David Cortez, a decorated US Marine, is now on the run from his own government after escaping a top-secret CIA lab when an experimental medical procedure turned sour.

While lying low in Mexico, an assassin sent from British Intelligence tracks him down. However, Sonny from MI6, a British-Iranian with a cockney accent, offers David a choice: join his team, or be killed.

David chooses to work with Sonny, not only because he wants his life back, but because he feels a kinship with the man.

They’re also both in the unique position of being the only living test subjects with alien DNA in their blood. Could that explain the strong attraction between them?

Excerpt

Specimen
C. Quince © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

Tijuana, Mexico

David was being followed.

He couldn’t see who the tail was; every time David paused to do a little window shopping on the street and check his six in the window’s reflection, the tail managed to hide. Whoever they were, they were good at slipping by undetected.

David wasn’t sure who it was. Agency, probably, or another US-based shadowy government division. He should’ve picked Venezuela to lie low, but Mexico was his home, his heritage. He had lingered here longer than he should; he knew that, but he’d been so careful, using different names and cash only. He’d grown a beard to blend in and kept moving from place to place, never settling. David had been looking over his shoulder for six months. Now it seemed the bastards had finally caught up to him.

The sun was low in the sky, turning the clouds pink and orange. Vendors in the busy street were out in full force, providing good cover. David calmly made his way down the street, not letting on that he knew he was being followed—but if his tail was worth their salt, they’d know that he knew.

If his tail was a US Government agency like David suspected they were, they wanted one of two things: One, they wanted to keep tabs on him. Two, they wanted to bring him in. The latter would involve kidnap in some form or other; then they’d transport him to a black site—a soundproofed lab where nobody would hear him scream.

David should know. He’d been through that scenario once, and once was enough. If they thought he would come in quietly after what they’d done to him, they had another thing coming.

In the early evening hubbub of Tijuana, David led his tail down side streets and off the beaten path. He knew this town like the back of his hand, and it gave him the advantage.

On an ill-lit street, popular with gang members from the local cartel, a neon bar sign flickered on and off over an open doorway. David ducked in there. Immediately inside the door was a set of steps descending into darkness. David hurried down. At the bottom of the stairs, another open doorway awaited him. David knew the bar; it was small, gloomy, lit only by neon, and it was popular with drug dealers. Today it was busy enough, with music playing loud, and David was able to slip in without attracting attention.

He planned to lie in wait and watch who came through the door after him, so he situated himself at the far end of the bar, facing the entrance. He ordered a light beer. The bartender opened a bottle and stuck a wedge of lime in the top before handing it over.

David took the beer but didn’t drink yet. His eyes were trained on the doorway. Nobody had followed him in, which meant they were hanging back.

If the shoe had been on the other foot and David was the one doing the tailing, he wouldn’t have run straight into the unknown either. That meant this tail wasn’t a local, much as he’d suspected.

David leaned on the bar more casually and poked the lime wedge down into the bottle so he could take a sip of beer. He happened to catch his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Illuminated by red neon light, David’s tan skin looked darker than it usually did. He’d grown his hair out to ear length, the colour a mid-brown shade kissed by the sun. His full beard was a darker shade of brown. He looked like a local.

It was ironic; he’d spent his youth in California trying to look less Mexican, trying to fit in with the White kids in his grade. He’d lightened his hair with frosted tips for a while there—hair in the early ’00s…not great. David was half Mexican on his father’s side. His mother was Caucasian American from San Diego.

Now David had fled the US, he wanted to look more Mexican. He had felt shielded by his disguise so far, but maybe it was time for a new disguise. A new location.

Still no one had come through the door. That was nearly five minutes, a lifetime in surveillance work.

David was about to cut and run, when a figure appeared at the entrance. For a moment David tensed, but he soon saw that this figure was tiny. A short Mexican woman, and likely not his tail. She was the first of a group of local youths entering the bar. Two women, three men.

David relaxed some. These were Mexican kids. He could tell by looking at them; their dark hair, their complexions, and their clothes. The shoes gave it away: slides and sandals weren’t exactly standard surveillance footwear. These were civilians.

As the lively group came further into the bar to order their drinks, David noticed that one pair of feet among them had on black boots.

Bingo.

That was his tail, the man at the back of the group. Likely he had waited for a group to enter the bar and tacked himself on. Clever.

David tried to see who it was, but all he caught was a dark head of hair and tan skin. Regular street clothes for Mexico, black boots aside; a short-sleeve shirt and dark pants. He could be from a cartel, for all David knew.

He couldn’t get a good enough look before the guy peeled off from the group and melted away to the back section of the bar. That’s where the cartels usually hung out.

Maybe no one was tailing him after all, and David was being paranoid. Six months on the run would do that to anybody. He was tired of looking over his shoulder, but he wouldn’t sacrifice his freedom.

He took one more swig of beer, then left it on the bar along with some notes for payment. David headed for the gents’ toilets.

On his way, he glanced at the mirror behind the bar to see if he was being followed. Amidst the bustle of the patrons, it was hard to tell, but he’d soon find out.

David had to go up another set of steps to reach the toilets. He ascended quickly, entered the tiny bathroom, and closed the door behind him. The urinals were vacant, ditto the single stall. Good timing.

