Allegiance Burned: A Jackson Quick Adventure

by Tom Abrahams

  We laughed and kept teasing one another until we pulled up to the monument’s entrance. On either side, outside of the gate, there were alien-hocking souvenir shops. Apparently I wasn’t the only one whose trip was inspired by closing scenes of Close Encounters.

  My dad paid the park entrance fee and got a glossy brochure he handed to my mom. The road to the Tower wound to the left, past an open field pocked with prairie dog holes. I pressed my face against the window and caught a glimpse of a couple of them poking their heads out from the dirt.

  “Those prairie dogs aren’t well-liked around here,” my dad remarked. “Ranchers hate them and will use them for target practice.”

  “Why?” I asked. “They look harmless.”

  “They ruin the crops, the soil, make it tough on their herds,” he said. “They’re nuisances.”

  The road spun back to the left and uphill into dense forest. I rolled down my window and could feel the air getting cooler. A motorcycle grumbled past us, the driver with both hands on the handlebars of his.

  “Are we gonna hike around the Tower?” I asked excitedly. “There a couple of paths we can take.”

  “I don’t see why not,” my mom looked at Dad. “We came all this way. It’d be silly not to take in the full spectacle of an alien landing site.”

  “Mom,” I protested, “there were no aliens here. It was a movie.”

  “I know it was a movie, Jackson, but you can’t definitively say aliens have never landed here. Can you?”

  “Well,” I looked at my dad in the rearview mirror, who was smirking, “I can’t definitively say they haven’t. But there’s no proof they did, either.”

  “So you’d need to see something to believe in it?” my dad interjected. “You’re a show me kinda guy?”

  They did this a lot, my parents. They’d challenge my reasoning, my beliefs. I’d make a declarative statement and they’d refute it, or call it into question.

  I remember my dad telling me I should never quantify anything as being the best, unless I knew it was better than all of the other alternatives. Otherwise, he said, I could only contend it was as good as any other alternative.

  “I guess that means you’re as good as any husband in the world,” my mom had reasoned. “Since, I’ve only been married to you, I can’t say you’re the best. I haven’t been married to all of the alternatives.”

  My dad told her she was right. She kissed him and told him that, without having married anyone else, she knew him to be the best. She didn’t need empirical data.

  But she played along with him every time he challenged me. She took his side, pushing my critical reasoning skills.

  So there, in the rental car, climbing the road to the base of Devils Tower, I had to admit I could not disprove the existence of aliens. It was possible they’d been to Wyoming. And actually, that thought, that possibility, made the hike around the Tower all the more enjoyable.

  ***

  Envision a prototypical United States Marine. Picture his barrel chest, Popeye-like forearms, and ramrod straight posture. Now age him thirty years. Pencil in crows-feet and scowl lines. That’s Mack Mahoney, with some slight differences than what you’re probably imagining.

  He shakes my hand with a vise of a grip. “Hello, Quick. I’ve heard a lot about you.” We’re standing in the back of the outdoor amphitheater at Mt. Rushmore. Four presidents are eavesdropping, but other than that, there’s nobody around. The evening presentation doesn’t start for a few hours.

  “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t say what I’d heard was good. I said I’d heard about you.”

  “Oh.” Awkward.

  “That’s not fair, Mack,” says Bella. “I didn’t say anything negative about you, Jackson. Mack, how is your wife?”

  “She’s in remission, six months. So it’s day by day, really. Thanks for asking, Bella,” he turns to me again. “I make you uncomfortable, don’t I?” he asks, still holding my hand.

  “Well,” I consider the question. “Yes.”

  “What is it?” he asks, letting go of my hand. “Is it that I’m black, that I have vitiligo, or that I’m missing a leg?” The intensity of his stare outdoes anything else that might put me off balance. I glance down at the hi-tech prosthetic extending beneath his pressed khaki shorts.

  “It’s the vitiligo, and you’re missing a leg.” I keep my eyes locked on his.

  “Not me being black,” he says, no hint of expression. “That doesn’t make you uncomfortable?”

  “No more than me being white with two legs and no viral skin condition makes you uncomfortable.”

