by J. K. Scott
30
TURBERO INCREASED OUR pace as our steps echoed in the dim, musky-smelling mauve corridor. The right wall disappeared below about twenty feet, revealing a hazy, foggy field. For a second, I thought we were outside. Looking up, I saw yellow orbs the size of basketballs and tires hanging above. The faint odor of manure fertilizer filled the air, and a haze collected over rows and rows of moats.
Turbero seemed unaffected by the strange sights and smells as he slowed the pace and finally spoke. “Dak, we exited an earlier CETA station that is now a maintenance location and it’s off-limits. This is the historic wing of Beaconhouse, which developed into Andromeda over two decades ago. Specialized scientists and agriculturist specialists work in the agriculture research lab. The suspended orbs are non-thermal plasma globes that provide energy to DWJ.”
Our pace shifted to a casual walk as Turbero continued, “Plasma is the fourth state of matter in addition to solid, liquid, and gas. Our interstellar space is filled with plasma. It’s the most common denominator of matter in the universe, measured by mass and volume. Over the years, the Andromeda lab developed innovative energy sources for fueling and operating DWJ’s facility. The fog area covers the water reservoir and an agricultural field. We are developing zero energy for the near future to fulfill our goals.”
Appreciating the historic Beaconhouse tour and their development, I still couldn’t shake my uneasiness. Was this a shortcut or needed exercise? Turbero seemed distracted as he glanced back twice as if we were being followed.
Moments later, I heard a strange beep.
Turbero whispered, “Dak, trust me. Do you understand?”
Confused by his comment, I replied, “Sure.”
Then I sensed motion behind me. Suddenly, a black-gloved hand grabbed my head and taped my mouth, and a black cloth covered my head. I struggled as hands turned my body, wrapping me in a thick plastic that cracked and popped. The wrap secured my shoulders, arms, hips, and thighs, leaving my knees with limited mobility to slide my feet forward. I felt mummified. Confusion and anger fueled my body sweat. What was happening? Turbero’s words—“Dak, trust me”—rang in my head. I couldn’t fathom a reason for this intrusion.
I counted my feet slides as my anger pumped blood through me. Unknown hands guided me along the marble floor. It took every effort to control myself and keep from vomiting or choking on my fluids. Could this be another test to disorient me or measure my fortitude?
Muffled sounds surrounded me as hands balanced me. I heard a voice say, “Stand still.” I sensed light on my mummy wrap. A strong computerized voice said, “Stand still, and don’t move,” as hands left me to balance myself.
Could I be standing in front of a firing squad? I imagined long-barreled rifles pointing at me. Unable to escape the firing squad, I stood my ground and formed my last thoughts, wishing I could yell, “Go to hell!” Although I didn’t believe in hell, the cursing thoughts satisfied my boiling anger. If not for the damn tape, I’d have laughed; instead, I swallowed back my bile, unable to speak.
The computerized voice shouted again, “Stand still!”
Then I heard clipping scissors. They were cutting the cloth from the back of my head. I wanted to shout that I didn’t want to see my executioners. Glimmers of light seeped through the half-clipped bag. Rebellious, I slid to the left, hoping to topple over, but all hell broke loose.
Groping hands tightly balanced me as a voice yelled, “Don’t move!” The sound seared my eardrums. Then rope was placed around my neck, and an object dangled from me.
Hands slipped away after propping me against the wall. Then I heard a shrill shout: “Action!”
A bright light penetrated the fabric of the bag, and a harsh voice yelled, “State your full name!”
At that second, I realized they were idiots. I turned my head sideways and murmured, forming more spit on my taped mouth. Then the voice said, “Pull the bag.”
The bag slipped from my head in one swoop, and in my periphery, I saw a blur of black gloves disappear. Staring at glaring bright lights, I couldn’t rub my eyes. I closed them to avoid the harsh light. Yellow light bounced under my closed lids.
The computerized voice yelled, “Open your eyes, and state your full name!”
