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  Zara

  Double Helix Case Files

  Jade Kerrion

  Copyright © 2015 by Jade Kerrion

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

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  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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  Zara/ Jade Kerrion -- 1st ed.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Zara

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Silence Ends

  Urban Fantasy and Science Fiction entwine in the world of the DOUBLE HELIX

  Aeternae Noctis

  Other Science Fiction and Fantasy novels by Jade Kerrion

  About the Author

  Other Books By Jade Kerrion

  Zara

  Double Helix Case Files

  1st Place, Science Fiction, Royal Palm Literary Award 2016

  * * *

  The alpha empath, Danyael Sabre, languishes in a maximum-security prison. His life sentence should spell emotional freedom for the assassin, Zara Itani, but true to her contrary nature, she travels the solitary and hazardous path from hate to love even though it is far too late for her and Danyael.

  Meanwhile in her hometown of Beirut, international political conspiracy simmers on the brink of renewed military conflict. Zara’s loyalties will be tested; her beliefs challenged. She could start a war, or she could stop it.

  Tell me who you love and I will tell you who you are....

  Zara will finally discover who she is, but what will it cost Danyael this time?

  1

  No one ever expected to die in the happiest place on Earth, which, to Zara Itani, made Disneyland, California, the perfect place for a kill.

  Her seat near the window gave her a clear view of the street. At the first hint of dusk, ornate street lamps flickered on. Storefront windows bathed their wares with light to lure in the crowd bustling through New Orleans Square. Parents pushed strollers occupied by sleeping toddlers and dragged along their tired children. Couples, sometimes hand-in-hand, though more often not, paused in front of the French Quarter-style buildings to stare at their maps, often oblivious to potted bougainvillea sitting on the ornate ironwork balconies above their heads.

  At the end of a long day, even the magic of Disneyland could fade, but within Club 33, all was still well with the world.

  The complex tangle of music from the saxophone rose over the syncopated bass drum patter. Both blended with the quiet clink of silverware against china dishes and muted conversations punctuated with polite laughter. Wait staff wearing white shirts accentuated by teal and gold brocade vests moved among the tables, providing impeccable yet unpretentious service.

  “You haven’t tasted your wine, Zara. Is it not to your liking?”

  With a smile, Zara turned back to her dining partner. Alastair Boyd-Smith wore a faint frown, but the anxious set of his eyes betrayed a desperate desire to please. He was a lesser son of greater men, the fifth in line to an earldom in England. With blond hair and pale eyes, he was too fair for her liking. She was too dark for his, yet she knew precisely why he had invited her to dinner at the ultra-exclusive Club 33.

  When he looked at her, Boyd-Smith did not just see a young Lebanese-Venezuelan woman, more exotic than beautiful. He saw instead the glamorous socialite who had graced the arms of Lucien Winter, heir to the multibillion-dollar Winter fortune, and Galahad, the perfect human being, created by Pioneer Labs.

  Zara’s stock in trade, already high as Lucien’s ex-girlfriend, had risen yet higher with Galahad. Women envied her. Men craved her.

  She was sparing, however, with her affection. Alastair she had selected for a specific purpose—a purpose that would soon play out. Her smile deepened as she traced her finger around the rim of her wineglass. Her blood-red fingernails gleamed beneath the glow of the candlelight.

  “I’m sure the wine is wonderful, Alastair, but it wouldn’t do to drink on an empty stomach when my head’s already spinning.” Her voice, sultry and faintly accented, resonated like a siren’s song.

  Alastair grinned, obviously responding as much to her tone as to her words. Oh, how he reminded her of an overeager puppy. Willpower kept her from laughing. “I expect the appetizers will be here soon,” she said. “Please excuse me; I need to go to the ladies room.”

  She stood and made her way through the restaurant. As she passed a table, a Japanese man stopped her by placing his hand in her way. She tilted her head and studied him. The cold, narrow eyes and thin smile belonged on a much older man. His face, however, was unlined. If he smiled, he could be handsome.

  “You are stunning.” His voice resonated with a confidence and authority that Alastair lacked. He pulled a white rose from the vase on the table and handed it to her.

  “Thank you.” She accepted the rose, inhaled its fragrance, and brushed her lips against it. Her crimson lipstick stained its white petals. With a teasing smile, she reached down and brushed the rose against his lips. The back of her fingers grazed his cheek.

  The voracious need in his eyes devoured her as he licked the faint smear of lipstick that transferred from the petals to his lips. His cocky expression promised her a world of pleasure and a life of privilege that would exceed anything her pasty English date could offer her.

