by RJ Johnson
Chapter Eleven
The three most important rules for a professional bodyguard were somewhat similar to the rules for a blind date.
One: always know your exits.
Two: always know where your target is.
Three, and most importantly: always wear protection.
Geoffrey coughed violently as he came to. Rising from the ground, he glanced at his watch and determined he’d been out for a good twenty minutes at least.
He groaned, stripped the bulletproof vest off his chest, and assessed the damage.
Geoffrey gingerly felt the three angry red and purple bruises now rising on his skin. Three rounds, dead center mass. Whoever that kid was, he was good with a gun. That worried Geoffrey, and there was very little that Geoffrey worried about.
With a new respect for his enemy, Geoffrey turned and looked at the unconscious Cowboy Hat cuffed to the counter across the room. Grimacing, he turned and looked outside the broken and jagged Sheriff station windows at the remains of the two Suburbans and helicopter outside. The poorly trained locals had all been killed. Geoffrey sighed. This had not been a good night.
First off, he had evidence to dispose of. The fire from the helicopter crash had helped somewhat, but to truly get away, the destruction would have to spread. The men they found would be locals with few connections to Kline’s world. With the explosion Geoffrey had planned, there would be little left for any investigators to identify. Secrecy of the dig was paramount above all else. Kline had been especially clear on that point.
His second, more difficult priority was finding some sort of evidence from the man in the desert. Geoffrey looked around the lobby of the station and smiled as he spotted a camera aimed at the front door and main lobby office.
Geoffrey walked with a purpose, following the cable from the camera down and to one of the computers located in the back room.
Geoffrey entered, withdrawing a small black PDA from his pocket. Typing on the screen, he began holding the PDA close to the sheriff station’s computer, downloading everything off the hard drive. The screen below came to life as it began copying the drive’s last three video surveillance files.
Withdrawing a small card from his PDA, he placed it in his pocket, aiming his pistol at the machine in front of him and pulling the trigger several times. The computer blew apart as several .45-caliber rounds pierced through the case and through the hard drives contained within. The video and data would likely be unrecoverable.
A groan emerged from across the room. Geoffrey looked over lazily to see the stirring figure of the ridiculous Cowboy Hat. Geoffrey ignored him and stepped over Cowboy Hat on his way out the building.
Retreating towards the rear of the building, Geoffrey found a large generator, with several barrels of diesel fuel sitting next to it. Grabbing the handcart that lay next to the generator, Tate whistled while he worked, moving the large barrels of fuel into sheriff’s station lobby.
Finishing his work, Geoffrey hummed a noiseless tune as he opened up his jacket and removed several grenades. As the bald man placed three of them carefully on the top of the fuel drum, Cowboy Hat began to stir. Geoffrey looked down at him without saying a word. Pulling the pin out of the last grenade in his hand, he sat down next to the yokel and held the trigger tightly.
“Sorry it’s gotta end like this,” Geoffrey apologized to the young man. “But, you knew what you were getting yourself into, so I really don’t know what to tell ya.”
Cowboy Hat looked up, confused and terrified all at the same time.
“Get me outta these cuffs, man. Please?”
“Me?” Geoffrey chuckled. “Oh, good Lord, why would I do something like that?”
Cowboy Hat saw his chances of survival slipping away.
“You see, you’re gonna be a good ol’ fashioned cover story. Maybe you were pushed around by Deputy DoGooder here. Maybe you knew exactly when he’d be the most vulnerable. Maybe you got a bunch of friends together for an assault on the guy. Maybe…”Geoffrey paused, smiling as he held a pistol onto him, “Maybe you were trying to set up this bomb when the good deputy over there got one more shot off on you, and you tripped and fell, holding the last grenade. Or maybe none of it happened, none of this makes sense, and I just don’t care to have any witnesses to tell people about tonight.”
Cowboy Hat began to sob, pleading desperately for his life. Geoffrey ignored him and set the live grenade down on top of the pile of diesel fuel.