I was confused by their request; they were beyond stupid idiots. Couldn’t they see the tape over my mouth? Were they taunting me? The lights seemed taunting as a gloved hand tore the tape from my mouth. I released a loud moan as the tape ripped stubble from my chin. My tongue moistened my raw lips.
The lights brightened, and a voice yelled, “State your full name!”
With a dry throat and stinging lips, I whispered, “Daren Alec Kyle.”
Then I heard another command: “Repeat your name louder, and spell it.” I did as they’d asked, and the voice bellowed, “You will answer our questions. Do you understand?”
I nodded, wondering what in the hell they wanted from me. And where in the hell was Turbero during this abduction? Had Turbero turned against me? I felt abandoned and ill.
“Do you have the SD card and analysis found on the dead courier in Arizona?” yelled the leader.
“Yes,” I said.
“Respond with a full sentence.”
I did.
“Does the disc around your neck contain the analysis?”
I assumed the rope around my neck held the disc. The stupid idiots had forgotten to tell me that. I yelled, “Yes!”
The black gloves immediately taped my mouth before I could utter another word.
Minutes passed as I stood in the blinding lights, only able to see black human forms in the distance. Then the room went black for a few seconds, and the bright lights returned.
Then I heard the voice say, “Let the bidding begin,” and I froze.
My heart sank. This was far worse than a firing squad. I stood in front of a live stream on the dark web. They were raffling me off to the highest bidder. At that moment, I wobbled and didn’t care if I fell. Instantly, black-gloved hands pressed me against the wall. I thought I heard a faint whisper say, “Just another minute,” but at that point, I couldn’t trust my depressed state of senses. Blinded, I was nauseated with tight mummy aches that equaled my worst migraine.
My knees weakened, and the thought of pissing on the mummy wrap entered my mind. Better yet, I would piss on Andromeda. My disturbed mind grasped for options. I hoped I didn’t live to see the highest bidder.
Minutes passed, or perhaps seconds, and then the room erupted into a roar of hand clapping and shouts of “We did it!” and “We have it!”
I was alarmed by the shouting as groping hands took off a layer of the mummy wrap. Relieved to have more breathing room, I stood still for them to finish and rip off the tape, but they left part of it on.
The blinding lights dimmed, and I saw my executioners. Turbero appeared apprehensive as he stood beyond my reach. Shocked, I glared at Peter, who stood next to him. I glanced around and looked at Cajun from Hydra and three cameramen. Turbero’s gloved hands led me to a chair. Peter insisted I sit while still loosely restrained by the wrap. Cajun and the cameramen left immediately.
Turbero spoke first. “Dak, I’m sorry, but this was our best solution. We will remove the wrap and tape after we explain. The reward for your capture and the images rose to four million dollars. Two days ago, the web instigator added an extra million for your capture with the images. Peter provided proof of your capture. Peter covertly works on the dark web, where he’s known as Satchel, a buyer and seller for intelligence and disinformation for DWJ analysis.”
Peter added, “Dak, this must appear as a betrayal, but we had to move on this opportunity. We analyzed the plan and agreed you were psychologically fit to endure this abusive action.”
My anger subsided as I listened, still unable to respond.
Turbero pulled a chair closer to me, saying, �
�Dak, it got complicated. We monitor the dark web closely. The reward rose, and the Sarasota lab explosion occurred. We are lacking facts. There is a connection, but we are investigating the aggressive actions. Last night, we received positive identity of three of our operatives who died in the explosion. John wasn’t among them, but investigators are still searching through the ash and rubble. We’ve confirmed that the video cameras went blank six minutes before the explosion. The last view was John entering the bunk bedroom after using the bathroom. There is a window in the bedroom. We are still investigating the video from that evening. I hope this clarifies why we needed to respond to the bidders. We are hoping to solve the deaths of our operatives, identify the bidders for your capture, and determine if they are linked to the explosion.”
Peter added, “Dak, I understand you must feel betrayed, but we had to convince you that you were a prisoner during the bidding. Cajun is running a program to identify the bidders IP addresses.”
