by Rob Horner
Even as he questioned his logic, his body performed the task of driving the car, almost like he ran on autopilot, now merging onto Sheridan Road, turning north.
Did the method matter if the answer was correct?
Turning right off Sheridan Road and into the parking lot of the Recruit Training Command, Great Lakes Visitor’s Center, Barnes saw a dark, full-sized van, almost like a service vehicle but without identifying placards. It was parked conspicuously at the rear of the lot.
That’s them, he thought to himself, easing the Honda into the parking spot beside the van. Stuffing the folder back into his carry-on bag, he hoisted it with his right hand as his left opened the door. With no thought to his next action, he took a single step to the passenger side of the van. Though a tall vehicle, the van was low enough for him to see inside. The driver was hunched over a laptop while the passenger, a lovely brunette, leaned toward the middle, also watching the computer. There were two other figures in shadow standing behind the front seats. They leaned forward, also intent upon the laptop. Though a part of his mind wondered at his audacity, Barnes reached up and knocked on the passenger window.
The reaction from the four people inside the van would have been comical if the lieutenant wasn’t so focused on the motive behind his actions. Whatever force had compelled him to drive to this place, to disturb these people, seemed to have receded, leaving him just as confused as the foursome in the van.
Even as the driver and passenger turned to look at him, one of the two from the back screamed, “He’s one of them!”
A second later the sliding door on the passenger side slammed open and a middle-aged man jumped out. He was broad in the shoulders, and any impression of weakness implied by the lines around his eyes and mouth was negated both by the size of his arms and the pistol he held steady at his waist, pointing at Robert.
Peeking out from behind the armed man was Victoria Galer.
The driver opened his door as well, but all Lieutenant Barnes could see was the woman.
How had he known to come here to find her? It made no sense.
“It is you!” Mrs. Galer said, stepping out beside the man.
“Check the cameras,” the man growled. “If he’s here, there must be others.”
“I don’t recognize this one,” the younger woman said, stepping up behind him. Something cold and hard poked into the nape of his neck. Craning his head an inch, Barnes was surprised by the brunette’s height; she was at least as tall as him, meeting his eyes with her own.
“I don’t see anyone else around us,” the other man reported a moment later.
“You’re that Lieutenant, right?” Mrs. Galer asked.
He needed to say something, didn’t he? Why didn’t he know what to do now?
With the gun behind him, the big man looked like he was tensing further. He was going to rush at him. This couldn’t be allowed to devolve into a hostage situation, with him as the hostage. He had to establish himself as an ally; he had to earn their trust.
“Yes,” he finally said, croaking out the word. “I’m Lieutenant Robert Barnes, United States Navy, assigned to NAS Oceana.”
“Is she right,” the big man asked. “Were you there when she was taken?”
What was the right way to answer that? It was almost as bad as one of those comical no-right-answer questions. Like, how long has it been since you last beat your wife?
“I went with the agents yesterday to try to prevent violence, but I wasn’t part of their team.”
The big guy still seemed tense, though he wasn’t up on the balls of his feet anymore. Maybe that was a good sign. Belatedly, Robert lifted his hands, holding his elbows in close.
“Listen, I was assigned to watch Travis and Sherry. I thought that’s all I was supposed to do. But then these agents got involved, and nothing made sense. One of them, this big hulk of a guy, started talking like he had a personal vendetta, like he was going to hurt them. So, I talked my way into going with them. I figured it might help diffuse things if a situation got too tense, since they should listen to me. They’re my sailors.” Surprisingly, Barnes felt the sincerity in his words. Part of him did feel a measure of protectiveness over the junior sailors, as well as no small measure of pride in their resourcefulness.
“He’s assigned to Oceana, at least, a division officer in personnel management,” the driver said, coming back around the front of the van to stand near the brunette. He was even taller than her, maybe as tall as Agent Travers, though probably not weighing half as much. “There aren’t any links to his name with any of the alphabet agencies. So, he’s telling the truth about that too. Just a set of eyes on a military base.”
“You had no idea what was going on?” the big man asked, most of the tension now easing out of his shoulders.
“He was the quiet one yesterday,” Mrs. Galer added, looking thoughtful. “Kept to himself, mostly.” Oddly, she reached out and grasped the big man’s arm. The motion evoked familiarity. Wasn’t her husband supposed to be dead?
Of course, Sherry and her mother had both thought each other dead. Was the husband story another lie?
“I’m sorry for how you were treated, Mrs. Galer,” Robert said, because it seemed like the right thing. “But I’m glad to see you’re safe now. Is this your husband? I didn’t know he—”
The big man laughed, as did the tall brunette, though the pistol held behind him didn’t waver.
“Look, you know who I am, and you’ve got me at gunpoint,” Barnes said, letting a little of his frustration though. “Can you at least tell me who you are, so I know who I’m talking to?”
When neither the brunette nor the tall man said anything, the big guy in front offered, “I’m not her husband. My name’s Brian Jennings.”
It happened again.
Another name he shouldn’t know but somehow did. Jennings. Where had he seen a Jennings in relation to these people?
