CHAPTER 5

My Disease is What You Fed

"W e clear?" I whisper into my earpiece.

"Clear. Two minutes," Beth replies.

"Copy that."

I'm on the roof of the Harrison Estate, with a tether around my waist, and a two-minute time limit to enter Jacob Harrison's office and inject him with a dose of liquid cyanide. Because of his status and power, making it so his murder is completely untraceable is crucial. A gun gives more of a crumb trail than a needle.

Beth has the security cameras outside and inside the office on a loop of footage showing Jacob typing on his computer. Once the time limit is up, that footage will stop, and the cameras will find him dead. The goal is to be far away by that point.

I begin my descent towards Harrison's second story office window, scaling the wall next to the shutters, which tap gently against the side of the house from the wind. I pull out a small handheld mirror, moving it until I get a clear view of the office. Harrison is sitting at his desk reading over something on his laptop, humming along to some song he's listening to through his AirPods. From all the times I've heard Beth sing along to her pop songs, I believe he's listening to something similar. His head slightly bobs as he goes along with the beat, which will make this task a little harder, but it's only a minor inconvenience.

On the wall across from him, right above a fake fern, lies a security camera that's unblinking, occupied by the loop Beth has set up. I should still have a minute and a half left.

Pocketing the mirror, I swing myself towards the window, letting go with just enough time for me to land inside, with my tether still attached. I've done this enough to be able to land without making much, if any, noise, but he wouldn't be able to hear me even if I slammed onto the ground. He's lost to the music he's listening to. I take slow steps towards Jacob, mentally berating the man for sitting with his back to an open window with earbuds in. He's either so arrogant he thinks he's untouchable or he's too stupid to realize the danger he's put himself in.

Oh well. His loss, my gain.

I raise my needle, I take aim, and I plunge it into his neck. Jacob begins to struggle, grabbing on to my arms and shoulders in an attempt to get me off of him. His fingers grip on to the mask I wear, and before I can stop him, he rips it off my face.

He stares at me as his struggling becomes weaker. I watch the fear in his eyes morph into calm, and within a few moments, they become blank. His struggling stops, his arms drop. Just as I'm about to retract the needle, a flicker of the lights has me pausing.

In this line of work, you have to account for every variable, every possible outcome, every nail that could blow out the tire. This includes the weather. Beth and I scanned every station for the last two days, and we were assured that this area would not storm today. But it is storming a few miles away, and it must be live out there, because the lights flickering indicates a power surge, which has a tendency to reset or disrupt electrical devices. Like a camera.

I dare to lift my eyes to the security camera, and I find the light next to the lens blinking a bright green.

It's working.

And I'm staring right at it.

"Fuck," Beth and I curse at the same time.

I pounce out the window, planting my feet on the wall so I can scale up the side of the building and get back onto the roof. Once I'm there, I make quick work of untying the rope from my body, then I start running across the roof. I hear shouts coming from below me, and a quick glance down informs me that the whole house is on high alert. Armed men and women are running about the grounds, every light is flipped on, and a security alarm blares through the property so loudly that it nearly bursts my eardrums.

I've had a few close calls throughout my three different careers. There were times in the SEALS that me and my team barely made it out of a situation alive, there were times in the CIA where I was nearly captured, and as a contract killer, I've had a few wounds that could have been fatal. But this is beyond all of that. I was caught on camera killing a British politician. Johnathon Harrison and his entire mercenary group know what I look like. All because of a goddamn power surge.

When I make it to the other side of the roof, I don't hesitate to jump down to the ground, where I crouch and roll, preventing myself from getting more than just a sprain or bruise. A broken ankle would be a death sentence right now. Thankfully, I ran towards the side of the house I had climbed up, so on the other side of the metal fence is the motorcycle I rented. I hop the fence, making a beeline to the bike, then I turn on the engine. It blares to life, rumbling like thunder booming from the clouds above, and I don't hesitate to floor it.

I dare to glance over my shoulder, finding no other than Johnathon Harrison staring after me. His eyes narrow, meeting mine through the black metal bars, and I sense a determination and rage that I know all too well. I see him grip on to the fence so tightly that his knuckles whiten, I see his expression grow cold and unresponsive, and I know that this moment will irrevocably change my life moving forward.

