by RJ Johnson
He stepped inside the shower, letting the hot water pour all over him. He put his head against the cold tile of the shower as the water began to wash away the grime and dust.
Drops fell down his face, off his nose, and, onto the black stone hanging in midair from the necklace his father had fashioned together for him.
He shook his head, attempting to snap out of it. If he was going to survive this, he needed to focus. His father was dead, and there was no time to mourn him now. What he needed was information, and at the moment, Alex knew the best man for the job was sitting in the other room working on it. And knowing his best friend was there helping him; that, more than anything else, made Alex feel better.
Chapter Fifteen
After a half hour of scrubbing and rinsing in the shower, Alex came out in the living room brushing his teeth while the minty white foam frothed around his mouth. He tapped Scott on the shoulder. “Anything good?”
Scott glanced up from his laptop screen and looked at Alex seriously; his friend wasn’t happy. Whatever he’d uncovered, Alex thought, it probably wouldn’t be good at all.
“Sooo...” Scott drawled evenly, “You’re in a fight with a man worth several billion dollars.”
Alex spit into the cup he was holding. “I figured that much. Anyone who could buy national forest land meant they have to be rich enough to buy a Congressman or two. Maybe even a couple of Senators to complete the collection.”
Scott turned the laptop screen around to Alex. “He’s not just any billionaire.”
Alex studied the screen as Scott filled him in.
The man’s name was Rupert Kline. According to Scott’s research, about thirty years ago, he had made several almost-prophetic moves in real estate, oil, and gold futures that took an initial investment of thirty thousand dollars into his first ten million. The man had the Midas touch.
Scott came around and pointed to an image of a Wall Street Journal article headlined, “The Disappearing Billionaire,” complete with a captioned photo of Kline. Alex squinted at the photo.
It was the same exquisitely-dressed man, the same cruel black eyes, covered in strands of swept back brown hair. Kline’s high cheekbones and protruding brow gave him a deceptively innocent look, one Alex was sure he had used to his advantage over the years. Stranger still, the twenty-year-old photo of the reclusive billionaire wasn’t much different from the man who had killed his father on the Mesa a few hours before.
The rest of the article was a standard puff piece on the Wizard of Wall Street, which — as noted in the article — was written just before he had declared himself retired.
“But Kline couldn’t pack it in. When the first Iraq war started up in ‘90, he moved into the whole ‘private security’ area, very hush-hush, crazy stuff. Remember Blackwater and Haliburton?” Alex nodded, not wanting to interrupt Scott's crash course in the who's who of billionaire industrialists.
“He invested in a failing security firm, promising to make it the biggest in the world in a year’s time. He only needed half that.
“One by one, the rest of the world’s private security teams found themselves knee deep in scandals and litigation. No one ever connected MARS security, but the tinfoil hat in me is screaming there was something hinky going on…”
Alex looked at Scott with some skepticism. “Try to stay with what we know.’
Scott sighed, “Fine, but it’s not gonna be as entertaining.”
Alex waved at him making Scott move on.
“Anyway, through it all, Kline kept his nose clean. After a slick presentation to the Senate a few years ago, MARS Security Corp was put in charge of operational security in the Green Zone in Baghdad. It was a pretty big deal; the President didn’t want to use private security anymore, but somehow, Kline convinced him.”
Scott leaned back, a smile spread across his face. “Good stuff, right?” He cracked his knuckles satisfied with himself.
Alex felt the disappointment grow inside him. “That’s it?”
The smile faded from Scott, “Well, yeah… I mean, Kline’s lived a pretty private life overall. The stuff I found here was seriously buried.”
“I don’t mean to bash your hacking skills or whatever.” Alex paused. “What about real estate? You said he was heavily involved in that.”
“Yeah, he was.” Scott leaned forward and began tapping the keys on his computer. “See? He stuck with developing Los Angeles most of his life, safe stuff really, but the last few months, he’s made some really off-the-wall purchases, including that land in Joshua Tree.”
“When did he buy the land?” Alex asked.
Scott typed on his keyboard, clicking through several news sites.
“I don’t see anything.” Scott said, his eyes squinting at the computer monitor. “There’s...aha, here we are.” Scott clicked a link, leading him to an article about the National Land Use Act. “The story isn’t even a paragraph long.” Scott read it quickly, Alex looking over his shoulder. “Nothing really, just something about Kline setting up a wildlife refuge.”
“Today was the day,” Alex said, reading the rest of the article. “The vote was today…” He checked his watch. “Err…yesterday, and it passed with no challenges. How’d he do that?”
“No one’s gonna have it on their record that they voted against a national land use preserve.”
Alex studied the articles in front of him. It all made sense, in a roundabout sort of way. If you hid the purchase deep in a congressional budget, with a bill name sure to garner votes... Get a few key Senators and Congressmen on board, and presto, a hidden treasure for Kline to mine in the middle of nowhere, a worthless piece of the desert that no one, not even the tree-hugging hippies, cared about.
“The most interesting part,” Scott continued, “is an old gas and mining survey by the Department of Energy from the 80’s I found. It specifically said that the area Kline bought is devoid of any useful mining or natural gas speculation.”
