by J. M. Lanham
Aguilar looked up defiantly. “Bird watching, señor.”
Prado laughed, then looked to Claire. “And what about this one? Are you here for the birds, too, señorita?”
“What can I say? The majestic call of the wild toucan gets me weak in the knees.”
“I see, I see.” Prado’s amused grin softened. “Well, I hate to ruffle your feathers”—he motioned for one of the soldiers to hand over the ring-bound rolodex—“but it appears our files say you are someone we’ve been looking for.” He flipped through the photos, then stopped. He turned the photo for Claire to see. “Yes, here it is. Ms. Claire Connor. That is, unless, you have a twin sister. Do you have a twin sister, Ms. Connor?”
Not a word.
“I did not think so. Well, this is a most fortunate turn of events, isn’t it?”
Aguilar spoke up. “What do you want with Claire?”
“That’s none of your concern, señor,” Prado said, stroking his thick mustache. “But, since we’re going to be working together for the foreseeable future, I might as well fill you in now. Tell me, Alejandro”—he nodded back to reference the facility behind him—“how much do you know about the installation here?”
“I know enough, Prado.”
“Sí? Did you know it is the product of the continual Yankee invasion into the affairs of a sovereign Central American country? The result of a company too afraid to test new technology on its own soil; too afraid to show its people the ugly side of capitalism; too afraid its citizens might cringe once they see the true cost of the products they so dearly crave. Tell me, Alejandro: does it feel good knowing your friend’s Yankee countrymen are using Costa Rica to do their dirty work?”
“And how much did they pay you, Prado?” Alejandro asked. “You think I don’t know about your history with the CIA? With Ryan Tanner?”
“A man like yourself should know there is a difference between keeping the enemy close and selling out one’s own country. I never gave up intel that would harm the homeland, cabrón. Only enough to keep the back channels open. Security forces were set to raid the facility when the volcano erupted. That is an indisputable fact.”
Claire asked, “So why is the facility still standing, Prado? And what do you want with us?”
“Yes, Prado,” Aguilar said. “You never answered my question.”
The government official sighed, then said, “When the smoke cleared, we realized the building was still intact. The exterior and upper level was heavily damaged by the wildfires, but the installation below was spared from the volcano’s wrath. Once inside, we discovered a foreign technology no government could pass up.”
“Because every government wants to rule the world—Costa Rica included,” Claire quipped.
“No, Ms. Connor. Because every government is responsible for the well-being of its people. It’s easy for you gringos to criticize the way things are done here when you get to go home to your dancing stars and football and safe suburban homes. But you are not going to stand there and tell me the United States would not jump at the opportunity to harness a weapon of this magnitude.
Prado shook his head in disgust. “Puta madre . . . Your government has been on top of the world since 1945, all thanks to a weapon not unlike this one. Almost 200 countries in the world today, and only nine have the ability to wipe the rest of us off the planet. And not a single one of them from Latin America. Well, no more. Now is the time for Costa Rica to rise up and claim its rightful seat at the table of world superpowers.”
A fire was in Prado’s eyes that Aguilar knew all too well. It was the fire of a man on a mission, one who would stop at nothing to achieve his goal. Still, he had to try and reason with his captor.
“Prado. Jefe. What lies in the basement of that facility isn’t some arsenal of nuclear warheads or smart bombs or nerve agent—it’s unlike anything we have ever seen before. Do you have any idea what the human cost could be just from deploying this technology even once?” Aguilar motioned toward Claire. “Without the outliers, Ocula 2.0 is useless. What about them? Can you live with yourself knowing you must kidnap and torture innocent civilians just to have the tools you need to use your weapon? And what happens to these tools once you no longer have a need for them?”
“The same thing that happens to every soldier once the campaign is over, cabrón. They get discharged.”
The callous omen triggered Aguilar and he had to act. He lunged toward Prado with the force of a linebacker, yelling to Claire as he drove his forward-leaning body into Prado’s chest.
“RUN, CLAIRE!”
The impact sent Prado crashing into the gravel behind him as the guards closed in on the chaos, yelling and dropping their rifles to pull Aguilar off their boss. Everyone was distracted by the ensuing dogpile, including the guard holding Claire’s arm. She turned into him and planted her knee deep into his gut, doubling him over before pushing him into the mix.
Then she ran.
It took four soldiers to pull Aguilar off Prado. They grabbed the assailant by the arms, and with one fluid motion hurled him off his target and into the front of the Jeep he’d ridden in on. Aguilar slammed into the grill back-first and let out a painful yell before sliding down and coming to rest against the front bumper.
Prado rose to his feet to see Claire disappearing into the tree line. “STOP HER!”
One of the guards raised his muzzle, only to have Prado grab the barrel and yank it toward the ground. “You fool!” he said, “We need her alive!” The soldier kept his weapon lowered and gave chase. Two more followed, but it didn’t matter. Prado already knew she was gone.
He dusted his shirt off, his furious eyes returning to his attacker’s. “You sanctimonious hijo de puta. You stand here preaching your concern for innocents, yet you have no problem colluding with Yankee bitches to sabotage the best interests of your own countrymen. You think I know nothing of your family’s wealth, or how they acquired it? You’re nothing more than a narco, amigo. Your hands are not as clean as you would like to think.”
