Chapter 8
“Seb, what have you done?” asked Dr. Helman. He is trying to hold back the verbal abuse he wants to lash out his boss with.
Dr. Neenga is slumped on a chair, trying to gather his thoughts. “You just sold yourself to the devil, Seb,” he said finally.
“And I’m sorry for dragging you into this mess,” Dr. Seb said, looking at the wall instead of his two colleagues.
“DEMETER IS SUPPOSED TO HELP HUMANITY NOT START A BLACK MARKET!” Exeter shouted. He couldn’t contain his anger any longer. Dr. Yankhun takes this head-on out of compunction to the one very wrong decision he made with their project.
“We should report this to the authority. Maybe they can help us,” said Doc P.
“It’s too late for that, Patrick. We will all be captured, or worse killed, before the police gets here. By then, they will have Demeter,” answered Dr. Seb, disregarding his colleague’s idea.
“Why, chief? Why did you do it?” asked Dr. Helman with a long face, but who is calm now.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures, Exeter. I needed funding for the institute – for everything and not just us. I asked our government – that’s our own government – for help, but guess what, they turned me down. I told them our project would help the world; they called me crackpot.” replied Dr. Seb, taking a sip of the coffee he prepared earlier. “Luckily, you two got the UN’s attention, and the Morocco conference happened. Unlucky for me because – as you said it Patrick – I already sold myself to the devil,” continued the head of Pharm Botanical Research Institute.
Exeter can only shake his head as he listens to his boss’ litany. Dr. Neenga, on the other hand, turns to their computers: “67/100 complete” shows in one terminal; “80/100 complete” in another; and “77/100 complete” in the third.
“Once the backups are done, we purge all the data from the servers – all of it – from the main ones to the alternates,” said Dr. Seb. “Then, we go our separate ways with a copy of Demeter. Whatever happens to us, it is imperative that they don’t get her,” he continued.
“We better prepare. The backups are nearly done,” said Dr. Helman. The three go their separate ways after. Exeter goes to his quarters to get his laptop. From it, he launches Cisco Phone and dials Sun’s number.
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“I’m here to see Mister Mingkit,” said Ren to a dark-looking man at the gate of Mingkit Mansion without dismounting from his bike. He does, however, take off his helmet as a sign of courtesy. The man at the gate recognizes him, nods, and lets him enter. Being a member of Mingkit’s gang, Ren can get in and out of the estate without having to be searched.
“Welcome Ren,” said the man at the main door of the mansion, whose coat is unable to hide his two sidearms and their magazines.
“Where is Mal?” inquired Ren after nodding to the man.
“He’s in his study waiting for you.”
“Thank you.”
The inside of the mansion comprises of items classified as either vintage or for-collectors-only. Vases of varying sizes are placed in different corners of the hall. At the middle is a grand staircase leading to the next floors – carpeted and made of black marble. Despite having unlimited access to the mansion, its insides, and the grounds outside, Ren is yet to be in every single room or chamber of it. Whenever he goes there, the only room he is interested in is the study room: Mingkit and he always talk about his missions in that stylish yet depressing room.
He makes his way up to the second floor and enters a room, whose door is already open, without knocking.
“I’ve been expecting you,” said Mal, sitting behind his ornate table.
“Sorry I’m late. I was eating when I got your call. What’s the work this time?”
“One target at Pharm Botanical Research Institute,” Mal announced. He pushes a folder towards Ren.
“A botanist? What’s he done?” inquired Ren as he looks at the contents of the folder. He is not afraid to ask Mal questions about his missions.
“Backs out from a deal – something one doesn't do to me,” answered Mal, drinking a gulp of milk from his glass. He likes milk of all the beverages, and he rarely drinks liquors, beers, or even soda.
“His research just went public a few weeks ago, right?”
“That’s correct, and, because of that, he declined my funding despite agreeing earlier.”
“Why kill him if he has not yet taken your money?”
“He knows about us: he knows too much. Besides, he might sing to the authorities a tune that is strictly for us only – if you smell what I’m cooking.”
Ren gives a lazy nod to affirm. “Is he here? At the Pharm Institute?” he asked afterwards, tracing his pointer across the paper as if to map out a route to his destination.
“Yes, he is. The locator we installed in his mobile says he is still there. I want result confirmation in four hours,” Mal said back. Everyone in his group had their phones installed with a locator that is active despite the phone being turned off, and which can transmit an alert if it has been removed from the gadget.
“Roger that. My gear?”
Mal points to a shelf at his left. Ren stands and walks towards it to get a large, long, metallic suitcase.
“Can I borrow Mr. F?” Ren asked Mal.
“No, not the Ferrari. Take Ms. L.”
As Ren walks towards the exit, he stops by Mal’s table again to get the keys for the Lambo.
Ren makes his way next to the garage. Inside, he presses a button from the keychain and goes into the one that let out a beep – a slick four-wheeler that can hit top speed in seconds. He revs the engine several times before heading out to Pharm Botanical Research Institute – the location of his new target.