounding her as he pulled himself free.
Idly she wondered how much time remained on the timer. Her mind seemed unaccustomedly unable to
focus sufficiently to help herself, or to stop him.
Then everything went black.
With the bottle of champagne and a bag of Chinese food in one hand, Zack Ashcroft swiped his
security card through the scanner at the main door of Basternak and Searle Laboratories. The clock in
the lobby indicated that there were five minutes remaining until the bewitching hour and the beginning of
a new day. Which meant the place was nearly empty, manned by security, maintenance, and his boss,
Bea Fine, who hadn’t the sense to go home most nights.
When the light on the monitor turned green Zack stuck the security card between his teeth to have a
free hand to open the door. He knew better than to expect the security guard at the desk to offer a hand.
Sure enough, the guy barely looked away from the small screen of the portable DVD player on the edge
of his desk. A classic Vin Diesel action movie nearly blocked the view on one of the security screens he
was supposed to be watching.
Zack didn’t blame the guy though. Not much ever happened at the B&S research facility after hours. It
was probably hard to work up enthusiasm to guard the next great plaque fighting toothpaste or miracle
tile cleanser. Well, miracle until the new and improved version came along, anyway.
Plunking his bag of goodies and bottle of bubbly down on the counter, Zack reached for the wallet
nesting in the rear pocket of his jeans to put his clearance card away. “Vin kickin’ butt and takin’
names?” he asked the man behind the desk.
“Ferget takin’ names,” the guard said. “It’s the kickin’ butt that’s important.”
“Damn straight it is,” Zack agreed.
“What ‘er you doing here this time of night, doc?”
“Surprising the boss. Come 12:01 a.m., it’s her birthday.”
“No kiddin’. Dr. Fine?”
“Dr. Damn Fine,” Zack said. “The lady’s brilliant, but she’s female and turning a horrific number in the
female pantheon.”
“The what?”
“She’d neuter me if I told you her age,” Zack insisted. The guard raised his eyebrow at the notion. Zack
capitulated, his sense of humor getting the best of him. “Okay, it’s number sixty-five.”
“Guess she’s thinkin’ retirement then.” Smiling, the guard tilted back in his chair.
Zack laughed. “Boy, do you ever not know the lady.”
“You sweet on her then? Ain’t she kinda old for you, doc?”
Zack reclaimed the champagne and goody bag. “It’s got nothing to do with romance, pal,” he said. “It’s
about –”
The building shook with what sounded like an explosion. The lights flickered briefly then settled back to
their usual brightness.
“Jesus!” The guard righted his chair and slapped his hands on the desk as if to hold it in place.
Zack spared a glance at the monitors behind the desk. The screen that usually displayed a view of the
corridor outside his office and the lab showed nothing but white noise and electronic snow. Dropping his
birthday offerings on the adjacent waiting room couch, Zack took off running, only remembering to call
back to the guard as he pulled open the door to the stairwell. “Call 911! That was Dr. Fine’s lab.” Then
he ran through the door and took the steps to the fourth floor three at a time.
Awareness returned when Bea heard the metal staircase pull free of the ceiling cables entangled
around it and crash to the floor.
Her head throbbed and her whole body dripped with gook. Her formula. The tall vat of her creation had
disappeared. There were no pooled puddles of the lotion anywhere in the lab, which meant it was all but
gone, the residue clinging to her the sum total that remained.
The emergency lights illuminated the room in a spotty pattern. A miracle considering the devastation in
the lab had taken out large parts of the ceiling. Glass from the vat coated everything like fine pixy dust.
The staircase had been blown across the room and now lay mangled and twisted where it had come to
rest. A fire burned in the remains of her office at the far end of the room, but it wouldn’t for long. Water
gushed in various places from broken pipes overhead while the few sprinkler heads still affixed to the
ceiling remained dry.
The metal shelving on the wall was bent inward in places, and scorched black in others. Not a single
beaker, jar, or container remained on them but for the canister of coffee still upright on the far table.
The coffee maker had disappeared, blown who-knew-where. The heavy plate glass windows that
overlooked the far from lovely view of the employee parking lot were missing as well, allowing a chill
evening breeze to invade the room.
