by Paul Bishop
“I guess you should have as much a chance as me,” the agent said quietly and finally handed the second gun to him. The two stood in the middle of the room and awaited the inevitable for a moment before he frowned and looked hastily around the room. He darted here and there to touch and push surfaces or items. Agent Z-9 alternated between watching him do this and the door she knew was about to be destroyed. He then went to the bookcase and she glowered at him, more anxious now as the sounds outside the room had grown steadily louder.
In less than two minutes, two invaders were at the double doors of the study. Both listened briefly before one held a hand up and pointed at the doors. The other was about to kick the seam where the doors met but the first one grinned and turned the knob to open one of them. They entered, their guns at the ready but the study was empty. The frogmen left.
The attackers soon had the anti-gravity engine loaded on the raft. The device was about the size of a fifty-gallon drum and was placed in a tent-like covering on the raft before the flap was zippered closed. The invaders departed as they had arrived, by sea. They left their cutting equipment and other tools on the beach. Two cabin cruisers appeared from around a bend, picked the attackers up, and motored away.
Brenner and Navarro emerged from the jungle.
“I guess we better get over there,” she said and gestured at the compound.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
A few of the high rollers had gone to the communications room while others found keys and took vehicles into town. The duo entered the main house cautiously and fully expected to find the body of their colleague.
8
Vince Paymer pushed the shopping cart along the canned goods aisle. Unlike others in the supermarket who talked on their smartphones to their significant others about whether it was Newman’s Own or Progresso spaghetti sauce they preferred or what brand of toilet paper to purchase, he referred to a written shopping list. He was an old-fashioned kind of guy.
“How’s it going, Vince?” the pretty blonde in large sunglasses and floppy straw hat said.
“Joan,” he whispered. He smiled nervously. “Why are you here?”
“Tidying up,” she said.
He looked around, vainly hoping for intervention by one of his fellow suburbanite shoppers going by. “I did as you told me. Your men got to shore undetected. I did what you wanted.”
“Yes, you did, Vince. And I’m here to reward you.”
“You already paid me.”
Her smile was not a nervous one but playful and alluring. She kissed him fully and ground her lips and tongue against his mouth and tongue. After a moment, she broke contact and walked away, whistling as she twirled a small clutch bag.
A confused Vince Paymer watched her go and began to push his cart again. Now, however, he found it a little difficult as his lower legs were suddenly unresponsive. He began to cough and gag and put a hand to his throat.
“Sir, sir—are you okay?” a perky-looking woman with a gurgling baby strapped to her front asked.
Desperation pushed through and he tried to talk but couldn’t form the words. His throat was so constricted that he felt as if he’d been in the desert for days. He flailed and the cart rolled away from him as he fell on the cool tiles of the supermarket. The lady and her baby came to his aid.
“I’m calling nine-one-one. Hold on,” she said and punched the number on her phone. Other shoppers stopped to gawk and the woman who currently went by the name Joan Summerling heard the commotion as she passed through the automatic sliding glass door.
After killing Paymer, Summerling treated herself to a little clothes shopping and a pedicure. She extended the indulgence to a vodka martini at early happy hour and disciplined herself to not pick up a cute boy toy who brooded in a corner booth of the tiny restaurant. At a few minutes to six, she strolled into the antique shop where she’d imprisoned Ned Brenner previously. The fire damage had been repaired.
Five of her henchmen—part of the crew who’d assaulted Prospero’s compound—had arrived ahead of her. Armed with black and deadly assault rifles, they guarded the anti-gravity engine. The device was set on a metal table in the closed store. Five potential buyers were also seated on plain metal folding chairs in the rear space. One of them had been among the bidders who’d been on Montserrat. It was Soderberg, and he looked relaxed.
“I won’t waste time with formalities,” she began.
“What about the cannon?” one of the potential buyers asked, the only other woman in the room. A thin brunette with a sallow face and hollow eyes, she was dressed in clothes that seemed made for a woman older than she appeared to be.