“So, why did he buy it?” Alex wondered aloud. Scott nodded.
“I wondered the same thing too. You mentioned he had brought in a lot of equipment earlier, so if we believe this survey, whatever it is he’s looking for, it’s not gold, oil or anything else useful. It’s something more, something bigger.”
Scott came around from behind Alex and sat down across from him, letting Alex absorb all the information Scott had found.
Alex considered their options. The most obvious was to go to the police. Perhaps by explaining everything while leaving out the all healing stone stuff somehow, they could come up with a story that didn’t land them in straightjackets.
It was clear, however, that going to the police would probably lead to one of two outcomes. Either they’d dismiss his claims as insanity, like the deputy in Joshua Tree, and attempt to lock him up, or they’d take Alex in as a suspect in the Joshua Tree Police station massacre, confiscate the stone that healed him, and he’d probably spend the rest of his life locked up in some government institution far out of reach of civilization.
Neither option sounded especially good to him. He could continue to risk his and Scott’s life by trying to find out exactly what the hell was going on, or he could run away, safe with the stone and his money.
He shook his head. This wasn’t how vacations were supposed to go.
“If you’re thinking about how you’re risking my life by staying here, get it out of your head.” Scott said firmly, surprising Alex. “You saved my life once a long time ago, healing me with that stone. You've always been there for me, through high school, college…” Scott met Alex’s eye. “I’m here for the long haul, buddy, whatever it is you decide you want to do.”
Alex smiled, impressed by his friend’s loyalty. It was then he knew that he had made the right decision to involve Scott.
“You’re a good man to know, you know that Scott?” Alex said clapping his hand on his friend’s back.
“If I’ve learned anything over the years from TV, movies and comic
books, it’s that the good guys always win. We’re the good guys.” Scott paused. “We are the good guys, right?”
Alex nodded in the affirmative.
“Besides,” Scott added, “I’ve always wanted to take down an evil billionaire.”
“Fair enough,” Alex nodded, prouder than he’d ever been of his friend. “Now that we know who we’re dealing with, what can we do about figuring out where this stone comes from?” Alex grabbed the stone hanging from his neck with his thumb and forefinger. “Does your lab at JPL have anything good?”
“Buddy, we’ve got stuff there that you only saw on Star Trek,” Scott said, his face breaking out in a wide grin. Alex couldn’t help but smile with him; Scott was always happiest when he got to play with his toys.
“The lab’s twenty minutes away at this time of night,” Scott said, heading for the bedroom to put on some pants. “Get dressed and ready, ‘cause we’re gonna find out just what the hell that stone is.”
Chapter Sixteen
The private security squad that Geoffrey had asked Kline for landed only a few minutes before Geoffrey arrived at the airport. Their C-130 had been delayed by weather as it crossed the Atlantic, returning them to American shores. The team had spent the last month traipsing through Afghanistan, securing industry supplies as they crisscrossed the hostile country. The team was tired, but they were trained to ignore such human discomforts. The men were even encouraged even to take performance-enhancing drugs to increase their stamina and strength during battle.
Light drug use was tolerated. Harsh penalties, ones that did not involve the local authorities, were used for the men who became addicted to the harsher drugs like heroin or crystal meth. For the most part, the men who worked for Kline were not interested in illegal drugs anyway. For the most part, they wanted what could be prescribed, to assist them to stay up for days at a time, and thanks to a well-paid doctor in Los Angeles, the entire team had been diagnosed with attention deficit disorders. At any given moment before a mission, you could watch as the men on the team swallowed something, Ritalin, Adderall, or perhaps some other magic pill that the good doctor had prescribed them. The medicine did wonders for their concentration, awareness and stamina during a mission.
The men were on the tarmac, stretching and excising their bodies as they recovered from the long Atlantic flight. One of the men stood alone and aloof, inspecting the equipment for their new mission for the third time. He was the leader of this particular team, and his name was Omar Rodriguez.
At thirty-seven, he found himself making more money in one year than his entire family did in their combined lifetimes growing up in the poorest parts of Mexico. Becoming a mercenary had let him pay for a comfortable life; nothing too extravagant, lest he forgo his eventual retirement. The house he owned was nice, located on the outskirts of the high desert. The work was something that he didn’t enjoy, but did for a lack of better options. It provided for a future and a place where he could someday settle down with his novia – whoever she was – and have a few children. Not to mention that he was extraordinarily good at his job.
At the age of ten, he crossed the border from Mexico into the US in a refrigerator truck. It took three days in 100-degree heat in a crowded tin can. The truck broke down in the middle of the blazing desert deep in the badlands of the Texas panhandle and the driver abandoned it, leaving thirty of his fellow travelers to roast, locked in to die as they were.
It was nearly two days after breaking down in the desert that Omar heard the screeching of the metal door opening. Sunlight beamed in as Omar’s eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden brightness. He licked his cracked lips and struggled to cry out, his body too weak to move. A man with a large-brimmed hat jumped into the trailer, shouting strange words at him. Omar tried to understand, but couldn’t. His mind had become mush. He whimpered, too weak to move his neck when the man struggled to give the boy water.