Bea drew her knees up, resting her brow on them. All her work had been destroyed, but she was alive.
At least she thought she was alive. Her hair, usually bound in a lopsided knot at her crown, straggled
around her shoulders, lank and sticky. The lab coat hung in tatters, the silk blouse and wool skirt she’d
put on that morning were in equally bad shape, and her stockings were shredded. She’d lost her shoes,
too.
A junior high rock band had taken up residence in her temples, each player not only out of tune but
matched by a demon drummer determined to kill new decibels with the thundering thump of bass and
snarl of the snare drum. The racket made her whole body feel oddly out of sync and concentration
nearly impossible. One would think she’d been hit with a bomb, Bea thought and started to laugh.
Oh, God, she was alive. No one could feel this terrible and be dead.
The sound of running footsteps in the hall didn’t register with her at first, her mind thinking them part of
the internal noise. But when the lab door fell off its hinges and a man climbed over the rubble to reach
her, Bea breathed a sigh of relief. She knew those steps, knew the voice that called her name.
Her assistant. Not the little twerp who’d blown her up, but the current assistant – or rather colleague –
the fellow who had taken Skip’s place in the lab. The brilliant, funny man over two decades her junior
who preferred to waste his time with her rather than have a real life away from the B&S facility.
The man who believed in her work as much as she did.
His hands cupped her face, brushing back her formula-matted hair. “Bea.” There was a catch in his
voice, probably because she now looked like the hag Skip had termed her. “Are you okay?”
She tried to smile and failed. “Yes. No. Oh, God, Zack. All our work is gone. Gone.”
When he crushed her to him, she didn’t want to think about how good it felt, but common sense made
her push him away.
“What are you doing here?”
He gave her a sorry excuse of a grin. “Happy birthday?”
“Hell of a party,” Bea murmured. “Help me up.”
Rather than do so, he swept her off the floor and up into his arms. “There’s glass everywhere. You’ll cut
your feet. I’ll carry you to my office. As soon as the EMTs get here, they can check you out and –”
“No, I’m fine. A little concussed from the explosion maybe, but you can check on that. Just dust off that M.
D. diploma that hangs on your wall.”
She could see from the stern set of Zack’s mouth he might argue that point. Thanks to a stint as a medic
in the military, he did know far more about what explosives could do than she did. But instead of
berating her, he merely shifted her more firmly in his arms.
Was it the Galahad routine or the after effects of being dumped in a vat of ER-6900 that made her enjoy
the closeness, the attention? After all, she was long past menopause. Ye Gods, she had turned twenty-
five and nearly finished her first doctorate the year Zack was born. Yet he gave her no choice. He simply
hefted her up and climbed over the rubble and out the door without a single gasp for breath. Which,
considering the excess weight she carried as a result of grabbing meals out of the company vending
machines, she would have expected.
“I didn’t think the formula was volatile,” he said.
Behind his rimless glasses worry shadowed his lovely green eyes. Since when had she noticed his
eyes? And his broad shoulders. Damn, his aftershave smelled good. Obviously the explosion had rattled
what remained of her scientific mind. All she’d ever admired about Zachary Ashcroft in the past was his
brilliance, a dedication to their work surpassed only by her own single-mindedness, and his wicked
sense of humor.
“It wasn’t volatile until Skip Geary scattered bombs around the room, including one on the vat.”
“Geary.” Zack snarled his predecessor’s name. “Where the hell is he?”
“Probably ran off after trying to drown me in the vat of ER-6900,” Bea said. “He was intent on destroying
everything that would show the formula had been created anywhere but in whatever hole of a lab he’s
set up.” One further step took them to the door of Zack’s office. Bea noticed the plate was scarred near
the lock. “Skip must have tried to access files from your office as well.”
“I don’t think so,” Zack declared, then kicked the door – hard. It sprang open, slamming back against the
inner wall.
Well, that explained the odd thumps she’d heard when he left the lab in the past, usually after one of
their arguments over ER-6900. Skip had been nothing but her assistant. Zack had shot past the original
designation and was a colleague who really deserved a better designation than secondary on the ER-
6900 project. It was typical of his temperament that his office door now opened to a swift blow rather
than a plebian turn of the knob.
