by David Meyer
“Why Hatcher?” Caplan asked. “Were they after the dignitaries?”
“If it’s a kidnapping-for-ransom, it’s an awful quiet one. So far, we haven’t heard a peep from the terrorists.” Corbotch shrugged. “Regardless of their goals, they’re currently holding dozens of people—including Amanda—at gunpoint. That’s where you come in. You worked at Hatcher. You know its layout and its security systems.”
Caplan frowned. “What exactly do you want from me? Want me to sketch everything out for the police? That’s easy. Just let me—”
“Actually, the authorities won’t be involved in this matter. For reasons I can’t discuss, this needs to be handled carefully and with great discretion.” A crafty look formed on Corbotch’s visage. “In other words, I don’t want sketches. I want you.”
Caplan’s frown deepened.
“As we speak, my personal security forces are prepping to infiltrate the Vallerio. They’ve got firepower and experience. What they lack is ground knowledge of Hatcher Station and its security systems. That’s why I need you to go with them. You’ll be handsomely compensated, of course.”
A whirlwind of emotions swept through Caplan. He thought about Morgan, thought about how much he missed her. He thought about the offer, thought about what he could contribute to the mission. “No,” he said at last.
“But—”
“If you want maps, sketches, I’m your guy. But that’s it.”
“Amanda needs you.”
“Yeah, like an axe to the head. Don’t you remember what happened to her brother? How he died because of me?” Caplan shoved Corbotch’s crumpled-up business card into his back pocket. Then he spun on his heels and walked away. “Get lost. I’ve got a class to teach.”
Chapter 7
Date: June 19, 2016, 8:15 a.m.; Location: Central Park, New York, NY
As Caplan hiked back to his students, he shot a glance over his shoulder. Given the time of day, the Great Lawn was unusually busy and he saw all sorts of people. Men and women, decked out in faded uniforms, played softball on one of the diamonds. Kids flew kites and kicked soccer balls. Their parents, sprawled out on the grass with little picnic baskets, ate bagel sandwiches and sipped mimosas.
But Corbotch was nowhere to be seen.
Upon reaching his students, Caplan stared at them through hollow eyes. Memories of Amanda Morgan filled his brain. The way she tipped her head when she laughed. The feel of his hand on the small of her back. Her breaths heating up his ear. Her body moving in time with his.
“Thanks for your patience.” Forcing the memories to a tiny corner of his mind, Caplan offered his students a fake smile. “Now, let’s talk about today’s agenda. Namely, knowledge gathering and prep work. Nine times out of ten, brains trump brawn in crisis situations. Knowing how authorities or criminals tend to secure and control areas is paramount to escaping them. And having access to resources—tools, bottled water, food, and weapons—is often the difference between life and death. While everyone else is raiding grocery stores for scraps, you’ll be securing and utilizing pre-planted caches.”
Thoughts of Morgan roared out of the corner of his mind. He remembered watching her sleep at night. Her little snores, her shallow breaths. He recalled his arms around her and hers around him. Bodies intertwined under cotton sheets, pressed so close together he could almost feel her heart beating inside his chest.
“Today’s, uh …” Once again, Caplan pushed the memories into the deepest recesses of his mind. This time, he tied them down with heavy mental restraints. “Today’s class, by necessity, may seem somewhat dry at times. That’s why we’re going to spice it up on occasion. Over the next few hours, I’ll offer impromptu demonstrations of survival skills. You’ll see me use parkour to cross an entire block without ever touching the sidewalk. You’ll watch as I break into a car—don’t worry, it’s owned by a friend—and start the ignition without keys. And you’ll see plenty of other stuff, too. Stuff that all of you will be doing over the next eight weeks.”
The students stared at him with bright eyes. The things he’d just mentioned were red meat to bored rich folks. For the most part, they didn’t care about how authorities worked or optimal survival strategies for a real-life disaster.
They just wanted to see and do cool stuff.
