by Logan Keys
Bob frowns, and Al seems taken back, but he rushes onward. “You were warned, Brian. You can’t talk about the company. You asked for this.”
“For what?” Brian says lifting his hands up, his robe moving open to show nice silk pajamas with a cartoon character on them. “You guys come to my house, while my kids are sleeping upstairs, and you have the audacity to try to do some sort of rough up?”
Is it possible that this guy has no clue? Bob knows that Brian knows Reese. How could he not know what he’s up against? He’s got kids, Bob reminds himself. That’s why he has those pajamas, he’s got kids. Bob pushes that to the font of his brain as Al says, “You’re not going to talk to the press. You’re going to pack up your things and quietly go back to London.”
“And if I don’t?”
Brian doesn’t get it. Bob curses under his breath and looks the other way. The idiot doesn’t realize everything he says and does right now doesn’t matter; Reese won’t stop or give up now. It is all a ruse.
Al moves his jacket aside. “If you don’t then this is going to be the last thing you and your family ever see.”
“Okay-okay,” Brian says, finally seeming to realize he’s in a lot of trouble. “We’ll do it…we’ll do whatever you want. Just tell me what to do.”
For the first time Brian’s dark eyes meet Bob’s pleadingly, and Bob’s innards twist.
“What do you need from me? Please,” Brian asks, now compliant and afraid after seeing the gun.
“We have papers for you to sign in the car, and they say if you do any more talking, we own you,” Al says, and he motions for Brian to come around the back of the house to where they’d parked.
He starts walking that way, and Bob takes up the rear. Al sends him a look over Brian’s head, and Bob’s feet turn to lead. It’s like slow motion, Al leading the way to the trunk of the car, and Bob feels everything acutely, the moment souring while the familiar sounds of night grow louder. It is the same as certain times when he’d been in the Middle East—when some random person moved into the street before a convoy. Somehow he’d get a feeling that everything was about to change just before the seemingly innocent would turn, point, and fire the RPG. Time stood still just a second or two before, and it does so now.
The sense of it all triggers something deep inside of Bob. His hands shake, his ears ring, and before he can control himself, he’s already diving onto Brian from behind, pulling his gun in one smooth motion. When Al turns, he too reaches to pull his gun but before he can, Bob fires at him. His partner.
Al dives behind the car, shouting with rage. “The hell you shooting at me for? I’ll kill you, old man!”
Al, his partner of five years, is pinned behind the back wheel, waiting, and Bob is going to have to get up eventually, so he does now. Putting Brian behind him, he whispers, “Run to the house, don’t look back. Get your wife and kids. Leave the country. You understand?”
“Yes,” Brian hisses, but he’s already running for his life.
Bob had missed Al on purpose and he got the sense that he’d regret that for a long time, because Al was never going to forgive him for ruining his chance to be the hero to Reese and fulfill her death plans.
“You were never going to let him sign any papers. Hell, you didn’t even have anything for him to sign, Al!”
“I’m coming out!” Al shouts.
He rises up and they are aiming at one another. Al fires first, and he doesn’t miss. The bullet rips through Bob’s side, and he dives for the bushes as he returns fire.
Al launches himself into the car, and peels away. Bob watches his partner flee, and he knows that he’s got to get home before Reese’s other guard dog Seagerman, gets there. He will have to pray he doesn’t bleed to death before he gets home.
Chapter 10
New York City, New York
Michelle’s Apartment
Someone was breaking into her apartment. They were already inside, she was sure of that. Michelle covered her mouth, trying to hold her breath, but she was still loudly blowing air through her fingers in fear. Oh God, oh God, she thought. This is it. They’ll kill her and only then find out she’s got nothing of value. Certainly nothing worth her life.
Flipping the covers off she forced herself onto shaky legs and crept toward the closet, praying that the door wouldn’t squeak as she opened it. She pushed her jackets aside as quietly as she could. Down on her knees, she slowly closed the door behind her, peeking through the slats that had a clear view of the room and the bedroom door.
Soon, the bedroom door slid open, and Michelle watched Hatty pad across the carpet toward the closet door. “No, Hatty,” Michelle whispered harshly. “No, no. Go. Shoo.”
Michelle sucked in a breath as a shadow of a tall man filled the doorway behind the cat. Head turned to the side, he waited there, as if he knew she’d eventually tell him where she was. The jacket behind Michelle chose that moment to ping off the hanger and come crashing down in a noise that normally wouldn’t have been loud but seemed like a bomb going off to Michelle. Her cover was blown, and the shadowy figure jerked his gaze in her direction. Now or never, she thought.
Michelle launched herself out of the closet hoping the element of surprise would be enough to get past the intruder and out her front door.
“Ah!” Michelle yelled in a deep hopefully menacing voice as she’d been taught to do. She rushed forward, head at belly level, her shoulder catching the thief in the gut with all her weight behind it.
“Umph!” He went down hard, losing something that clattered across the floor. Michelle knew it was a weapon, but she couldn’t tell because she was up and flying down the hallway on bare feet, rushing for the front door.
She heard the criminal start to make chase as she unlatched the chain. Michelle didn’t check behind her as she launched out onto the landing with nothing but a nighty on, running through the shared hallways and onto the street, sliding on the ice.
