A hand fell on Suzy’s shoulder. She screamed and tore herself away, bounding down the stairs in sheer panic. Tripping on torn carpet, she fell headlong down the steps, and for a brief moment she was convinced that she was going to die in a rundown tenement in Georgetown, her neck broken and her purse full of margarine.
But then something strange happened. Just as her head was about to hit the edge of a step, she just… stopped. For a second she hung there, almost completely upside down, her legs splayed in the air, staring at the stained carpet on the steps. Then gradually her body began to right itself, rotating until she floated a foot or so above the second floor landing. The feeling was odd—not like she was being suspended in a harness, but like gravity itself had been warped around her. Whatever mysterious force had gripped her, it slowly and gently lowered her to the landing.
Then she fainted.
Chapter Six
Near Fernley, Nevada; August 2016
Zion Johnson glanced at the clock on the truck’s dash. It read 2:58. In two minutes, with any luck, the truck would be hijacked by gun-toting terrorists. He’d posted information about the truck’s payload and its designated route to an Internet chat room that he knew was frequented by members of Chaos Faction. His initial post, which was as explicit as he could be without attracting the attention of half a dozen different law enforcement agencies, was met with puzzlement by the terrorists. Zion Johnson could hardly believe they were having trouble parsing the meaning of his post; he’d been so explicit that shortly after posting he’d made preemptive calls to the FBI, CIA, NSA, and three other intelligence agencies to reassure them that his message was part of a Secret Service sting operation. The exchange went like this:
InsideDope1776: recd tip on brimstone pkg heading east tmrw nite
Nisroc001: hi insdiedope welcome back wats brimstone
InsideDope1776: google
Nisroc001: brimstone = google??
InsideDope1776: no, google it
Nisroc001: “Brimstone is an alternative name for sulfur.” ???
InsideDope1776: google brimstone project
Nisroc001: wat is pkg
InsideDope1776: package
Nisroc001: wat is package
InsideDope1776: results of brimstone/wormwood project
Nisroc001: wat is wormwood
InsideDope1776: google wormwood
Nisroc001: “Wormwood is a shrubby perennial plant” ???
InsideDope1776: google WORMWOOD PROJECT
Nisroc001: oh! nuclear bomb!
Nisroc001: O.o
InsideDope1776: …
Nisroc001: we r busy tmrw nite
InsideDope1776: srsly?
Nisroc001: no jk :) we can hijak bomb
InsideDope1776: advise verbal discretion :(
Nisroc001: sorry we can hijack bomb
InsideDope1776: advise STOP SAYING B*MB
Nisroc001: sorry we can hijack nuclear device
InsideDope1776: jfc
Nisroc001: wat is jfc?
It took nearly forty-five minutes for Zion Johnson to communicate the critical details: that a truck transporting a small nuclear bomb would be passing Fernley, Nevada at 3am the next evening, traveling east. The at large members of Chaos Faction were to descend upon the truck just after it had passed Fernley and steal the bomb. As Zion Johnson watched the Fernley exit recede in his rearview mirror, he found himself hoping that the members of Chaos Faction weren’t all as stupid as the one he had chatted with online the previous day.
As it turned out, they weren’t, but only by a slim margin. The one called Izbazel landed with a loud thump on the truck’s hood, making Zion Johnson glad he’d taken his blood pressure medication that morning. “Sorry we’re late!” yelled Izbazel. “We stopped by Reno and Nisroc was on a bit of a lucky–”
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
Izbazel’s speech was cut short as he was riddled with bullets. The man sitting next to Zion Johnson, whose job was to protect the package in the back of the truck, had pulled his firearm and managed to get eight rounds into Izbazel’s midsection before Izbazel fell backward onto the road and was promptly run over by the truck.
“We’re under attack!” yelled the man next to Zion Johnson to the six men in the truck behind him, who were guarding the bomb. He slid the partially spent magazine out of his gun, grabbed another, and turned to Zion Johnson. “Did that guy apologize for being late before I shot him?”
