by David Meyer
A mere seven million dollars.
He strode fearlessly to the front door, chuckling at the many signs for Swabnet Security that dotted the otherwise-unblemished lawn. Swabnet, like pretty much all residential wireless alarm systems, utilized radio frequency signals. If someone happened to open a tagged door or window, a silent signal was deployed to Swabnet, which proceeded to contact the occupants as well as the local police. It was simple to understand.
And even simpler to defeat.
He stopped outside the front door. These days, everything was wireless. Homeowners had even taken to arming and disarming security systems via remotes and smartphone apps. This made it easy for him to capture system passwords.
Alternatively, he could use his radio to perform a replay attack. Then he could just enter the house during one of the many subsequent false alarms. But on this particular evening, he was feeling rushed. He didn’t have time to wait for the Samuelses to issue remote commands. And false alarms, although almost always ignored, would certainly raise a tiny bit of suspicion.
So, he kept it simple, utilizing his radio to jam the intra-home communications as he picked the lock. As expected, Swabnet’s system retorted with anti-jamming counter measures, designed to issue an audible alarm while simultaneously triggering a separate transmission to the security firm. But Hooper easily defeated the countermeasures.
In less than a minute, he’d entered the foyer. Closing the door behind him, he turned on his flashlight. The foyer was larger than his entire apartment and better decorated too. A tall, arched corridor stood directly in front of him. A curving staircase rested to the left of the corridor. On either side of him, separate hallways connected the foyer to other rooms.
He turned his gaze to a small sitting area situated across from the staircase. It was styled in rustic fashion and contained an assortment of chairs and sofas, which appeared to have been made from recycled plastics. Burlap sacks covered the cushions. Two hardwood end tables, topped with LED lamps, were positioned amongst the seats.
Hooper stared at a giant impressionist painting located behind a sectional sofa. It depicted the Samuels’ residence in all of its glory. Once upon a time, he would’ve been jealous of their wealth and possessions. Rich people, by and large, just seemed so happy. But he’d learned that this happiness was, more often than not, a facade. Rich people, like everyone else, faced insecurities, doubts, and fears.
Hooper went to work, crisscrossing the house. He searched the library, the dining room, the sunroom, the living room, the covered porch, the powder room, and everywhere else. Each room was substantial in size and covered by vaulted ceilings.
As he passed through the residence, he noticed an abundance of ultra-modern green technology. Touch screens controlled LED lighting, air systems, and automated blinds. He even saw remote-controlled toilets, outfitted with heated seats and music players.
It was truly a magnificent residence and as far as he could tell, about as eco-friendly as current technology allowed. Seeing it made him doubt his initial theory. The Samuelses weren’t just rich. They were filthy rich. They certainly didn’t need to steal billions of dollars. And even if they had wanted more money, he doubted they’d rob a clean energy fund to get it.
But he kept going, moving from room to room, searching everything and leaving tiny transmitters in his wake. They were invisible to the naked eye and would easily escape detection.
Shortly, the Samuelses would be hosting a fundraiser in their home. His plan was to visit the residence and question them about the Columbus Project. He’d catch them off guard and raise their anxiety levels. Then he’d go outside and listen to every word they said. If they were behind the theft, he’d know it soon enough.
After clearing the top three floors, Hooper headed to the basement. He passed through a recreational room, filled with vintage arcade video games.
Cracking a door, he entered an office. It was as stylish as the rest of the home and just as eco-friendly. Although many environmentalists looked down their noses at technology, considering it the enemy of nature, the Samuelses appeared to hold a decidedly different viewpoint. They’d used technology as an asset, allowing them to build a better home and perhaps, a better tomorrow.
He conducted a cursory search. So far, he’d found nothing of interest, not even a single mention of the Columbus Project. And nothing in the office changed that fact.
As he turned to leave, he saw a single framed photograph mounted on the far wall. Something about it piqued his interest.
