Fault Lines

by Thomas Locke

  The Reserve’s nine acres dominated the largest plateau on the La Jolla cliffs. A hundred meters below them was the house that had cost a certain talk show host thirty million dollars. The Reserve’s sculpted gardens contained four large buildings and fifteen elegant two-bedroom bungalows, all designed in a bizarre mixture of Spanish hacienda and Southern California bling. The structures reminded Reese of ritzy bordellos lining the Mexican Riviera.

  “If you gentlemen will please take your seats.” Because they were here for the first time, Reese added, “You may find it more comfortable to restrict yourselves to one company per table.”

  This next act was definitely not something they would want to share with members of other corporate teams.

  Reese gestured to the security agent hovering in the background. He set the briefcase chained to his wrist on her table and handed her the key. Reese pretended not to see the execs share a smirk, clearly thinking this was just unnecessary theatrics. She unlocked the briefcase and passed out the files.

  These updates were specifically tailored to each member company. They contained confidential reports from their biggest competitors, news about bids they were in the process of losing, products that could well wipe away all green from their bottom lines. There were a couple of gasps, a few soft moans.

  “Thank you for your time, gentlemen.” Reese stowed away her professional smile as she left the group. She followed the covered path away from the cliff edge and the glistening Pacific, entered the carriage house, and shared a smirk with the security guy unlocking the steel door. The Combine’s newest members would not need to worry about falling asleep any time soon.

  Two hours from now, the corporate jets would whine their way into the San Diego municipal airport and Weldon Hawkins would supervise the Combine’s quarterly meeting. Reese’s job was done. She could return her attention to other matters. Which was a good thing, because they had a problem. A big one.

  She took the circular stairs into the Vault. There was a glass-walled elevator, but this was only used by Weldon and the few top Combine officials who were permitted to ever set eyes on where the Reserve’s real work was done. The Vault’s staff disliked being caged by the elevator. It wasn’t the walls. It was the speed. Even if the elevator had descended like a bullet, it would still be too slow for Reese’s crew. They all took the stairs. Unless they were really flying. Then they slid down the steel banister, which was very dangerous because the stairs deposited them at the top of a four-tier arena. One wired techie had flown down the ninety-three-foot spiral railing, flipped over the waist-high glass barrier, and done a headfirst dive into the first tier of flat-screens. That had happened the month before Reese’s arrival. The crew loved to regale newcomers with the Vault’s secret lore.

  The Vault was modeled after a Defense war room. That was hardly a surprise, since it had been built by the same group that had refitted the Pentagon’s own underground chamber. The Vault was 130 feet wide and 100 feet high. The front wall was dominated by massive flat-screens, while the rear wall stretched out like a concrete fan. The shape directed the crew’s attention forward, surrounding them with a constant reminder to take aim.

  Four semicircular tiers rose like arena seating from the flat-screen array. Each contained seven tech stations. Each tech station possessed five thirty-inch flat-screens. At first glance, the streaming electronic arrays were overwhelming. It usually took a new techie about a month to find their feet.

  Reese demanded, “Where’s Patel?”

  “In Playpen One.”

  Reese walked around the outer rim. She passed her office with its glass wall overlooking the main arena and stopped before the next chamber. The chamber was the size of an executive conference room and contained a miniature version of the arena’s data display. The Vault contained three such chambers. The techies called them playpens because they were assigned to temporary teams and tasks. Normally being assigned to a task force meant the gloves were taken off. The techies could do whatever they needed to do, ask for whatever support they felt they required. Just so long as they delivered.

  All the rear offices had walls of glass. At the flip of a switch, the glass walls turned opaque and a current scrambled all internal sounds. Reese tapped on the grey glass and waited for the electronic buzzer to unlock the door. She pushed through and said, “What do you have?”

  Patel whined, “We lost Hazard. The man is gone.”

  “That is unacceptable.”

