by Bradley West
“I’m not familiar with it,” the captain said. “If we hit rocks, I may not be able to refloat until the tide turns. That could leave my kids and me in jail.”
“Why bother? You already said that helicopter gunships will open fire on us. Come to Canada. I’ll pay you for what the ferry’s worth after netting the charter fee.”
“I’ll need to review the Wilson Point bottom profile and recheck the tide table.”
* * * * *
Just down the road from the crime scene, Norris and his Twisted Souls entourage rode up on full-throated Harleys. Norris dismounted and said, “I figured it was the Zulus or the spic gangs that bombed our clubhouse, not old Scarface. Why’d you do it?”
Muller had spent the last half-hour revising his story for a more discerning audience. “I’m fucking sorry, Norris. One of my guys went rogue. We left but wired up a couple pounds of C4 in case he came back. From what your boys tell me, it sounds like he did and paid the price. To show you how bad I feel, I’ll give you my Benelli twelve-gauge, the BMW K 1600 GTL of shotguns.”
“Yeah, Dirty Pete already texted that he’d grabbed that. Your C4 party left blood and body parts everywhere. A total shitshow: that clubhouse needs a complete do-over, plus half the warehouse. How are you going to pay me back?” He directed a meaningful look at Katerina. “I’m partial to skanky midgets.”
Katerina opened her mouth, but Muller overrode her. “She’s my old lady, but I have a better deal. She came up with a cure for Covid-20 that sells on the black internet for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a shot. That’s why we had your laptop: We figured you for dead and used it to list the Dark Cure on Pirate Bay. I can show you our work. We even have a video and three customers signed up.”
“What’s the catch?”
Katerina jumped in. “The catch is that another group took the immune woman and baby whose blood I use to make the Dark Cure. We need them back.”
“They have a one-hour head start and must be around here,” Muller continued. “Help us recapture the blood bags and we’ll give you the first hundred thousand dollars of profit we collect.”
“Fuck you and your profits,” Norris said. “I’m taking one hundred off the top. Make me an offer if you need the Souls’ help past sunset tomorrow.”
* * * * *
Tom Strub walked over to Sal, still resting against that same RV tire. “Dad said we can beach ourselves at Wilson Point up to eleven-thirty but no later. I texted Melvin. Traffic is light and they’ll be there ahead of us to scout the landing beach.” He paused for a moment. “We want to accept your offer to come to Canada. That’s my sister, my father and me.”
“We’re happy to have you,” Sal said with a smile.
Jaime and Barb had reconciled, she almost delirious that her sister, nephew and partner were alive. She hit on a joint that a Deadhead would envy. After Stephanie exchanged tears with her stoned sister, she nursed in quiet with Greg by her side. Jaime sought out Travis and offered his condolences for Chesa’s demise. Jaime’s conciliatory gesture meant the most since it came from a fellow warrior who knew how a soldier felt when a noncombatant under your protection died.
Barb stubbed out her blunt and knelt by Sal who had refused to relocate inside because he didn’t want to bleed on the new upholstery. “How are you?” Barb offered.
“Never better. Steph and Tyson still fine?”
“Steph’s right side hurts and a few toes are black, but the baby’s all right. She said you almost died saving them. I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you. It wasn’t fair of me.” Barb teared up.
“Thanks, honey. How’s your mom?”
“Not great. She’s in and out and sleeps most of the time. Doesn’t know where she is, but recognizes me. The doctor and I trade off looking in on her every fifteen minutes.”
Tina broke up the conversation. “I have to set the bone and sew up the ruptured vessels so we can remove the tourniquet and put on a splint. I can’t give you painkillers since I don’t know the condition of your heart. You ready to tough it out?”
“I feel great. Let’s do it,” said the most content man onboard.
* * * * *
Norris stroked his ginger beard. “I need sixteen vaccinations to cover my crew, plus half of your gross after the first hundred thousand. We pay for our own gas, food and weapons while the gig lasts. In return, the Souls provide security, delivery and collection services.”
