“Doubt it. Even though I have about thirty witnesses to Soto’s confession, the prosecutor would still need a recording of it.”
I placed a thumb drive on his desk and, as I took my gloved hand off it, it appeared.
“What’s this?”
“The recording you need. I wiped my prints from it first.”
Gamble stared at the little USB device. “I’m already getting grilled about the identity of the other person in that conversation, the unknown female. It doesn’t help that before the docs put a cast on Soto’s hand and administered pain killers, he babbled on and on about the invisible woman who broke his hand with a baton of some kind. How do I explain that?”
I ambled around Gamble’s office, perusing the plaques and photos hanging on his walls. This was a good morning. I was . . . happy? At peace? Relieved?
A full one-half of the burdens I’d been carrying had lifted off my back. My gift of Soto to the FBI would ensure the FBI’s cooperation for Dr. Bickel’s safety and Cushing’s downfall—relieving me of the other half of my burdens.
“What happened after they set Soto’s hand and gave him painkillers?”
Gamble scowled. “He clammed up. Wouldn’t open his mouth except to say, ‘attorney.’ We kept after him until his slick lawyer showed up but, even then, the guy just sneered at us. Like he knew something we didn’t. He’s hiding something, but I don’t know what.”
“Hmmm.” My “good” morning dissolved. I rolled my shoulders, a vague disquiet tensing my muscles.
“‘Hmmm?’ That’s all you’ve got?”
“No, of course not.” I returned to Gamble’s question. “Don’t you use informants? Can’t you pass me off as one of them? Say that you can’t reveal my identity?”
“Well . . .”
“So you can.”
He didn’t answer, but he picked up the flash drive and inserted it into his computer.
“Uh, before you get started on that, Agent Gamble . . .” I waited until I had his attention.
“Yeah? What is it?”
Right. Knowing the FBI owed you a favor and spelling it out were two different things.
“I, um, I need to talk to you about . . . Dr. Bickel.”
“Okay.” Gamble sat back and waited.
“You recall how I told you Cushing had him stashed somewhere?”
“Yeah. I remember.”
“Well, I know where that ‘somewhere’ is.”
Silence. Gamble never flicked an eyelash. He wasn’t going to make this easy for me. Not one bit.
I sucked in air and pushed on. “I’m going after him, Agent Gamble. I’m going to break him out.”
Then Gambled did blink. Once.
“On your own?”
“I’m not exactly ‘on my own,’ you know.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
It sounded as stupid to him as it had to me a couple of weeks ago. If I allowed myself to dwell on my lack of qualifications, it would become stupid all over again.
“You don’t need to concern yourself over me, Agent Gamble, but . . . but afterward? Afterward, I’ll need . . . a favor.”
There. It was out on the table.
“What kind of ‘favor’?”
“A temporary refuge for Dr. Bickel. A place of safety. The kind that Cushing can’t crash with her stormtroopers.”
His brows shot up. “Here?”
“Actually, the El Paso field office will be closer . . . when we need it.”
“You aren’t going to tell me where he’s at?”
“No.”
He sighed. “Miss Keyes—Gemma, if I may call you that? Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you do succeed in breaking Dr. Bickel out. How, exactly, do you intend to get Bickel to an FBI facility?”
“I want you to help me. You . . . you owe me, Gamble.”
He sighed again. “For Soto?”
“Yes. For . . . Graciella.”
It was a low blow, but a valid one.
Gamble used thumb and forefinger to massage his eyes. I guessed he was short on sleep, since the LEOs hadn’t finished mopping up at Soto’s house until morning—and Gamble had alluded to interrogating Soto late into the night.
“Look, Gemma, this is how it is. If you showed up here with Bickel, I would let you in, I would do my level best to keep Cushing out, keep her from taking him—and I think the SAC would back me. But I’m not attached to the El Paso office. Yes, they know me, but I have no clout there, no authority.”
“You’re saying bring him here? What if . . . what if getting him here were problematic? Maybe even impossible? What if Cushing had all the roads blocked?”