“I need a volunteer.” Caplan scanned the eager faces, settling on a fresh-scrubbed masculine one. It belonged to a rapidly aging, twenty-something year-old man. The man’s wrinkled visage indicated he worked in one of those hundred-hour week professions, probably investment banking or law. His jittery limbs and nervous manner hinted at a burgeoning Adderall habit. “Think you can handle it?”
“Sure.” A crooked smile creased the man’s wrinkled face and he stepped forward. “But can you handle me?”
The students tittered.
Caplan grinned. “What’s your name?”
“Dalton. Dalton Nevins.”
Dalton Nevins, Caplan repeated inside his head, storing the name in his memory banks. He found it useful to recall as many student names as possible. It made people feel like they were friends and friends were far more likely to become paying customers.
“Okay, Dalton.” Caplan reached into his pocket and pulled out a strip of rigid nylon with a built-in ratchet on the far end. Small teeth ran down one side of the strip. “Do you recognize this?”
Nevins’ head bobbed. “It’s a zip-tie.”
“Very good.” Caplan held out his wrists, side by side, and touched them together. “Put it on me.”
Nevins took the zip-tie. Awkwardly, he wrapped it around Caplan’s wrists and pulled one end through the ratchet.
“Really?” Caplan shot a wink at the other students. “Is that the best you’ve got?”
Laughter rang out and Caplan grinned devilishly. Of course, this was all part of the act. He needed the zip-ties to be tight. The tighter, the better.
Nevins’ jaw tightened. Grabbing the zip-tie with both hands, he cinched it tight.
As the nylon strip dug into Caplan’s flesh, he felt other ties, mental ones, enclose his heart. They squeezed so hard he thought the vessel might burst inside his chest. What the hell was he doing? Was he really going to keep teaching like nothing had happened?
Caplan held up his wrists for everyone to see. “You’ve probably seen zip-ties in plenty of movies and with good reason. They’re fiendish devices. This particular set is extra tough and comes with a rating of 200 pounds.” He paused. “Here’s the problem. Any forward movement of the zip tie will cause it to cinch even tighter. And any attempt to pull my wrists apart causes the ratchet to lock. So, how does one escape them?”
Truth be told, escape was a simple matter. He’d deliberately held his wrists side by side while Nevins had applied the zip-tie. The resulting position, one of four basic ones, was the easiest to break.
Using his fingers, Caplan shifted the ratchet until it was directly between his wrists. Without warning, he swung his arms downward. His wrists hit his belly and he propelled his elbows backward, as if to touch them behind his back. The impact overwhelmed the ratchet, busting the zip-tie and sending it flying to the ground.
Like always, the students exploded into applause. And like always, Caplan took a mock bow. But something was different this time. Normally, he felt invigorated by the demonstration. This time, however, he felt empty. Hollowed out.
Picking up the broken zip-tie, he stuffed it into his pocket. “And that’s how …” He trailed off. The mental ties binding his heart cinched tighter and tighter.
“Zip-ties are …” He trailed off again.
He couldn’t do this. Not today.
“Thanks for coming,” he said awkwardly. “Unfortunately, something’s come up. I’m going to have to postpone the rest of this session.”
The bright eyes faded away. Darker ones, curious but annoyed, took their places.
“Did you hurt yourself?” Nevins smirked. “Did I make it too tight?”
“No,” Capla
n mumbled. “I just … I need to take care of something. I’ll be in touch with all of you soon.”
Without another word, Caplan strode forward. The students parted, making way for him.
As he hiked across the Great Lawn, he heard the students chattering amongst themselves. Some sounded irritated, others were downright angry. He didn’t blame them. He’d wasted their time and he doubted he’d see any of them ever again.
He walked farther, passing the softball players, the kite flyers and their parents. He passed dogs on leashes. Men, women. Old folks, youngsters. As always, people surrounded him.
But at that moment, he felt utterly, painfully alone.
Chapter 8
Date: June 19, 2016, 8:33 a.m.; Location: Upper East Side, New York, NY
Caplan sprinted down the sidewalk, dodging a pair of walkers and startling an elderly woman as she walked out of a flower shop, bouquet of white roses clutched in her gnarled fingers.