The bald man ran like hell for the other side of the road, where a deep gully offered some protection against the explosion.
Just as he dived into the ditch, the grenade detonated, exploding the fuel Geoffrey had packed inside. The beleaguered Sheriff’s station exploded in a glorious display of fire and flame, as most of the building was torn off its foundation.
Geoffrey raised his head cautiously over the side of the road to watch the station burn to the ground. Always good to check your work… Geoffrey reminded himself.
The explosion had ripped through the roof, tearing the whole building off the foundation. The helicopter and Suburban nearest to the front entrance of the lobby were now buried underneath a flaming pile of rubble.
Satisfied that the hellfire created a confusing enough scene for any future investigators, Geoffrey retreated towards the last Suburban untouched by the conflict. Jumping into the truck, Geoffrey grabbed the CB radio attached to the dashboard. Clicking the microphone, he called back to the base back at the mesa, wasting no time with pleasantries.
“It’s Tate. I need an update. Tell me you found something out there!”
“Mr. Tate,” the voice on the other side of the radio said, “three of our men found an abandoned Jeep, on the far side of the mesa. Only vehicle within three miles of the camp, we were told…”
“I know what you were told,” Geoffrey snapped, “When did you find it?”
“About fifteen minutes ago. It shouldn’t be too far from where you’re at. Two miles towards the dome and left on Road JT813. About a quarter mile down that road, and you can’t miss it.”
Geoffrey fired up the engine of the powerful truck. His tires squealed as he slammed the accelerator to the floor. A lead, hopefully enough to put him back on the man’s tail.
The way that man had handled himself back at the station bothered Geoffrey. Fluid and quick, that’s how the man from the desert had handled all his locals. The kid had training, good training. But to take down a chopper and five people at once?
The kid's training wasn’t even the biggest problem. The other problem nagging at his brain was the one that made him certain he was crazy. He knew he had shot the kid several times, and yet he had kept coming like nothing Tate threw at him mattered.
No, there was something more to this. The kid was fast, talented with guns, and — unless Geoffrey Tate was mistaken — invulnerable to bullets. He urged his truck to go faster down the highway. The quicker he found that Jeep, the closer he was to finding the kid and putting him six feet under, where he belonged.
Chapter Twelve
When Alex and Scott were sixteen years old, and had finally earned their driver’s licenses, one of the two boys (Alex couldn’t remember which one had come up with it) came up with a game for them to play. They would both drive around the dark, unpaved streets in Onyx Lake in the middle of the night, playing a more “spirited” version of Freeze Tag. The idea was to drive around at extreme speeds in the middle of the night, on bumpy, unpaved roads, with the headlamps on your car extinguished. If you caught a glimpse of your opponent, and managed to flash your headlights, without being spotted first, you tagged your opponent. The teenager that had the most hits by the end of the night was on the hook to fill his friend’s gas tank. Alex sometimes wondered how they managed to avoid killing anyone – or each other, for that matter.
It was those skills, developed in his later teen years, that Alex called upon now. He flew along the dark highway at a hundred and ten miles an hour, his headlights extingui
shed. He was desperate to get away from Joshua Tree and his father’s killers.
Using every bit of counter-surveillance he knew, he doubled back unexpectedly, exiting the freeway and getting back on to see who might follow. It was only after doing this several times and making it to the 10 Freeway that he decided to slow down and lower his profile. Flipping on his lights, Alex took refuge in the light traffic heading west towards Los Angeles.
He wasn’t sure who he could trust now after being involved in the police station shootout. His system was still wired up from the gunfight, and he needed to stop and slow down before he could concentrate properly.
Pausing at a gas station in Vallejo, California, just south of the Cajon pass, he filled the Suburban’s tank and slowly came to realize that he had limited options. It was likely that by now, they would have found his father’s Jeep abandoned in the desert. While there was nothing that could tie Alex directly to him, the Jeep contained all sorts of information on his father. That could lead them to Alex.