Zack raised one brow in answer to the look she gave him. “Don’t start,” he warned. “This has been a
more effective way of releasing frustration than punching holes in the drywall.”
Bea wished she’d tried the method herself. Particularly during Skip Geary’s time as her assistant.
Zack gently placed her on the leather couch along one wall. The one he frequently slept on when
neither of them could tear themselves away from work. The chintz sofa in her office had sufficed for her
own naps. It was probably smoldering now or drenched by the water gushing from the broken pipes.
Zack closed the door softly before saying another word. He ran both hands through his tumbling black
hair. He seemed unaware that ER-6900 matted down a lock or two. Residue he’d picked up from contact
with her. A wide, damp swathe of it covered the front of his distressed leather bomber jacket as well, but
it was drying quickly, disappearing before Bea’s eyes.
“So Geary wanted you dead. Why?” Zack’s jaw tightened in that determined look Bea knew so well.
“I’m not sure it was part of his original plan. He seemed surprised that I was still in the lab. He’d come for
the formula. I don’t know how he learned of our progress on it, but he stands to make a fortune in selling
ER-6900 to one of B&S’s competitors. There’s not a philanthropic bone in his body.” Bea shifted on the
couch, surprised her body didn’t feel as literally shell-shocked as it had just moments ago.
Zack hunkered down before her. Rested his hand familiarly on her knee – something he’d never done
before and she doubted he realized he was doing. Zack’s eyes were thoughtful. Worried. “You’ve got to
disappear, Bea. You aren’t safe as long as Geary knows you’re alive.”
She scowled at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. The police will deal with this.”
“I’m dead serious. You’d effectively be on house arrest as they search for Geary. You think you’d be
allowed anywhere near the formula, or lab? You might even be accused of sabotaging the lab yourself.
You’ve certainly had enough arguments with Director Harrington to justify that line of thought.”
Bea sucked in her breath. He was right. Damn it! Her life’s work would literally go up in smoke if she didn’
t do something about it.
Zack fished in his jacket pocket for his keys. A small flashlight dangled from the key ring. “Let me see
your eyes,” he ordered, and shone the pinpoint of light in them.
Bea knew the drill and followed Zack’s directions, answering his questions fully. She relaxed when he
pronounced her little harmed by the explosion. “But I don’t want you nodding off. You never can tell with
concussions,” he warned. “Which is why I am sticking you in the most uncomfortable place I can think of
until I can get you safely out of here.”
“How uncomfortable?” she asked warily.
Zack opened another of the items on his key ring – a small Swiss Army knife – and found the
screwdriver head. When he stood up and began working on the air vent cover located behind a four-
foot tall fake yucca plant, Bea groaned.
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, lifting the cover off the vent. “You’ll be safe here. People will be coming and going
and they’d spot you huddled on my sofa. They won’t think to look for you in the air vent.”
“And why won’t they?” The thought of being stuffed into a cold cramped space irritated her even though
she knew it was necessary. But she doubted she could make the police, or the director, see reason until
she and Zack figured out what to do next. The muted sound of sirens pulsed through the broken window
of the lab across the way indicating time was running out.
“Because they think you’re dead, ducks.” Zack pulled her off the couch and helped her maneuver feet
first into the narrow space, then tossed the thin blanket at the end of the couch after her. He refitted the
vent cover hastily, giving each screw a half turn, just enough to hold it in place. “Don’t make a sound.
Particularly no laughing,” he cautioned.
“What could I possible find to laugh about in this situation, Dr. Ashcroft?” Bea asked wearily. No doubt
reaction was finally setting in, at least mentally, but she could deal with it. She had to.
“My acting, Dr. Fine. It’s time for me to be inconsolable before the masses.”
“Because I’m dead.”
His eyes dancing with mischief, Zack grinned at her recklessly before getting to his feet. “Screw your
demise, darlin’. My future rested in that lovely concoction of yours. I’m in mourning for ER-6900.”
For the rest of the story, click on one of the purchase links in the upper top right of the page!
as she slid from the stool and moved away from her microscope.