And Beth's.

With a screech of the wheels, I'm taking off down the street, trying to put as much distance between me and the estate as possible.

"White Walker!" I shout into my earpiece.

I hear the sound of engines starting up behind me, along with a barked order from Harrison that comes out more as a growl. "I want him alive!"

"H, are you sure?" I hear Beth ask, her voice frantic with worry.

"Yes! You know what to do. I want you out of the office and heading towards an airport in an hour, you hear me?"

"What about you? I just watched the mercs cram into two cars and now they're racing down the driveway after you. I can help you find a safe passage, a place to lie low—"

"I'll be fine, Beth!" I shout, increasing my speed as the sound of rumbling engines gets closer. In my side mirror I can see a pair of grey Lexus splitting off, trying to get me in between them. "I'm sticking to our plan and so will you. As your boss, I order you to enact the white walker protocol."

Beth's voice is firm as she replies, "Come back to me in one piece. Promise me."

There's a slight waver to her voice as she says those last two words, and even though it's stupid to make such a promise, I am unable to deny her anything. "Promise."

She goes offline, allowing me to focus on keeping that promise to her. The two cars position themselves on either side of me like I expected, and instead of trying to crush me between the two vehicles, one of the mercenaries—a white, blonde male with unnatural green eyes—pokes his upper body out of the back window and starts to shoot his pistol, aiming down for my tires.

I slow my speed, reaching out to grab his outstretched arm as he attempts another shot. I yank on him as I pass by the window, and a loud crack fills my ears as I dislocate the guy's elbow, making him drop the gun. I catch the pistol, aiming the barrel at the car's tires. I get one shot, then two, then the pistol runs out of bullets. My shots were enough to blow out a couple of the tires, and when we reach a turn in the road, the car skids and flips over, landing on its side near the road barrier.

The other car is still right on my tail, but the backroad we've been traveling on is about to come to an end, with the intersection to get onto the highway coming up. It will be easier to lose this car with so many others surrounding us, but if those mercs decide to start shooting in front of civilians, it will draw more attention, and right now that's the last thing I need.

The car increases its speed, and on instinct I do the same thing, but when I see the pothole in the middle of the road, I immediately veer to the right, which isn't what they had planned. Instead of me going 90 mph into a pothole, the car does, which expectedly makes it do a somersault before landing hard on its back, smashing the windows as a result. Glass pieces are scattered all around the road as I drive away, slipping easily into the crowd of cars and bikes on the highway.

Henry and I created code words based on Game of Thrones a while back, each with their own meaning that come with a carefully laid out plan. Varys means we're being followed, Greyjoy means one of us has been captured, Wildlings means one of us is stranded or lost, Red Wedding means one of us is injured.

And White Walker means we've been compromised.

"Shit shit shit shit!" I push away from my desk, running over to our storage area where three gallons of gasoline rest in a dust-ridden corner. Our protocol for being compromised is planned to a T; first, I have to burn down the office. All our computers, hard drives, and documents have to go. I empty all three gas jugs around the office, leaving only my purse unscathed, which I grab the second I'm done. I start searching for my lighter, but I remember the extra insulin vials I have in the mini fridge, so I stuff them in my purse. No way in hell I'm letting those go to waste.

I return to searching for my lighter, and I find it in the back of my desk drawer. With a single flick, the flame comes to life, and when I drop the lighter onto my desk, the whole thing gets consumed by fire. I quickly vacate the office, locking the door behind me.

I spare a glance at our fake company logo printed on the opaque door, and a stab of sorrow hits me right in the chest. Henry and I created this business from the ground up. All the late nights researching targets in this office, all the lunch breaks consisting of McDonald's Big Macs shared, and all the times we came up with plans to distract the nosy dentist receptionist, happened here. And now it's all gone. Once you're compromised, there's no going back. We have to go underground and stay there. This life, the one Henry and I chose and forged for ourselves, is gone. All because of a freak thunderstorm.

Time is of the essence, I remind myself. I don't have time to be sentimental right now. I can mourn this chapter of my life later. So, with a little wave I give to the shut door, I head towards the elevator, not looking back.

