Page 12 of Rogue Protector
He’s exactly who he said he was. And a hell of a lot more. The man has a Wikipedia page, complete with a photo of him in full dress uniform. And crap on a cracker, does he clean up nicely.
Commander, Joint Special Operations Command
I don’t know what that is, but it sounds impressive. Another ninety minutes pass, and I have to shut my laptop and try for at least a couple of hours of sleep. When I close my eyes, though, visions of Austin doing all sorts of heroic things play in a loop in my head.
Though my parents were right in the middle of the fighting in Syria in the seventies, they came to the United States as refugees with my grandmother before I was born, so I was spared all those painful memories. All I know about war is what I see on the news. But Austin…he’slivedit.
Is that why he wanted to disappear for a while? So many questions run through my mind, and I stare up at the hotel ceiling until my lids are too heavy to keep open any longer.
Stiflinga yawn as I adjust the microscope, I wish I’d moved just a little faster this morning. A second cup of hotel coffee would have been really nice. Instead, I have to make do with instant. Li and Corey are at Grow Site Five, and Isaiah works at the table across from me, cataloging the photos he took yesterday.
“Leaf rot on the ferns surrounding Site One’s grow zone,” he mutters to himself. “Heavy concentration of spider mites in the area, but I don’t see any on the orchids…”
“What did you say?” I stumble as I slide off my stool, spilling my coffee all over the work bench. “Crap. Get some paper towels!”
Panicking, I reach for the slide tray, but grab it awkwardly, snapping one of the thin pieces of glass in half with my thumb. A drop of my blood stains the shard, and my heart shoots into my chest. If that was one of the dried pieces of orchid root…I could be in trouble.
“Dr. Mik?” Isaiah’s next to me in three steps, staring down at the blood. “Shit. What was on that slide?”
“I…what number is it?”
Breathe. There are a hundred slides in that tray. Only ten of them are potentially poisonous.
With a pair of tweezers, he gingerly pulls out the broken glass. “Fifty-three.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” Staggering over to the sink, I turn the water on full blast and hold my hand under the spray, squeezing the fleshy pad of my thumb to help flush out any mold spores from the razor thin piece of fern that had been preserved under glass on slide fifty-three. “Totally harmless. The orchid roots were on slides one through ten.”
“Thank God.” Isaiah mops up the spilled coffee while I wash my hands thoroughly and then wrap a bandage around my thumb.
That was a stupid mistake. Amateur. One that would have earned any of the grad students a stern lecture had they been in my shoes.
That’s it. No more coffee in the lab. But after being up half the night thinking about Austin, I was wiped. As he tosses the soaked towels in the trash, Isaiah says, “The spider mites leave the orchids alone. That’s what I was saying. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the plants were being sprayed, but we’re the only ones up here.”
“The Mexican Ecological Foundation assured us that they’d leave all five grow sites alone for at least three weeks before we arrived. They wouldn’t even set foot in them, just have their security patrols make sure no poachers entered the area. Show me the images?”
He projects them onto the largest monitor we have. The first day, we did nothing but tour the five sites, and I pull up those pictures for comparison. “That’s really weird. You can see evidence of spider mites on the photos we took weeks ago. There’s no reason for them tonotbe there now.”
“Li and Corey won’t have time to visit Site One today,” Isaiah says. “But we should go tomorrow and take fresh samples. Then we can check for pesticide. I wish I’d noticed this when I was up there yesterday. The rain was intense, and it took all of my focus to keep the camera dry.”
“If someoneisspraying up there, half our data will be useless.” The idea that we’ve wasted the majority of our time in Mexico leaves a sour taste in my mouth, and now I don’t want more coffee. I just want answers.
Isaiah radios Li and tells her to swab at least twenty-five percent of the plants at Site Five and bring back cuttings from another ten percent. Even with the walkie-talkies, communication halfway up the mountain is spotty, and she asks why, but when he tries to explain, there’s nothing but static on the other end of the connection.
“I need some air,” I say as I cover the ninety-nine remaining slides and put the tray in one of the lab fridges. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“Okay, Dr. Mik. You’re not going far, right?” Concern crinkles around his dark brown eyes. Of my three graduate students, he’s the most empathetic, and every time I have an asthma attack, I swear he gets more overprotective.
“Just down to the river. And I have my radio and my rescue inhaler.” I show him the tube, then shove it into the pocket of my khaki pants and pull my windbreaker over my head. It’s not as wet today, but the weather can change on a dime this time of year.
“Be careful. It’s still slick out there,” he says as he returns to his work. I can tell he doesn’t want me to go, but tough. I’m the one in charge here. And I’mfine. Except for making a stupid, rookie mistake that could have left me in need of medical attention.
The phytotoxin produced by drying the Blushing Note’s roots is so powerful, I haven’t let any of the students even touch the slices I cured last week. And yet, I’m the one who almost stabbed myself with one of them.
My own petulance leaves a sour taste in my mouth as I stalk out of the trailer. This is my dream. Has been ever since I interned with Dr. Brian Branch while I was working on my dissertation. He knew about the orchid, and when he told me about its potential therapeutic properties, saving it became my mission. I’ve applied for this grant three years in a row, and now, if our research is compromised, I’ll lose all credibility in the academic community, but the real tragedy will be the loss of a chance for a real, legitimate treatment for Parkinson’s.
The air holds a chill, even though it’s well over sixty today, and I wrap my arms around myself tightly as I pick my way down towards the river. Autumn in this part of Mexico is unpredictable. One day can be beautifully sunny with ninety percent humidity, and the next, fifty degrees with rain that feels like it’s driving into your skull.
The river, only a trickle in June, flows swiftly, and I lower myself down to a large, flat rock I discovered our second day here. It’s big enough to stretch out on—even do a few sun salutations—and it’s high enough above the river that even now, after several days of rain, I won’t get wet.