“Why do I know that name?” he asked aloud.
The big man named Brian stiffened again, but Lieutenant Barnes didn’t see it. Still talking to himself, he moved slowly, bending down until his carry-on bag rested on the ground. He reached into the bag. “It had something to do with Travis, I’m sure of it,” he muttered, even as the tall brunette took a step back, her pistol pointed steadily at his head.
“Keep those hands where I can see them!” she hissed.
“Just getting a folder,” he said, and if they could have seen his eyes, they would have seen his fear.
Every instinct screamed for him to be still, don’t do anything to alarm these people who walked the edge of panic, who probably lived on that edge every day. But the same something that brought him to this place now pushed him to do this thing, to reveal the folder, to understand that name: Jennings.
Luckily, the folder was visible once the bag was opened, and lucky, too, that no one shot him as he pulled it out, opening it across the top of the bag. The first set of papers stared up at them, catching their attention with the 40-point red heading of CLASSIFIED clear for all to see. Beneath the warning pages was that list of names. And there, just before Travis Wilkins, was the young man’s original name, James Jennings.
Looking up from the folder at Brian, he said, “You’re him, aren’t you, Travis’s father?”
Before Brian could react, other things clicked into place for the lieutenant. He’d found Victoria Galer because she was with the people Captain Ortega said she’d be with. “And you,” he said to the tall brunette, “you’re Debbie Emerson, aren’t you? You wrote the initial report. And that must make you William Dougherty.” This to the tall man with glasses.
“I’m so glad I found you,” Barnes said. And strangely, he meant it.
2
Finding a weapons store in Chicago that would cater to Travis’s needs was surprisingly easy, even on a Sunday at three-fifteen in the afternoon. Travis had the cab driver stop at Rick’s Armory on Buckley Road, just a few miles from the entrance to the Recruit Training Comman
d, saying he had to pick up a reconditioned present for his dad.
“Meter’s gonna keep running’, kid,” the cab driver said, though with an affable tone. He was an olive-skinned man of Mediterranean descent. The name on the cab license was Basil Alexiou, though he spoke without a hint of a foreign accent.
“We’ll just be a minute,” Sherry added.
Travis whistled as he entered the store. There was a startling array of firepower for sale, everything from small .25 caliber semi-automatic pistols designed to fit in a purse to AR-15s and AK-47s, all conspicuously marked as being in line with federal standards. The store was brightly lit, with corner-view cameras sweeping left and right, recording everything. Along the far-right wall were three rows of archery supplies. There were crossbows and recurve bows, including a silver one with The Katniss engraved on the shaft. Large foam target squares and life-sized animal statues lined one shelf, while another was devoted to arrows and bolts and all the fixings to make them yourself, if you enjoyed that kind of thing. The back wall appeared to be closer than it should be, considering the outer size of the building, until Sherry noticed the signs indicating an indoor practice range. For someone who had never taken the time to practice shooting, the idea of a place inside where you could pluck away at targets seemed both like a great idea, and like a great waste of space.
Thankfully, Travis knew what he wanted and had the money to get it. Unfortunately, the law demanded more information than they wanted to give and required a waiting period which they weren’t willing to abide by.
Taking her hand, Travis explained the situation.
We need to find out if this guy can be bought.
What do you mean? she asked.
We need these weapons now, not two weeks from now. The only way we’re going to get what we need is if he’s willing to break the rules. Which will mean we need to bribe him or pay a markup.
Won’t he just turn us in if we try? Sherry responded, her mind already attacking the problem.
He might—
But not if we check his mind first, she concluded.
Exactly.
“Help you folks?” the proprietor asked, calling to them from the left side of the store. He stood behind a deep glass display case where most of the hand-held offerings were kept under lock and key. The wall behind the salesman displayed rifles in more shapes and sizes than Sherry knew existed. A bronze name tag proudly proclaimed the speaker to be Rick, owner and salesman.
“I’m interested in a couple of weapons, actually,” Travis replied, simultaneously sending a message to Sherry. See if he can help us while I talk to him.
I…okay, she replied.
“I saw you eying that Mossberg Flex,” Rick said companionably, moving to stand behind another glass-encased counter devoted wholly to shotguns.
Sherry concentrated, wanting to reach into the man’s mind to find out if he was corrupt enough to help them. She wasn’t keen on the idea of buying weapons at all, especially not illegally. But she agreed with Travis’s reasons and was resigned to the necessity. She had her doubts about Rick. He appeared the epitome of a law-abiding salesman. Middle-aged, trim, with neat hair and wire-frame glasses, he carried himself with pride and just a touch of arrogance. He didn’t wear any jewelry except for a plain gold band on his wedding finger. She doubted any man with a family to support would resort to illegal sales, not when being caught undoubtedly carried a stiff penalty if not outright imprisonment.
Still, Travis wanted her to try, and she had no intention of letting him down. Concentrating, closing out Travis’s knowledgeable dialogue about spread patterns and effective ranges, she probed the man’s mind for hints of lawlessness.
