“In the north part of the city,” he says. “No way that drone followed us in here, so let’s hope whoever is controlling it has given up already.”
Tony makes a sharp right turn, enters another tunnel that has a gentle uphill grade to it. The further we maneuver it, the more I can make out a light at the end of the tunnel.
“There’s our exit,” he says, confidently. “Get ready, Tan.”
Not bothering to slow down, he prepares to plow through the boards. I hold on for dear life as he smashes through the barrier, making splinters out of it. He cruises along a dirt road for maybe one-hundred yards until he pumps the brakes and hooks a skidding right turn back onto Broadway. His eyes gazing into the rearview, I see his expression go south.
“You have got to be shitting me,” he says. “How the hell did that thing follow us through those tunnels?”
I turn and see the drone right back on our ass.
“Only one way it’s following us that close,” Tony says, answering his own question. “It’s got to be tracking us.”
“You think they’ve locked onto our smartphone signals?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Smartphones are tough to track nowadays, even for Everest. I think somebody stuck a tracking device on the Jeep somewhere.”
In my head, I see the creepy face of Matt Tyrel.
“Matt,” I say.
“Yup,” he says. “I’ve got one last idea for getting rid of this drone. Only, you’re not going to like it.”
“Why wouldn’t I like it?” I say.
Reaching across my lap, he opens the glove box, pulls out a gun. What looks to me like a Kimber .45 caliber, Model 1911.
“Excellent choice in weaponry,” I say, even if I am a little shocked that Tony would be in the possession of a hand cannon.
He closes the box. “I got my license just a couple years prior to the handgun ban after the partial repeal of the Second Amendment.”
“So, it’s legal?” I ask.
“Grandfathered in, thank God,” he says.
“Would it surprise you to know I also have my license? Also grandfathered.”
He shoots me a quick glance.
“Tanya Teal, shooting a gun?” he says. “I don’t believe it.”
“Live in New York City for a while and you’ll believe it. It’s not the New York of the twenty-tens, that much I can assure you.”
“Gospel,” he says. Then, “Take the wheel and bring your left foot around and press it on the gas.”
“Why don’t you let the AI drive?”
“Because it will go too slow and obey all the rules of the road. Humans are still better drivers. Especially when we’re being chased.”
Taking hold of the wheel with my left hand, I raise my left foot, and bring it around the center column. I press my toes against Tony’s booted foot. He slips the foot out from under mine so that only my foot is pressing against the gas pedal. The Jeep bucks and slows up for a second, but I’m able to immediately build up speed.
“You good?” he asks.
“I think so,” I say.
Unbuckling his seatbelt, he turns completely around so that he’s kneeling on the bucket seat. I’m watching the road, but I’m also straining to watch Tony out the corner of my eye. He’s planting a bead on the drone with his gun. That’s what my thriller authors used to call it when their characters aimed their guns at someone or something—planting a bead. It wasn’t until I got my license and started attending the range on a regular basis that I understood what they meant.
He fires.
“Got it!” he shouts. Judging by the sound of his voice, it’s like he’s having fun.
“Is it dead?”
“No such luck,” he says. “Still flying. Still on our tail.”
We enter a quiet North Albany neighborhood that doesn’t look all that different from Pine Hills with its many old Sears bungalow kits lining both sides of the road. Up ahead, a red traffic light. A mother and her two kids are crossing the road. She’s holding their hands.
“Tony,” I say, “I’ve got to hit the brakes.”
He fires again. I hit the brakes and he falls against the windshield, dropping the gun into my lap.
“What the hell are you doing, Tan?” he barks.
“Trying to avoid a triple homicide,” I say, glancing at the gun in my lap.
The mother and two kids run for cover while I blow through the light. In the near distance, Broadway ends. I’ve either got to make a very hard right or an equally hard left or just stop altogether, which is not an option. Not with that thing still chasing us.
“We’re running out of road, Tony,” I warn, while picking up the gun. “We gotta kill that thing now or we’re toast. You want me to give it a whirl?”
“Just give me one more shot,” he says. “This bitch is mine.”
I hand him the gun, grip first. I can’t exactly see him, but I can tell he’s doing his best to make this shot count. He fires again.
“Got it!” he screams. “Crash fucking landing!”
I take my foot off the gas and allow Tony to take over the driving again. Turning, I spot the crashed remains of the drone now littering the street. Tony stores the pistol in the center console cup holder beside the sausage sandwich and slows the Jeep down enough to make a left-hand turn onto another neighborhood road. Pulling over to the curb, he throws the Jeep in park and gets out. He goes around to the back of the vehicle. In the side-view mirror, I can see him feeling under the Jeep’s rear end. It takes him maybe thirty seconds, but then I see him yank something out from under the vehicle’s rear bumper.
“Sometimes, I hate it when I’m right,” he says, bringing the small digital device around to the passenger side seat. “That, my new girlfriend, is a professional grade tracking device.” He drops it to the pavement, stamps on it with his boot heel. “Or was a professional grade tracking device.”
Picking up the now crushed device, he walks a little up the road until he finds a sewer grate. He drops the destroyed device into the sewer and returns to the Jeep, slipping back behind the wheel.