“Fine,” Katerina said before Muller could protest. “But I need the equipment I left in a classroom at the high school. There’s almost a half-pint of the mother’s plasma in the fridge I can use to make your men’s shots, plus Rolf and I need the treatment, too.”
“Sounds easy enough,” Norris said. “Let’s steal a truck and head over.”
“It’s not that simple,” Muller said. “All the exits but one are wired with C4.”
“Plus, I waxed a pair of cops tonight,” Nails added, “and two cop cars drove past while we waited for you. The pigs will pull out bodies and do the crime scene routine for hours.”
Norris lit a Marlboro. “We shoot up any more cops tonight, we’ll have the National Guard or Army down on us. How bad do you need the equipment?” he asked Katerina.
“No lab gear, no Dark Cure and no money.”
“Then we wait out the cops. They’ll leave once they recover the bodies and wrap everything in yellow tape. Tomorrow we’ll take what you need to cook your cure with. I ain’t chasing anyone until my boys are protected.” Norris had another question for Muller. “Where will your two blood bags be over the next few days?”
“They’re headed to British Columbia in a big motorhome,” Katerina said.
“The boys and I’ll ride ’em down in three days max,” Norris said.
“We’ll set up our mobile lab in the RV after we slaughter them all,” Muller said.
“All but two,” Katerina said.
* * * * *
The gentle roll of the ferry and the narrow dining table in the Winnebago compounded Tina’s challenges. Jaime and Arkar held Sal down once Tina scrubbed up. The doctor set the forearm and Sal passed out. Tina sutured the wound before the field splint went on. Jaime and Arkar carried Sal to the big bed where Barb tended to him next to an immobile Pat. Sal came around but wasn’t fully awake. Nearby, Steph rested on a lower bunk, Tyson at her breast.
The Manned Mission to Mars’ numbers had increased by four with the Strub family of three plus Gratton, giving them a total contingent of twenty-one. The oldest pilgrim was Sal at fifty-five and the youngest was Tyson at two weeks. The wounded included Sal, Travis, Carla, Jaime, Steph, Greg, Pat and Melvin, while Arkar, Zarni, Tina, Barb, Tien, Johnny Gratton, Derek, Tom and Erinn were unscathed. On the minors’ front, Yonten led the pack at sixteen, followed by the orphans Kyaw and Schway, with newborn Tyson Ferguson anchoring the assemblage.
Carla assigned the passengers to the three remaining vehicles: Two RVs and a Kia Telluride. The drivers started their engines and turned on their lights. It was now or never. From the shore, Melvin turned on his lights to illuminate the best strip of beach for the amphibious landing. Captain Strub lined up the Rage’s final approach and on full throttle ran the vessel aground. Tom and Erinn pulled the chocks and piled into an RV as the convoy rolled off and up the wet sand and over a border of broken coral. Melvin, Tien and newcomer John Gratton used their handheld lights to guide them back onto a proper street. When all four vehicles were lined up, the occupants exited to discuss the next steps.
Tina and Carla learned of Robert’s death and took the news hard. He had been a good friend—soft-spoken and conscientious with time for everyone and a searching mind. Jaime greeted his USMC brother “Johnny Rotten” Gratton with pleasure. The two disappeared into the back of the white truck to inspect Johnny’s arsenal. The surviving security guard stood by the roadside, his friend’s body next to him, and waited for his brother to pick them up. In his pocket were two rubber-banded bundles of hundreds comprising twent
y thousand dollars that just a half-day ago had seemed like such easy money. Captain Derek was the last person off the Rage and joined them with toolboxes double-stacked under his muscled forearms.
The spin of tires across the beach and the thumps of the rocks jarred Sal back into the present. Barb was by his bedside as the ’Bago reached the street and stopped. Carla walked to the back followed by Jaime, Arkar, Travis, Melvin and Derek. The five men crowded into the RV’s master bedroom and stood around the edge of the queen-sized bed.