Halfway down the block, a truck pulled out of a garage, effectively blocking his path.
Caplan quickened his pace. His trail runners pounded the sidewalk as he sailed past a group of men in casual suits.
With a sudden leap, he sprung off the ground. Colliding against the moving metal, his shoes kicked furiously, transforming his forward momentum upward. His fingers latched onto the roof. With his feet still kicking the truck’s side, he pulled himself onto the roof, rolled across the flat metal, and dropped off the other side. It was a perfect pop vault, one of the basic moves he taught in his parkour-centered classes. Unlike most practitioners, Caplan hadn’t learned the move while living in the city.
He’d learned it in the wild.
Caplan had spent most of his life in the outdoors. He loved to run and had often taken advantage of the solitude and natural beauty provided by nature. It felt so free, so uplifting. But over time, that feeling began to change. He grew tired of running the well-beaten path. Of running around obstacles, of avoiding them. He’d longed to take his own path. And so he did.
Many years ago, he’d started experimenting with jumps and vaults, leaps and swings. He’d taught himself to cross over dense bushes, to leap rocks with nary a touch, and to scale trees. And he’d taught himself to leap from tree to tree, to move great distances without ever touching the ground. He was exceedingly good at it. Even better, he found the whole thing therapeutic. Running and jumping with reckless abandon freed his mind, giving it a chance to wander.
As Caplan darted down another stretch of sidewalk, he felt his mind break free of the chains he’d wrapped around it. Memories—ones he’d kept at bay for months—flooded his brain. They swarmed within him, around him. They consumed him.
Consumed his very soul.
Chapter 9
Date: January 6, 2016, 1:12 p.m.; Location: Hatcher Station, Vallerio Forest, NH
“I need a favor, buddy. But you’re not going to like it.”
“Hang on.” Zach Caplan typed a few more keys, bringing up one of fourteen cameras operating within Sector 76. An image of grassland, covered with four inches of snow, appeared on his monitor. He studied the grassland, a popular corridor for many of the Vallerio’s animals, for fresh tracks. Seeing none, he whirled around in his chair and eyed the newcomer with suspicion. “Forget it.”
Tony Morgan popped a frown. At six feet, two inches and a hefty 220 pounds, Tony was a giant of a man. Between his set jaw and a few days of stubble, he reminded Caplan of a former football player. But Tony had never played traditional sports, preferring instead to focus on outdoor activities like cycling, kayaking, and caving. “But I haven’t even told you what the favor is,” he replied.
“You’re the one asking for it. That’s all I need to know.”
Tony shook his head in mock sadness. “Is this how you treat all your friends?”
“Only the ones who keep asking me to break the rules.”
“I swear this is the last time. It’s just that—”
“Wait, let me guess.” Caplan tapped his jaw in mock thought. “You’re making a wreath, but ran out of leaves. Or maybe you need to collect droppings to fertilize your pretend garden. Or maybe—”
“Laugh all you want,” Tony said, “but every single one of those trips had a purpose.”
“A bullshit purpose.”
“Maybe so.” He smiled. “But they still had purpose.”
Chief Ranger brought with it certain responsibilities, including control over the keys to Roadster, Hatcher’s primary ground vehicle. Equipped with four-wheel drive and numerous other off-road features, it was well suited for the Vallerio’s varied terrain.
But while Caplan maintained physical control of Roadster, actual control rested in the hands of Deborah Keifer, the president of the Vallerio Foundation. Anyone who wanted to use the vehicle had to file a specific research request with her. If she approved it—which was rare—Caplan would receive a notification from her office. It was then his job to select the appropriate date and time for the outing, based on weather conditions and animal movements.
Caplan took a deep breath as he spun back to his keyboard. “Did you file a request with Deborah?”
Tony hesitated. “Umm … yes?”
“And she approved it?”
“Do we really need to do this?”
Caplan looked at him for a few seconds. “What’s in it for me if I help you?” he asked.
“A bottle of Hamron’s Horror.”
Caplan’s ears perked at the name of his favorite scotch. “I was kidding.”