Michelle’s flight was stopped when her shin slammed hard against something on the ground. Tripping over it in a forward facing tumble, yelling for all to hear and probably waking the neighborhood, she painfully slammed her chin on the steps to her apartment. Whatever it was rose out of the darkness and grabbed onto her, causing her to screech out in panic.
She wondered if it was another thief, or an accomplice, and she began to fight in earnest using her best weapon of all, her knee, and she jabbed it into anything soft she could find.
“Michelle! Michelle! Ack!”
Even hearing her name did not stop her fight-or-flight instinct, and she caught the attacker in the groin before her senses took hold.
“Oof!” He bent over and started backing away.
“Bob?” she said, realizing the voice was familiar. “Bob, is that you?”
“It’s me, it’s me, girl. Whugh, right in the jewels.”
“There’s a man in my apartment!” she shouted.
Bob stood straight and grabbed her arm. “Show me,” he said.
“We should call the police,” Michelle said. “I think the thief has a gun.”
“The police won’t be any help. Probably best if you leave.”
“I can’t just leave,” Michelle said, motioning to her bare feet. She was already starting to freeze. “I need clothes. Plus…Bob…what about Hatty? The window’s wide open. Maybe I should get the landlord.”
Bob shook his head. “I’ll handle this. You stay here.”
“No way. I swear he has a gun.”
Bob pulled something shiny out of his waistband. “Let’s go.” He pushed Michelle behind him and stealthily made his way up the stairs. Her front door was still open. Bob put a finger to his lips signaling her to stay quiet, and then he made a hand motion signaling her to stay put. He then used the barrel of his gun to press the door open the rest of the way.
Leading with the gun, Bob turned left and right in a smooth motion from years of training, Michelle guessed, and she watched him transform in front of her eyes.
Gone was the man sleeping on the stoop, quiet and weary. Now Bob was a man on a mission, eyes narrowed, hands up with the gun trained on every spot where he felt the thief could be hiding. He never let his back to the room, and Bob reached out and flipped the light switch before gliding along the wall toward her kitchen.
Bob motioned for her to stay put again before he went back into her room and then returned. “They’re gone,” he said, putting his gun away. He had Hatty in his arms, too.
Michelle stormed over and slammed the window and locked it. She realized she was furious and still amped up with adrenaline.
“Did they take anything?” he asked, “Anything at all?”
Bob seemed more interested in that than the fact that she’d almost been killed. “No, not that I…My laptop!” she screeched. “It’s missing! All of my files were on that, and my drives are gone, too. All of my work,” Michelle moaned. She sat down on her couch and put her head in her hands.
“Wait,” she said. “Not all of my drives were on my desk. The file with that scientist, the one you saw the other day on my computer, Brian. Before he hung himself he gave a phone interview, it’s gotta be…” Michelle jumped to her feet and rushed to the fridge. Reaching on top she drew the drive out from behind the cereal boxes. “This. Is this what they were after?” she asked Bob who nodded.
“He didn’t hang himself. That’s what everyone was told. And once they figure out it’s not on your computer, or on the drives they took, it’s not going to be pretty,” Bob said.
Michelle’s shoulders slumped. “So, now what?”
“You have anyone you can stay with for a while?”
“Not really. How bad is it, Bob? Just give it to me straight.”
“Michelle…it’s life or death.”
But hadn’t she already seen that? They’d broken into her house, and they were looking for her, otherwise, why go into her bedroom with a weapon if they already had what they needed?
“What if I gave them the drive?” Michelle asked.
Bob put the cat down and shook his head. “Won’t be enough. You know too much now, and that’s enough to get you killed. Trust me.”
“What if…” Michelle thought hard, and she felt a crazy idea forming. “What if I broke the story first? If I got what I needed, and everyone knew, there would be no more point to coming after me, right?”
“The New York Times is not going to let you do Brian’s story, that’s for sure.”
Michelle chewed on her bottom lip, pacing in the living room. The repetitive movements were how she got her best leads. “No. I have friends at other networks, ones who might not be bought off by Cybercorp just yet, and I could send it to all of them at once, or even blog it myself if I had to. Hope it goes viral or something. But all I have on this drive is him saying something about his model being important—apocalyptic was his word—and then he never got to meet with Jan and give the interview.”
“Because he died.”
“Suicide?” she asked, hoping Bob wouldn’t say something she’d been starting to suspect.
“If by suicide you mean he was murdered by Cybercorp security,” said Bob, “then yeah, suicide.”
“What if I ask his wife? Is she still alive? I remember her information being in the file.”
“Yes.” Bob scratched his head. “But you don’t want to be doing all of that, Michelle, it’s dangerous. They’re watching her, too, no doubt.”
Michelle threw her hands out to the side and said, “What choice do I have now? I know too much, you said it yourself.” She stepped closer to Bob. “You’re involved in this, too, and I need answers. Help me talk to the wife. I just need to confirm more information and then we can both be free.”