Sal acknowledged the best wishes of his companions, but saved his voice. “Look in the glove compartment for a folder,” he said in a whisper. Carla whirled around and returned in seconds. She handed the envelope to Sal, who pulled out eight rice paper slips—over-optimistic by four vehicles—and gave one to each of the first-leg drivers. “Carla, burn the extras. If you’re stopped or caught, you can eat this paper. Don’t enter waypoints into your GPS, either. We stick together. If there are roadblocks, pay bribes rather than shoot. Tonight, don’t stop for anything until we reach the first stop. We have plenty of diesel and gasoline, plus water and camo netting to hide under during daylight. We’ll travel at night until we reach Idaho or Montana and the traffic thins out. While I’m down, Travis is in charge, but all of you in this room advise him. We don’t add any more people to the 3M unless every adult agrees.” Sal closed his eyes, exhausted.
“You heard the man, people,” Travis said. “Arkar’s in the lead with the Telluride and Jaime brings up the rear in the delivery truck. Time’s a-wasting, and it’ll be light in less than six hours.”
Before the group disbanded, Barb held up an imaginary glass. “A toast!” she said. “To Sal, the Twenty-One and Canada!”
THE END
AcknowledgEments
I’m not certain if it’s strictly allowed to thank a pathogen, but I’ll start by acknowledging that Covid-19 was the main inspiration for Dark Cure, providing both a subject and the time needed to complete the novel fast.
My wife Lai Fan receives the second nod of thanks for encouraging me to keep writing in the new style—less complicated plotting, limited conspiracies and no espionage skullduggery—that sets the Dark Plague trilogy apart from Countless Lies. As she puts it, “You are telling stories this time, not describing missions.” (I think I get what she’s saying.)
Husband-and-wife team Alisdair Ferrie and Karen Fawcett founded the Green Means Cool movement (www.greenmeanscoool.com) and invited me inside their tent. While there’s no direct connection between GMC and Dark Cure, in my head the two are linked: If the world can’t get it’s act together and beat a piddling virus, then we have little chance of preventing the pending climate catastrophe.
For the third book in a row, bestselling author, corporate speaker and entrepreneur Don Mann contributed his SEAL Team Six knowhow to the action scenes, assisting both on the medical and military fronts.
Juan Padrón designed the book covers. Geoff Smith reprised his copy editor’s role in End of Lies and enriched the reading experience with his Exacto knife and recipe book, plus off-the-wall ideas. Ivan Tan created the electronic and print formats.
Advance copy readers offering their patience and advice include Jon Zax, Andrew Jordan, Jeevan William, Karen Fawcett, Bart Broadman and Adam Sack. (My usually reliable mother bowed out this time after finding the Covid-mutates background story too distressing.)
Another big thanks to the readers of the True Lies blog on www.bradleywest.net. This is where I get the inspiration to research and fictionalize contemporary conspiracies.
Bradley West
November 2020
About the Author
I’ve been blogging and writing full-time since 2014. After the Countless Lies trilogy concluded in 2019 with End of Lies, I took a year off as the sinister activities and mysteries on offer didn’t fuel my conspirator’s imagination.
Late last year, I joined forces with the www.greenmeanscool.com team. I’m not an ecowarrior, but I am a concerned citizen who realizes that the Boomers messed up the planet. The possible solutions to climate change are so politicized and contradictory that most adults avoid discussing them at all, much less contributing time or money to remedies. In an attempt to cut through the clutter, I dove in. Then Covid-19 hit with a vengeance and I found my inspiration to write fiction again . . . as well as research the ugly origins of Covid. (Covid’s Ugly Origins)
* * * * *
I’m originally from Ohio but was always interested in living and working abroad, so I completed an undergraduate degree at Georgetown’s School of Foreign Service. After an MBA from London Business School, my first job lasted less than two months before my boss shipped me off to Singapore for a four-month project to keep me away from head office (rather than undertake anything meaningful in the Far East). That short-term project is now in its thirty-seventh year. Along the way, I’ve been fortunate enough to live mostly in Singapore, but also logged many years in Hong Kong with stops in Kuala Lumpur, Bangalore and Colombo.
