Page 79 of Corrupted Queen

For now, I fold the foil lid back over the noodles and smile reassuringly, then grab a fork from the grimy cutlery drawer and give it a quick clean in the sink before handing it and the noodles over.

“Why don’t you go sit in your room and eat?” I suggest. “I’ll just be a minute.” I look around at the mess. “I just need a moment alone with your kitchen.”

“Thanks,” Clara says.

She turns to go, and I say, “Paul, will you go with her?”

Once again, Angelo nods his assent and another guard peels away from my pack. I find some paper towels under the sink and fit them into the empty holder, then fill the sink with hot soapy water and start to clean down the countertops. Some of the dried food takes a little scrubbing, and I am halfway through budging some particularly stubborn tomato sauce blotches when Paul comes running back into the room.

“I think she’s having a seizure,” he says, eyes wide.

I dash past him to a room down the hall. Behind me, I can hear Giovanni and Angelo arguing about what to do. The door is open, and just inside, Clara is on the bed, thrashing back and forth, only the whites of her eyes visible. The noodles sit untouched on the desk beside her.

Angelo arrives in the doorway behind me, pale-faced. I find it interesting that although he would not blink at the sound of gunshots, the sight of a frail girl seizing next to a cup-o-noodles has rattled him to his core.

I wheel around, voice raised hysterically. “Go get help!”

Paul bolts down the hall toward the front door without looking to Angelo for approval. At that moment, Clara shoots from the bed, arms outstretched. Angelo dives forward to catch her, barking orders at Giovanni to take her legs and help him get her onto her back.

Both of them are distracted, fully engaged in the task of keeping Clara from harming herself until the fit passes. I use this opportunity to slip quietly from the room, whispering a thanks to my best friend for her award-winning performance. I also make a quiet promise as I jog toward the back door that when this is over, I am getting her out of this halfway house to somewhere she can heal properly.

I slam through the back door and down the steps, scanning the back alley for the car Debbie said she would leave here for me. There is a blue Toyota parked next to the trash cans, and I dash over and start feeling around on top of the front tire for the keys. I cast a glance behind me toward the street, half expecting John to rock up at any moment with his arms full of fresh fruits and vegetables. My fingers close around the keys and I hop into the car, starting it up and backing it out as quickly as I possibly can.

I feel bad for deceiving Angelo like this, especially considering how good to me he has been and how much trouble he and the others are likely to get into for letting me slip away. But I can’t think of that now. I add these thoughts to the growing pile of guilt at the back of my mind and check the time, realizing if I don’t hustle, I’m going to be late for the meeting.

I jam my foot on the gas.

28

Alexis

I open the trunk of the Toyota and marvel at the range of equipment stuffed inside. Debbie isn’t messing around. There is a camera with an assortment of lenses, including a very expensive super-telephoto zoom lens. There are bugs, which I will not have time to set, and a parabolic microphone, as well as a video camera and a variety of tripods.

I pluck out the camera, the telephoto lens, and the parabolic microphone, shove them into a black duffel bag, and leave the rest in the trunk. It’s going to be hard enough carrying all this around the docks without drawing suspicion. Hauling in a tripod under my arm would only paint a red target on my back.

From the few dockworkers I interviewed, I know that the meetings always take place behind a warehouse on the southernmost tip of the docks. After poring over satellite imaging of the area, I’ve determined that the best place for me to hide is atop one of the stacked shipping containers that border the area on the north side. Now it’s just a matter of getting up there with my equipment without being seen, and managing to spy on the meeting—also without being seen.

I shudder to think what Gabriel would do if he saw me perched on top of one of the steel containers, holding a listening device in one hand and a camera in the other. I don’t think he would hurt me, but even without laying a finger on my person, there are any number of unpleasant futures that could await me if I am caught red-handed trying to expose his criminal enterprises.

Simple then. I just won’t get caught.

I pick my way through the docks, using cranes, warehouses, and shipping containers to take cover behind as needed. The air is muggy and warm, with bloated gray clouds hanging uncomfortably low overhead. I start to sweat before I have even reached my intended hiding spot.

When I get to the designated pyramid of containers, I check my location on the map and then stow my phone in the duffel bag and walk around behind it. Hanging over the side of a container with peeling yellow paint is a rope, with several knots tied into it. I stare at the rope, grimacing, and wonder why Debbie couldn’t have set up a rope ladder here instead. The last time I climbed a rope was in high school, and I’m not convinced I can still do it.

“Here goes nothing,” I mutter, tying the duffel bag to the bottom of the rope, then jumping up to catch one of the knots.

I swing against the side of the container, my feet scrambling for purchase on the smooth metal. My flat rubber soles slide against the smooth metal and I curse myself for not thinking to bring shoes that would help the climb. I’m surprised Debbie didn’t include some in her super-spy care package.

I reach for the next knot, then the next, working my way up the rope. All of the time spent working out in Gabriel’s private gym has clearly paid off, though by the time I reach the top my arms are in agony. I squirm over the edge after what feels like decades and collapse onto the warm metal, out of breath. When I can lift my arm again, I wipe the sticky perspiration from my forehead.

After that, it’s a simple matter of pulling the duffel bag up to join me and setting up shop in the shadow of the topmost container where I—hopefully—will not be seen.

I check the time and my heart skips a beat. They should be here any second. I scan my surroundings, noting the silent container ship docked ahead of me, which I presume is loaded with a ticking time bomb of purple heroin waiting to ravage the city. It is half hidden by a crane, standing tall and alert, ready to unload the calamity at the snap of its master’s fingers. I take a few photos of the ship and wait.

A black Escalade pulls up in front of the ship, and I zoom in on the doors as men start to emerge. Gabriel unfolds from the passenger seat and a lump forms in my throat.

I knew he would be here, but somehow seeing him shocks me nonetheless. Like I’d been hoping that I’d misunderstood the note in his calendar and after all this preparation and espionage I’d spend the afternoon baking on the top of a shipping container like an idiot while he had a boring meeting with a potential investor at somewhere called “the Docks Bar and Grill,” the kind of place where they serve fishbowl cocktails on Friday nights to a crowd of rowdy Wall Street types.

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