Zion Johnson sighed. This was not how it was supposed to go down. He pulled the wheel to the right, driving off the road, and slammed on the brakes, bringing the truck to a halt in a cloud of dust. “Yeah, he did,” said Zion Johnson. “And I know it doesn’t help, but I’m sorry too, Dave.” With that, Zion Johnson shot Dave three times in the head.
“What the hell was that?” yelled one of the men in the back.
“Everything’s under control,” said Zion Johnson, grabbing Dave’s gun. “Stand down.”
“Sir?” said one of the men in the back. Then: “Hey, back away from the truck!”
The sound of automatic weapon fire and incomprehensible shouts came from the back of the truck. After a few seconds, all was silent.
A figure dropped to the ground in the headlights of the truck and walked around to the driver’s side door: Izbazel. He was covered in blood.
“Could have told me they were going to shoot at us,” Izbazel said.
“You’re stealing a nuclear bomb!” yelled Zion Johnson. “You didn’t expect it to be guarded?” He got out of the truck and walked around to the back. Three unarmed men were standing at the rear of the truck. The back was open, and inside was a grisly scene. It appeared that the men had opened fire on each other, leaving no one alive. In the middle of the six corpses was an unmarked steel crate.
“You guys are bastards,” said Zion Johnson.
“They were shooting at us,” said one of the men. “I just redirected the bullets a little.” It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Zion Johnson thought it was the one called Nisroc.
“Yeah, I see that,” said Zion Johnson. He shook his head. He had hoped this could be done without bloodshed, but Chaos Faction obviously wasn’t capable of that sort of finesse.
Izbazel walked up next to him. “Alright, what now?”
“First,” said Zion Johnson, “get those guys out of the truck.”
The three men hopped into the truck and began tossing the corpses onto the ground. Zion Johnson wanted to tell them to show a little respect, but it would be more convincing if it looked like the bodies had been carelessly thrown on the dirt. If all went as planned, there wouldn’t be any investigation; the official story was going to be that the Wormwood bomb had been stolen years earlier, on Travis Babcock’s watch. But Zion Johnson believed in being thorough, and that meant covering his tracks.
When the corpses had all been removed from the truck, Zion Johnson handed Dave’s gun to Izbazel. “OK,” he said. “Now shoot me in the leg.”
“Really?” asked Izbazel.
“Yeah,” said Zion Johnson. “And be quick about it. I see headlights up ahead. Try not to hit the—”
BAM!
Zion Johnson fell to the ground, clutching his leg. He had been about to say “artery,” but now he was wishing he had said “kneecap.”
“Jesus Christ, that hurts,” he groaned.
“You want me to fix it?” asked the one called Nisroc. “I can just—”
“No!” growled Zion Johnson. “Just go! Take the bomb and go!”
Nisroc shrugged. Izbazel tossed the gun on the ground near Zion Johnson and then got into the driver’s seat of the truck. Nisroc got in the passenger seat and the other two climbed into the back. The truck pulled away, leaving Zion Johnson lying in the dirt on the side of the highway.
“Superior attitude, superior state of mind,” said Zion Johnson, and then passed out.
Chapter Seven
Milhaus, Texas; August 2016
Mercury sat hunched over
at the bar, nursing a Guinness and shaking his head. “Just when I thought I was out,” he muttered, “they pull me back in.”
“Godfather,” grunted a beefy trucker sitting next to him.
Mercury turned to look at the man, who smiled sheepishly back at him. Mercury slowly leaned over, looking the man in the eye, and said, in a low, gravelly tone, “We’ve known each other many years, but this is the first time you ever came to me for counsel or for help. I can’t remember the last time that you invited me to your house for a cup of coffee, even though my wife is godmother to your only child. But let’s be frank here. You never wanted my friendship. And you were afraid to be in my debt.”
The trucker’s eyes widened and he leaned away from Mercury. “Wha…?” he started.
“I understand,” Mercury continued, gesturing wildly with his right hand while leaning on the bar with his left. “You found paradise in America, you had a good trade, you made a good living. The police protected you and there were courts of law. You didn’t need a friend like me. But, now you come to me, and you say: ‘Don Corleone, give me justice.’ But you don’t ask with respect. You don’t offer friendship. You don’t even think to call me Godfather. Instead, you come into my house on the day my daughter is to be married, and you ask me to do murder for money.”