I live in Singapore, where I’m a keen mountain biker, former baseball coach and avid fisherman. I enjoy red wine, dark chocolate and raucous friends around the table. If you’d like to connect, I’m on Facebook under Bradley West, Author and have an author website at www.bradleywest.net.
Bradley West
A Favor to Ask: Please Leave a Review
If you have a few spare minutes, please post a Dark Cure review on Goodreads.com. Honest reviews help readers choose from millions of similar books. It’s the primary way independent authors of eBooks differentiate themselves from the pack. Even reviews that aren’t four or five stars establish credibility, particularly when the reviewer shares specific criticisms. Constructive suggestions also help new authors improve subsequent novels.
There is also the 800-pound gorilla in this space (the name of which I can’t mention as it violates other eBook retailers’ policies), and their ranking algorithms weight reviews more heavily than actual sales (which are easily padded, especially for lower-priced eBooks). A review there would be welcomed . . . you know who it is.
My Facebook author page is www.facebook.com/bradleywest.net, and I welcome your comments and contributions.
Thank you very much for reading Dark Cure, and a double thank you if you find time to write a review.
Visit www.BradleyWest.net and sign up to the Readers’ Group and the True Lies newsletter to receive a copy of A Viper’s Nest of Conspiracies, v.2.0., featuring exclusive content investigating the true origins of Covid-19. Spoiler: It’s not just China.
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Countless lies Trilogy
sEA OF LIES
Flight MH370 disappears. Finding out what happened could ignite WWIII. American, Russian and Chinese agents vie to discover the truth. Or bury it. CIA cryptanalyst Bob Nolan finds the secret airstrip where MH370 landed. A beautiful Chinese spy joins Nolan on his quest, but will his new lover be his salvation or ruination?
The next eight days will see a war fought, a regime toppled, and lives upended as Nolan runs for his life, tries to protect his family, and unspools a dark web of murder and treason.
PACK OF LIES
Flight MH370 appears in Balochistan, Pakistan, instead of on the seabed. A corrupt Malaysia Prime Minister, a devious CIA director and the secret forces behind Osama bin Laden’s death conspire to thwart former CIA cryptanalyst Bob Nolan as he seeks the plane’s fate.
Instead, he uncovers a devil’s bargain with global terrorists, faces down the world’s most dangerous hacker, and finds himself in the middle of the Taliban’s attempted heist of nuclear weapons. In Sri Lanka, Nolan searches for proof of treason against senior CIA officers while his ex-boss waits to kill him. Amidst the chaos, a sultry China spymaster entrances him while ruthlessly pursuing vengeance against his CIA colleagues.
Can Nolan discover the truth, or will it remain buried within the lies?
Russia interferes in the run-up to the 2016 presidential election. A North Korea nuke is on the loose in the US compliments of China. The right wing deep state plots a coup d'etat under the direction of an anonymous emperor-in-waiting.
Burned out CIA cryptanalyst Bob Nolan is on the trail of Higher Love and its sinister leader, but the conspiracists kidnap his family and two arch nemeses—one ex-KGB and one ex-CIA—aim to kill them all. Nolan’s small team battles formidable opponents, but with victory within sight he is forced to choose between family and country one last time.
READ ON FOR THE FIRST FOUR CHAPTERS OF END OF LIES
end of lies: cHAPTERs ONe-to-four
Another Trip to the ATM
Monday morning, July 14, 2014: Sharjah, United Arab Emirates
Retired CIA officer Bob Nolan had declined the White House’s entreaties to head a new, ultra-secret project and instead decided to reconcile with his estranged wife and children. The next day Nolan departed D.C. for his home in Singapore, with a week’s detour in the United Arab Emirates on personal business. In the three months he’d been away, he’d realized that a life in perfect isolation was much less desirable than an imperfect marriage. Now it was a matter of how to handle that fraught conversation with his wife, Joanie.