The next step in our plan is to head to my apartment. In my closet is a go-bag filled with money, a fake passport, my real and a fake birth certificate, some jewelry my parents left me when they died, a photo album, a wireless laptop, and a satellite phone. All I have to do is pack clothes and essentials, get my insulin and other diabetic supplies, then I'll be on the road. I'm to go to Baltimore, ditch my car outside the BWI Airport, hire a charter plane to fly me to Miami, then meet a cargo ship captain that Henry will pay to ferry me to one of the uninhabited islands in the Caribbean, one covered entirely in jungle and golden sand, with an underground bunker where the two of us will lie low.

I call it Neverland, much to Henry's chagrin.

It's a fifteen-minute drive to my apartment, and I spend the time on the road making a couple phone calls. The first one is to Ricky.

"If you're calling to bitch about your latest shipment—" Ricky begins, but I cut him off.

"Tell Simon that Jacob Harrison is dead and his sister has been avenged. He already paid us a deposit but he can keep the other half."

There's a pause, then he says matter-of-factly, "You've been compromised."

"Yes. Cancel our preorders and reservations on all your products. If you require any additional payments, I can send it to you in a couple hours."

"That won't be necessary, Ms. Reed." I hear a sigh on his end. Then he says, in a quiet grumble, "Need any help?"

I chuckle. "You sound so happy to lend assistance."

"You know how it is. I don't want to get wrapped up in your shit but you're also one of my best clients. Just answer the damn question."

"We'll be fine. Take care, Ricky."

"You too, Bethany." If I didn't know any better, I'd say he sounds sad, and weirdly, so do I. I never thought I was attached to my black market dealer, but apparently, I am. I think I'll even miss the asshole.

Focus, Beth. Stick to schedule.

My next call is to Henry's therapist, and just like last time, she answers rather quickly. "Are you calling once again on behalf of Henry, Ms. Reed?"

"He's been compromised on a mission. We're going to a secure location outside the country. I just wanted you to be aware of why Henry will miss his next few appointments, but once things quiet down, we'll be able to set up Zoom so you two can have sessions online. Is that okay?"

"Of course. Tell Henry I'll be awaiting a call from him." Dr. Bennett hesitates for a moment, then she adds, "Remember what I told you about how you can help Henry?"

I nod to myself. "You told me being there for him and showing that I care will be just as valuable as therapy to him. Trust me, I will never let Henry out of my sight again. Not after today."

She laughs gently, though I don't know why. "Take care, Ms. Reed."

I hang up with the doctor, and as I toss my phone onto my passenger seat, my pump and receiver start yelling at me, telling me my blood sugar has gone below seventy-five.

Of course.

Sometimes I don't start to feel the effects of a low until I read my blood sugar, and this is definitely one of those times. I start shaking and sweating, a hunger like no other taking over me, but thankfully I'm not dizzy. That's not good when you're driving.

I dig a chocolate bar out of my purse, as well as a juice, which is a challenge when you're driving on the highway. As I rip open the bar with my teeth and start inhaling it, I notice Henry's apartment complex out of the corner of my eye. Without thinking much about it, because I can't really think that hard when my blood sugar is tanking, I merge into the next lane and speed towards the parking lot, breaking about five traffic laws while I'm at it. I hear horns honking angrily after me, but I'm a woman on a mission and I couldn't give less of a fuck about inconveniencing others.

Henry gave me a key to his apartment a long time ago, so I slowly make my way up the stairs to the second floor, finishing off my chocolate bar and diving into the juice. I'm done by the time I reach his apartment. I pull out my keychain from my purse and grab on to the key with puppies printed on it. They have big bug eyes, and their tongues are dangling out all cute. For some reason, they remind me of Henry, which is why I picked it as the key pattern when I was at Home Depot a while back. Henry disapproves, obviously.

When the door opens, I toss my wrappers in the trash, then make a beeline for the wedding photo of his parents. I carefully take it off the wall, then I look around for something I can wrap it with. If I put it in my purse without any protection, it will definitely break. I'm carrying a pharmacy in there, and none of it is cushioned.