Hooper studied the grainy picture. It depicted ten individuals, dressed in outdoorsy clothes and posing in front of a campground. A caption under the photo read, The Separative.
Much younger versions of Patricia and Barney Samuels knelt in the foreground, their arms around each other, smiling like they didn’t have a care in the world. But it was the other individuals that caught his attention. Four of them were easily identifiable.
Kate Roost. George Kaiser. Janet Baker. Bert Bane.
Otherwise known as the respective secretaries for the Department of the Interior, the Department of Transportation, the Department of Agriculture, and the Department of Defense. In other words, he was looking at an old photo of five high-ranking bureaucrats before they’d joined President Walters’ administration. All five of them had helped control the Columbus Project’s purse strings. Some would’ve considered it a coincidence, albeit an epic one. But not Hooper.
He didn’t believe in coincidence.
Chapter 25
Guilt swirled within me as I slipped outside the aircraft.
You made a mistake.
By focusing on the reliquary, I’d allowed others to draw close to us. Now, our options were limited.
Let it go.
Silently, I dropped to the dirt. Two men were positioned on either side of our truck. They appeared to be searching the interior.
Extending a hand toward the aircraft, I helped Graham to the ground. Beverly followed suit, closing the panel behind her. Then we retreated to a small hill and circled around for a better view.
“No uniforms,” Beverly observed. “But they move like soldiers.”
Graham frowned. “Who are they?”
“I doubt they’re locals. Few people still live in this area.” She looked thoughtful. “Most likely, it’s a mop-up team. They probably work for the same people who sent the drone this way.”
My jaw hardened. “So, they know who killed Lila?”
“Most likely, yes.”
One man retreated to his vehicle. The other one crouched down and approached the plane. “I’ll take care of him.” I glanced at Beverly. “Can you get the other one?”
She looked doubtful. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I nodded.
She spun to the side. Then she took off across the landscape.
Jumping to my feet, I headed down the hill. Dirt churned in my wake, flying into the sky to join the dust storm.
The man turned around. An astonished look appeared on his face.
I groaned inwardly. I’d hoped to sneak up on the man. To capture him without a fight. But as he twisted a knife in my direction, I knew that was no longer an option.
I slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. He tucked into a roll and sprang to his feet. Then he charged me.
Bending my knees, I leapt to the side, hoping to dodge his attack. But the man reacted quickly, swinging a thundering punch in my direction.
His fist struck my torso. I fell to the ground. Before I could regain my footing, a heavy knee pressed down on me, pinning me to the dirt. A calloused hand grasped my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his second hand.
It still clutched the knife.
The man pressed the blade against my throat. “Keep still,” he said. “There’s no need to die.”
“I agree.” I flung a fistful of dirt into the wind. Particles soared into the man’s eyes. He recoiled. His knife jerked away from me.
I
leapt to my feet. Blindly, the man swung his knife in an arc. The blade nicked my arm. I grimaced as thousands of dirt particles swarmed the wound.
I charged him. He aimed another swipe at me. But I grabbed his knife hand as I crashed into him. He hit the ground and I landed on top of him. He groaned softly. Blood gushed out of his torso, a few inches beneath his heart.
As I rolled off of him, he pulled the blade out of his chest. He stared at it for a moment.
Then he fell limp.
Sweat beaded up on my forehead as I checked the man’s pulse. He was dead, impaled by his own blade.
I took a deep breath. I hated death, especially when I was the cause of it. Sure, he’d pulled a knife on me. But that didn’t make me feel much better.
I steeled my emotions. As I searched his pockets, faint crunching noises sounded out. Reaching for my machete, I spun around. Then I relaxed. “This one’s dead.” I wiped off my goggles. “Did you get the other one?”
“He came at me with a gun,” Beverly replied. “I had to put him down.”
I ran a hand through my hair, shaking a pound of dirt out of it. Then I glanced at the corpse. “I searched his pockets. They’re empty.”