The man with the gun ran his free hand over his short, designer-cut crop of unnaturally shaded wheat-
brown hair causing the artistically placed gold tinted highlights to bristle like porcupine quills under the
harsh lab lights. He sneered at her. The fine, thin swathe of his more naturally toned lighter brown
moustache added to his melodramatically sinister expression, one he’d worked to achieve since
adolescence. She knew because she’d caught him practicing it on his fifteenth birthday. Twenty-one
years later, and not much in the cast of his face had changed.
The chip he’d had on his shoulder as a teen was still firmly in place, too.
“When have you ever known me to kid, Bea?” he snarled.
The answer was easy: Never. He lacked a sense of humor, even a warped one. Bea had known Skip
Geary all his life, and because she had, should never have hired him to be her assistant. Former
assistant, thank God.
When Skip had tendered his resignation six months earlier, he had made her one of the happiest
women alive. Today, not quite so cheery.
He had come dressed for espionage with cocktails, wearing a cashmere turtleneck in a rich,
impenetrable shade of ebony, wool slacks of jet black, both topped off with a dark charcoal corduroy
sports jacket – an outfit more suited to an academic fund raiser than clandestine theft.
The tail of his coat flew out slightly as he turned to glance at the man busy further back in the lab. A
mercenary, she guessed, by the way he efficiently affixed a series of detonation devices around the
room. He probably didn’t have a sense of humor either. Odd that she seemed to be hung up on that
quality. Particularly when it looked like her time on Earth had nearly run out. And if it had, she really
needed an amusing tale or two to tell St. Peter to wheedle her way through the Pearly Gates. Her life
had not been filled with stellar humanistic achievements beyond those in the lab. And even those didn’t
merit the appellation of “Save the World” type discoveries, although some models and starlets might
think differently.
She worked in the cosmetics industry, for God’s sake! Not exactly the high-minded goals for the future
she’d boasted of in her youth, but a capitulation to big bucks in her bank account despite the downturn
in the economy. There was always a market for youth, even if it was only pseudo youth in a bottle.
Despite the years she had devoted to brewing up better moisturizers, pore cleansers, and sun block,
she didn’t plan to make her stand against the Angel of Death in the lab. What a terrible epitaph – blown
to smithereens along with the accouterments of her trade.
On her birthday, no less. Not that she’d planned anything special to celebrate sixty-five years on the
planet, fifteen of them spent with her head in a series of chemistry books and another forty of them with
a beaker in her hand. No, the celebration she’d had in mind was to run one final series of tests –
unnecessary tests, really – on her latest formula. Her ground breaking formula. The day before one of
her creations went to the volunteer human guinea pigs had always been tense though.
Before her sat a perfect six-foot tall circular vat, every inch of the tempered glass constructed
specifically to withstand the weight of the vast amount of ivory, slightly pearlescent, lotion brewed in it
earlier that day. Her discovery, the ultimate epithelial restoration recipe, would never bear her name, but
ER-6900 would make Basternak and Searle Pharmaceutical Laboratories, her employer, billions in
worldwide sales by flogging it to women in search of younger appearing skin.
And here stood Skip Geary, the weasel, trying to stop the wheel of progress before it truly started
rolling. Did stealing the formula and destroying all evidence that she had ever been involved in its
creation, have any hope of succeeding? She doubted it. Hold it up for a few months perhaps. But stop
B&S from moving ahead on the project? Hardly.
“You weren’t supposed to be here, Bea,” Skip said, using the gun as a lecture aid, waving it slightly to
indicate more than just the lab. “What happened to the champagne toasts when the clock ticks you over
into another year of this pathetic life?”
“Gone along with your late mother,” Bea said. “It takes two people to keep some traditions alive.”
She stared at the putty-like compound and wires attached to a digital screen as the mercenary in the
Skip’s employ pressed the last explosive in place against the smoothly curved side of the vat. The
display read: 4:59. The countdown had already begun.
“The file’s nearly downloaded. You can grab the drive on your way out, Geary,” the mystery man said.
“That’s Dr. Geary,” Skip snarled, then sneered at Bea. “There’s still enough time to get a sample before
I leave. If you will watch Dr. Fine —”
The sound of the far door closing behind the mercenary cut Skip off.