  He was, no doubt, right, but Zara offered him a rueful parting glance before continuing on her way to the restroom. She locked herself in a stall and set the rose on the floor, its lipstick-smeared petal facing up. She pulled a pair of biodegradable silicon-carbon polymer gloves from her handbag and slid them over her hands. Next, she took out a perfume atomizer and spritzed it over the rose. Carefully, she peeled the thin layers of polymer off her upper and lower lips and sprayed the contents of the atomizer over them as well as the fingertips of the gloves.

  Zara counted down ten seconds for the chemicals in the atomizer to counteract the toxins before dropping the lip peels and gloves into the toilet bowl. The rose petals followed. A flush disposed of all evidence.

  Simple. Too simple.

  Something fluttered in the pit of her stomach.

  Not nerves surely, although wearing the poison on her lips was foolhardy to the point of insanity, as was gambling on Kaito Masura’s habit of spontaneously offering flowers to attractive women.

  Then again, Zara was nothing if not a risk-taker.

  The atomizer went back into her handbag. She stepped out of the stall, reapplied her lipstick, smoothed her navy blue dress, and returned to her seat, weaving a different route through the tables.

  Alastair was pouting. He had obviously witnessed her flirtatious exchange with Kaito. To make it up to him—after all, she would have had trouble entering Club 33 and gaining access to Kaito if not for him—Z
ara paid Alastair special attention through dinner. By the time their Kobe Carpaccio appetizers were eaten, he had forgotten the slight to his ego. Midway through his Moroccan spiced lamb entree, Alastair, blushing shyly, invited Zara to his ancestral home to meet his parents. She promised to consider his invitation; she was not scheduled to break his heart until the next day.

  Moments after the waitress brought out their Strawberries Arnaud dessert, Kaito Masura, the kumicho of the Chinatsu-gumi yakuza and a platinum member of Club 33, collapsed from an apparent heart attack. The emergency medical technicians could not revive him. He was declared dead by the time the club manager began his rounds, assuring distressed diners that their evening meals would be complimentary to compensate for the inconvenience. The manager wrung his hands, his stricken gaze shuttling between Zara and Alastair. Was there anything else he could do for them?

  Zara held on to the expression of wide-eyed shock and shook her head. He had done enough. Disney’s near-fanatical desire to avoid bad publicity would ensure that Masura’s “heart attack” would not make the morning news. She could not ask for more.

  She bid Alastair goodnight in the parking lot and drove her rental car, a red Corvette, back to the Hotel Bel-Air. Her leisurely drive through Los Angeles’s familiar streets was ruined only by the occasional flutter in her stomach. It was ridiculous to be nervous. She had nothing to be concerned about. The kill was clean, untraceable.

  She pulled into the curved driveway of the Hotel Bel-Air. A uniformed valet opened her car door and inclined his head as she stepped out. “Welcome back, Miss Itani.”

  “Thank you, Jason.” She smiled at him. The subtly foreign inflections that had so charmed Alastair conceded to her natural American accent. Her hand trailed along the Corvette’s sleek lines. “Take good care of her.”

  “Certainly, Miss Itani.”

  Her smartphone rang as she had stepped into her suite and locked the door behind her. She glanced at the number before accepting the international call from Japan. “Good morning, Ayame-san.”

  A well-modulated woman’s voice responded with a faint Japanese accent. “It is a beautiful morning, Zara-san. We have just received word of the misfortune that has befallen Chinatsu-gumi. On behalf of my father, I convey the deep gratitude of Isamu-gumi.”

  “You are most welcome. I am honored to be a friend of Kazuo-san and the Isamu-gumi.”

  “Your fee has been transferred to your account in Switzerland. Domo arigatou gozaimasu.”

  “Dou itashi mashite.”

  “The next time you are in Tokyo, we would be honored if you would visit us.”

  Zara heard a smile in Ayame’s voice. She smiled too. “I would be pleased to do so. How is your son?”

  “Oh.” Ayame’s voice softened. “He is six and a half weeks old, and perfect. So talkative. And Nikolai has been a wonderful father.”

  “The yakuza are not giving you a hard time over marrying a gaijin and bearing his son?”

  “Not when he can shoot faster and more accurately than they can.”

  Zara laughed. She and Ayame spoke for several more minutes before exchanging goodbyes. She tossed the phone down on her bed, her thoughts still on her friend. Ayame had come a long way since their first meeting as freshmen at Princeton. In the ten years since, the quiet and unassuming Japanese girl had gone on to manage her father’s manufacturing business and his yakuza gang. She had married Nikolai Voronov, a former employee of Zara’s mercenary agency, Three Fates, and she was now the mother of a chubby and adorable child—a child who would likely grow up to become a key player in the world of Japanese organized crime.