“Oh, I get it,” said the trucker. “That’s pretty good. You’re doing the—”
Mercury shook his head ruefully, wagging his hand at the man. “Bonasera, Bonasera. What have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully? If you’d come to me in friendship, then this scum that wounded your daughter would be suffering this very day. And if by chance an honest man like yourself should make enemies, then they would become my enemies. And then they would fear you.”
The man got up, downed the rest of his beer, and backed away.
“Someday!” Mercury called after the man, “And thatdaymaynevercome!” He paused for effect. “I’ll call upon you to do a service for me. But until that day, accept this justice as a gift! On! My daughter’s wedding day!” He let out a loud belch, and the patrons scattered about the bar laughed nervously, as if they weren’t certain whether this was the end of the performance or the beginning of something far worse.
“Seen that movie three hundred times,” said Mercury to the bartender.
“Congratulations,” said the bartender, a dour old man. “Sounds like you’ve led a full fucking life.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” said Mercury. “The half of it.” He paused, mouthing the words to himself. “Is that right? It doesn’t sound right. The half of it. Thehalfofit. Thehaffuvit.”
“Jesus Christ, will you shut up?” growled a man further down the bar. “I’m trying to watch this.” His eyes were on the TV screen overhead, which was displaying a news report.
A haggard, bearded man’s face filled the screen. “…spent most of his years in a remote cabin in Idaho…” the newscaster was saying.
“What’s this show about?” Mercury murmured to himself. Then louder, to the man down the bar, “Hey, what’s this show about anyhow?”
“It’s the news, you idiot,” the man replied. “They’re talking about Chris Finlan.”
“Who?” asked Mercury.
“Shit, man, where have you been for the past six months?” asked the bartender incredulously.
Mercury shrugged. “Out of town?” he offered.
“Off your ass, more like,” grumbled the man down the bar.
“Chris Finlan,” said the bartender. “The guy that sent all those letter bombs. They tracked him down to some cabin in Idaho. Crazy motherfucker.”
Mercury studied the leathery, hirsute image on the screen. “Crazy motherfucker,” he repeated.
The bartender handed a beer to the man down the bar. “Do you think he was nuts before he moved to that cabin,” the bartender asked, “or do you think being alone up there all the time drove him crazy?”
“One of them chicken/egg things,” said the man.
“Hm,” grunted the bartender.
“So,” Mercury said thoughtfully, “this guy was all alone in a cabin, hundreds of miles from civilization?”
“Yep,” said the bartender. “Can you imagine?”
“Yeah,” said Mercury, nodding. “What did he do the whole time?”
“I guess he was working on some kind of book. He called it a mephisto.”
Mercury frowned. “Why’d he name it after that asshole?”
“Huh?” replied the man.
“He means ‘manifesto,’” said the bartender.
“Oh,” said Mercury relieved. “That’s good. Mephisto still owes me a hundred bucks on a bet we made about the lyrics of Pearl Jam’s ‘Yellow Ledbetter.’ He said it was ‘I don’t know why I waited for a boxer or a bag,’ but I said…” He trailed off, realizing nobody was listening to him. “So what was the manifesto about?”
“Who knows?” said the man. “Global warming or Communism or some shit. Sounds like he was pissed off about just about everything. He’s a nutcase.”
“Yeah,” Mercury said, with a nervous laugh. “Sounds like it. So he just hung out in his cabin all day, writing crazy shit and making bombs?”
“I guess so,” said the man.
“I suppose he probably read a lot,” said Mercury. “You know, like all of those Charlie Nyx books.”
“The kids’ books?” the bartender asked, confused.
“Young adult fantasy,” corrected Mercury. “Lots of grownups read them. Not just crazy people. Do you think he had beer? He must have, right? You don’t go hang out in a cabin for six months without beer. And Rice Krispies. No reason you couldn’t just order an assload of Rice Krispies. Maybe get them delivered right to the cabin.”