He looked away, stared into space, for a minute. When he spoke, he lowered his voice. “If you were to give me a heads-up, a timetable? dispatch a helo to pick you up. It would land right here.”
I liked the idea. A lot. “Okay. That sounds good. So, I can count on you?”
Here Gamble looked indecisive. Worried. “Yes, of course you can count on me, Gemma. You’re right—I do owe you for delivering Soto—and I also wouldn’t mind bringing Cushing down, but . . . what troubles me is the likelihood that you’ll walk out that door, and I’ll never see you again.”
I snickered. “Hard to be worried about never seeing me again when you’ve never seen me in the first place.”
“Brat. You know what I mean—and joking about it doesn’t changed the danger you’re putting yourself in. What if . . . what if you told me where Cushing has Dr. Bickel and I tried to sell his story to my boss?”
Gamble’s concern touched my heart, but I had little faith in government bureaucracy.
“Unfortunately, Cushing is transferring Dr. Bickel to another facility in about a week, and I don’t know which one. If I don’t make a move now, I will lose him. Do you honestly think the wheels of the FBI would grind fast enough to beat that deadline? I mean, if they budged at all. Because it would be a hard sell, right? Convincing your boss and his boss that a two-star Air Force General has a renowned scientist imprisoned against his will in violation of his constitutional rights? Oh, make that a dead scientist. And you learned all of this how? From an invisible woman?”
“Well, when you say it like that . . .” Gamble mumbled.
“I’m going to do this, Agent Gamble. I’ll leave, um, certain documents for you, in the event things go . . . awry, but I’m going to do this. Should I succeed, I need to know that I can count on your help afterward.”
He nodded his head, but he wasn’t happy. “Yeah. Okay. You can count on me, Gemma. And God bless and help you.”
“Thank you, Agent Gamble.”
Even for the blessing.
I knew I would need all the help I could muster.
~~**~~
Chapter 25
Our plan was to depart Albuquerque on Sunday afternoon and arrive at Dr. Bickel’s location on the missile range just after dark. The mites and I hoped Dr. Bickel’s weekend guards would be more relaxed. Less vigilant.
I made my preparations Saturday night. I retrieved five bundles of cash from the room downstairs and stuffed them into a backpack. I then filled another small bag with basic emergency supplies: a blanket, four bottles of water, ready-to-eat food, flashlight, and a first-aid kit. Readied my quiver.
Under cover of deep darkness, I slipped from the house and jogged to the parking garage, taking the supplies with me. I packed them into the Escape where they joined four empty five-gallon gas cans.
I drove out of the garage to DCC and let myself into Zander’s office. I slipped a sealed envelope into his locked desk drawer. The envelope held a note and a flash drive. The mites had downloaded a copy of my journal onto the drive. I had them add the overhead images of the house where Dr. Bickel was being held, the schematics of the house, and the audio file of Cushing’s classified conversation with Colonel No-Name—enough evidence to launch an investigation.
The note was short. Terse.
If things go wrong, deliver this drive to Spe
cial Agent Ross Gamble, FBI.
No salutation, no signature.
From there I drove to a self-serve station and filled the gas cans. I returned to the garage and left the car, but took the backpack holding the money. I shouldered the cash and jogged across town to a Chevy dealership.
I’d already selected a truck, a black Silverado 4WD with tinted windows. If it couldn’t make the less-than four-mile trek from the highway to Dr. Bickel and back, then nothing short of a tank could. I preferred to buy and not steal the vehicle since we’d be roughing it up out there in the desert, perhaps even ditching it at some point. Buying it also meant that we shouldn’t encounter any cops who were out looking for a stolen rig.
Getting pulled over would be awkward, to say the least.
I experienced no apprehension or misgivings as I sprinted toward my destination; instead, an odd calm settled on me, a strange confidence, as though—somehow—things were going to be all right. When I’d researched this auto dealership, I’d discovered that they were closed the first Sunday of each month—“for family time,” their website disclosed—and it didn’t escape my notice that the first Sunday of December was the very day most accommodating to our plans. The propitious fluke was unmistakable.