  Zara shook her head. Ayame’s son’s fate had been determined before he was born. As a non-believer in destiny, Zara found the thought mildly discouraging, at best, and hugely depressing, at worst. She kicked off her high heels and walked barefoot onto the patio. Darkness concealed the canyon views, but underwater spotlights lit the spa pool. The water sparkled, lapping gently against the sides of the pool. She dipped in a toe. The night air was cool but the water was still warm, sun-kissed from a long summer’s day.

  Perfect.

  She tugged off her dress, shed her black lace lingerie, and stepped into the pool. She sank into the water up to her neck, closed her eyes, and allowed her mind to drift. Her thoughts wandered, as they almost always did, to Danyael Sabre. Had he been released from solitary confinement? Was he all right?

  She ground her teeth. What an absurd question. Of course, Danyael was not all right, although solitary confinement likely suited him perfectly. He did not want emotional ties. He wanted to be alone. Well, now he was. Bastard.

  Perhaps it was time to make another visit to Colorado, to the super maximum-security prison, ADX Florence. She had visited twice before, but both times, the guards had turned her away. No one had seen Danyael since he had been arrested and sentenced to life imprisonment without parole.

  He had been locked away without trial for killing twelve men in self-defense.

  No, it had not all been self-defense. Ten of the twelve men he had killed to defend her.

  Guilt pricked her. She wanted to see him. Her inadequate apology for betraying him would catch on her lips, but she wanted to see him again.

  She supposed she could change her flight and make a stop at ADX Florence.

  Her stomach fluttered. Was it indigestion or nerves? Either way, it was getting annoying. When had it started? A week ago? A week and a half, perhaps.

  Zara climbed out of the pool, wrapped a towel around her body, and returned to her suite. She picked up her smartphone and called her assistant.

  “Hello?” Karen Alder sounded half-asleep. It was past midnight on the east coast.

  “I need you to change my flight tomorrow. I’ll be making an overnight stop in Colorado Springs on the way back.”

  “Got it.” Karen yawned. “Colorado Springs Airport. Hotel and rental car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which identity do you want to use?”

  “Just mine. It’s fine.”

  “No one’s scheduled to die, huh? Okay, on it. Oh, your annual medical report came back from Dr. Tyler.”

  “Hmm?”

  “His e-mail said that everything looks good. He said something odd, though. He asked if you wanted him to send your medical report to your ob-gyn.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say. Did you want me to ask?”

  The chill Zara felt had nothing to do with the air conditioning. “No, I’ll take care of it. Is the e-mail still in my inbox?”

  “Yup.”

  She hung up. Damn it.

  She found what she needed in the twenty-four-hour pharmacy around the corner. Her heart raced but her hands were steady. She followed the instructions but hardly needed to wait. Double lines appeared on the pregnancy test kit immediately.

  Her breath caught. “Fuck.”

  2

  The next day, Zara pulled her red Mustang convertible into a parking lot filled with dull-colored cars. Her car was no more out of place than she was; the violet sundress that matched her eyes was better suited for a picnic than for a visit to a super maximum-security prison. She stepped out of the car and tugged the sunglasses away from her face. Snowcapped mountains framed the squat detention blocks and tall watchtowers of the “Alcatraz of the Rockies.” Barren trees appeared twig-like in the parched ground. The chill wind snatched away the warmth of her breath. All ADX Florence needed to perfectly live up to the cliché of being hell on Earth was a sign that said, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”

  ADX Florence, however, needed no signs. It stripped away hope simply by being what it was.

  Zara stepped through the front doors, her head held high against the splinter of cold dread lodged in her chest. Everything at ADX Florence, including human contact, seemed designed to diminish humanity. She had left her weapons in the car, but the security search still took an interminably long time before she was admitted into
the lobby.

  She ignored the lingering stares of the prison guards. “I’m here to see Danyael Sabre.” Her tone was brisk, strictly business.

  The man behind the desk checked his computer terminal. He shook his head. “Can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s in the infirmary.”

  “What happened?”

  He shrugged. “Sorry, it’s confidential information, unless you’re family. No one’s on the list of allowed visitors.”

  Zara slid her identification card across the desk. “I suggest you talk to your supervisor and find a way to add me to that list.”

  The guard stared at her. She could almost see the silent debate going through his head. Did he dare bother the prison warden with this presumptuous woman?

  Zara met his gaze. All she had to do was create enough of a ruckus for the prison warden to contact either the Mutant Affairs Council or the National Security Agency. If Alex Saunders or Xin heard that she had come to see Danyael, they would consider her request. Alex would act from guilt, Xin from dispassionate curiosity; either was fine with her.

  The prison guard hurried away. He returned fifteen minutes later with the warden, a heavy-set man in his fifties. The warden looked at her identification card and then up at her. “Miss Itani?” He glowered as he returned the card to her, together with a security pass. “Come this way.”