Sins of the Father by Christa Faust

of her, after all she’d been through.
    That’s when he noticed that she didn’t have any kind of bag large enough to hold eighty grand in cash. All she was carrying was a small, unfashionable beige canvas purse.
    “Did you bring the money?” he asked, trying for tough and getting something more like cranky.
    “Yes, of course,” she replied, fumbling for a moment in her purse and then pulling out a checkbook.
    “Are you kidding?” Peter asked. “What am I, the power company? I can’t take a check.”
    “What did do you expect?” she asked, looking hurt. “A briefcase full of cash?”
    “Well, actually…”
    “I don’t have that kind of money lying around,” she said. “I have to pay you out of the foundation’s account.” When he didn’t reply, she continued. “I can authorize an electronic transfer, if that would be better for you,” she offered.
    This was going from absurd to worse. Like an idiot, Peter had expected this naive, nerdy—albeit attractive—scientist to have a clue about conducting underworld business. And the more time he spent with her, the more flummoxed and unsure of himself he became.
    The next thing he knew, there was the harsh sound of fists banging on the door.

“Oh, my God,” she hissed, gripping Peter’s arm. “They must have followed me!”
    “They?” Peter backed away toward the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. “They who? What the hell is going on here?”
    “The men who stole my virus,” she whispered, eyes huge and panicky. “We have to get out of here!”
    There was a vicious kick, and the door shuddered in its frame. Whoever “they” were, they’d be in the room any minute now.
    “Go,” he said, opening the sliding door and shoving Doctor Lachaux out onto the balcony.
    “What about you?” she asked, but he closed the door on her question.
    The next thing he did was tip the heavy desk up on one end and shove it against the door. It wouldn’t hold them for long, but long enough for him to retrieve the virus.
    It still was hidden inside Tessa’s sparkly purple vibrator. He’d stashed it in the bedside drawer and was about to grab it when the lock on the door broke loose under the assault. Because of the desk, however, the door still wouldn’t open more than a few inches. Whoever was on the other side was shoving at it, slowly pushing the barrier out of the way.
    Then a gloved hand holding a gun slipped through the crack, squeezing off a single shot. The bullet hit the bargain-basement abstract art print hanging over the bed, peppering Peter’s arm and cheek with flying glass. He pulled open the drawer, grabbed the vibrator, and ran for the sliding glass doors.
    Once he was out on the balcony, he slid the door shut and wedged one of the two rickety patio chairs into the track, to prevent it from opening. Doctor Lachaux looked at him, glanced down, and burst out laughing.
    “What?” he asked, touching a fingertip to a warm trickle of blood running down the left side of his neck.
    “Nothing,” she said with a stifled snort. “I mean, I admire your priorities, but…” She tipped her chin at the sex toy in his hand, and failed to suppress another giggle.
    He looked down at the purple vibrator and smiled.
    “You can laugh later,” he said. “But first, we better get the hell out of here. Is that Plexiglas cylinder—the one that contains the virus—waterproof?”
    “Of course,” she said. “It’s airtight. It has to be.”
    Peter nodded.
    “Okay,” he said. “Then jump.”
    “What?” She frowned and peered over the edge.
    Three stories below, the water in the pool was green and cloudy, with a scrim of leaves around the edge. But there was a gate at the far end that led out into the rear parking lot. On the other side, just to the left of that gate stood Peter’s rental car.
    He always had an exit strategy. This one was far from ideal, but it just might be workable.
    He looked down from the balcony. There was a small lip of