Aguilar sat in the gravel, exasperated but pleased with himself. He looked toward the jungle, satisfied Claire would make it to safety. Then he looked back to his captor. “No one will stand for this, Prado. What you are doing here is a crime against humanity. The people of Costa Rica will never stand for it.”
Prado replied, “What the people don’t know is what makes them the people, Aguilar.”
“They will know, Prado. You won’t be able to keep this quiet forever. And you cannot expect me to carry your dark secrets once you have finished playing God here.”
Tensions mounted in a silent stalemate, the cool breeze rustling the leaves of surrounding trees not strong enough to clear the conflict from the air. Prado paced in front of Aguilar, hand cupped over his chin, finger tapping his mustache in contemplation. Finally, he stopped, reached behind his back, and pulled a pistol from his belt.
“You know something, Alejandro? You’re right. I would never expect you to keep quiet.”
Aguilar spit on the ground as Prado raised the muzzle to his head. Time slowed down and the world went quiet as the aristocrat watched Prado’s index finger wrap around the trigger. He closed his eyes and silently recited The Lord’s Prayer, “Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo, santificado sea tu nombre . . .”
That’s when they heard it, the sound halting both Aguilar’s prayers and Prado’s half-pulled trigger. It was a strange sound overhead, one that could have easily been mistaken for a single-prop airplane had they not been in the middle of nowhere. But it couldn’t be a plane—it was too subtle, softer than any propeller-powered device he had ever heard before. It whirled and hummed from above as the noise grew louder.
Prado knew the sound all too well. He turned to look, and that’s when he saw it.
“DRONE!”
He packed his pistol back into his belt and took off running, screaming at his men to get as far away from the facility as possible. The soldiers panicked, not sure where to run,
some dropping their rifles and sprinting down the gravel road while others made for the trees.
Aguilar, on the other hand, didn’t move a muscle. He sat still and waited, saying one last prayer for Claire’s safety, and then another: that soon he would be with his wife again. He closed his eyes once more and the missiles fell, the all-white flash from the blast followed by a shockwave that knocked Aguilar unconscious long before the flames ever reached him. Soon the entire area was being devoured by hungry red-orange clouds that billowed outward from ground zero and consumed every living thing in sight. Fast and merciless. Nothing was spared.
It appeared that Alejandro Aguilar’s boyhood premonition had been little more than a dream after all.
***
In the distant jungle, no more than a mile from the facility, Claire heard the sounds of a massive explosion in the direction she was fleeing from. She dove behind a log to take cover in case the airstrike continued. Immediately, she thought of the bombings in the Baltics, how the powerful blasts could be felt from miles away.
This one was worse. The ground shook and the jungle reacted as birds fled their nests and animals rustled through the dense underbrush in search of higher ground. It was utter chaos as the deafening blast climaxed, then fainted and echoed into the distance, then disappeared.
The stillness of the jungle returned, and Claire thought about Han. My God. No one could have survived that. No one. She lay by the log, arm bent and resting on top. She buried her face in the crease of her arm and began to cry.
Chapter 16:
Premonition
The warm mid-morning sun shone through a set of thin and dingy curtains covering the plate-glass window in Donny’s room, creating a greenhouse effect that, on most days, would have been more than enough to wake the hot-natured houseguest from his slumber. But this morning was different. It was getting dangerously close to noon, and Donny was still asleep.
On a typical day, Donny would already be up well before seven, with most of his chores around the monastery finished by lunchtime (Dawa was all for charity, but would never suffer his old friend to live as a freeloader). He would spend the afternoons reading and meditating, then cook a meal for supper that he usually wound up eating alone. With his belly full and the day winding down, he’d return to the seclusion of his bedroom to finish up a few more chapters before calling it lights out around eleven. This had been the routine for months, with few exceptions.
This was one of those exceptions.
When Donny finally opened his eyes to glance at the clock on his nightstand, the green flashing numbers brought a crooked smile to his face. 11:15 a.m. Exactly eight hours since I took Ocula. Incredible.
The efficacy of the gene-altering drug never ceased to amaze him. His entire career had been spent on what critics called pseudoscience: techniques that couldn’t be verifiably quantified or proven. That’s where the pitch came in. Creating a presentation to convince followers that his pricey programs were the answer to their problems had taken years of trial and error to perfect—and just as much time finding the right target market. Middle-aged women, 45 to 54, annual income between $25,000 and $50,000, and most importantly: women of faith. It was faith that transformed those buyers-on-the-fence into lifetime customers. True believers. Folks who would follow Donny Ford to the ends of the earth, if he so desired.
But with Ocula, no faith was required. You took the pill, and it did exactly what it said it would, down to the minute. It didn’t need a sales pitch or persuasive ad copy or even those annoying minutes-long television ads—it just worked.
He lay awake in bed for a few minutes and collected his thoughts, then he got up and got dressed, throwing on a fresh T-shirt while thinking about his past experiences with medications. He remembered the first time he’d gone under general anesthesia after reporting to the ER for abdominal pain. The stress of life on the road had caught up to him in Phoenix, and after a few hours in a sleep-induced state, he’d awoken to learn a half-dozen ulcers had perforated his stomach lining, wreaking chaos on his abdominal cavity.