“I know. But it’s still yours if you give me the keys.”
Caplan liked Tony, liked him a lot. The guy hadn’t even batted an eye when Caplan had started dating his sister. But he’d made a mistake by letting Tony take Roadster out for an unauthorized spin a few weeks back. Ever since then, the guy wouldn’t leave him alone.
“Where to?” Caplan asked.
Again, Tony hesitated. “Sector 84.”
Caplan’s fingers flew across his keyboard. Within seconds, six video feeds appeared on his screen. They showed a heavily wooded area, drenched in snow. Like the grassland in Sector 76, this particular stretch of snow was pristine. “Not much activity,” he said. “What’s your interest in 84?”
Tony pursed his lips and arched both eyebrows in comical fashion.
“I see,” Caplan said slowly. “You’re not interested in 84. So, why do you need Roadster?”
“I just … need a break from this place.”
Caplan sympathized with that. Hatcher Station was a neat place to live, but he often felt cooped up within its walls. He longed to run through the Vallerio, to explore it. To see it for real rather than over video feeds.
On the other hand, rules were rules. They existed for a reason. Keeping the Vallerio free of human influence allowed Hatcher’s staff to observe and record nature at its wildest. The scientific benefits were immeasurable.
“So, what do you say?” Tony asked. “Can I take Roadster?”
“Yes,” Caplan replied after a moment. “But I’m coming with you.”
Chapter 10
Date: June 19, 2016, 8:40 a.m.; Location: Upper East Side, New York, NY
The loud honk reverberated in Caplan’s ears. Memories of that crisp, cool January day vacated his mind. He became aware of his surroundings. The hot pavement under his trail runners. Pulsing, swirling heat upon his chest. The smell of engine exhaust mixed with New York’s standard grab bag of gag-inducing odors.
He swiveled to the right. Fixed his gaze upon a well-waxed sport utility vehicle. A couple of dings, nothing big though, lined its shiny red surface. Its chrome wheels glinted in the early morning sun. Waves of heat emanated from its hood.
Like so many of its brethren, the SUV had most likely been purchased for fashion reasons rather than functional ones. The concept, like so many other aspects of civilization, was utterly foreign to him.
Desk jobs, retirement plans, farmer’s markets, organic groceries, art exhibitions, Broadway sho
ws, celebrity tours … he’d dealt with them all in one form or another over the last five months. And while he rarely saw value in any of those things, he didn’t dismiss them either. After all, he was the weird one. The fish out of water, so to speak.
More honks rang out, joining forces to form one mighty blaring noise. Caplan felt eyes, dozens of them, staring in his direction. Shifting his gaze, he looked past the SUV. Cars and taxis were lined up as far as he could see, filling the air with electrical heat and noxious fumes.
“Get out of the road, asshole!”
Caplan glanced at the red SUV. The driver, a petite brunette in a tight black shirt stared back at him from behind the windshield. Her tiny hands held the steering wheel in a death grip. Her jaw quivered in fury.
What was it with these city folks anyway? Always in a hurry to go nowhere, always angry at the slightest delay.
As Caplan trudged across the street to the waiting sidewalk, a second wave of loneliness crashed over him. He missed Amanda Morgan. Tony Morgan, too. And he missed all the other people who lived and worked at Hatcher Station. More generally, he missed being around people like himself. People who sought out the wild rather than artificial parks. People who preferred nature’s clock to that of mankind. Five months ago, leaving it all behind had seemed like his only choice. A bit of penance for sins that could never be forgiven.
But had that really been the right move?
Rubber squealed as the red SUV shot into the intersection, turned left, and disappeared from his life. The stream of cars and taxis followed after it, their drivers burning his ears with shouts of “jerk” and “dumbass.” And then they too were gone. Bystanders, attracted by all the commotion, turned away. Life in the city went on, same as before.
Caplan hiked past a small Thai restaurant and stopped next to a brick wall. He placed his back against it and tipped his head upward. He took deep breaths. Shallow breaths. And deep breaths again.