“Next move, Tan,” he says, like a question while returning the pistol to the glovebox.
“They’re watching us,” I say. “Or were watching us. My car . . . crap, my mother’s car . . . is still at your place.”
“We can’t go back there, Tan. Not yet anyway. They attached the tracking device to my Jeep which means they attached one to your ride, too. That creep, Matt Tyrel, must have followed you to my place after tracking you down at the coffee shop this morning.”
“Tell you what,” I say. “Why don’t we head back to my parent’s house? They are as Everest dot com law abiding as two people can get. They even kiss up to Jacquie. No way they’re on Everest police radar. We can hide out there until we figure out our next move.”
He nods.
“But what about Jacquie?” he asks.
“Maybe she won’t be the wiser if we simply act like nothing is wrong.”
“I guess it’s worth a shot,” he says.
“Might be our only shot, Tony,” I say.
“Pine Hills,” he says after a beat. “Do your folks still live in the same house?”
I can’t help but smile.
“You don’t think Bradly Teal The Hardware Man would ever move, do you?”
“Answer enough,” Tony says, pulling away from the curb.
As we’re driving back toward the heart of the city, I rerun the events of the day, try to make sense of them. Meeting Matt Tyrel this morning while jogging must not have been a coincidence. From the moment I signed on with the Everest Primary Program just last night, the corporate higher ups must have singled me out for something . . . red flagged me, so to speak.
But for what, exactly?
Do they consider me a risk?
Why?
Maybe they knew I was questioning the program prior to joining it. But who would have told them that? The only person I truly voice
d my concerns with were my dad. I also voiced my concerns to Kate, but I never said anything that would make Everest overly suspicious of me. I’m an out of work editor. I’m not exactly a threat. Certainly, I’m not a part of the resistance movement Gus Truman was going on about. That is, a resistance movement against a giant corporation like Everest truly exists.
None of this is making much sense to me. The only thing that does make sense is that Matt Tyrel was somehow assigned to me from the beginning. He followed me to the coffee shop and from there to Tony’s apartment where he placed some kind of high-tech tracking device on Tony’s Jeep. And like Tony said, no doubt there’s one on Mom’s car now, too. We made the mistake of getting drunk and going to Gus’s for some good eats, knowing the place was strictly out of bounds. But we did learn something very important while we were there. I’ll say it again. The Resistance. If what Gus says is true—that there are people hiding in the mountains bent on destroying the Everest Corporation . . . people off-grid . . . people who will never be slaves to Everest—then the world’s most massive corporation is about to face an armed uprising.
So, where do we stand now that we’ve destroyed the drone that was tailing us? It can only mean one thing. We are wanted by the Everest Police. It means we’re criminals in the eyes of Everest Corporate law. But that’s ridiculous. I’ve never gotten so much as a parking ticket and now it feels like Tony and I are running for our very lives. There’s got to be some kind of logical explanation to all this, and some sort of logical way of setting things straight. Maybe in the end, what it will take is our heading over to the Everest New York State Headquarters, turning ourselves in (so to speak), and pleading our case. We’ll simply apologize for patronizing Gus’s Hotdog Shack and everything will be hunky dory again. Plus, Mom and Dad will accompany us and help set everything straight. Everest can even take the cost of the drone out of mine and Tony’s Everest credits if it means that much to them.
Already, I’m beginning to feel more optimistic about our situation when Tony pulls onto Fairlawn Avenue and pulls up to number 20—my parents’ old yellow bungalow.
“Wow, Tan,” he says, killing the Jeep engine. “Been a long, long time since I last pulled up to this curb.” He grins. “Times have changed, but I’ll be damned if this place doesn’t look exactly the same. And that makes me feel good.”
We both get out, head up the concrete steps to the front porch. Pulling my keys from my bag, I unlock the wood door and open it. Tony steps inside and I follow, closing the door behind me. I immediately get the sensation the place is empty.
“Mom?” I call out. “Dad? You guys home? I have a surprise for you.”
But no one answers. Taking a step or two inside, my insides turn cold and goosebumps cover my skin. Crossing over the living room, my eyes gravitate to the dining room table. Not only is there an open bottle of beer set before Dad’s breakfast plate, but his reading glasses have been left behind along with his Cradle device. The device is still on, as if my dad only got up to grab himself another beer.
“Everything all right, Tan?” Tony says after a long beat.
I shake my head.
“Something’s most definitely not right,” I say, a little under my breath. “My dad would never leave his reading glasses behind, and he’s an absolute stickler for conserving the battery on his Cradle when he’s not using it.”
My eyes shift to my mother’s end of the table. Her dirty breakfast plate is still sitting out. Something she would never allow if she was heading out for just a few minutes or a whole day. I take a few more steps toward her chair. It’s been knocked over. Heart jumps up into my throat.
“Tony,” I say, slightly under my breath. “Go get your gun.”
I picture my own gun locked away in my underwear drawer in my bedroom. I also recall that I am entirely out of ammo which renders the piece entirely useless since it’s a 9mm. Means I can’t borrow any ammo from Tony.
He’s turning for the door when the alarm sounds.