  Mack Mahoney takes a step back and folds him arms. He looks me up and down as though he’s taking inventory. Then he nods and a smile slowly spreads from one cheek to the other. “You’ll do, Quick,” he says. “You’re a straight shooter.”

  He has no idea.

  He slaps me on the shoulder and I exhale. So does Bella.

  “Let’s sit,” Mack says. “I only got one good leg to stand on and it’s tired.” He motions to the nearest bleacher and we sit, Bella and I on one row and Mack on the one in front of us. “I like coming here when I’m in the area. Every night they honor veterans. They invite us up on stage and let us say our names, our branch of service. We always get big applause. It makes me feel good.”

  “It’s kinda in the open isn’t it?”

  “So?” Mack grunts.

  “So, Mack,” Bella adjusts the conversation and her lavender skirt, tucking her right foot behind her left ankle. “What can you tell me I don’t already know? And why are we meeting here?”

  “They’re still here,” he says. “The trigger man is gone, but the team is hanging around. They’re waiting on you. Here at the monument, we have privacy. They may or may not know you’re here already. But they can’t watch you here.”

  “What do you mean?

  “Whoever killed Wolf is gone,” he says. “But there are clearly others working with him who are sticking around.”

  “How do you know this?” I ask.

  “Surveillance,” he says. “I’ve got a handful of wireless cameras staking out popular parts of Lead, Custer, and Deadwood. There are security cameras I’ve accessed, and I’ve got facial recognition software on my computer. I can distinguish the locals from the tourists and the tourists from the hired guns. I spent a career doing this.”

  “How do you know none of those hired guns aren’t the killer?” I press. Bella looks at me and nods at Mack. He looks unsure about answering me.

  “Body types,” he finally answers. “I’ve got the surveillance video from the security cameras at the Homestake mine, where the lab was. Whoever that dude was, doesn’t match these other guys. Satisfied, Quick?” His question is a directive to stop asking any of my own.

  This whole conversation seems choreographed, like it’s for my benefit.

  “Yes.” No.

  “Okay then,” he turns his body more toward Bella. “There are three or four of these guys hanging around. They’re looking for you, Bella, even though they don’t know it. They’re here to clean up.”

  “Clean up?” Bella asks. “I don’t understand, Mack. They killed Dr. Wolf in a lab nobody was supposed to know about. They’ve got at least part of the process and a head start on finding the rest of it.”

  “You saw the video,” Mack says. “You saw what they did to Wolf from the killer’s perspective. You heard the questions the killer asked. You know what it is he wanted.”

  “Yes,” says Bella. “We saw it because the killer uploaded it into Wolf’s computer. He left the video camera attached to it.”

  “Why do you think he did that?” Mack asks.

  “So we’d see it,” says Bella. “So that we know what they know.”

  “So you’d know what they want you to know,” says Mack. “Whoever is behind this wants you here.”

  “The video was bait?” I ask.

  “In a way,” Mack replies. “You don’t upload a video direct
ly to the company server and then tag the executives unless you want attention from them.”

  “Then I shouldn’t be here,” says Bella. She stands and brushes her skirt. “I’m not clear as to why I’m here, Mack. You could have easily told me this over the phone.”

  “I could have,” says Mack, pushing on the bench to stand.

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “Because there’s a reason they want you,” he says, shifting his weight to his good leg. “And I want to know what that reason is.”

  “Now I’m bait?” she asks. “You’d have me come here to be a sitting duck, a target? I’ve known you since I was a little girl, Mack. I don’t get this.”

  “You wouldn’t have come here if I told you the operational hazards,” he says. “And I wouldn’t have had you come here if I couldn’t keep you safe.”

  Bella considers what he’s selling and folds her arms in front her. She looks at me for guidance. I shrug. I’m along for the ride, despite being wary about where it’s taking me.

  However, I think something is… off.

  “You said it,” Mack points at Bella. “I’ve known you since you were no higher than my knee, since I had two good knees. Do you really think I would risk your life?”

  “I guess not,” she shrugs.

  “Good,” he says. “Then let’s get to work and find out why it is they want you.”

  ***

  Sitting alone in the front of the Chevy Suburban while Mack and Bella ride in the back discussing the details of his plan, I’ve finally got time to check the browser on my phone and find out what George Townsend emailed to me.