The two men were now staring dumbly at Mercury.
“Son,” the bartender said, “what in blazes are you talking about?”
“I’m just… you know, theorizing,” said Mercury. “Like those FBI profilers. Trying to get into the mind of a madman.”
“Uh huh,” said the bartender.
On the screen, the bearded man was being led away from the cabin in handcuffs.
“So that cabin,” Mercury went on. “I suppose it’s on the market now?”
The bartender stared at Mercury. “You want to buy that lunatic’s cabin?”
“Sure, why not?” asked Mercury.
“How the hell are you going to do that?”
Mercury grinned. “I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
Chapter Eight
Near Elko, Nevada; August 2016
Izbazel drove until a little after dawn, finally parking the truck in an empty stretch of asphalt behind a gas station near Elko, Nevada.
“Why are we stopping?” asked Nisroc.
“Let’s take a look at what’s in the crate,” said Izbazel.
They got out of the cab and went around to the back of the truck. Izbazel opened the door to find Konrath and Scalzi sitting hunched over the crate, playing cards.
“Out of the way,” said Izbazel, climbing into the truck. Scalzi scooped up the cards and the two demons backed away.
Izbazel waved his hand over the crate and the latch popped open. He swung the hinged lid open and whistled as he looked inside.
“What?” asked Konrath. “What is it?”
“Another crate,” said Izbazel. He reached in and pulled out a smaller crate, setting it down next to the first one. He opened the second crate and whistled again.
“Another crate?” asked Scalzi.
“No,” said Izbazel. “One of these.” He picked up a roughly rectangular object wrapped in brown plastic.
“What’s that?” asked Konrath.
“Cute little nuclear bomb,” said Izbazel.
“Awww,” said Konrath and Scalzi in unison.
“What are those numbers?” asked Nisroc. Someone had written on the side of the bomb, in permanent marker:
LAT: 42.94 LON: -85.06
�
��What’s LAT mean?” asked Konrath.
“What’s LON mean?” asked Scalzi.
“Is there anything else in the crate?” asked Nisroc.
Izbazel looked. In fact, there was something else in the crate: a manila envelope. Izbazel opened the envelope and pulled out a thick sheet of folded paper. He unfolded it. It appeared to be some sort of schematic. On the lower left corner was printed:
VANDEN HEUVEL BLDG—FLOOR 35
“Looks like some kind of map,” said Konrath.
“For the Vanden Heuvel Building, wherever that is,” said Scalzi.
“Anything else in the envelope?” asked Nisroc.
Izbazel looked inside the envelope, finding a sheet of paper on which was typed:
BLUE PRINTS ARE FOR DIVERSION ONLY.
LEAVE IN GRAND RAPIDS, MI
WHERE POLICE CAN FIND.
DETONATE BOMB AT SPECIFIED
COORDINATES ONLY.
PRESS RED BUTTON TO ARM.
BOMB WILL DETONATE 30
MINUTES AFTER ARMING.
DESTROY AFTER READING.
“Is there anything else in the envelope?” asked Nisroc. “Something blue?”
Izbazel looked in the envelope. “Nope,” he said. “Just the note and this map thingy.”
“What’s that?” Scalzi asked, pointing at a red X in the center of the map.
Izbazel shrugged. “Treasure?” he offered.
“Maybe that’s where we’re supposed to set off the bomb,” suggested Nisroc.
“That’s it!” exclaimed Izbazel. “We’re supposed to bring the bomb to the thirty-fifth floor of the Vanden Heuvel Building, in Grand Rapids. The X is where we’re supposed to detonate it. Good thinking, Nisroc!”
Nisroc smiled. It was nice to be recognized for good thinking. It didn’t happen to Nisroc very often. But something still bothered him. “What about the blue prints?” he asked. “Why aren’t they in the envelope?”
“What difference does it make?” asked Izbazel. “It says right here the blue prints are a diversion. From what I know about diversions, we’re better off without them.”
Mercury Revolts: (Book Four of the Mercury Series) Page 6
