Dr. Mark Saunders snatched his laptop, briefcase and carry-on from the leather seat beside Wolfe Enterprises’ security guard, whose stony expression never changed. Saunders forced open the helicopter’s door and crouch-walked across the Puerto Rican tarmac beneath the Sikorsky’s whirling blades, a bit nauseous and wholly unnerved by the pilot’s warning to avoid the tail rotor or risk losing his face. Once free from the chopper’s wind, he trotted toward the terminal relieved to be leaving the Virgin Islands behind, heading home to Washington, D.C. Normally he enjoyed fieldwork, even though people were always a bit tense. However, the scientists, clinicians and nurses he encountered at Wolfe Enterprises were all so nervous they could barely meet his eyes, and the atmosphere turned downright threatening whenever Dr. Wolfe himself was around.

When Saunders reached the double glass doors leading to the terminal, his scalp prickled. Someone was watching him. He glanced back at the chopper. The pilot was busy with what appeared to be a logbook. The security guard was nowhere in sight. Saunders shrugged it off, checked his watch and groaned. His flight was in the final boarding stage. It would be a miracle if the airline hadn’t given away his seat. The phone call he couldn’t make from Wolfe’s island would have to wait until he landed in D.C. But by then it would be too late.

Saunders rushed to the gate indicated on his ticket, reaching the area just as the attendant was about to lock the door. He slipped into the only open seat near the back of the Boeing 757, thankful that he’d caught the flight and also that the slight-built, twenty-something guy slumped in the window seat next to him had his eyes closed and was wearing headphones. No mindless conversation this afternoon. He had just wedged his briefcase and laptop under the seat in front of his feet and was adjusting his seatbelt when a commotion broke out near the cockpit. Instantly alert, Saunders craned his neck to see what was going on. However, it was only a middle-aged woman in designer clothes clutching an oversized handbag worth an entire month of his government salary chastising the harried flight attendant, probably for stashing Saunders’ travel-weary carry-on in the last available space, above her first class seat.

The train from Reagan National Airport was nearly as empty as the central station where Saunders emerged later that night. It was close to eleven o’clock when he crossed to the Metro’s Red Line. Three young women huddled together near the tunnel entrance on the platform, shivering in dresses with material too thin for a spring night on the town. He meandered away from them and set down his briefcase and laptop next to his carry-on to extract that day’s Virgin Islands Daily News. He spun the combination lock and flicked open the briefcase just as the light in the station flashed green, announcing the arrival of the Metro.

Quickly, he tucked the newspaper beneath the two thick binders that contained his FDA report. All seven hundred pages of it. Moving the binders had disturbed the air trapped in his briefcase. An exotic blend of coconut, sea salt and frangipani reached his nose, triggering memories from Wolfe Enterprises. Unaccountably, his heart raced.

Saunders snapped the case shut just as the incoming train blasted a warning. He hoisted his laptop and briefcase to edge nearer the platform verge, one hand tugging his carry-on close. His tired mind wandered as he stared into the fast approaching lights.

Something solid slammed into the middle of his back and shoved him over the edge. His head jerked back. The air whooshed from his chest. His brain didn’t have time to register the impact that wrenched open his briefcase, hurled his laptop between the rails and tore apart his body. A blizzard of paper scattered like ghosts into the air, hovering near the three horrified women.