Life had thrown changes my way, but nothing like this. This latest event altered my future with my fiancée, Angel Meade. The blood I donated saved her life. Minutes later, an analysis of my blood exposed an inconceivable truth.
Angel opened her eyes and lifted her head. Her gaze diverted to my elbow pit. “You needed it,” I said through a hospital-approved mask. “The bullet damaged your spleen.”
Angel glanced at her side before she lifted her left hand. The dressing’s contour alluded to a void. She pulled her hand from mine and stroked the concavity.
“Where am I? Why did they not reattach my fingers?”
“Beijing International Medical Center. The fingers weren’t salvageable. A nurse gave this to me.” I held Angel’s engagement ring between my thumb and forefinger. I took her right hand and placed the ring on her finger and gestured to her injured hand. “Perhaps I should have it resized for your middle finger.”
Angel laughed. “There’s a statement. I wanted to give that message to the shooter.”
“I can’t imagine you doing that.”
“You didn’t see her face, Ridge. I suffer no pang of guilt for my thoughts. She deserved more than the finger.”
“Well.” I rounded the foot of the bed.
“What? Did they not disqualify her? How could the Olympic Committee ignore such reckless disregard?”
I pulled my mask off and kissed the bandage. “You, being an optimist, will love this. When your coach called to check on you, he told me an expert inspected the girl’s rifle. The ammo violated Olympic rules. That explains the ballistics. The impact effect exceeded what is normal for ammo selected for competition. Otherwise, the damage to your hand would be minimal.”
Anger flushed Angel’s face. She stared at the window. She released the latch on the bed rail. It dropped and banged against the frame.
I continued. “The Olympic Committee asked for an inquiry.” Angel bolted upright and jerked out her IV. “What are you doing?”
“Help me get dressed.” She shoved off the bed and opened the cabinet door. One of her boots tumbled out and landed on her foot. She recoiled and slammed the door. “Where are my clothes?”
Angel moved to the window where she rested her forehead on the frosted glass. She closed her eyes. I wondered why she allowed herself to lose control. Another reaction unlike her. I placed my hand on her back and kissed her shoulder through the hospital gown. We were about to be married. Nothing short of her death, or mine, stood in our way. Why did she care about one Olympian gone haywire? The girl had taken competitive spirit to the dark side. It was over. Let the authorities deal with it. Life forthcoming belonged to us.
Angel turned from the window. “Where is my valise?”
“China’s Covid restrictions prohibited me from entering the Olympic Village. Your coach brought it to me. I have it in the car.”
~ * ~
Propped on the bed, Angel admired Ridge’s gait as he strode out. Her left side ached. Her left hand throbbed. Thoughts roamed from the present to the enigma of her half-opened future.
A shadow fell through the doorway, followed by a triple tap. A sleek Asian man about thirty dressed in black slacks and a designer shirt stepped in. He closed the door. He looked in the lavatory. A slip of paper fluttered in his grasp. His friendly eyes shone above his half-covered face.
“Good. You’re alone.”
“I suggest you state your reason for barging in on me, whoever you are.”
The visitor held out the paper. “I’m a geneticist. You’ll want to see this.”
Angel snatched it out of his hand and read the header: “DNA Report, For Personal Knowledge Only.” She perused the results.
“This is impossible.”
The man shifted his feet. “No doubt or error, Ms. Meade. Analysis proved it.”
“What level of certainty?”
“Indisputable.”
Angel folded the report. She ignored her pain and pushed off the bed. Harm worse than pain and a near-death encounter seized her. It annihilated her future. “I thought DNA analysis took weeks to get results.”
“Advanced technology shortened the wait.”
She craned her neck to look out the window. Ridge headed across the parking lot. “Disclose this to no one.” She turned back to the technician. “You hear me? Make a note in my chart. No one gets these results.”
“Done.”