“You damn bastard!” Skip yelled after him. “We aren’t finished here!”
“Looks like you are, Skippy,” Bea said. “I know how disappointed you feel, though. Good help is so hard
to find.”
He had let the barrel of the pistol drop, but it swung up now as he stepped back a pace, his right arm
stretched out straight, the gun steady in his hand once more. Barely eighteen inches existed between
the deadly barrel and Bea’s brow.
“Don’t call me Skippy!” he shouted.
The explosive’s countdown ticked down to 4:33.
Bea ignored the gun. She knew he hadn’t the courage to pull the trigger. Not on his mother’s oldest
friend. “It’s what I’ve called you most of your life, doctor. Now get over your snit and help me disarm
these things before they go off.”
“No,” he declared as petulantly as the coddled child he’s once been.
She brushed past him to study the bomb. “You take care of the ones in the office, particularly those
placed on the computer and files. I’ll see if I can disarm this one.”
“You aren’t listening, Bea. I’m not going to disarm anything. I’m going to steal your formula and blow up
you and all the evidence of your work. Then I’m going to be filthy rich. You see, I’ve already sold the
formula sight unseen to a higher bidder than Basternak and Searle.”
The countdown now read 4:04.
“B&S owns the formula, Skip.” Bea traced the various colored wires to their terminals.
“My contract says everything I do belongs to them, just as yours did. You can’t sell it elsewhere.”
“Watch me.” Skip laughed, his narrow white face contorted with glee. “Oh, wait. You won’t be able to.
You’ll be in hell with Mummy dearest where you belong.”
Bea swung around and slapped him making Skip’s head whip back with the force of her blow. “Don’t you
dare talk about your mother that way.”
She should have hit him a lot sooner, Bea thought, then he backhanded her across the mouth, knocking
her off her feet.
The timer registered 3:48.
Bea wiped at the outer corner of her lip with the back of her hand. It came away with a smear of blood.
He might have the advantage of youth, but he’d never outgrow who he was. If she didn’t feel so angry,
she might feel sorry for him. “You still hit like a girl, Skippy. But then you’re a nerd. Like me. Just like
your mother wanted you to be.”
“Bitch.” His brows met like one large dirt colored caterpillar as he practically growled at her. “Work all
you like on that timer. I can’t help you. I’m a damn chemist like you are, not a mechanical engineer or
demolitions expert. I couldn’t stop any of these fucking things if my life depended on it.”
Perhaps it did, Bea thought. She watched the timer drop a few more seconds from her life. She knew
nothing in regards to explosives other than which liquids in the lab were volatile if mixed. The act of
studying the plastique and wires had been nothing more than wishful thinking.
Skip fumbled in his jacket pocket. “All I need is a sample of the formula, and I’ve got plenty of time to get
that and get out of here. But you, Bea, aren’t going anywhere.”
When she saw the article in his hand, Bea scrambled to her feet. “A jelly jar?” What an amateur.
“Nice wide mouth and a lid that fastens down tight.” Skip started up the metal staircase that had been
wheeled next to the vat and locked in place.
Bea made a grab for him, but Skip slipped free, taking the steps two at a time. Bea scrambled after him.
The moveable stairs rattled and rocked beneath her, but she caught up with her former colleague,
trying to grab the jar from his hand.
Skip raised it out of her reach then brought it down hard, clubbing her with it, striking her temple.
A light brighter than any in the lab burst behind Bea’s eyes. Despite the pain, she hung tightly to his
arm. He hit her again, then again. But the third time was Skip’s undoing. His grip on the jar slipped so
that it tumbled end over end to smash on the tiled floor below.
“You goddamn bitch!” he screeched. In his fury, he lifted her off her feet, pushing her to the rim of the
vat. The glass side of the giant container screamed as the metal staircase scrapped along it. “Die you
frickin’ hag!”
Bea felt the edge of the vat at her back, then she tipped over into the cool creamy thickness of her
formula. It welcomed her, pulling her down into its depths. Her fingers continued to clutch the lapels of
Skip’s sports coat so, with a final effort, Bea yanked him into the mixture with her. Would Carmen meet
them at the Pearly Gates? And if she did, would she be smiling or looking disappointed in them both?