With her hand on her hip, the blonde Summerling responded. “We were in something of a hurry, Ms Mazer, to secure the engine. The canon had been damaged. Its components were part of the barrel itself and therefore involved much more work before we could disengage it.” She made a brief gesture with her hands. “And as I said, time was not on our side.”
Ms Mazer nodded curtly.
“Okay then,” she said, “Nine hundred million dollars is the opening bid.”
No sooner had she finished her sentence than two of her guards fell face-down and their weapons clattered onto the cement floor.
“Shit,” she responded curtly.
“Wha...what’s happening?” the hollow-eyed woman said as she sank to the floor like a lily whose stalk had been cut.
The swift-acting invisible knock-out gas had been released into the room by someone actually present—one of the supposed buyers, in fact. Under his shirt, he wore a skin-tight neoprene garment where packets of the gas in powder form were hidden. When he sent an electric charge through the garment by a precise touch on his watch stem, the packets exploded quietly. On contact with air, Dr. Templesmith’s chemical compound instantly vaporized. The other guards and the bidders also fell or wilted to the floor. Only Summerling had remained upright.
She’d immediately grasped what was happening and had put the stylish scarf she wore loosely around her neck to her face. The accessory was more than a fashion tool to accent her hair and tan. It was woven with carbon fibers designed to block smoke and gasses. Nonetheless, some of the gas had affected her but she was able to make her way toward the rear exit, a nine-millimeter in her hand.
Joan hoped she’d manage to make good her escape but wasn’t entirely surprised when a foot suddenly kicked the gun from her grasp. Ned Brenner stood in front of her and a breathing device covered his nose and mouth. He smiled but there was no humor in his eyes.
Taking a deep breath, she let the scarf drop so she could use both her hands in her counterattack. She delivered a palm heel strike to his head but he ducked and sank a right into her gut. The blow caused her to exhale and in a matter of seconds, she was unconscious. Behind him stood Ella Navarro, also protected by a breathing device. He zip-tied the woman’s wrists and ankles before he and his partner moved farther into the shop.
She stooped to where Soderberg lay on the ground—actually the disguised Efrem Koburn. When he and Agent Z-9 were trapped in Prospero’s study when Summerling assaulted the island, he’d guessed correctly that a man like their host, given to theatrics, would have hidden rooms and passageways honeycombing his facility. He found the latch and triggered the bookcase to open, which provided him and the intelligence operative a place to hide from the gunmen behind it when the bookcase sealed again. A passage led them out to a section of the jungle on the eastern side of the compound beyond its walls.
“Shit,” Agent Z-9 had sworn when they exited. Through the brush ahead of them, she detected a figure on the move. “That might be Prospero.” She raced away in pursuit, her gun in hand.
Koburn changed his face to his own and found Brenner and Navarro, who still searched for his corpse.
“To staying alive,” he said with a grin.
Thereafter, they made their way to where the equipment container was hidden, which also contained scuba gear for the second man. They knew Z-9 would ha
ve radioed her headquarters, but it would be some hours before intelligence forces would reach the island. In that time, the three left Montserrat underwater to rendezvous with the Vigilance submarine.
In the van leaving the gallery, Koburn was awakened after Navarro injected him with a serum that counteracted the effects of the gas.
He rubbed a hand over his face and yawned. “Did we get her?”
She nodded. “And the anti-gravity engine.”
“Good.”
Never one to like loose ends, Koburn had wondered what Vincent Paymer had been doing on the island. When he returned to New York, he’d sketched the man’s face accurately. He’d run this through the computers’ facial recognition apps—tied to various law enforcement databases—and had a hit.
Paymer’s “aw shucks” middle manager from Cedar Rapids persona belied his real talent. In the underworld, he was a well-regarded peeler, safe-cracker, and locks man. Talking this over with Brenner and Navarro, they deduced that he’d been hired by Summerling to use his skills to access Prospero’s command center and turn off the underwater sensors stationed off the beach near the masked man’s compound. Clearly, he’d been more successful than Hugo Dantine, who’d been caught trying to break into the computer room and executed.