Again alone, Angel hid the report in one of her boots and perched on the bed. Ridge’s suggestion of where she should wear her engagement ring sounded sweeter and stickier than molasses. She might try it once her hand healed. She preferred to act on instinct over hard-and-fast rules. The latter seemed irrelevant, given the data disclosed in the report. The revelation injected poison into her opaque heart. Its acid burned her soul. In that moment, Angel Meade donned animosity as if it were her favorite pair of sneakers.
She shivered the moment Ridge stepped in with her valise. Cold sprang off the carry-on and the coat Ridge shrugged out of and laid across the footboard. He rubbed his hands together. Angel tightened her lips and tossed a glare at him.
Ridge lowered his arms. “Did something happen while I was out?”
“I need to get out of here.” Angel slid off the bed. She circled behind Ridge, snatched her boots off the floor, and dragged the valise into the bathroom. She shut the door when she saw Ridge approach her. A tap on the door announced his persistence.
“Will you talk to me?”
“Not now, Ridge. I have too many thoughts I need to sort through before I get home.”
The report changed their relationship and nothing in her, him, or anyone else could make it okay. She struggled one-handed to support and open her bag. Pain shot through her left hand and through the missing fingers when her elbow bumped the wall.
“Angel?”
Angel huffed, grabbed her bag, and shoved back into the room. She tossed her valise on the bed, turned her back to Ridge, and jerked off the hospital gown. Her face flushed as the gown flitted from her grasp. As she grabbed for it, she nudged the bed. Her valise toppled off the far side.
“Let me help you.”
“I got it.” She put her left forearm across her breasts and whipped the curtain closed between them.
“What is going on, Angel? Talk to me.”
Angel sank to the bed. The opaque curtain blocked her view of Ridge. He was always going to be there, no matter where she fled or how she felt about him. The disclosure assured it. She stretched across the bed for her bag and pulled out a pair of charcoal virgin wool pants and a blousy cardigan in black to match her mood.
~ * ~
Angel’s silence resonated in me compared to her usual chattiness. She engaged in no meaningful conversation from the time we left the hospital, despite my several attempts. Her silence steered my mind off course. I sat was sitting next to a woman I intended to marry and yet memories of my former girlfriend, Suzette London, flitted across my mind every time I closed my eyes.
I cradled her bandaged hand and held the seat belt buckle while she inserted the latch plate. The click broke the silent atmosphere in the Gulfstream G550. I welcomed the stillness after the crowded 14-hour flight on the wide-body Boeing 747-8 from Beijing to JFK in New York City.
“Thank you for the kindness you’ve shown me.” Angel’s words gave off a contrived tone. She spoke with not even a glance in my direction. Perhaps the pain and loss of two fingers induced her antipathy.
“What is your pain level?”
“Ten.”
“Where are your meds?”
Angel shook out a folded blanket and tucked it to her chin. “Trashed.”
“I will write one for you after we get home.”
“Don’t bother.” Angel reached into a bag and pulled out the bottle of orange juice I picked up for her at a small fixed-base operator (FBO) at the airport. She wedged an Everclear 190 proof bottle between her knees, uncapped it, and poured the liquor into the OJ.
I put my hand on hers. “Please, Angel. Neurotoxins lead to nerve damage.”
Angel nudged my hand away. “I’ve heard.” She shook the bottle. Guzzled its contents. Reclined her seatback. Closed her eyes.
The Gulfstream’s engines shrieked. The G-forces on my body eased after takeoff. At 2,500 feet, I moved to a seat behind and across the aisle. I had three-and-a-half hours to sleep or think. Thoughts prevailed. Nothing shoved aside the memories. I saw warmth in Suzette’s smile. Tasted the softness of her lips. Smelled the aromatic effluence of her body’s chemistry. Heard pleasantness in her voice.
The memories persisted after I opened my eyes. Angel remained unmoved. I pulled out my phone and sent a text message to a number given to me at the end of my training at the CIA’s Camp Peary, not the FBI Academy in Quantico, as Angel was led to believe.
“Something amiss with Angel.”
The reply stated, “Charlie briefed me. I will have someone at the FBO to take her home. Stay on the plane. You are needed in Denver.”