  I log into my email on a secure server. There’s a new message from George:

  Jackson— I found a fair amount of info on Bella Buell. She doesn’t try to hide. I also found some basic info on solar neutrinos. What’s the connection between Buell and neutrinos? Whatever it is, it’s not obvious. There’s nothing I could find that put the two together. Call me when you can. -GT

  At the bottom of the email are two pdf attachments. I tap the file attachment to open the first one:

  BELLA FRANCESCA BUELL**

  DOB: 09/25/85

  BIRTHPLACE: HOUSTON, TEXAS

  EDUCATION: UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS, B.S. BUSINESS

  RICE UNIVERSITY, M.B.A.

  PARENTS: DON CARLOS BUELL (DECEASED), MARY JOHNSON BUELL

  EMPLOYMENT: NANERGETIX CORPORATION, HOUSTON TEXAS

  CRIMINAL BACKGROUND: N/A

  MARITAL STATUS: SINGLE, NEVER MARRIED

  PASSPORT: VALID, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  DRIVER LICENSE: VALID, TEXAS

  CHL: VALID, TEXAS

  PERSONAL NET WORTH: $165,000,000 USD (ESTIMATED)

  NARRATIVE/PERSONAL: BUELL WAS A CHILD OF PRIVILEGE. A/B STUDENT AT PRIVATE CATHOLIC SCHOOLS IN HOUSTON, TEXAS. SHE COMPETED IN EQUESTRIAN EVENTS AS A TEEN. SHE IS AN ADEQUATE SNOW SKIER. AT 17 SHE WAS CERTIFIED TO SCUBA DIVE. SHE IS ALSO A LICENSED PILOT, THOUGH SHE IS NOT INSTRUMENT-RATED.

  NARRATIVE/PROFESSIONAL: BUELL WAS HIRED BY NANERGETIX, HER FATHER’S COMPANY, IMMEDIATELY AFTER OBTAINING HER M.B.A. SHE WAS AN EXECUTIVE LEVEL SPECIAL ASSISTANT, REPORTING DIRECTLY TO THE C.E.O., UNTIL HER FATHER’S DEATH. SHE ASCENDED TO C.E.O. OF NANERGETIX DESPITE INTERNAL FEUD WITH C.F.O. AND C.T.O. BOTH RESIGNED AFTER BOARD OF DIRECTORS SELECTED BUELL. SHE HAS MAINTAINED COMPANY FOCUS ON EMERGING ENERGY TECHNOLOGY AND NANOSCALE/MICROSCALE RESEARCH.

  **ALL INFORMATION CULLED FROM READILY AVAILABLE PUBLIC RECORDS/DOCUMENTS/NEWS ACCOUNTS

  Bella puts her hand on my shoulder. “It must be interesting.”

  “It is,” I click the home button and turn off the phone. “It’s all about you. Really fascinating stuff.”

  “Oh really?” She leans forward, trying to look. “What’s it say about me?”

  “You’re nosy,” I slip my phone into my pocket, “and you should put on your seatbelt.”

  “Huh,” Bella slides back into her seat, tugging on her belt, and fastening it. “That’s not a lot of information.”

  “It’s enough for now.”

  She doesn’t believe what I’m telling her. She doesn’t trust me, which I find frustrating and ironic. As far as she’s concerned, my life’s an open book. She’s the one collaborating with Sir Spencer, a man who months ago was working against her father. She’s the CEO of a company with secret underground labs and scientists being killed for their intellectual property. She’s working with a leatherneck turned counter-intelligence operative who knows how to hack security cameras and entrap contract killers. Nothing about her adds up, and the information George Townsend gathered doesn’t clarify anything.

  But I’m the untrustworthy one.

  “So where is it we’re headed?” I ask.

  “The bar in Deadwood,” Mack answers. “That’s where we’ll meet up with the two guys looking for Bella.”

  “Got it,” I nod and take a deep breath. This is going be a long day. It already has been.

  I woke up to the sounds of two nasty dudes trying to kill me, took a near fatal bus trip, flew to Houston, then South Dakota, and I’ll end the day trying not to get killed by two more nasty dudes in a bar.

  Mack hands me his iPad. “Take a look at this. You need to memorize these faces.

