“I know, Regional Director. It’s hard to fathom. Obviously they’ve had some help here. Apparently, one of them knew how to fly pretty well to get them over the Sierras at treetop.”
Bird’s comm line signaled. When he picked it up, the voice on the other end said, “Mr. Director, it’s Henderson, I hate to bother you, but I think Assistant Director Rogers needs to take this call.”
Bird was not in the mood for the unusual. “Who is it, Henderson?” he asked impatiently.
“It’s a civilian and she won’t speak to anyone but Assistant Director Rogers. Someone gave her his name as the person in charge.”
“Why on earth would Assistant Director Rogers take that call, Henderson? Why are you on my phone now? Get rid of her, and I want you to report to me before you go home today.”
Seeing that his career was already toast, Dave Henderson took the only step he could think of to save it. “Mr. Director, she says she has info on Tahoe.”
After a long pause, Bird said, “Put her through.”
The phone rang, and Bird put it on speakerphone. Rogers controlled the conversation.
“Hello, this is Assistant Director Rogers speaking, and whom might I be speaking with?”
Gregory heard the nasal twang of simple folk and thought, God, if this was some kind of a turd hunt, Henderson will be in Montana by morning.
“Hello, Sir. My name is Nadine, Nadine May, and I know one of those pilots that left Tahoe last night.”
* * *
President Caulfield took in what CIA Director Bob Thompson had just said to him. “Well that’s a pretty thin line, Bob,” he replied.
LaRue piped in. “You mean to tell me that Ray Callahan, the Farm’s very own legend, not only missed a sociopath right under his nose, but he now thinks another, much more treacherous sociopath, is on our side because of some notes he left?”
“It’s more than that, Stan, and you know it,” Thompson said, almost losing some emotion. “There are too many coincidences here to just disallow it.”
The President spoke with certainty. “Well, when we recover the plane we’ll know more. If Hurst’s body’s in there, then Ray might be right, but my guess is that he’ll be gone. If he is gone, Bob, then that means he was part of it, and anything he left Ray was smoke and mirrors to buy time and lead us off on the wrong scent.”
As Director Thompson listened, he knew that Ray Callahan would be diminished by Beck’s treachery. He just hoped President Caulfield would change his mind and listen to Ray instead of the growing number of voices counter to that thought. He knew one person that would understand, and he was going straight to her the second this meeting was over.
Bob unconsciously looked over at her observation room—a room no one was supposed to know about, but they all did. I guess I won’t have to go far. The more he thought about it, the more he believed in Ray’s assessment.
Right then LaRue’s assistant in California came in on the comm. The situation room was waiting for the response as Director LaRue asked, “What have you got, Kirk?”
* * *
The American President spoke with some diplomacy. “That’s right, Señor Presidente. There’s an American citizen involved in this now, too. He was kidnapped in Tahoe by the two we seek, then brought out with them. We believe he was the pilot and was coerced to fly them out. We doubt they will leave him alive, but we sure need that plane back, with or without him in it.”
The man on the other end of the phone spoke to the American President with an air of indignation that only came from royalty or leaders of countries. “We’re looking for the plane. When we find it, and it is determined that no Mexican laws have been broken, then the plane will be returned.”
“President Delgadillo, look, I know we’ve had some recent trade disagreements, but it’s nothing that can’t be worked out. We need your total cooperation here, no holding back. I’m sure we’ll work out everything we need to at our upcoming North American Summit.”
Albertine Delgadillo was no fool. He knew this politician would do anything to get that plane back, and he would make sure Mexico got something good for this one.
“You have my word, Mr. President.”
“Great, thank you very much. We’ll talk soon.”
To the untrained man, that was just a conversation. To the trained man, this was a big promise. I believe the American legal system calls that a quid quo pro, President Delgadillo thought, but I just call it diplomacy at its finest.
* * *
$50,000 U.S. had sure looked like a lot more than Pablo thought it would. It had been one thing to see all his wealth on spreadsheets and interest reports, but it was quite another to see more cash than he’d ever seen in his lifetime spread out right in front of him.
Pablo had tried to act like he’d been there before to the banker as he placed the money carefully into his specialized “cash carrying” briefcase. He had thanked the office manager, grateful this transaction was done in private. Then he had grabbed his money and left the bank quite happy.
Seeing this had been the start of his mission, he had felt the glow of God’s sun on his face in a special way as he had trotted down the rounded staircase at a left angle. The man coming toward Pablo had possessed a familiar face, oddly. He had scanned his memory and identified him as one of the Shimmering Way. In fact, he had identified him as their General, Octavio Mendoza.
Octavio had been doing the same thing. He had been studying the boy’s school picture for weeks, but it had just seemed too good to be true. By the time he had truly identified him they were very close. But why does the boy seem to recognize me, too?
Pablo had seen the man reach behind into his waistband, and it had all seemed too surreal. The next thing he knew, his instincts had kicked in, and he had jump-kicked the man right back down the stairs, with dramatic effect as Octavio went end-over-end down about twenty steps.