Assuming that Summerling would dislike loose ends as much as Prospero did, the trio located Paymer, detained him, and Koburn took his place—after he’d taken certain precautions like coating his lips beforehand. Summerling’s various methods of disposal had been studied in her file, thankfully. Additionally, a deadpan Brenner had told him how she’d knocked him out.
9
Noc Brenner stepped into the blue room in his sanitized scrubs. Refreshments were laid out on a side table in the pleasantly colored space. The furniture was Louis XIV and the blue marble floor was veined with white and traces of red. Along the walls were several original framed oils including a Picasso portrait of his friend and fellow painter Carlos Casagemas, produced during the former’s blue period.
A chessboard rested on another table, a chair to either side of it. He stood over this and gazed admiringly at the pieces. They were old-world—carved from rosewood, he guessed as he picked a bishop up and examined it. The board was mahogany with ivory inlay.
“I was told this was one of the sets belonging to the czar,” Max Damakas said. He appeared in a doorway opposite, also in scrubs, and stepped forward. “I understand Hiram is happy reverse-engineering the anti-gravity engine.”
“He is,” Brenner confirmed.
“Please, Ned,” Damakas said, and indicated the chair. “Have a seat and let’s have our game—as well as discuss your future with the Initiative.”
Brenner slid his chair back.
“Shall we put money on this game?” His host smiled awkwardly.
“You’re way above my pay grade, Max.”
“Okay, then. If I win, you stay on for one more case. How’s that?” He stared evenly at his guest across the board.
“I play to win.”
“So do I.” Like an eager kid, he rubbed his hands together and they began.
Seated at one of his computers, Hiram Templesmith regarded the initial findings he’d derived from the sample of Ned Brenner’s blood. Ella Navarro knew it wasn’t an accident when he broke their glasses during their toast and that he’d hoped a small cut would enable him to surreptitiously obtain a sample of the young man’s blood. He looked from the monitor to his electron microscope. Under its lens, the small patch of the handkerchief blotted with Brenner’s blood he’d cut out was pressed between two slides. He knew that blood alone wouldn’t tell him much about why the man was such an autodidact or why he could seemingly learn any skill or methodology by observation rather than praxis.
It was true that everyone learned that way to greater or lesser degrees, but even his blood, the scientist noted, seemed designed differently than a so-called normal person. His enzymes appeared to be…well, he didn’t know the right word but could possibly use super-charged. They weren’t at abnormal levels, but their structure was slightly different than usual. He guessed that this alteration—if that was the word—in his enzymes aided Brenner in certain chemical processes in his body and probably affected brain function.
“It’s simply amazing,” he muttered, stared at his readout again, and wondered how else he could obtain samples from his subject, let alone persuade him to agree to a series of tests—should he remain with the Initiative.
Adam Damakas drank a little more of his microbrew. He and the other man sat at an outdoor table in the Brooklyn Heights section of the borough. “You know, of course, I will make sure you are paid back with interest on your loan,” he said. “Nothing is sure-fire, but I will put in long hours to ensure the club is the destination place around here.”
“I have every confidence you’ll work hard, Adam. My advisor—the man I mentioned to you—will be invaluable in that regard.”
“Here’s to it.”
They clinked glasses amiably.
“What happened to your hand?” Damakas asked as he placed his glass on the table.
“This?” the other man said and glanced wryly at it. “I tried a recipe from one of those celebrity chef’s books and got a little carried away. But don’t worry, I’m right-handed. I can still sign the check.”
The two men chuckled good-naturedly. Absently, Adam Damakas’ investor rubbed the gauze dressing on his burned left hand.
