Zombie Soap 2: Conspiracy

Forty-Three

Monica

Alarms blasted somewhere across the back of Monica's mind, warning her not to rush into anything. She had a teenage girl depending on her, and her temper would compromise any stability Abby had left. But if Monica didn't confront Benson now, if she didn't try to stop him from harming yet another person, she'd not only allow that monster to win, but she'd become complicit in the deaths to follow.

What was more important: survival or stopping the true serpent wearing a man's skin?

Abby would be safe with Diego and Taylor. Monica hadn't spent enough time with Abby to be of any importance to the young girl; hopefully, the loss wouldn't be too great if Monica failed, but she couldn't let Benson win. Not again. He'd already gone too far in murdering those people and experimenting on them. He'd crossed a serious line through her research when she'd already been reluctant to help. If not for Jeannie, Monica might have faced her fears and left with Jayson. Maybe he'd even be alive if she'd had more courage.

Decision made by fate and fury on behalf of the victims, Monica speed-walked through the hall, unhindered by anyone this late at night. Benson could very well be asleep himself, and getting access to his quarters would be all too easy if she knocked on his door. She could pretend to need comfort, and she doubted he'd think past his little head to question her motives. Of course, that meant knowing where he lived — not something she'd ever wanted to know — and now, she kicked herself for not having a better plan.

As she neared the end of the corridor leading toward the promenade, a set of heavy, rushing footsteps made her spin around in case Benson leapt from the shadows. What she hadn't expected was to see Diego give chase.

Part of her wanted to turn and bolt, but she stayed put with the knowledge she couldn't outrun that very fit police officer. Diego had the muscles and appearance of a man who ran six miles just to get to the gym each day. Groaning, she folded her arms over her chest as he approached. "Don't try to change my mind."

Diego's dark brows furrowed as he frowned, as if pleading and sympathizing at the same time. After rubbing his palms on his black cargo pants, he reached for her, snapping his hand back to his side when Monica jumped. He then bit his lip before saying, "I know you're upset — you have every right to be, but you need to think this through. Consider the consequences and how they affect everyone around you."

Monica inhaled a sharp burst of air and clamped her mouth shut as she ground her teeth. Though unsurprising, the guilt trip was equivalent to a punch in the chest. No matter what option she chose — allowing Benson's sick experiments to continue or putting her friends and a child at risk — someone would suffer. "That's not fair," she whispered in a shaking tone as her legs threatened to give way. "We can't let him get away with this."

His nose twitched as he lowered his gaze and sighed. Like everyone else, Diego seemed exhausted; shadows beneath the eyes, uncombed beard, and new strands of gray in his longer hair she hadn't noticed before. "I agree, but not like this."

Before Monica could protest, he extended his hand. "Let's talk someplace quieter."

Translation: We don't need eavesdroppers.

She took his warm, calloused hand, and followed him past both hers and the Whittaker quarters until they reached an unfamiliar unit. Producing a key card from a retractable reel, Diego swiped the card through the reader, and the door slid open with a hydraulic hiss. He then pulled her inside without a word and to the couch.

Twisting from side to side, she glanced around the room. The unit was set up like all the other executive suites: decent furniture in a modest space, two doors leading to bedrooms and another to the bathroom, kitchen with a small dining area, and probably a well-stocked pantry. "What are we doing here?"