Again.
The formula convulsed around them in sluggish waves. Bea’s grip on Skip slipped, allowing him to push
away from her. She felt renewed movement in the viscosity surrounding her as he pulled himself free.
Idly she wondered how much time remained on the timer. Her mind seemed unaccustomedly unable to
focus sufficiently to help herself, or to stop him.
Then everything went black.
With the bottle of champagne and a bag of Chinese food in one hand, Zack Ashcroft swiped his
security card through the scanner at the main door of Basternak and Searle Laboratories. The clock in
the lobby indicated that there were five minutes remaining until the bewitching hour and the beginning of
a new day. Which meant the place was nearly empty, manned by security, maintenance, and his boss,
Bea Fine, who hadn’t the sense to go home most nights.
When the light on the monitor turned green Zack stuck the security card between his teeth to have a
free hand to open the door. He knew better than to expect the security guard at the desk to offer a hand.
Sure enough, the guy barely looked away from the small screen of the portable DVD player on the edge
of his desk. A classic Vin Diesel action movie nearly blocked the view on one of the security screens he
was supposed to be watching.
Zack didn’t blame the guy though. Not much ever happened at the B&S research facility after hours. It
was probably hard to work up enthusiasm to guard the next great plaque fighting toothpaste or miracle
tile cleanser. Well, miracle until the new and improved version came along, anyway.
Plunking his bag of goodies and bottle of bubbly down on the counter, Zack reached for the wallet
nesting in the rear pocket of his jeans to put his clearance card away. “Vin kickin’ butt and takin’
names?” he asked the man behind the desk.
“Ferget takin’ names,” the guard said. “It’s the kickin’ butt that’s important.”
“Damn straight it is,” Zack agreed.
“What ‘er you doing here this time of night, doc?”
“Surprising the boss. Come 12:01 a.m., it’s her birthday.”
“No kiddin’. Dr. Fine?”
“Dr. Damn Fine,” Zack said. “The lady’s brilliant, but she’s female and turning a horrific number in the
female pantheon.”
“The what?”
“She’d neuter me if I told you her age,” Zack insisted. The guard raised his eyebrow at the notion. Zack
capitulated, his sense of humor getting the best of him. “Okay, it’s number sixty-five.”
“Guess she’s thinkin’ retirement then.” Smiling, the guard tilted back in his chair.
Zack laughed. “Boy, do you ever not know the lady.”
“You sweet on her then? Ain’t she kinda old for you, doc?”
Zack reclaimed the champagne and goody bag. “It’s got nothing to do with romance, pal,” he said. “It’s
about –”
The building shook with what sounded like an explosion. The lights flickered briefly then settled back to
their usual brightness.
“Jesus!” The guard righted his chair and slapped his hands on the desk as if to hold it in place.
Zack spared a glance at the monitors behind the desk. The screen that usually displayed a view of the
corridor outside his office and the lab showed nothing but white noise and electronic snow. Dropping his
birthday offerings on the adjacent waiting room couch, Zack took off running, only remembering to call
back to the guard as he pulled open the door to the stairwell. “Call 911! That was Dr. Fine’s lab.” Then
he ran through the door and took the steps to the fourth floor three at a time.
Awareness returned when Bea heard the metal staircase pull free of the ceiling cables entangled
around it and crash to the floor.
Her head throbbed and her whole body dripped with gook. Her formula. The tall vat of her creation had
disappeared. There were no pooled puddles of the lotion anywhere in the lab, which meant it was all but
gone, the residue clinging to her the sum total that remained.
The emergency lights illuminated the room in a spotty pattern. A miracle considering the devastation in
the lab had taken out large parts of the ceiling. Glass from the vat coated everything like fine pixy dust.
The staircase had been blown across the room and now lay mangled and twisted where it had come to
rest. A fire burned in the remains of her office at the far end of the room, but it wouldn’t for long. Water
gushed in various places from broken pipes overhead while the few sprinkler heads still affixed to the
ceiling remained dry.
The metal shelving on the wall was bent inward in places, and scorched black in others. Not a single
beaker, jar, or container remained on them but for the canister of coffee still upright on the far table.