What she found was astonishing. Rick not only practiced the sale of illegal weapons and ammunition, he thrived on it. More than half his small arms sales went unregistered, as the well-appointed front he maintained concealed the large shipments of handguns smuggled into the country for him. His primary customers were less-than-reputable characters with something to hide, criminals who couldn’t buy a weapon legally due to a felony history, or youths who weren’t old enough to patronize his store. He supplied gang members with equal costs and availability, paying no attention to such matters as territory or colors.
He was a neutral power, supplying all sides and reaping a profit from everyone.
Sherry was shocked but found that she couldn’t sustain her anger. She and Travis were here to take advantage of his practices after all, and she had no tolerance for hypocrites.
It couldn’t last, she promised herself. It wouldn’t. She might have to use this disgusting individual today, but as soon as she and Travis were free of the people chasing them, she planned to make an anonymous call to the Chicago police, tipping them off to this place.
Good idea, baby, Travis said. Sherry flushed at his agreement. They really did share a lot of the same values, and that made her feel even better.
Are there any words, or phrases, that I should use to let him know I want this deal to be secret?
Sherry hadn’t thought to check for anything like that. She sent out another suggestion, letting her consciousness touch Rick’s. She was becoming quite good at reading other people this way, unsavory as it might be. Within seconds she had the answer to Travis’s question.
Ask him if the gun is something your grandmother would use, she informed him.
She heard Travis’s mental snicker at the words. He could have guessed for days and never come up with that. She couldn’t repress a silent chuckle.
Quit laughing, Travis told her, the shotgun’s for you.
And that was enough to remind her of the seriousness of their shopping. Nothing they did could be taken lightly; everything had a purpose. She quelled her doubts about her ability to use a shotgun. She knew enough to understand all she needed to do was point the thing in the general direction of a target, pull the trigger, and chances were good she’d hit it.
“Is this something my grandmother would use?” Travis asked softly, and Rick’s reaction was instantaneous.
“It is, and for an extra two-fifty, I’ll make sure she never has a problem with it,” he replied.
Travis grunted as though the answer was expected.
In the end, Travis settled on a six-shot Mossberg Maverick 88 for Sherry and a Walther PPQ M2 chambered for 9mm rounds for himself. The pistol boasted a sixteen-round full-load capacity. He also purchased ammunition for both weapons as well as a shoulder holster for the pistol.
Can’t you save money and just tuck it into the back of your pants? Sherry asked innocently.
The mental image he sent of someone blowing a hole into a butt-cheek almost made her laugh out loud, until she managed to hold it back with a noise that sounded like she was about to choke. Rick started toward her, ready to help, until she held up a hand and sputtered, “Sorry, almost choked on my gum.”
Within minutes, everything was boxed or bagged. Although Rick’s eyes watched greedily as Travis counted out the money to pay the bill, never once did his thoughts turn to anything alarming. If anything, he was sincere in his wishes that they have a nice day and come back again some time.
Are you sure about this? Sherry asked as they headed for the store exit.
In response, Travis reached out for her with his left hand, pulling her into a one-armed embrace. We don’t have any choice, he said, and she could sense his sadness.
I know, she replied.
3
Basil was playing a game on his smartphone as they climbed back inside.
“Well, that didn’t take long at all,” he remarked. “I’ve heard good things about Mr. Rick in there. He do ya right?”
Hefting the large box, Travis said, “Right as rain, made this old M-1 Carbine look brand new.”
Basil whistled appreciatively. “Man, wish I could see it, but it’s not worth losing my number for you to pull that out in public.”
“No worries,” Travis said.
“Back on course?” t
he cabbie asked.
“Yes, please. Just to the visitor’s center, if you don’t mind,” Travis answered.
What’s our next move? Sherry asked. I mean, we can go straight into the base, or we can find a place first, then plan a strike.”
Travis considered the question for several moments while Basil waited for a break in traffic to pull back out onto Buckley Road. Finally, he said, Don’t you feel it?
What?
I…don’t know how to describe it, he admitted. But it’s like knowing what needs to be done and knowing that it’s got to be done a certain way, one step at a time. If we just follow the steps, then everything will fall into place. Do you know what I mean?
Sherry didn’t answer at first, just opened herself to Travis, letting his feelings fill her, trying to understand.
It wasn’t just knowledge. It was an intuitive understanding of a large picture, though they had nothing but small pieces to work with. They knew Sherry’s mother had been brought to this city, to something the agent had referred to as an installation. They also knew she’d been summarily rescued from that installation by a group of people who made it their goal in life to help people like Vicki and, presumably, the children of people like her. People like them, victims of their own government.
There you go, Travis encouraged her, you’re getting it.
Sherry didn’t acknowledge his praise, instead concentrating on her reasoning. Following the logic that these mysterious people had somehow known Victoria was arriving, it stood to reason they would know other things as well. They probably had informants within the installation, or some other way of gaining information. Maybe they’d hacked into a computer network or something. It didn’t matter how they got their information. If Sherry and Travis were to approach the installation, or try to enter it themselves…
Chances are they’ll know and come to meet us, Travis finished for her.