“Same with my guy. And there’s nothing traceable in the SUV either.”
My gaze shifted to their vehicle. “So, we still don’t know who sent the drone.”
“No. But at least we’ve got its navigation data.” She paused. “I say we take the SUV. The sooner we get out of this place, the better.”
Something flashed in the distance, capturing my attention. “What’s that look like to you?” I asked with a nod at the horizon.
She spun around. Her body stiffened. “They’re—”
“Headlights.” Graham picked his way across the loose soil. “Plenty of them. These guys must’ve been scouts, sent ahead to secure the plane.”
Beverly looked at me. “We should go.”
I glanced at our truck. “Not without the reliquary.”
“We can’t fight all those people.”
“She’s right,” Graham said. “If we stick around, we’re as good as dead. Especially after they see what happened to their friends.”
I was acutely aware of my earlier statements. And I still believed them, albeit for private reasons. The reliquary, rich in history, was worth more than my life. Maybe more than all of our lives.
The stiff wind blew Beverly’s hair across her face. Swiftly, she tied it behind her head. “So, what are we doing?” she asked. “Fighting? Or running?”
Fight or flight? It was an age-old question, one with no good answer. If we fought, we’d face a large, presumably well-armed force. We could hold them off, but only for a little while. If we fled, that same force would find the bodies and chase after us. Either way, we’d end up dead.
Try as I might, I couldn’t see a way to save the reliquary. Our only option was to survive, to give ourselves a chance to get it later.
“I’ve got an idea.” I inhaled deeply. “We can’t fight or run. But we can do something else.”
“What’s that?” Beverly asked.
“We can die.”
Chapter 26
Come on, damn it.
With all my strength, I pulled the SUV’s driver side door. Dry wind sucked at my oxygen as I forced it ajar.
“They’re almost here,” Graham whispered. Although I recognized his voice, I could barely see him through the thick veil of dirt.
The key was in the ignition. I turned it and the SUV came to life. Then I shifted my gaze to the dashboard. “The gas tank is less than a quarter full.”
“Is that enough?”
“It’ll do the trick.” I turned the key, cutting the engine. “Less liquid means more fumes. See if you can find the jumper cables.”
I stepped away from the SUV. Graham caught the door. As he climbed partway into the cab, I tried hard not to look at the reliquary. Like it or not, I was going to be parting with it in a matter of minutes.
I forced myself to look at the man I’d killed. His bloodstained shirt contrasted sharply with the dark ground. Kneeling down, I yanked the garment off his corpse.
Beverly, hunched over, appeared. She walked backward toward me, dragging the second corpse behind her.
Shifting my gaze, I looked across the landscape. Seven sets of headlights swept toward us, moving in a zigzag search pattern. Although the dust storm shielded the plane, I knew it wouldn’t be long before they spotted it. “Take off his shirt,” I said. “I’ll be back in a second.”
I ran to a small patch of dead vegetation. Removing my machete, I cut off some sturdy twigs. As I raced back to the SUV, I saw Graham extracting cables from the cab.
I took his place at the driver’s side door. Then I used my machete to cut a hole in the seat. After removing some soft foamy material, I pressed a lever beneath the steering wheel. The hood released with a small pop.
“I’ve got the cables.” Graham hustled toward me. “What now?”
“Follow me.” I took a step back and strong winds blew the door shut. I rushed to the hood and unlatched it. Then I passed the shirt to Graham and took the cables. “Twist this up and dip it in the gas tank. You don’t need to soak it. I just need a few drops.”
As he hustled away, I connected the jumper cables to the SUV’s battery. Then I dropped the free ends and hurried to the first man’s corpse.
“I got it.” Beverly held up the second man’s shirt.
“Put it in the gas tank,” I said. “Let it stick out a couple of inches. But first, help me get these bodies into the truck. Not all the way though. We need to keep the doors ajar.”