  Patel Singh was Reese’s favorite techie. The Vault crew was supposed to be leaderless, a cluster of independent operatives who answered directly to either Reese or Weldon, depending on the task at hand. But there was a problem with this approach. Most of the Vault crew’s interpersonal skills were just terrible. Many preferred to skulk in the electronic shadows and let somebody else do the talking. Like now.

  “Charlie Hazard left the plane in Fort Myers,” Patel said. “It’s taking forever to locate him.”

  Reese slipped into a chair now vacated by a woman who clung to the side wall. “Hazard argued with Strang. He either quit or was fired.”

  “He rented a car from Alamo.” The front wall held another bank of flat-screens. The top segment flashed up a map of the Florida peninsula. “There are eleven different routes he could have taken across the state.”

  “You’ve got a watch on his home?”

  “Of course. Surveillance is 24-7.” The bottom half of the screen now displayed a live-stream video of a sixties ranch-style home. “The trip should only have taken him three hours, four tops. Hazard has not gone home.”

  Reese pointed at legs protruding from beneath a car in the garage. “Who’s that?”

  “Julio Lopez. He’s nobody.”

  “Patel.”

  “What.”

  “The guy is on our screen. He’s at Hazard’s house.”

  “He’s not at the house. He’s in the garage,” Patel said. “He was working on the yard for a while. Now he’s got his head stuck in some old car.”

  “That happens to be a vintage Stingray.”

  “Whatever.” Like most techies, Patel held the past in supreme disdain. “It’s so last week.”

  “We don’t know anything about Hazard. We don’t even know where he is. Why don’t we have audio feed?”

  Patel gave her a withering look and clicked his mouse. Instantly the playpen was filled with the clamor of Hispanic hip-hop. On the screen the kid’s feet danced where they stuck out from the car.

  “Turn it off.”

  Patel hit the switch. “The kid is nowhere.”

  “I want a watch put on him. Full background feed. The works.”

  “It’s a waste of time.”

  “Do it. Now tell me where Hazard has gone.”

  “Well, I do have something.” On the map, all the cross-state lines vanished but one. “This is not the most direct route. But it does take him through Lakeside Estates. We’ve spent all night running down all of his previous known associates. Hazard’s last posting was FLETC, which stands for—”

  “I know FLETC. Give me the connection.”

  “Colonel Donovan Field, former commandant of FLETC, retired to Lakeside Estates.” One of Patel’s silent minions typed into her keyboard. The Florida map was replaced by a photo of a grizzled warrior. “Donovan Field is your basic gung-ho fanatic. Three Purple Hearts. Two Bronze Stars with clusters, and a Silver Star. He personally recruited Hazard.”

  “What do our Pentagon allies say about this Field?”

  “That he is not a player.”

  Reese grimaced. The Pentagon had its own code. “Not a player” meant someone who treated military suppliers as outsiders. These were people who put patriotism above their future careers and above corporate profits. For Charlie Hazard to refuse their offer, leave Strang, and go straight to a man described by the Combine’s military allies as not a player was the worst possible news.

  “I have to check this out.” Reese rose from her chair. “In the meantime,
extend your scope on Hazard. And move back into the arena. Bring the entire crew up to speed, in case we need them.”

  Even the limpets clinging to the walls disliked that news, but they let Patel complain for them. “We can handle this guy.”

  But it wasn’t just the guy anymore. “Do it. I want a full workup on Julio Lopez in an hour.”

  13

  Donovan was cleaning up after a breakfast so late it might as well have been lunch when the dog at his feet barked. Which was a curious thing, since the mutt was mostly deaf. “What’s the matter, boy?”

  The dog was staring in the general direction of the front door. He barked again, then gave a long growl. It was the most noise the dog had made since coming to live with Donovan.

  “You’re not hurting, are you, boy?” Donovan was bending over to stroke the dog when the doorbell rang.

  The dog growled and lay flat. Terriers were originally bred as ratters. Pound for pound, they were some of the most ferocious animals on the planet. The old dog was crouching into his position for meeting a foe. Low to the ground, protecting his vulnerable underbelly, ready to spring and strike.