Stunned by this revelation, I stared at the green backdrop in front of the camera whereby a layer of mummy wrap resembling snake skin piled on the floor.
I nodded that I understood. Turbero pulled a green packet from his pocket, dripped oil on my mouth tape, and carefully tore it off. Peter handed me a bottle of water. I took a swallow, and the fluid soothed my parched throat. I took another swig and swished the water in my mouth, hoping it cleared the bad taste that lingered. I wanted to spit the water onto the floor but swallowed it instead.
Turbero lifted me from the chair, and Peter removed the remaining wrap.
Turbero said, “Dak, I hope you understand how complicated this plot had to be. We are now in position to uncover the organizer and who is bidding. We have forty-eight hours to identify the offenders, which buys us time to solve this serious problem.”
Peter took a chair across the table, saying, “Dak, several days ago, the dark net published that you previously worked at Cascade and linked the articles about the dead hiker and courier. The site claims a catastrophic event is forthcoming on our planet. The confusing information is fueling panic for those who think they know, and they are proposing conspiracies about these images.”
My analytical mind processed the news and events since leaving Cascade.
“What’s the plan?” I asked, anticipating more bad news.
Turbero said, “First, we are controlling the bidding. Second, we bought forty-eight hours to identify the bidders. Third, we duplicated a setup with a mummy wrap and bag on the floor to trick the bidders looking for your location. We have agents at a backdrop location, prepared to arrest whoever responds to the illegal bid. We left a clue as we filmed the video.”
Surprised by the scam to find the bidders and the false clue, I asked, “What clue?”
Turbero grinned. “I’ve been working around the clock with Peter and Cajun. We have less than two days for the plan to work. We are prepared for the bid sponsor to contact us for your bogus release to the highest bidder. And if we don’t identify the sponsor or bidders before the time allotted, we have a second opportunity to follow the money exchange for your supposed release. We have calculated that millions are involved. We paid a hefty fee to bid on the dark web even though we claimed your capture. This money-making deal for the sponsor reaps monies on registration and probably a cut from the winning bidder.”
The plot was staggering. I stood and stretched, thinking back to the day when I’d first seen the images. I swung my arms around to release the tension from the mummy wrap. I looked around and asked, “Okay, now what?”
Turbero said, “Peter will take you to the Kryio’s Lab. They are waiting for you. I’ll be with Cajun at Hydra to see what the team has uncovered in the last thirty minutes.”
The insightful covert intelligence at DWJ gave me pause, but what did the bidders know or suspect that we didn’t? I felt more encouraged, even though the fake abduction had caught me off guard.
31
THE CIRCLES UNDER Turbero’s eyes looked terrible, but I had my own. Approving Adam and the group to work weighed heavily on him. I wouldn’t have endured this ordeal without the gurus, Ronzo, and DWJ. And guilt hung over me, knowing I had placed the gurus in peril too. These were thoughts I’d rather forget or bury.
Turbero collected the wrap and tape from the floor. he stuffed them into a disposable bag, swung it over his shoulder, and said, “Dak, I’m sure you and Peter need a few minutes to talk. Peter has been reprimanded for losing contact with you, but I’ll let him explain. I know our actions seem harsh, but we had to be proactive to solve the mounting problems.”
“You could have advised me,” I said sarcastically.
“Dak, it had to be convincing. We are not dealing with amateurs. And I told you to trust me,” Turbero said seriously.
“Agreed, but I wasn’t totally convinced,” I said lightheartedly.
Turbero grinned. “Cajun is waiting for me. Peter and you need to hash over a few things and be on track together.”
I watched Turbero leave realizing trust was an attribute that required a deeper understanding than unconditional love. One could mistrust another but still unconditionally love him or her. Turbero seemed to have the unique ability to know when to trust others. A Tom Campbell quote came to mind: “Wisdom is acquired by a vast amount of knowledge.” I could only imagine the vast knowledge and wisdom Turbero possessed, working at DWJ.