Bending over, I grabbed the first man by his armpits. Despite the dry heat, his skin felt cold and clammy. Swiftly, I dragged the corpse toward the SUV. The sand attacked me along the way. It didn’t matter which way I turned my face. The flying dirt was everywhere.
I glanced over my shoulder. Grit sailed into my visage. Only my goggles kept it from entering my eyes. Blinking, I noted the SUV’s position. Then I lugged the corpse to the door. Graham yanked it open and stepped out of the way.
I pushed the corpse onto the front seat. Leaning over it, I turned the ignition and the engine fired to life.
Graham released the door. It blew inward, thumping against the corpse’s legs. “I’ve got the gas.” He held up the bloody shirt.
“Wrap that around these.” I passed the bundle of twigs to him. “Shape it into a torch.”
I ran around the vehicle and helped Beverly load the other corpse into the passenger seat. Then I darted to the hood. After grabbing the free ends of the jumper cables, I hurried to the gas tank and watched as Beverly snaked the second shirt inside of it.
“The lights,” she said quietly. “They’ve stopped moving.”
Ice crept down my spine as I looked at the headlights. They peered through the dark winds from about fifty yards away.
Abruptly, they blinked off.
I glanced at the reliquary. My gaze lingered for a moment. Then I placed the foamy material on the ground, using my boot to keep it in place. I touched the jumper cables to the material. A small spark appeared.
Dropping the cables, I covered the spark with my hands. Gently, I blew on it, giving it life. The foam started to burn.
“Light your torch,” I told Graham. “And make it fast. This fire won’t last long.”
He touched the torch to the foam. The cloth burst into flames.
“Get up the hill.” I grabbed the torch from him. “And pray this works.”
Chapter 27
Jeremy Pascal frowned as his car slowed to a crawl. Fifty yards away, he saw dim lights. They blinked on and off at irregular intervals. He assumed the lights belonged to the reconnaissance vehicle. But why were they blinking like that? Was the car’s battery failing? Or was the blowing dirt sporadically blocking the beams?
“Park here,” he muttered softly.
The driver pressed the brakes. The car ground to a halt a
nd Pascal lifted his binoculars. Staring through the windshield, he thought he saw several shadows scurrying about the area. But the dust storm made it impossible to be certain.
“Can you see anyone?” Pascal squinted into the lenses.
“Nope.” The driver turned off the ignition. “Want me to try calling them again?”
“Don’t bother. The storm is probably blocking satellite reception. Anyway Herman and Mickles are good at what they do. I’m sure they’ve got everything under control.”
Pascal’s massive hand unlatched the door and shoved it open. The wind threatened to slam it shut, but his arm held firm. Wrapping a scarf around his face, he stepped outside and quietly closed the door. He was reasonably certain Herman and Mickles had already captured the salvage team. But he’d learned long ago never to take any situation for granted.
Two large box trucks and four SUVs pulled to a halt. Their lights darkened. Their engines fell silent. Numerous men emerged from the vehicles.
Pointing his fingers, Pascal signaled a flanking maneuver. His men pulled out guns and divided into two groups.
Crouching down, he led one of the groups to the northwest. He stayed low and maintained an easy pace, avoiding any sudden movements.
An uneasy feeling started to nag at Pascal. He wasn’t all that surprised that Herman and Mickles hadn’t picked up his calls. What really bothered him was the lack of flares. His team knew better than to hunker down and invite suspicion. They should’ve been out in the open, giving signals.
Soft crackling echoed across the soil. Puzzled, he froze in place.
The ground rumbled. An earsplitting boom struck the night sky, drowning out the brutal air currents. The blinking headlights disappeared, replaced by a giant fireball.
Shielding his eyes, Pascal stared at the fire. “What the hell?”
Adopting a moderate pace, he strode forward. Mid-sized flames licked the dark sky, sucking at the oxygen. Large chunks of metal and plastic lay near the mangled wreckage.