  Donovan used the rear passage to slip into the bedroom. He was too stiff to crouch, so he carried a towel with him, rubbing his hands like they were stained. “Right with you.”

  He didn’t know if the words carried. Just like he wasn’t sure whether there was a second person acting as a spotter at the rear of the house. He veered around the bed, still wiping his hands. He used his body to block the rear window and took the pistol from his bedside table. There had been a couple of robberies recently. The lakeside community’s only police protection came through the county sheriff. But Donovan doubted the thieves would ring his doorbell.

  “Coming!”

  In the windowless side hallway, Donovan slipped the Smith & Wesson into the band of his trousers. He pulled out his shirttail to hide the bulge and flipped the towel over his shoulder.

  He opened the door and blinked at the figure standing on his front stoop. “Vic Reames, as I live and breathe.”

  “Hello, Don. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “Man, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Come on in.”

  “I was at Patrick’s and had to go to a meeting in Tampa. Thought I’d take the roundabout route and stop by.”

  As Donovan led his guest into the living room, the dog tottered through the kitchen doorway and growled. “Don’t mind that old boy.”

  “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

  “Minding him for a friend. He’s got gas something awful. How about a drink?”

  “Too early in the day for me. How you keeping, Colonel?”

  “Seen better days. Can I brew up a fresh pot?”

  “Thank you, Don. No time. I need to hit the road before long.” He fiddled with his hat. “Actually, I need to ask about an officer who served under you. Charlie Hazard.”

  Donovan paused in the process of easing into his Barcalounger. “Now, that’s interesting.”

  “What is?”

  “Charlie was here when I got up this morning. First time I’ve seen him in . . . what, must be going on five years.”

  “Mind if I ask why he was here?”

  “He’s been working for Curtis Strang. You remember him?”

  “That’s actually why we stopped by today.”

  “We?”

  “I’ve got a pair of colleagues waiting in the car.”

  “Why on earth didn’t you invite them in?”

  “Can’t. We’re due in Tampa.” The man wore the civilian clothes of a military lifer, bought off the rack, ill fitting, totally charmless. “We’re thinking about offering Strang some of our consulting work.”

  “Iraq?”

  “Farther north. Hazard’s name came up. He works as one of Strang’s chief risk assessors.”

  “Worked.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Strang offered Charlie the chance of a lifetime. Charlie got spooked and turned him down. Strang fired him. Charlie came here wanting my advice.”

  “Mind if I ask what you told him?”

  “Not at all. I said fools were born every day, but losers are molded through a lifetime of mistakes. I told him to crawl back to Strang on his hands and knees. Sure you won’t take that coffee?”

  Reese stood in the kitchen of her Reserve studio. The northernmost building contained studio flats for all the Vault crew. Perks like this kept the turnover down to an absolute minimum. Her crew worked four days on, three off. When on duty they supposedly worked twelve-hour shifts, but the truth was that they were constantly on call. The hours would have been the same at any cutting-edge Silicon Valley firm. But the Reserve’s perks were a thousand times better. These studios were a perfect example.

  A wall of glass and a narrow balcony kept the campus-sized studio from becoming claustrophobic. There was just enough space for a bed and a chair and a narrow desk and a corner kitchenette and another chair and a dining table for one. The furnishings were all Danish modern, light wood and clean lines, right down to the wall-mounted light fixtures. The minuscule bathroom was done in pale granite. The units were serviced daily.

  Reese could have taken her meal in the main facility. The Reserve’s employees had their own dining hall located one floor below their employers’ refectory. The food was the same, except the employees were served buffet-style. But Reese grew tired of the rich fare. She preferred to make her own meals and have a little time to herself.

  Just as she finished washing up the salad bowl, her phone rang. She checked the phone’s readout and said, “Talk to me.”

  Patel replied sulkily, “Vic Reames is reporting in.”