Happenstance . . . or Providence?
I jogged on, then stretched my legs and sprinted. I reveled in the pleasure of running, of my limbs—every muscle, bone, ligament, and tendon—moving and flowing in flawless harmony, the strength of my heart and lungs powering me onward.
It was dark, but I ran on, my stride fluid and graceful. I felt . . . at peace as I ran. Elated, if you will. It was a delight to apply my body so wholly and thoroughly, to experience this effortless physical freedom and license.
A tiny phrase slipped into my mind. I mouthed it, turned it over in my heart.
I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Joy washed over me. This is how my body was made to work. How it was intended to function.
Enhanced by the nanomites or not, this ease of motion—this wild abandon!—was the most normal and natural thing in the world. I speculated over the remembered phrase and wondered where I’d picked it up.
“Nano, where have I heard these words?” I repeated them to the mites. “Where do they come from?”
Gemma Keyes, the complete verse, taken from Psalm 139, reads,
I will praise you,
for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Marvelous are your works,
and that my soul knows very well.
I conceded to yet another serendipitous moment, one of a long list I could no longer dismiss or fob off to mere coincidence. I breathed a quick acknowledgement. “All right. If you’re watching, if you’re as real as Zander says you are, will you help us, please?”
Zander had told me that God was calling me; Zander said that God would confront me. I nodded my acquiescence. That time wasn’t now, but it was near.
Then the mites piled on.
Gemma Keyes, we know Dr. Bickel made us, but who made you?
Laughing, I raced forward.
***
When we reached the dealership, all was quiet and still. We had decided that I would pay for and take the truck tonight so that (in a perfect world) its absence would not be noticed until Monday morning. If we weren’t back in Albuquerque by then, any mystification over a cash sale would no longer matter.
We opened whatever doors we needed to and hacked into their computer system. As our “ownership” was required for no more than a few hours, we made the purchase under a fictitious name; I left $45,000 in an envelope on the showroom manager’s desk. (The amount was $656.72 over the total price—a nice tip for someone and, perhaps, sufficient incentive not to raise questions about a cash purchase.) I scrawled the words, “Payment for black Silverado 2500HD” on the envelope and added the VIN number.
I pulled a dealer’s temp license, filled it out, and grabbed the keys. We unlocked the dealership’s fuel pumps and filled the truck’s dual tanks, one with gasoline, the other with compressed natural gas.
Then we returned to the parking garage, and I transferred the contents of the Escape to the truck.
Driving distance from Albuquerque to Alamogordo was just over 200 miles. From Alamogordo to Las Cruces was 67 miles; from Las Cruces to Albuquerque, 223 miles. We called the round trip—not counting the foray onto the range—at 500 miles.
Supposedly, the Silverado’s dual-tank mileage was around 650 miles. I strapped the four five-gallon gas cans into the bed of the truck. They gave us an edge—and an extra measure of insurance, should we need it.
I paid for the truck’s overnight parking spot and headed to the safe house. I wanted my body to be rested and well-fed before tomorrow’s activities began. I planned to spend at least four hours at the dojo with Gus-Gus before we set our plan into motion.
***
The drive down from Albuquerque to Alamogordo Sunday afternoon was without incident. We left Alamogordo, headed west on State Road 70, just after dusk. My mind and nerves were on high alert, but physically I felt calm. Prepared to do my job.
Darkness fell early as the shortest day of the year drew near. The four-lane highway led from Alamogordo to Las Cruces, but it bisected the southern part of the missile range. Approximately forty miles out, the nanomites would tell me where to pull off the road.
The truck console had two auxiliary power ports; I kept the smart phone the mites had upgraded plugged into one. A strand of mites tethered the nanocloud to the other port, ensuring that the mites had their maximum power capacity topped off.
Gemma Keyes, stop here.