It had been a harrowing experience, but the strict diet, abstinence from alcohol and caffeine, and the months of recovery that followed weren’t the first things to come to Donny’s mind when someone mentioned ulcers. No, instead it was the general anesthesia that stuck with him. Propofol, the stuff made famous at the turn of the century by a questionable California doctor who had put one of the biggest pop stars in modern history to sleep for good.
Potent stuff, Donny thought as he buttoned up a Hawaiian shirt, trying not to dwell too much on the pain in his hand left over from the auto accident. Pretty effective, too. It was the only drug Donny could think of that did exactly what it said it would. But it was given under the strict direction of an anesthesiologist—a medical professional with no less than twelve years of higher education standing at bedside from start to finish. One mistake, one miscalculation, one drug as innocuous as an herbal supplement a patient failed to mention prior to surgery, and the milky white solution creeping through an IV could be the last thing a patient ever saw.
That’s what made Ocula so different. Revolutionary, even. Instead of applying the sweeping effects found in opioids or statins or anesthesia, Ocula found the specific source of the problem—a single sequence in the genetic code—and fixed it. And once the gap in the line of code was fixed, no amount of Ocula could result in an overdose; what patients didn’t need simply took a one-way trip out via the renal system.
If only I had thought something like that up, maybe I wouldn’t be in this mess. Dreaming about a career in biotech was a stretch for someone like him, but it was a nice thought nonetheless. He took one last look in the mirror, then left his room just before noon, making his way to the kitchen to scramble up something for brunch. Dawa had gotten in just before sunrise but would probably be up soon, given that the man had been running on catnaps for the last six months. It was crucial for Donny to get his ducks in a row before explaining to the detective why they needed to hit the road as soon as possible.
Unfortunately, Ford had little time to hatch up a story. He stood in front of a stove that wasn’t even hot yet when Dawa walked in.
“Good afternoon, Donald. I trust you slept well?” Dawa asked as he walked past the amateur chef and straight toward his favorite mug.
“Slept great. And you?”
“Oh, you know me. I find long slumbers give the mind too much time to forget the knowledge acquired from the day before.” The guru was already dressed, his empty cup dangling from his finger as he stared at the empty stovetop. He looked at Donny, eyebrows raised as if to inquire about a missing tea kettle.
“Sorry, Graham. You know I typically don’t sleep in like this.”
“That is quite all right, Donald. So long as it does not become a habit. I know how much you have been through, but you have come too far to slip back into a depressive state of mind. We cannot let that happen, my friend.”
Ford nodded in agreement as he set the kettle and a frying pan on the stove. Dawa took a seat on a stool at the large oak island in the center of the kitchen.
“So, Donald. How is the leg?”
Curiosity arose on Donny’s face. His old friend wasn’t one for small talk. He shook his head and affirmed, “It’s good, Graham. Still got the limp, but it’s not too bad most days. Other than that, it’s all good. Thanks for asking.”
“And the hand?”
A spatula was nearby and Donny snagged it, twirling it in circles and showing off his range of motion. “Good as new . . . Say, Graham. No disrespect, but what’s with all the health questions? Worried I’m gonna croak before we get a chance to nail these Pharma Bros.?”
“No, of course not. I am just concerned for your well-being, that’s all. I have not seen you sleep this late in months.”
“Well, with all due respect, you’re usually still at work by the time I get up.”
Dawa couldn’t disagree there. Work was taking a toll; harboring a fugitive
even more so. He knew he couldn’t keep up the pace forever. He rubbed a set of bloodshot eyes and waited patiently for the water to boil.
“So,” Dawa said, “if you are not in any pain, and everything is all good, as you say, then what kept you in bed half of the day?”
Two eggs cracked at the edge of a cast-iron pan, and Ford started in. “I’m glad you asked that, Dawa,”—he glanced back at his friend, then continued cooking—“and, I’m also glad you’re sitting down.”
“Do you have something important to tell me, Donald?”
“Yeah. Actually, I do. Do you remember the dreams I told you about when I first came to the monastery last February?”
Dawa remembered.
“Well, I’ve had a lot of time to think about everything over the last few months. Especially some of the things we first talked about; how you thought the pill couldn’t possibly have an effect on reality; how you thought my dreams were little more than maddening montages of my worst fears and anxieties.”
Dawa was tired and reluctant to engage. He had made it crystal clear in the past that he didn’t believe the combination of meds and meditation could grant a user the ability to hold power or persuasions over other sentient beings. It also appeared his old friend hadn’t changed his mind one bit. He took a deep breath, then asked, “Where are you going with this, Donald?”
Donny set the spatula on the counter and turned around. “I know where we can find Fenton Reed.”
Dawa’s eyes flickered and his brow pushed inward. The man who always had all the answers, who could always be counted on to deliver a wise or witty or instructional retort, was at a loss for words. Finally, almost afraid to ask, “How do you know where Fenton Reed is, Donald?”
“Because I had a dream about his whereabouts last night.”