David headed over to the window. He’d picked this bar for a reason. He knew he could sneak out this way.

Nobody had followed him into the bathroom yet, so he took his chance. David climbed up on the ledge and peered out the open top window. Outside, the back alley was dark but empty.

Most people couldn’t get out of this window; it was too narrow. But David wasn’t most people. Balancing on one leg while holding the window open with his hand, David first carefully threaded one leg and arm through the thin slip of window. He had to roll his body over the pane and land his foot on the outer ledge, balancing like a circus act.

Once he’d done that, he had to hold his balance while threading his other arm and leg through. He made it out the window and followed the natural turn of his body, slowly flipping himself over. He landed down on the dusty ground in a crouch.

He hadn’t made a sound during all this. David paused for a moment, listening for anyone in pursuit.

Nothing yet.

Either he was being paranoid and nobody was following him, or he was about to give his tail the slip. Caution had kept him alive and free this far. David decided to make a break for it. Nobody else was in the alley. He got up and took off at a jog to get back onto a vendor street.

David found a stall selling garish shirts and exchanged cash for one. Concealed among the street vendors, David watched the street corner while he quickly changed his shirt for the new one.

Nobody had followed him.

Shit, maybe he was paranoid.

David discarded his old shirt and walked away, doing up the buttons on his new one. He could’ve worn his white undershirt by itself, but he had plenty of scars on his skin from his time as a Marine that he didn’t enjoy showing off.

He stopped by a taco vendor to grab something to eat. He’d be taking the long route home tonight, just in case, and he needed sustenance.

“Gracias,” David said, as the friendly vendor handed over a loaded taco.

“¡Provecho!” he replied, moustache bristling as he grinned.

David loved Mexico. People were so friendly here and he always felt at home.

He took a bite out of his taco as he walked down the street. Once or twice, he checked behind him, but he sensed his tail was gone now—if he’d ever been there. But to be safe, David would pack up his things tonight and move to another city. He would miss Tijuana, but he had to stay several steps ahead.

He ate his taco and walked. David doubled back a couple times to check for a tail, and to grab another taco from a different street vendor—he needed a lot of food, being on the run. He also picked up a cup of freshly squeezed orange juice from the juice man’s cart.

David had gotten to know all these vendors the past couple of months, and he’d miss seeing their friendly faces. Hopefully, they’d still be here when he came back around to Tijuana one day.

He tipped the juice vendor, because David knew he had three kids back at home. The guy was always chatting about them.

“Gracias, señor!” he said, smiling as he pocketed the money.

“De nada.” David smiled back. These little interactions with vendors were often the most time he spent with other people. Being on the lam wasn’t fun. He missed human connection. Avoiding everyone and being suspicious was wearing him down.

He took his OJ and walked away, slurping great gulps through the straw.

David happened to glance at an open alleyway as he passed. Force of habit. A man stood there, casually leaning against the corner wall and eating a taco, a taco from one of the same vendors David used.

David hadn’t seen this guy around before. He could be local, given his colouring. Or possibly another ethnicity. David was used to analysing strangers in the blink of an eye; another habit. He had to ascertain if someone was a local or not for his own safety. This guy had a dark head of stylish hair and some equally dark stubble on his face, and…well, he was cute. Very cute. David noticed that more than anything.

He had avoided getting close to anyone for months, given his situation, but no harm in looking. No harm in a flirty smile in passing. And the longer the other man held eye contact, the more chance there was he was into men too.

But David quickly realised this perhaps wasn’t the case. Yes, this guy was watching David and holding eye contact, but something was off. He held up the taco he was eating, and he smirked at David as if to say, I can see why you like these so much.

Like he knew David, knew his movements.

David looked down. Black boots. The guy wore black boots. It was his tail from the bar. Well, this time David would confront him.

“Hey!” David said and began making his way across the street. Not an easy task with vendors, shoppers, and tourists in his path.

Meanwhile his tail slipped into the alleyway before David could reach him.

David got to the alley, and it was empty with only trash cans and two stray dogs sniffing around a piece of taco on the ground, and they quickly withdrew once they noticed David there.

Where had the man gone? Maybe ducked in a doorway or hid behind the trash bags? David felt torn. He should turn and run. He’d confirmed he had a tail, confirmed someone was following him. But David had a hunch this wasn’t the Agency. Unless they’d wised up enough to send a flirty guy in David’s direction.

Like a bee drawn to a flower, David entered the alley. He wanted to find this guy and question him. There was still a chance he could be one of the locals, but… David knew in his gut he was from outside Mexico. If he wasn’t local, and he wasn’t Agency, then what did he want?

David searched the alley cautiously but turned up nothing. The tail had vanished like a ghost. It riled David, because stealth skills like that were damn good, and he was competitive.

Well, clearly, he’d wanted to get David’s attention, get under his skin, and let him know he was being watched. He’d been smug about it with that cocky smirk, but that cockiness was going to be his downfall.

If he wanted to tango, then David would play along. He’d make himself an easier target, lure the smug bastard out.

Then, David would strike.

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Meet the Author

Quince is a MENA-British author who lives in England, enjoys sci-fi and fantasy, history, and Halloween.

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