The coffee maker had disappeared, blown who-knew-where. The heavy plate glass windows that
overlooked the far from lovely view of the employee parking lot were missing as well, allowing a chill
evening breeze to invade the room.
Bea drew her knees up, resting her brow on them. All her work had been destroyed, but she was alive.
At least she thought she was alive. Her hair, usually bound in a lopsided knot at her crown, straggled
around her shoulders, lank and sticky. The lab coat hung in tatters, the silk blouse and wool skirt she’d
put on that morning were in equally bad shape, and her stockings were shredded. She’d lost her shoes,
too.
A junior high rock band had taken up residence in her temples, each player not only out of tune but
matched by a demon drummer determined to kill new decibels with the thundering thump of bass and
snarl of the snare drum. The racket made her whole body feel oddly out of sync and concentration
nearly impossible. One would think she’d been hit with a bomb, Bea thought and started to laugh.
Oh, God, she was alive. No one could feel this terrible and be dead.
The sound of running footsteps in the hall didn’t register with her at first, her mind thinking them part of
the internal noise. But when the lab door fell off its hinges and a man climbed over the rubble to reach
her, Bea breathed a sigh of relief. She knew those steps, knew the voice that called her name.
Her assistant. Not the little twerp who’d blown her up, but the current assistant – or rather colleague –
the fellow who had taken Skip’s place in the lab. The brilliant, funny man over two decades her junior
who preferred to waste his time with her rather than have a real life away from the B&S facility.
The man who believed in her work as much as she did.
His hands cupped her face, brushing back her formula-matted hair. “Bea.” There was a catch in his
voice, probably because she now looked like the hag Skip had termed her. “Are you okay?”
She tried to smile and failed. “Yes. No. Oh, God, Zack. All our work is gone. Gone.”
When he crushed her to him, she didn’t want to think about how good it felt, but common sense made
her push him away.
“What are you doing here?”
He gave her a sorry excuse of a grin. “Happy birthday?”
“Hell of a party,” Bea murmured. “Help me up.”
Rather than do so, he swept her off the floor and up into his arms. “There’s glass everywhere. You’ll cut
your feet. I’ll carry you to my office. As soon as the EMTs get here, they can check you out and –”
“No, I’m fine. A little concussed from the explosion maybe, but you can check on that. Just dust off that M.
D. diploma that hangs on your wall.”
She could see from the stern set of Zack’s mouth he might argue that point. Thanks to a stint as a medic
in the military, he did know far more about what explosives could do than she did. But instead of
berating her, he merely shifted her more firmly in his arms.
Was it the Galahad routine or the after effects of being dumped in a vat of ER-6900 that made her enjoy
the closeness, the attention? After all, she was long past menopause. Ye Gods, she had turned twenty-
five and nearly finished her first doctorate the year Zack was born. Yet he gave her no choice. He simply
hefted her up and climbed over the rubble and out the door without a single gasp for breath. Which,
considering the excess weight she carried as a result of grabbing meals out of the company vending
machines, she would have expected.
“I didn’t think the formula was volatile,” he said.
Behind his rimless glasses worry shadowed his lovely green eyes. Since when had she noticed his
eyes? And his broad shoulders. Damn, his aftershave smelled good. Obviously the explosion had rattled
what remained of her scientific mind. All she’d ever admired about Zachary Ashcroft in the past was his
brilliance, a dedication to their work surpassed only by her own single-mindedness, and his wicked
sense of humor.
“It wasn’t volatile until Skip Geary scattered bombs around the room, including one on the vat.”
“Geary.” Zack snarled his predecessor’s name. “Where the hell is he?”
“Probably ran off after trying to drown me in the vat of ER-6900,” Bea said. “He was intent on destroying
everything that would show the formula had been created anywhere but in whatever hole of a lab he’s
set up.” One further step took them to the door of Zack’s office. Bea noticed the plate was scarred near
the lock. “Skip must have tried to access files from your office as well.”
“I don’t think so,” Zack declared, then kicked the door – hard. It sprang open, slamming back against the
inner wall.