  Mack’s plan seems simple on the surface, but it’s not. With his facial recognition software, he’s identified two men who’ve repeatedly entered the same seven or eight bars and restaurants in Custer, Deadwood, and Lead. In the surveillance video he’s gathered he’s learned those men are carrying photographs of Bella. They’re showing them to hostesses and barkeeps and they generally get blown off.

  At one bar in Deadwood, however, the bartender seems interested in helping the guys. They exchange money and phone numbers. He gives them drinks. Of course there’s no audio, but the video is compelling enough, to make that bar our point of attack.

  On the iPad are digitally enhanced still frames of the two men. They look like most of the contractors who’ve been chasing me for the better part of two years. Both of them have their hair cropped high and tight, they wear starch-creased Dockers with tucked golf shirts that accentuate their thick necks and expansive biceps. Around their necks hang aviator sunglasses, even at night, and their watches are military issue. It’s their casual look.

  “The plan is the plan?” I glance at the driver. I don’t want to say anything I’m not supposed to say.

  “Yes,” says Mack. “And you’re fine to talk about it. Duke here is a friend of mine.”

  Duke smiles at me from underneath his prickly mustache, nods his head, but says nothing. He turns his attention back to the road ahead.

  “Okay,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Duke.”

  Duke nods again.

  “We go into the bar and find our seats. After we order, you signal Bella to come in and sit alone at the bar and order herself something. We assume the bartender will alert the two bad guys. They arrive. We do our thing and flip the script on them.”

  “Yes,” Mack says. “Though it may require a little improvisation, depending on what the subjects’ intentions are.”

  “What does that mean?” asks Bella. “I thought you knew their intentions?”

  “Common sense dictates they want to talk to you,” says Mack. “Otherwise they could have sent people to Houston to take care of you.”

  “That raises a good question,” I point out. “Why would they wait for Bella, or anyone for that matter, to come here? Why wouldn’t they do whatever it is they plan on doing in Houston, where Nanergetix is located?”

  “Couple of reasons,” Mack says. “Less of a police presence here. Less security. More remote. And they know someone, like the head of the company, is going to come check out the lab. It’s clear the killer was in and out. He had limited time in the facility. So if he missed anything, somebody from Nanergetix will find it. And the fact that he uploaded the video onto a computer and then sent it to a distinct distribution list, tells you what they want.”
r />   “That’s a lot of guessing,” says Bella.

  “You’re only now figuring that out?” I ask. Duke snickers.

  “Look,” Mack huffs, “I like how you’re a straight shooter. I said that. But I don’t need your sarcasm. You’re a grunt here. I’m in command.” He unfastens his belt and uses my seatback to pull himself close to my ear. “I’m paid a lot of money to gather intelligence and act on it,” he barks. “Right now, we’ve got a dead scientist, we’ve got a call for an executive to come visit, two contractors are searching bars and restaurants for the C.E.O.”

  “Thanks for the refresher,” I mumble. Despite Mack’s experience, expertise, and apparent devotion to Bella, something tells me this isn’t so clear cut. It’s a gut feeling.

  “Regardless of what’s right or wrong in my theory, we need to find those two contractors,” Mack snaps. “We need to learn what it is they know and what it is they don’t.”

  “We’re here,” Duke interjects with a voice deeper than Sam Elliott’s.

  The wood framed building looks like it’s straight out of the Old West. I half expect Wild Bill Hickok to stumble out from between the batwing doors at the open air entrance to the bar.

  “Are you in or are you out, Quick?” Mack grunts. “I need to know now if I can count on you to follow my lead. You buy in or you fold.”

  I unbuckle my belt and turn past Mack to look at Bella. Even though I don’t think I trust her, I need to know if she really trusts Mack. Her eyes plead with me to back off and let Mack do his thing. She bites her lip and nods.

  “Okay,” I concede. “I’m in. I’ll do what you say. But if I sense the need to improvise, as you suggest, I’m doing it.”

  “Deal,” says Mack. “Let’s do this.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Mack and I are sitting in a booth near the entrance to the bar. The green vinyl seat is split, the foam cushion poking through. There’s Scott Joplin, or some other kind of ragtime music, playing through the overhead speakers. The place is a dive and the air conditioning is either non-existent or non-functional.