He wouldn’t need to use any plastic, fortunately. His backpack contained plenty of short-term cash, probably more than Alex would even need. Any man who had the resources to create the tent city Alex had seen earlier that night would certainly be able to grease enough palms in order to trace his accounts, so the cash was one advantage he was more than happy to have.
He could disappear. Take the stone and go back into the wild. It had been his plan from the beginning. Stopping in Onyx had only been so his father could know that his son was alive.
But the thought of walking away from his father’s killers formed a deep hot pit of shame in his gut. That was not an option. His father's killers would be brought to justice. Alex could disappear afterward.
In the meantime, he needed someone he could trust, and there weren’t many of those people alive, or close enough to assist. He opened his backpack grabbing some cash to go inside and pay the surly attendant. Buying some snacks, a disposable Internet-capable PDA phone, and a giant cup of coffee, he walked back outside. A decision, and something looking like a plan, started forming in his mind.
He didn’t want to involve him, but at this point, Alex didn’t know who else he could turn to. The only person left alive he could tell this crazy story to, and have him believe it, was the man who had been there twenty years ago to witness the powers of the stone firsthand.
Typing in some commands on the PDA, Alex found Scott’s social networking page and began to do some quick detective work. Working at JPL, and living at an apartment in Pasadena, probably not too far away from work – Scott had always been lazy like that.
A picture of him showing off his brand-new Mustang Hybrid. Proudly, leaning on the hood on the street outside his apartment, the caption below the photo informed him.
Alex smiled –a Mustang had always been Scott’s dream car — then brought up the map application and began comparing streets. The program, comparing the photo to the ones in its massive database, filtered down the results.
“I friggin’ love the future…” Alex whispered to himself.
Taking Scott’s phone number off his social networking page, he got back into his car and followed the directions the PDA called out to him. Despite the danger around him, Alex was incredibly excited to see his friend. His father talked about inviting Scott in on the trip to Joshua Tree, but at the time, Alex had felt it was too risky. The fewer people who knew Alex was alive at the moment, the better. Of course, that had been twenty-four hours ago, when a multibillionaire with unlimited resources wasn’t trying to kill him.
Arriving at Scott’s Pasadena apartment, Alex watched the place for a good thirty minutes to ensure that no one else had beaten him there. The clock on the dashboard said it was two-thirty in the morning, and if history was any judge, Alex had a better-than-even shot of catching Scott still awake. He dialed, listening for the ringing and someone to pick up.
“Hello?” A sleepy voice answered.
“Scott,” Alex said in a low voice, “Are you alone?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry?” the voice asked.
“Scott, it’s Alex. I need to know if you’re alone.”
“Alex?” Scott asked, his voice suddenly alert. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not a dream pal, I’m telling you…”
“Whoever this is, you’re not especially funny,” Scott said angrily. “Alex died six years ago…”
“And I came back from the dead,” Alex retorted. “I need help.”
“Oh, you need help, do you? Mysterious two-A.M. phone call from a friend dead for six years. Sure, how much do you need? Just let me whip my check book riiiight out.”
The phone clicked and a dialtone buzzed. Alex looked sheepishly at it. In all the commotion, he had forgotten that Scott was still completely clueless to his resurrection.
Undeterred, Alex dialed his friend’s number again. It rang so many times that Alex wasn’t sure if Scott would pick up. But finally, he heard the click of the phone being picked up.
“Listen pal, you’ve got a lot of…”
“No, you listen! I don’t have time to tell you your favorite color is blue, your favorite beer is Fat Tire, the answer is blondes, brunettes AND redheads, yes, of course the 1987 A’s are the greatest baseball team in history, and no, I’m not ever going to admit you beat Battletoads. That friggin’ game was rigged. I’m in trouble, Scotty, and I need my friend. It’s Alex…I’m downstairs. Come down and see if you don’t believe me.”