The alarm is a high-pitched, repeating siren that makes my eardrums feel like they’re bleeding. Where the hell it’s coming from, I have no idea. It must be a part of the Everest security system that was wired into the old home’s walls and ceiling some time ago. For sure I know it’s a part of the system when Jacquie begins to repeat the words “Primary Termination! Primary Termination! Primary Termination!” over and over again.
“Jesus, Tony!” I shout. “They were waiting for us!”
“Let just get the hell out of here, Tanya!”
“You don’t have to tell me twice.”
The sound of heavy mechanical locking devices pervades the air. I thrust myself at the front door, try to pull it open. But it won’t budge.
“Jesus,” I say. “Everest is locking us in.”
Tony picks up one of the chairs from the dinner table, carries it to the window. He makes like he’s about to toss it through the front plate glass. But a series of steel vertical bars drop down and close it off, trapping us inside like wild animals in a cage. I can’t believe my eyes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I have got to be dreaming this nightmare up.
“Holy shit,” Tony says, “we’re trapped, Tan.”
“Primary Termination!” Jacquie repeats. “Primary Termination!”
I want to shoot the AI bitch . . .
The house siren is still blaring, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make out something happening outside the house.
“Tony,” I say, “you hear that?”
We both stand very still.
“More sirens,” he says. “But those are coming from police cruisers.”
“I think I can hear a helicopter also, Tony. Maybe more than one helicopter.”
He raises his hands like he’s telling me he’s fresh out of ideas.
“Tony Smart to Tanya Even Smarter!” he says, his face tighter than a tick. “What the hell do we do now?”
It hits me then that there might just be a way out of here. But it’s going to mean a little bit of climbing.
“Follow me,” I say to Tony, as I head for the staircase.
“Where we going?” he asks.
“I’d tell you, but Jacquie is listening.”
He follows anyway.
Bounding the stairs, two at a time, I stop when I reach the second-floor hallway. Heading into my parents’ bedroom, I go into their closet and locate an old stick that’s got a hook attached to it. I carry the stick back out into the hallway and use the hook to latch onto a second hook attached to a rectangular ceiling panel. The panel belongs to a combination door/ladder that accesses the attic.
“Brilliant,” Tony says not without a smile.
Pulling down the spring-operated, retractable wood ladder, I climb up into the attic space. Tony follows close on my heels. When he gets to the top, I tell him to pull the ladder back up and seal the door.
“Good idea, Tan,” he says. “Now what?”
The attic is hot in the summer and in the winter it’s cold as hell. Regardless of season or temperature, I used to play up here when I was a little girl. It was my hideout and my refuge—a place for a girl who knew from the time she started writing her first words that she wanted to be a writer someday or, at the very least, make my living creating books. That said, I didn’t come up here to play with Barbie dolls way back then. Instead, I came up here to create my first little books which usually consisted of crayon drawings on colored construction paper, maybe with a little caption or two written under the artwork. I must have created dozens of those little books that my mother has stored somewhere for safe keeping.
Raising my hand, I point to a thin metal panel embedded in the roof.
“You see that there, Tony?” I say. “My dad was always paranoid that if ever a fire started downstairs while we were sleeping, there’d be no way out. So, he built this removable panel into the roof as a last resort exit. All we have to do is find a way to open it.”
“You got a ladder?” he asks while lo
oking around.
I search the place with my eyes. I spot something that might work.
“How about a chair?” I say.
“Good enough,” he says.
There’s a couple of extra dining room chairs stored in the far corner. I grab one for Tony and place it under the removable panel embedded in the gabled roof.
“This shouldn’t be that much of a problem,” he says. “It’s held in place by four butterfly screws.”
He attempts to loosen the first screw.
“Jesus,” he says, “what the hell did your father tighten these with?”
“It must be the heat up here,” I say, feeling my brow now beaded with sweat. “Everything expands.”
Outside the house, the sirens are getting louder. Big Sister Jacquie can also be heard repeating “Primary Termination” again and again and again. It’s entirely unnerving. The chop-chop-chop sound of helicopter rotors is getting louder. It becomes so loud, the entire house shakes. It suddenly feels like the helicopter is about to chop off the roof.
“Christ, that’s way too close,” Tony barks.
“We have to get out of here, Tony. How are those bolts coming?”
“I need help,” he insists, wiping his brow with his forearm. “Something to loosen them up. Something like a hammer or a wrench.”
I search the space again. Making my way over to a pile of boxes, I search them ideally for a hammer. But nothing of the sort is to be found. It’s then that I hear the house’s front door open so fast it slams against the wall. Mouth goes dry, and my stomach cramps.
Gazing over at Tony.
“The police must have a way of overriding the locks,” I say.
My heart is pounding in my chest and in my head.
“Quick, Tan,” Tony begs. “Find me something to loosen these damned bolts.”
“I’m trying, I’m trying.”
I see the typewriter sitting on the floor. It’s an old solid metal typewriter from the 1940s that belonged to my great grandfather back when he was in the army during the Second World War. I remember playing with it as a child. I have no idea if it will work, but it’s worth a shot. Picking up the heavy machine, I carry it across the floor and hand it to Tony.
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