I turned off the headlights and slowed to a stop along the meager shoulder. Without turning off the engine, I jumped out and the mites directed me to the spot they had selected for us to cut the fence. After we’d lasered through the wires, I pulled the strands out of the way and raced back to the truck. I climbed inside and wrenched the steering wheel over: The truck bounced off the shoulder, down an embankment and up the other side through the hole in the fence.
I stopped, got out again, and pulled on some gloves. I used a pair of pliers to twist the fence strands onto some lengths of new wire. I wrapped the lengthened strands onto the metal fence posts. The job wouldn’t stand up under scrutiny, but I didn’t intend to leave a glaring break in the fence line either. Back behind the wheel, I eased the truck forward until the wheels found purchase in the sand.
We had completed the first phase of our plan. Now it was up to the mites and the phone’s GPS to lead us on.
The desert terrain was harsh here—bits and chunks of sharp volcanic rock surrounded by and embedded in sand. I picked up speed to lessen the chance we’d get stuck, which roughened the ride considerably. I was glad for the truck I drove, glad for its high clearance and powerful engine; however, I wouldn’t vouch for its suspension by the time we were finished with it.
The night was fully dark now, and I was driving without lights, pretty much driving blind. The mites flowed out from me toward the front of the truck and projected the view ahead. As I had during my training, I closed my eyes, entered the warehouse, and navigated by the moving images the mites brightened for my benefit. Via virtual reality, I could see a handful of yards ahead—enough to avoid disaster. Twice I had to back up and go around mounds and boulders of impassable black rock; once I was forced to detour around a crack that widened into a crevasse that would have swallowed up the truck.
Gemma Keyes, decelerate. We are close.
I slowed to a crawl and inched forward a quarter of a mile. The truck’s engine made less noise at this speed—if I didn’t goose the gas.
Stop. Walk from here.
I turned the engine off and held the keys in my hand. “Nano. I’m putting the keys under the seat.”
When I’d placed the keys on the driver’s floor and nudged them backward with my foot, I got out, bringing my quiver with me. I slipped it over my shoulders. The weight of the heavy sticks, jostling
against my spine, was comforting. The mites had been right. The escrima sticks made a difference. I wasn’t defenseless!
Ahead, Gemma Keyes.
I started walking, the mites steering my steps in VR. I walked another quarter of a mile before the faint outline of a building ahead appeared.
I opened my eyes. “Is this it, Nano?”
Yes, Gemma Keyes.
Just as the satellite photos had suggested, the building was a house—an ordinary, single-floor house complete with double garage and a large grass yard. The house faced east, and our approach put us off the house’s northeast corner. The silhouette of the house was softly lit, but the yard was not.
I edged closer. My eyes adjusted to the night and my vision sharpened. Nothing taller than my knees stood between the desert and the house, just wide open spaces and 360-degree views—and the ten-foot chain link fence topped with nasty razor wire that I already knew encompassed the house.
A graveled road—the normal route from the highway to the house—butted up against an automated gate farther down the north-facing fence. Once inside the fenced area, the road became a cement driveway that scribed a semicircle across the front of the house and ended at the garage.
Gemma Keyes. Dr. Bickel is within this building.
“And the security, Nano?” I’d made peace with this distasteful part. I had three men to take down tonight, one outside and two inside. I’d proven to myself that I could do it and do it quietly.
We will guide you, Gemma Keyes.
I nodded to myself. “All right. When you’re ready, Nano.”
The perimeter guard is presently on our left, walking south across the fence line away from our position.
I began to make my way toward the groomed swath of dirt on this side of the fence—the swath with a net of intrusion detection devices buried beneath the dirt. The light from the house backlit the guard as he paced the fence line, headed toward the far corner of the lot. He turned the corner, moving laterally down the fence line—toward the house and away from me.
I ran toward the near corner and the groomed ribbon of dirt on this side of the fence. When I reached the swath, I lifted my hand: Mites streamed into the soil.
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