  “Five minutes.” Reese left the studio and descended the stairs and entered the California heat. The afternoon was scented by frangipani and wisteria. Both plants bloomed year round in the perfect San Diego climate. She took the path that bordered the cliffside by habit. Her first year in the Reserve, she had been thrilled by such moments, when the sun blistered the pristine air and the Pacific shone like a burnished sapphire. A faint ocean breeze carried the flavors of sea salt and eucalyptus. Nowadays Reese scarcely gave the scenery a glance.

  The Combine’s corporate bosses had arrived, so the security staff was on full alert. As she walked the perimeter pathway, she also passed two strangers in corporate-security jackets. She entered the carriage house and took the stairs down to the arena. Patel ignored her as she slipped into the chair next to his. He bristled with resentment over being required to share his crew’s unfinished task with the full Vault crew. Her statement that this problem might have grown beyond the capacity of his little group, and the need to prepare for any future eventuality, meant nothing. Patel wanted bragging rights for having vanquished another foe.

  The pettiness of these people never ceased to amaze her.

  Patel handed her the phone without speaking. Reese directed her sigh at the receiver. “What do you have?”

  Major Vic Reames was a member of the Pentagon’s top procurement team. He was nineteen months from retirement. He was slated to take up a senior sales position with the Combine’s primary defense contractor. Which made him almost hyper-eager to please. “Hazard went to see him.”

  “When?”

  “Early this morning.”

  “The colonel didn’t suspect you might have an ulterior motive?”

  “I gave him the company line as ordered. He lapped it up. Donovan Field is suffering from a severe case of the lonelies. The old boy almost begged me to stay. Otherwise it was a total waste of time.”

  “Let me be the judge.”

  Reames gave her the blow-by-blow, right down to the growling blind dog. “The colonel gave Hazard the only logical answer. Apologize to Strang. Crawl on his belly. Find the answers to his questions from inside the assignment your group offered Strang’s company.”

  “You didn’t get the impression the colonel might be hiding something?”

  Reames laughed. �
�The old guy would have repeated his story a third time if it meant getting me to stay awhile longer. He’s every reason why I am not looking forward to retirement.”

  “You’ll be taken care of.” Reese hung up and sat staring at nothing. There was no reason for her gut to be churning. None at all. She realized Patel was watching her. “What?”

  “You look so worried.”

  She stretched. She needed a day off and knew it was not going to happen. “Do you have the workup on the kid at Hazard’s place—what’s his name?”

  “Julio Lopez.” Patel slipped the wireless keyboard into his lap. The screen closest to Reese flashed with a police mug shot. “Rising star on the amateur surfer circuit and a professional loser. He has two juvie convictions, the last was when he was fourteen. For the past three years he’s stayed clean, at least as far as the authorities are concerned. His father is a convicted felon. Mother is off the map. Julio lives with his aunt, who was arrested this week on her second meth charge. I spoke to the public defender assigned to her case. The aunt claims some bikers had basically forced her to go along. She’ll turn state’s evidence and get off with a slap on the wrist.”

  “What is the kid’s connection to Hazard?”

  “Skimpy at best. He hangs out at that community center where the Italian doctor contacted Hazard.”

  One of the women formerly attached to Patel’s team announced, “We have movement.”

  “Where?”

  “The colonel’s house.”

  “Put it on the main board.”

  That stopped traffic throughout the Vault. Shifting any action to the front screens meant an elevation to high alert.

  An alert status meant the events or people or both were a direct threat to the Combine.

  Patel whined, “What are you doing?”

  Reese ignored him and asked the woman, “Can you get a better resolution?”

  “Working on it.”

  The screen flashed through red and green and purple as the computer sought to draw clearer focus from a camera that the team who had traveled in with Major Reames had fastened to a telephone pole across the street from the colonel’s house. There was another camera around the back of the house and a third by the lakeside dock. The team had also attached homing devices to the colonel’s car and boat.