I go into Henry's bedroom, searching through his wardrobe until I find a T-shirt—my T-shirt, to be exact. The smiling avocado one I gave him. I tuck the shirt around the picture frame and then jam it into my purse as gently but efficiently as possible. I'm about to leave the room when I notice a few things. For one, this room shows more signs of life than anywhere else in his apartment; there're personal touches like photos taped to his dresser mirror—photos of the two of us. There's also a Bible on his perfectly folded and tucked in sheets, a rosary hanging on his bedside lamp, and a notebook on his nightstand.

Curiosity compels me to snoop, so I open the first page of the notebook, and I realize right away that it's something for therapy. In true Henry fashion, he's labeled the entry "therapy journal," as if to justify its own existence. There's only a paragraph of writing under this title, and it's incredibly straightforward and methodical, like Henry.

Therapy Journal

Entry 1

Dr. Bennett said I had to write down every dream and panic attack I have. Last night I dreamt that Beth showed up at my door and kissed me. It felt so real that part of me wondered if it had been a dream or not, but something so good couldn't be real.

Ohmyfuckinggodohmyfuckinggod

Henry dreamed about me kissing him? He deems that too good to be true?

My receiver beeps at me, indicating I'm still low, but I ignore it. I flip a couple pages ahead, skimming his handwriting for my name, and land on his twelfth entry.

Therapy Journal

Entry 12

Beth plays her music so much around the office that some of it has been imbedded into my subconscious. I had a dream where she was dancing to a love song by that redheaded British guy, singing it completely off-key, and when she noticed me watching her, she invited me to dance with her. We swayed to the music until it ended, and then she kissed me. I woke up and found my cheeks wet. I had cried in my sleep. Haven't done that since I was a teenager.

A whimper escapes my mouth; it's a mystery if it was born from sadness, joy, or empathy. Maybe all of the above.

Henry has feelings for me.

Henry has feelings for me .

Is it the right time to do a happy dance? Absolutely not. But that doesn't stop me from doing one. I jump up and down and do the churning butter move with my arms like an idiot. It goes on for more than a minute before I remind myself that Henry is currently trying to escape England with his life, and I still have to get my butt out of the country. So, I swallow my excitement, stuff the rest of Henry's belongings in my purse, then leave his apartment to go to my own.

After a short drive where I grin to myself like I'm about to pass gas, I make it to my apartment. I slip inside, lock the door behind me, then I walk into my closet and retrieve my go-bag. I then proceed to stuff my favorite clothes inside, as well as my hair products, makeup, face wash, hygiene products, and tampons. I go into my kitchen and fill up a cooler with insulin vials for my pump, my extra insulin pens, extra needles, extra tubes and pump cartridges, a backup blood sugar meter, test strips, lancets, a glucagon, and extra CGMs.

When you are chronically ill there is no such thing as traveling light.

After I finish packing my supplies, I make sure to charge my receiver and pump, so they don't die on the way to Neverland. Charging the latter means I have to sit next to a socket so the pump can stay connected to me. Henry has remarked before that I look like a robot when I do this. I guess in a way I am. My entire life revolves around machines. It's sad when you really think about it.

It's not like I can do anything about it, though. This is just my life.

Once everything is charged, I go to my bin of shoes in my living room and grab my sneakers and black flats, throwing both in the go-bag. I then do a thorough sweep of the apartment to make sure I'm not leaving anything behind, and when I'm satisfied I'm not, I put my bag and cooler into my car, go back to lock up my apartment, but then take a second to look around and take in this place, knowing full well I'll never be back.

Because of a stupid little power surge, we're both out of jobs and have to live in hiding for the rest of our lives. We can't enter the UK or US again, we can't get new jobs in or out of our field, and we'll basically be stuck on our little island. I shouldn't be as excited for the prospect as I am. A life in retirement with Henry on an island in the Caribbean? Sign me the fuck up.

Henry will probably try to convince me to find a home and employment somewhere else, since I won't be in nearly as much danger as him going forward. Theoretically, I could find work somewhere in the Caribbean, and I most definitely could find other housing arrangements besides our safe house, but I don't give a shit. Henry has been stuck with me since he hired me as his assistant, and now that I know how he feels? There's no way he's getting rid of me now. He and I are going to live happily ever after on Neverland until we die old and crotchety.

That is, if we can make it there alive.