Pablo had been running already as Octavio had hit the third step backward. By the time he had hit the ground, Pablo had already covered half the distance to the sidewalk. Two good bounds of three steps each, a dart left, and he had been running for the corner. The briefcase had made him a little slower—$50,000 was a bit heavier than he would have thought.
As he had made it within twenty feet of the end of the block, he had heard the shot. Immediately, every bird within a quarter mile had gone airborne. He had also felt the hottest sensation in his left leg, like someone had stuck a hot iron in him. It had initially caused him to stutter, and then he didn’t have his stride anymore.
He had limped around the corner, making his way expeditiously to his car, maybe 100 feet away. He had touched his leg, and his hand had come back with blood on it.
Pablo had gotten into the car and shakily inserted the key into the ignition. His hands had been shaking uncontrollably as he had looked in the side mirror, expecting to see his executioner coming at a clipped pace, but no one had been there. He had started the car and was gone, his survival mode’s surge of adrenaline suddenly transforming him into a better driver.
He’d had tissues in the car, and despite the fact they were not ideal, he had been able to use them to clean his wound enough after he pulled over to assess that there was no arterial damage. The shot had passed outside the bone as well, so that had been good—no need for the hospital emergency room.
He had packed the wound to put pressure on it, and had driven to the Hedge with a feeling he was not expecting: absolute rage!
He had not been afraid anymore, but he would also not go unarmed anywhere ever again! As a matter of fact, he had decided, it was time to learn how to use a gun and also hire his own security team. He was not fucking around anymore.
Pablo had taken his briefcase with him and gone into the inn. Well, it wasn’t really an inn anymore—the owners had decided to live life a little as of late. They had left for a trip to Paris.
Eva had seen him pull up and had met him at the door with her usual cheerfulness. But once she had seen him
limping with the bloodstain on his pants, she had gone into instant repair mode. One of her strengths had been that she was good in a crisis. More importantly, she had known enough to save the questions for later.
* * *
The kick to the chest had hurt, and somewhere during his third revolution downward, Octavio had felt the snap in his left knee. It had twisted horribly and he was certain it was ruined. His head had bounced off the concrete once he reached the bottom. He had felt blood pouring out of the cut on the back of his head. He had reached back to feel the cut, his hand coming back confirming his suspicion with crimson certainty.
The one thing he had done right was not losing grip of the gun. He had aimed from his side, which was not the best position, but he was a marksman. He had practiced from all positions, left-handed and right-handed. He’d only had a microsecond to set, and he had squeezed the shot as best he could, given his pain and disorientation. It had hit its mark, and his target had lurched when the shot connected. But he could see his shot had gone low and missed any vitals, and the boy had stumbled around the corner. Unless he had gotten lucky enough to clip an artery, the boy would live.
The shot had been loud, with no silencer, and his ears had been ringing very badly. Still hazy from the fall, he had tried to rise to his broken legs, but there had been no way to get away. His knee was completely ruined. Octavio had unloaded the Glock to set it down on the steps as he waited for the police.
He had known they would be looking for his robber pretty soon. Surely there would have been witnesses that would have seen a vehicle and other details. Octavio had known that as soon as they identified the vehicle, he would have that information as well. He hadn’t been worried about the weapon, since he was simply an international jeweler, and this was a robbery attempt.
He had now learned that the kid was aware of them also. He had mused to himself, So he is gifted and now he is going to be harder than ever to catch. Hopefully, the local authorities can be the help I need.
* * *
The minutes of waiting were excruciating. The President of the United States was not accustomed to waiting for answers he needed. In the “get it now” world of information streams, this felt like an intentional stall on President Delgadillo’s part. Such a move would be an unfortunate diplomatic oversight on the Mexican leader’s part, one that would surely cost his country dearly.
The phone finally rang after fifty agonizing minutes.
The Mexican President told President Caulfield, “We have the plane, and your pilot is alive.”
Stunned, Caulfield was nearly speechless. “When can we have them back?”
* * *
Jan sat and watched in disbelief. Something had happened east of San Diego. Witnesses said there was a series of explosions, one of them near the Navy Base at El Centro, and the other two east of there. According to the truck driver they interviewed, he had been putting gas in his tanker when he the heard the explosion. He had gotten his phone out and started filming. That’s when he had seen the two explosions that looked like the space shuttle exploding, only twice as big. Jan somehow knew this was related to Matt, and she hoped he was still alive.
The weirdest part about this whole thing was that somehow Jan knew Matt was going to be okay. She was probably just fooling herself, but she didn’t have the gut feeling she’d had earlier about getting the news her husband was dead. She truly wondered, how could this all be real? She reasoned that maybe she was having an acid flashback. There had been that time in high school.
She slipped into bed exhausted and started to doze off. Her hope was maybe when she woke up this would all end up being a bad trip, or a nightmare. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten so close to bedtime, but Ben and Jerry are both misogynist geniuses.
* * *
Sandy had watched the TV in rapt attention. It’s the boy! It had been two years since James passed. Two years since the warning that had been as ominous as it was absolute.
It had actually changed the way Sandy lived. The first thing he had done was sell his beloved property on Russian Hill. Although he had sold at the wrong time, property values on Russian Hill were never off too much. He had received fair market value for his home of the past thirty years.