Horrified at what he found, the deputy took Omar in, treating him as his own son. For the next seven years, Omar lived a good but hard life out in the middle of the Texas hardpan. Fun was limited to football in the fall, and hiding from tornadoes in the spring. Joining the Army straight out of high school, Omar swore he would never look back.
There, Omar found he was a quick study to the work of a soldier. His marksmanship and aptitude scores were off the charts, embarrassing more than one of his instructors. He was recommended by several of his CO’s to be transferred to West Point to study and become an officer.
That is, before his adopted father died, and the truth of his birth came out in a military hearing on his admission to West Point. As an official illegal alien, Omar was no longer allowed to continue to serve the United States and was summarily discharged.
Shocked and left with only a few hundred dollars to his name, Omar left Camp Pendleton in Southern California to try and find his way through the world on his own. That’s when, while drinking down his last dollar at a dive bar in Tijuana, a man had come and offered a suitcase of money to become a part of a shiny new and private army unconcerned with legalities like birth certificates. The choice seemed easy and profitable at the time. Now, Omar thought, after all these years, he wasn’t so sure.
The door to the hangar opened. Omar sighed and stood at attention quickly. No rest for the wicked.
A black Suburban glided its way into the hangar, pulling up next to Omar and his team, who had taken position near the floor. Stepping out of the passenger side, Geoffrey Tate walked over to the men.
“Commander,” Tate said, extending his hand.
Omar’s only response was the coolness of his hard gray eyes. Kline paid him well, but there was nothing in the contract that said he had to be pleasant about it.
After an awkward moment, Geoffrey removed his hand and nodded to the equipment on the table. “I trust everything there is in order. We kept everything to your specifications; everything there is completely brand new and tested for readiness.”
Omar tilted his head, “Until a man fires a weapon, it is not his own.”
Geoffrey nodded in agreement, careful not to show his irritation with the Commander’s attitude. He was a professional too, but in his specialty, subtlety was rewarded, while for the Government Issued Joes he routinely dealt with, it was all discipline and brute force. While useful at times, Geoffrey never liked the lack of flexibility in their thinking. When you have perhaps a half second at most to think while under fire, the ability to adapt on the fly was Geoffrey’s strongest asset, and had been responsible for saving his ass on several different occasions. This commander seemed to be issued with a stick up his ass, and Geoffrey only hoped it wouldn’t get in the way.
“Indeed.” Geoffrey dusted his jacket lightly, motioning with his hand towards the two idling Suburbans. “Shall we…?”
“Round up!” Omar barked, turning to his men. They looked over at him, each quickly finishing the examination of their new equipment. Geoffrey was impressed with their quickness and efficiency.
The commander glanced at the trucks parked in front of them, frowning in disdain.
“The trucks are clean, I trust?”
“Of course,” Geoffrey replied, the impatience beginning to show in his voice. He turned his back on the mercenaries, moved back into the car he arrived in, and shut the door firmly.
Geoffrey breathed deeply, controlling his temper. He hated being taken for an amateur. Because of his advice, Kline had leased a fleet of vehicles through a dummy corporation completely divested of any link to his companies. For an operation like this, clean vehicles with good papers were just as important as the weapons Geoffrey used. Kline knew his people needed the best to accomplish the tasks he gave them, and Kline was not the type to stand in his own way.
The men hurriedly loaded up their gear in another waiting Suburban behind him. They both pulled out, the tires screeching as they left the gates of the small commuter airport, finding the freeway on-ramp only a few blocks away.
Geoffrey flipped h
is PDA open and stared at the materials on the small screen in front of him. His hasty background check on the man from the desert had provided much on Ted McCray. Records, public and private, were open to anyone with the know-how to find them in this digital era. Kline kept a well-paid staff of people ready to check and run down any information Geoffrey or his staff may need.
“INFORMATION!” Kline often thundered to his scattering subordinates. “That is the key to all business!”
With the information and materials in front of him, Ted McCray did not seem to be much of a threat. The other man, however, was a different story; there wasn’t much Geoffrey knew about him yet. Fortunately, the McCray house was only a few minutes away, and Geoffrey hoped for answers inside.
The ride was spent in silence with the newly arrived mercenaries. It didn’t take long before the driver slowed as they approached the Jeep owner’s address. Geoffrey waved to his driver, pointing to a cul-de-sac just next to the old man’s street. He nodded in response and pulled over quickly, the two vehicles bouncing on the suburban roads.
The mercenaries exited their vehicles quickly, pushing aside their weapons cradled by a strap hanging from their shoulder. Popping open the rear door of the truck, Omar and his men quickly extracted some digital gear as Geoffrey watched the run-down house standing in front of him.
At one time, it had probably been a beautiful and well-cared-for home. These days, the trim looked pathetic, with paint peeling everywhere from the sides of the house. A large pile of firewood was stacked haphazardly on the side lawn.
After double-checking their equipment, each man lined up against the wall of the neighboring house, which they immediately put to use as a temporary base of operations. Geoffrey whistled slightly and waved to Omar to proceed with the home invasion.
