Free The Ghost Pattern by Leslie Wolfe

do?”
    Someone gasped behind Gary. As if hypnotized, he heard himself speak.
    “She is quintessential to any neurochemistry research,” Gary spoke clearly, calmly, and sounding sure of himself. Although he was making it up on the fly, he hoped he was right about the Russian’s intentions. “Her dissertations on the clinical aspects of applied psychopharmacology, and her fellowship experience with the University of Virginia make her irreplaceable to any drug study.”
    Dr. Crawford looked at him with amazement, a hint of a smile fluttering on her lips as she mouthed, “Thank you.”
    “I will bring insulin,” Bogdanov said. “Now, get to work.”
    Dr. Faulkner, still weak on his legs, stumbled forward and said, “You can’t do this! You can’t force us to work for you! What kind of doctor are you?”
    Bogdanov turned and stared at Dr. Faulkner in disbelief, then gestured at King Cobra with a swift head movement.
    Cobra took three large steps and, as he reached Faulkner, struck him in the stomach with his knotted fist. Dr. Faulkner gasped, then keeled over, curled up on his side. He moved his legs spasmodically, and, as Gary and a couple of others rushed to assist him, he drew his last breath with a terrifying groan.
    Gary put his fingers on Faulkner’s neck, searching for a pulse.
    “He’s gone; probably a massive coronary,” he said bitterly. “Great job,” he turned and said to Cobra. “At this rate, you’ll kill us all before we do whatever the hell you got us here to do, you stupid fuck!”
    Cobra took a step toward him, cussing in Russian, his face congested and scrunched in anger, wielding his fist in a threatening motion. Gary stood there, not even flinching. Que sera, sera , he thought, bracing himself for the beating that was to come.
    Cobra’s fist never came down on him.
    “Enough,” Bogdanov said, then left the lab, followed closely by his men.

...15
    ...Saturday, April 30, 6:25AM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)
    ...San Diego International Airport
    ...San Diego, California
    ...Three Days Missing
     
     
     
    Alex waited on the tarmac, oblivious to the early dawn coloring the sky with a reddish palette of hues, and to the fresh morning breeze. Her eyes scouted the runway, waiting for the plane to appear, worried about her friend, Blake Bernard. The calm and composed Blake, who held his own impeccably while transacting billions of dollars without breaking a sweat, would never give anyone seventeen missed calls. Yet he’d done just that.
    The familiar silhouette of his Phenom 300 taxied quickly and came to a stop right in front of the VIP terminal, where she waited. The door opened immediately, and Blake stepped down, rushing toward her. She met him halfway, registering briefly how disheveled he looked. Dark circles under his eyes, clothing and hair in disarray. His signature elegance was completely gone, replaced by the aspect of deep distress.
    “Alex,” he said in a broken voice, swallowing bitter sobs, and hugging her tightly.
    “Blake, my goodness, what happened?”
    “Adeline, my wife, she was on flight XA233,” he said, his face still buried in her shoulder, sobbing.
    Her eyes welled up instantly. Adeline…oh, no!
    “Oh, my God, Blake, I am so sorry! Please accept my deepest—”
    “No!” Blake snapped, pulling away from her. “No condolences, that’s not why I’m here.”
    “Then what can I do?”
    “I want you to find her,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “You’re the only one who can.”
    He couldn’t be serious. The entire world was looking for that plane; what could she do?
    “Blake, I–I can’t, there are—”
    “No!” Blake almost yelled. “You don’t understand. She isn’t dead. She can’t be! I’d feel it in here!” He pounded his chest above his heart with his closed, white-knuckled fist. “I’d know it!”
    She took a step forward as to attempt to console him. He was crazy with pain over the loss of his wife, and he wasn’t thinking straight.