After relocating to a house in Marin County, he had become a naturalist and taken to small organic farming. He had been retired a year now, shocking his client list and his friends. He had been a man who lived for work, forsaking even a wife to dedicate the right amount of time to his job and his clients.
One dramatic call from James had set all this in motion, and now he saw that it had started. Now as then, Sandy wasn’t in a place to agree or disagree; he was simply in the middle of something larger than himself.
Although he had the same feelings that James had had about Pablo, anyone asking one to believe a story like that would take a lot of persuasive clout. James had had that clout with Sandy, but how had the boy had that much clout with James? Sandy, never a religious man, had somehow believed Pablo also, but never with the conviction that James had. It had been too incredible not to believe, knowing the intelligence of the person delivering the message, but how many people truly act when someone tells them God has a message?
James had put it the best way possible: “Sandy, you’ve done it all. There’s nothing left for you to accomplish in the materialistic world. You have a new calling now.”
“What will I do?” he had asked James.
“You will take a wife and become a small farmer, or at least that would be my serious recommendation. Sandy, let me put it to you this way: you can’t afford to be on the wrong side of this.”
As soon as he saw the news of the “break-in” at Conceptual Labs, he knew that listening to James had been a wise thing.
The call of a woman’s voice came from outside. “Sandy, it looks like you have some tomatoes ready.”
Claire was calling from the garden. They’d been married a little under a year now. She’d been his secretary for the past twenty years. Three years ago her marriage ended with the death of her husband.
Although there had been times before James’s call that he’d thought about asking her out, when he had felt the same desire coming from her, he had been married to the job and had always found reasons for putting it off. But finally, one day he had showed up for work and proposed to her. Never having learned many social graces with women, he had believed cutting to the chase was the best way to handle it.
Fortunately, he had asked a woman who knew him better than a wife would have. She had told him she was sure one day something like this was going to happen, unless her other thought had been correct. They were, after all, in the gayest city in the U.S., and she had often ribbed him during the postcoital recounts of their story. He certainly wouldn’t have been the first gay man to hide his homosexuality for career’s sake. It was the times when he appeared to have something to say though, but couldn’t find the words. That had been what had led her to believe he would one day make an awkward advance. She had been looking for it so she could help him along, but she had never expected what she got!
He smiled as he turned the TV off and headed out to see the newly ripened tomatoes. It’s all in God’s hands now.
* * *
Doug regained consciousness again. His eyes remained shut, but his mind was awake. He had slept a little on his trip back to the U.S., but it had been an uneasy sleep, and he had a headache like nothing else. This time he was in a bright room of some kind, where someone was trying to keep him awake. He heard the conversation, but he was not fully lucid yet.
“He’s definitely suffered a concussion,” someone was saying, “multiple contusions. There’s a laceration of the scalp, probably caused by a blow from behind.” Doug felt a gloved hand touching the top of his head. “He also has a nearly broken nose and two chipped teeth.”
Doug was thinking, don’t forget about the ribs, but couldn’t talk.
He heard the voice continue, asking, “How many people d
id this to him again?”
Then someone gently took his shoulders in their hands, “Doug, wake up, it’s Doctor Clark. You’ve suffered a concussion and we can’t let you go to sleep just yet, okay?”
Lights were trying to shine in his eyes and he was hating this Dr. Clark at the moment, but Doug mustered a grudging, “Okay.”
“Good. I’m going to send in some nurses to clean you up and help keep you awake.”
Doug was about to doze back off immediately when two nurses came in and started to undress him, tending to his wounds. He noticed the water was cold, and it was starting to shrink his manhood. He finally muttered, “Can we warm the water up, please?”
Nurse One was just about to answer when a voice said, “It’s supposed to be cold.”
Disoriented, squinting, he uttered to the unseen man, “Who are you my friend, and would you mind telling me where I am?”
“I’m Ray Callahan and you’re in a Homeland Security base not far from the border.”
“That’s good news. I feel safer already—not that I don’t trust those Mexican authorities.” He whispered to Nurse One, “I don’t.”
Doug forced himself to focus his eyes so he could see who he was talking to. He saw a short guy with glasses and short, curly black hair.
“So Ray Callahan, what’s your spiel? Are you a doc?”
“In a way. I’m in a specialized field of medicine.”
“I see. Well, Ray, do you have any aspirin?”
“That would not be wise to take in your condition, Doug.”
“Well, Ray Callahan, you’re a little late, because I already took some earlier.”
“That was unwise. You’re lucky that bump on your head wasn’t worse or those aspirins would have killed you.”
“Oh wait, it was ibuprofen, my bad. Guess I will live after all.”
Ray Callahan did not look amused in the slightest. Doug got that this was an uptight time.
This Ray Callahan doesn’t have much in the way of a sense of humor and right now I’m so happy to be alive that my jocularity can’t be contained. Who wouldn’t be after living through what I just did? Sure, I realized all along that these guys will try to call me a coward for not just letting them kill me, but they would have all done the same thing. All I have in this world is my life, and I’m not going to give it up for an unknown cause.
The Harbinger of Change Page 24