Alex hadn’t meant to get emotional, but he wanted to see his friend, and he needed to shock him into reality.
There was a very long pause. Trembling, the voice on the other end spoke:
“Alex?”
“Yeah…” Alex trailed off, not entirely sure what to say. Moving so quickly, he hadn’t enough time to prepare what he wanted to say. He thought everything would come naturally, and clearly, he was incredibly wrong. He decided to go with the truth. That should be easy enough.
“Scotty, I know there are a ton of questions bouncing around your head right now, and I get it, I really do, but I need to know: are you alone?”
“Now, I take exception to that,” Scott said, feigning offense. “I know I’m not the best looking guy in the world but I think it’s more than fair to assume I might have someone in bed with me. I mean, sure I’m in sorta a dry spell right now…”
Alex rolled his eyes. He didn’t have time for Scott’s particular brand of humor right now.
“Scott, listen carefully to me right now: if you are being held hostage and can’t talk freely, say, ‘Are you on drugs?’ and hang up the phone.”
“What the hell, buddy? Are you on drugs?” Scott sat up in his bed, grasping for his eyeglasses. As he placed them on his face, he looked at the clock on the other side of the room. “Alex, it’s two-thirty in the morning, what’s the problem?”
“Are you being held hostage right now? Yes or no?” Alex asked urgently.
“No! Jesus man, what’s going on?” Scott said, beginning to worry. “Where are you? You said you needed help?”
Alex sighed. He didn’t want to explain over the phone.
“Just come down and let me in the front gate. I’ll explain when I get up there.”
“Fair enough, buddy, but I hope you at least brought something to snack on. I get hungry when woken after midnight.”
The phone clicked off, and Alex waited for his friend to come down to the first floor. A few moments later, a bleary-eyed and unshaven Scott shuffled out, wearing a blue terrycloth robe, which thankfully covered all the important bits and pieces. Alex moved quickly and quietly behind his friend, careful to stay in the shadows lest anyone see him.
“Scott,” Alex called out in a low voice. In retrospect, Alex considered, was probably not the best idea.
Scott jumped, screaming loudly. He swung wildly, catching Alex off guard and knocking him flat to the ground.
Rubbing his ch
in, Alex grimaced slightly and regained his composure. Thanks to the stone hanging around his neck, the pain had been non-existent, but no matter how magical the stone might be, it didn’t help the bruise to his ego.
Scott laughed in surprise when he recognized Alex.
“Sorry about that, buddy,” Scott said, proffering his hand out.
Alex smiled broadly. It had been a long time since he had seen his best friend. He was glad to see that some things never changed – specifically Scott’s sense of humor and atrocious dressing style. His friend had undergone something of a renaissance after high school and during college, when he had discovered the weight room. The hours he had spent in there had helped to fill out his formerly narrow frame nicely.
“It’s been a long time, bro!” Scott said, lifting Alex back to his feet. “Let’s get you upstairs and into a nice drink.”
Alex smiled and accepted Scott’s assistance off the ground. “After the day I’ve had, believe me, I could use one.”
Chapter Thirteen
Geoffrey Tate did not have to travel far from the burning sheriff’s station to find the abandoned Jeep parked on the side of the road.
In fact, it was only a few hundred feet away from where Kline and Tate had first encountered the father-and-son pair on the mesa above. Glancing at the solid geodesic dome structure that was now covering the top of the mountain, Geoffrey pulled up next to the abandoned Jeep, not waiting for his vehicle to come to a stop before putting it in gear and jumping down. One of Kline’s workers, the man who had found the Jeep, nervously flicked his cigarette onto the desert road and blew out a lungful of tobacco smoke. The bald man approaching them had left strict instructions not to touch the vehicle until he had arrived. They had, of course, complied with his instructions. You didn’t last long enough working for Kline if you didn’t.
“Did you touch anything?” Geoffrey growled to the two men.