Escape From Tyrannosaur Valley
By
O’NEIL DE NOUX
OR
RESCUE OF THE DROP-DEAD
GORGEOUS REDHEAD
A True Account of Adventurer Vincent Daniel’s
Rescue of the Daring Archaeologist Wendy Rosemond
and their Dramatic Escape from the Jaws of Deadly Tyrannosaurs
Escape From Tyrannosaur Valley
Wendy Rosemond’s hands shake as she wraps the bandage around my left forearm. Her hair smells faintly of her perfume and for the first time in hours, I almost feel like a man rather than a wide-eyed prey species. She leans back and blinks those blue eyes at me and tries to smile, only her mouth quivers and tears well in her eyes. Her dark-red hair’s a twisted mess with twigs and leaves tangled in it. A deep-blue bruise mars her chin. Her white blouse is ripped up the side and her denim pants are soiled. She’s also lost her left boot.
She wipes her eyes, turns, and looks at Vincent where he sits beside the roaring fire at the cave’s entrance, a 30-30 Winchester across his lap. Despite her present condition, she’s still a pleasing sight. Dirt can’t cover beauty and, frankly, beautiful is beautiful. She rises slowly, steps over to Vincent, and puts a hand on his shoulder, and both try to look outside the cave. The firelight prevents us from seeing anything out in the darkness but we know they are waiting.
This is Planet Octavion, last bastion of great beasts in the Milky Way. We called them dinosaurs on Earth and call them the same thing here because—well, honestly, I don’t know why. Outside this cave, monsters lurk in the form of a herd of Tyrannosaurus rex in all their bloody glory. I had no idea that they hunted in packs, more like a pride of lions with females leading the hunt while the big males kept the pesky spinosaurs and allosaurs away.
It seems unfair that on Earth, these creatures lived in different time periods—Jurassic and Cretaceous. Here on Octavion, they are all present at the same time, the universe’s greatest carnivores gathered together by the gods of chaos.
Vincent touches Wendy’s hand and she sits beside him, her head against his shoulder. I open my canteen and take a long pull of water, pour the rest in my cupped hand, and wash my eyes to remove the grit. There’s fresh water in a gurgling stream at the rear of the cave but I’m too exhausted to refill my canteen immediately.
I check my 30-30, make sure it’s fully loaded, and place it next to my right hand. By force of habit, I check my Glock nine-millimeter and it has a full magazine, not that it’ll do much good against a tyrannosaur. But we saw s
mall raptors scampering outside during our attempt to escape. Our horses and mules are gone. I’m fairly sure my Overo pinto made it clear and I think Vincent’s black stallion could have too, but Wendy’s bay was cut off by two juvenile tyrannosaurs and they made short work of it, along with the mules.
Vincent turns to me and says, “I’ll take the first watch. Get some rest.”
I nod, lean back against a warm boulder, and close my eyes. It’s unlikely that I’ll actually sleep, knowing what’s out there, but my eyelids are so heavy I can’t open them again and feel as if a blanket of darkness covers me.
How the hell did we end up here?
When Vincent broached the subject as we sat in Huff’s Saloon in that dusty, one-road town called Deep Chestnut, I thought he was joking. That was a month ago and I sat there as he told us about our next adventure.
“You’re serious?”
He showed me his mini-Mac with a picture of Wendy Rosemond on the screen.
“She’s rich and beautiful, lost and needs rescuing. Did I mention she’s rich?”
“Lost?”
“She’s an archaeologist. One of those who believe cavemen once inhabited Octavion. She left First Colony City two months ago and her signal died last week, and the institute is panicky. The rangers can’t find her.”
My headache grew as he told me the other pertinent details. The woman went excavating after numerous warnings not to. Worse, she went alone. He showed me her last, short transmission, which came from Tyrannosaur Valley.
Wonderful discovery! Bones. Not fossils. Bones! Hominids!
I rubbed my temples as one of the Huff brothers served us fresh cappuccinos. The Huff Saloon did not serve liquor but a rarer product—Earth-grown coffee.