“Confirm what? That they killed Brian? Here, I’ll confirm it for you. Reese killed the man. No, not directly, but she had him murdered in cold blood for blabbing to the press. I tried to stop it and somehow, someway, here I am back in the same mess I thought I left far behind. All because I happened to sleep on a nice reporter’s doorstep.”
Michelle crossed her arms and smiled. “You think I’m nice?”
“Well, who else lets a strange man into her home overnight because it’s cold out? And by the way…you should never do that again. Are you nuts?”
“Do you think they would consider you a real source now, Bob? After all of this time? I don’t think that’s enough.”
“No. They’d just say I was a crazy ex-employee who disappeared. They’d discredit me and still be after you.”
Michelle sighed. “Okay, then we have to make it enough of a mess for them that they don’t ever come back from it. How can we do that? Think, Bob, you know them better than I do.”
“The wife is no good. Plus, I won’t put Brian’s kids’ lives on the line for this. But I have someone we could talk to that’s even better. If you want a story, I’ll give you the one of the century.”
Michelle tried to stuff down the feeling that it was Christmas come early, despite the night she’d had. “Who?” she asked, sitting on the arm of the couch like an eager child.
Bob looked like he’d just swallowed bad medicine. “Another scientist who used to work for Cybercorp. The scientist.”
“This sounds promising.”
“The man who came up with the shade idea himself, who created the satellites that do the job. This whole thing was his baby.”
Michelle’s mouth dropped open. “No way.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But Phelps is dead.”
“Yeah, I bet he wished it were true, but he’s very much alive. After his so-called death last year, I ran into ol’ Cameron Phelps at the dog races, hat low and glasses on. He’s gained weight and lost hair, but it’s him. The golden boy, earth saver himself.”
Michelle felt like she could hardly breathe. “You know this for sure?”
“Even better, I know where he’s hiding.”
Chapter 11
Somewhere in Antarctica
Luckman woke in a haze of icy hot delirium, and he sensed that either he was in hell and it had frozen over, or that he somehow had escaped death one more time.
“Lucky! Lucky! My little good luck charm of a man, wake up and smell the frozen roses!” German’s voice sounded close and distant at the same time but was loud enough to startle Luckman into sitting up quickly. He felt German’s freezing lips right on his ear when the Russian shouted, “It’s time to see what you are made of!”
Luckman slapped a hand down on the forearm of German, and German helped him onto his feet that he couldn’t feel. Luckman had been buried to the waist in snow and German was covered in white as well. Only his broad jaw and big teeth could momentarily be seen before he zipped up his jacket the rest of the way.
German screamed, “I found the pilot over there! He’s going the wrong way. Won’t listen to me. He has the ice fever, already trying to take off his clothes.”
Luckman wanted to head in that direction; he wanted to be a hero to the poor drunk pilot, but all he could think of at the moment was putting one foot in front of the other, unsteadily keeping on his feet. And if the pilot was fighting German’s help, he’d do the same to Luckman, and Luckman wasn’t going to freeze with the pilot that almost killed him. Lucky would freeze trying to save himself at the very least.
“Where are we?” Luckman tried to yell, but it came out a whisper. He zipped up his jacket across his face because his vocal chords had left him.
“The US station is not so far away,” German yelled, as if he knew what Luckman wanted to know. “This way.”
Luckman looked around and even though it was a blur of white, the Russian man was wrong. The blur of white looked familiar, and it was shaped in such a way that Luckman tapped German on the shoulder and held up a hand to signal the other direction.
German squinted into the distance and then slapped a hand on Luckman’s back. “You are right, my lucky friend! This way it is! Too bad there are no sled dogs, ya? Or a nice sauna when we arri
ve, eh? Oh boy, a massage, some vodka, and a hot woman wouldn’t go missing in this wasteland.”
The Russian covered his mouth again and the pair bent against the wind and started making their way through nothing and into more nothing, but it was a nothing that Luckman sensed he knew so very well. The cold, the ‘killing cold’ as Luckman was starting to think of it, wasn’t here yet, but it was still colder than normal for being so close to the end of winter for Antarctica. He knew without a doubt they were near the station; he could feel it in his bones. He’d always had a good sense of direction, and his mother used to say that if he got lost in the woods, he’d find his way out just by feel. When he was little, she’d be driving and he could always sense when she mistook a turn, which was often. It was a gift of his, but what good would knowing where they were be when the killing cold was on its way?
The hardest part about working in the coldest place on earth was that most people assumed you would always be one step from adventure. Everything in Antarctica was like climbing Everest; you conquered your fear, pushed your physical body to its breaking point, and challenged your mind when you were forced to endure the cold another day to finish an expedition. But Luckman had found something else when he’d arrived—a sense of calm and peace. It wasn’t a thrilling escapade to him; it was always a reliable venue of cold and unforgiving ice. Dangerous? Sure, but many jobs he’d done included danger. It was something else; it was his home away from home. But now, with the killing cold, all of that was over. And the adventure had turned swiftly into a nightmare. It reminded him of those documentaries at the Everest base camp of the survivors who crested and their elation, but also the horror stories and tragedy that followed about the people left behind.
Would German and Luckman be left behind? He was starting to think that they would. He wondered if he’d gotten turned around, or if hypothermia was setting in like the pilot.