Well, that explained the odd thumps she’d heard when he left the lab in the past, usually after one of
their arguments over ER-6900. Skip had been nothing but her assistant. Zack had shot past the original
designation and was a colleague who really deserved a better designation than secondary on the ER-
6900 project. It was typical of his temperament that his office door now opened to a swift blow rather
than a plebian turn of the knob.
Zack raised one brow in answer to the look she gave him. “Don’t start,” he warned. “This has been a
more effective way of releasing frustration than punching holes in the drywall.”
Bea wished she’d tried the method herself. Particularly during Skip Geary’s time as her assistant.
Zack gently placed her on the leather couch along one wall. The one he frequently slept on when
neither of them could tear themselves away from work. The chintz sofa in her office had sufficed for her
own naps. It was probably smoldering now or drenched by the water gushing from the broken pipes.
Zack closed the door softly before saying another word. He ran both hands through his tumbling black
hair. He seemed unaware that ER-6900 matted down a lock or two. Residue he’d picked up from contact
with her. A wide, damp swathe of it covered the front of his distressed leather bomber jacket as well, but
it was drying quickly, disappearing before Bea’s eyes.
“So Geary wanted you dead. Why?” Zack’s jaw tightened in that determined look Bea knew so well.
“I’m not sure it was part of his original plan. He seemed surprised that I was still in the lab. He’d come for
the formula. I don’t know how he learned of our progress on it, but he stands to make a fortune in selling
ER-6900 to one of B&S’s competitors. There’s not a philanthropic bone in his body.” Bea shifted on the
couch, surprised her body didn’t feel as literally shell-shocked as it had just moments ago.
Zack hunkered down before her. Rested his hand familiarly on her knee – something he’d never done
before and she doubted he realized he was doing. Zack’s eyes were thoughtful. Worried. “You’ve got to
disappear, Bea. You aren’t safe as long as Geary knows you’re alive.”
She scowled at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. The police will deal with this.”
“I’m dead serious. You’d effectively be on house arrest as they search for Geary. You think you’d be
allowed anywhere near the formula, or lab? You might even be accused of sabotaging the lab yourself.
You’ve certainly had enough arguments with Director Harrington to justify that line of thought.”
Bea sucked in her breath. He was right. Damn it! Her life’s work would literally go up in smoke if she didn’
t do something about it.
Zack fished in his jacket pocket for his keys. A small flashlight dangled from the key ring. “Let me see
your eyes,” he ordered, and shone the pinpoint of light in them.
Bea knew the drill and followed Zack’s directions, answering his questions fully. She relaxed when he
pronounced her little harmed by the explosion. “But I don’t want you nodding off. You never can tell with
concussions,” he warned. “Which is why I am sticking you in the most uncomfortable place I can think of
until I can get you safely out of here.”
“How uncomfortable?” she asked warily.
Zack opened another of the items on his key ring – a small Swiss Army knife – and found the
screwdriver head. When he stood up and began working on the air vent cover located behind a four-
foot tall fake yucca plant, Bea groaned.
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, lifting the cover off the vent. “You’ll be safe here. People will be coming and going
and they’d spot you huddled on my sofa. They won’t think to look for you in the air vent.”
“And why won’t they?” The thought of being stuffed into a cold cramped space irritated her even though
she knew it was necessary. But she doubted she could make the police, or the director, see reason until
she and Zack figured out what to do next. The muted sound of sirens pulsed through the broken window
of the lab across the way indicating time was running out.
“Because they think you’re dead, ducks.” Zack pulled her off the couch and helped her maneuver feet
first into the narrow space, then tossed the thin blanket at the end of the couch after her. He refitted the
vent cover hastily, giving each screw a half turn, just enough to hold it in place. “Don’t make a sound.
Particularly no laughing,” he cautioned.
“What could I possible find to laugh about in this situation, Dr. Ashcroft?” Bea asked wearily. No doubt
reaction was finally setting in, at least mentally, but she could deal with it. She had to.
“My acting, Dr. Fine. It’s time for me to be inconsolable before the masses.”
“Because I’m dead.”
His eyes dancing with mischief, Zack grinned at her recklessly before getting to his feet. “Screw your
demise, darlin’. My future rested in that lovely concoction of yours. I’m in mourning for ER-6900.”
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