Peter passed me another bottle of water. “We need to clear the air before leaving for the Kryio’s Lab.” He tipped his chair and stroked his long black beard. “I regret I couldn’t meet you for breakfast. But I told Rustler to forewarn you about your danger on the dark web. I’ve followed this threat since meeting you. I’ve watched all the recorded meetings. The night we met at Pink’s Café, you didn’t tell me everything, and I assumed you would stay at the motel.”
“That evening, I didn’t know who to trust.”
Peter said with authority, “Dak, I needed to confirm your story and ascertain you hadn’t compromised BBB.”
“Admit it, Peter—you abandoned me in Sedona.”
“Bullshit. I sent Rustler to look after you. I had to confirm your story and inform Turbero. The next morning, I read a disturbing article on the dark web. I didn’t expect you to decline Rustler’s service.”
“What did you expect? I had to take action.”
“When I met with Turbero, he told me to meet with Cascade and assess the allegations. The breakfast meeting you arranged conflicted with my meeting with Cascade in Scottsdale. I told Rustler to warn you about the dark web. I didn’t expect you to leave the motel that day. And then I was questioned for mismanaging an operative and Rustler, who appeared to take orders from you.”
Obviously, Peter was upset that he had lost control.
Defensively, I replied, “I left Rustler a contact number and advised him Harmony needed protection.”
“I’m glad you did. I called your Ronzo number and left you a message. Then a day later, Harmony told me you arranged to be in Sarasota,” Peter snapped.
I realized Peter’s assessment vastly differed from mine. I was still amazed that Kisha had led me to the DWJ’s satellite lab. Then I’d had my world crushed by the deaths at the lab. I didn’t want to argue with Peter.
I kept my response short. “I had nothing to do with the lab bomb. After Adam closed the project, he dropped me at the restaurant. I had no idea what would happen. That morning, I decided I had to return to Sedona.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have stayed the night with Kisha or Harmony. You compromised their safety.”
I didn’t have a response. Any justification would have appeared lame. The Harmony or Kisha contact really upset him. I admitted, “I didn’t consider the repercussions.”
Peter sarcastically said, “There were many.”
I wanted to forget the day I’d sent Harmony to the motel. I asked, “Did Rustler tell
you we saw police milling around the motel?”
“Yes, and I saw the bulletin and knew someone wanted you.”
“I didn’t know about the motel killing or stolen vehicle claim until after I left for Sarasota.”
“Your unpredictable behavior complicated matters,” Peter retorted.
Peter scratched his head, leaving his thick black hair in more disarray. I understood Harmony’s interest in Peter. He had a commanding presence, good looks, and a bad-guy rebel attitude. Peter’s issue about my stay at Harmony’s place spoke loudly. I hoped he realized his negligence.
I said, “I’m glad we cleared the air. I really thought you were working against me. You need to be more up front.”
Peter grinned with his infectious smile. “Well, Dak, I never took you for a maverick. I should have given you more credit.” He stood. “We are on a time clock. And Kryio’s Lab is waiting for us.”
I suspected more interrogations would be forthcoming. My knees weakened as I stood and stretched, again.
Peter said, “You will sleep for two hours in a controlled environment, work for twelve hours, then sleep for two hours, and then work until time runs out. You’re missing sleep time, and it’s a five-minute jog to the Kryio’s Lab.” Peter collected our empty water bottles and said, “Let’s go.”
We jogged at a fast pace, passing two more moats in the historic Beaconhouse corridor. Anxious about Kryio’s Lab, I was curious about the name.
32
I ARRIVED AT KRYIO’S spa-like milieu for my two-hour sleep. Within a few minutes, I was submerged in a saltwater tank with a large sponge that held my head above the water line. I floated in darkness, inhaling rich lemon-scented oxygen and listening to faint binaural beats that lulled me into a heavy sleep.
The water tank provided the most peaceful sleep I had in months. I slipped into the jogging clothes given to me. Outside the room, Turbero was waiting for me. We exchanged banter about the tank, with me surmising that was how Turbero slept.
