Logan should have just dropped it. He should have just let it go, but he couldn’t. Someone out there was putting him, Eric, Sydney, and his entire family in danger.
He pulled his car off the interstate somewhere near Tuscaloosa. He pulled into a closed down Exxon with boarded-up windows and dug a burner phone out of an aluminum foil bag in his trunk. He dialed the forger from memory.
She answered on the third ring. “Gulf Coast Glass, this is Amber. How can I help you?”
Logan replied, “I need triple-glazed panes for my bay windows.” That was code for three documents from the United States.
The forger responded, “Excellent. When would you like to pick them up?”
She was still acting as if everything was normal. The last time they’d worked together, Logan told her he wouldn’t need anything else from her. She should have been instantly suspicious that he was calling again. She wasn’t, though.
“I’m in a big hurry to get this project finished,” he said.
She replied, “We can put a rush on your windows.”
She still wasn’t acting suspiciously. A spy said he was done calling out of the blue and asking for three forms of ID in a hurry? That should have sent up red flags that he was going on the run. When your clients go on the run, you should probably start packing a bag too. That is unless she wasn’t worried because she knew why he was on the run. That settled it. She’d burned him.
He hung up the phone and tossed it in the gutter. He got back in his car and drove to the interstate.
Northwest would take him to Tuscaloosa to the regional airport. He’d pick up his Cessna and fly for Mexico, or he could head straight north and drive to the forger. And do what? Kill her? Squeeze her for information that she wouldn’t give up?
There was only one legitimate reason for him to go find the forger: he needed to know who she sold him out to. Titus Crow was dead—eaten by alligators, mosquitoes, nutria, and anything else that called the fetid swamps home. His network wasn’t gone, though. Was there a new head? They’d chopped it off at the neck, but there was no telling what the war to claim control was like. Sydney and Eric would know. He’d spent the intervening years working as a mechanic and keeping his head down.
He realized he didn’t have to choose one or the other, though. He took the exit for Tuscaloosa and headed for the airstrip. As long as he stayed about 1000 feet or less above ground level, he could fly through unregulated Class G airspace. Control towers and the Federal Aviation Administration would leave him alone as long as he didn’t fly into restricted airspace. He needed a plane with a clean tail number in case someone flew up and could visually identify his plane. That shouldn’t be difficult, though.
He kept a plane at an airstrip in Tuscaloosa for just this purpose. It was registered in Arkansas as an agricultural sprayer. He outfitted it with tanks like a crop duster would have. Instead of fertilizer or a pesticide, it was just a reserve fuel tank. A typical crop duster held about 100 gallons of fuel and 300 gallons of whatever you would be spraying. They could fly about 500 miles on that. Logan filled the spray hopper with aviation fuel. So, he could get about 2000 miles before he’d need to fill up again. The forger lived in Wyoming. He’d have to refuel there, or he’d be running out of gas right on the Mexico line.
He pulled up to the airstrip. It was just a large field near the Tuscaloosa airport. Planes were parked in rows like cars in a parking lot. He drove down a bumpy gravel road and parked his car. He walked into the single-wide trailer that served as an office with faded soft carpet and wood-paneled walls. The whole thing smelled like old, sour cigarettes and aviation fuel.
A man sat behind a desk, stubbing out a Pall Mall. That explains the cigarette smell.
His nametag said, “Buck.”
Logan held out his hand, “Howdy, Buck. Name’s Jack Vermillion. Friends call me Texas Jack.”
Buck lit another cigarette. “Name’s Buck. Friends call me Buck. What can I do you for?”
Logan responded, “Need to take my girl out dancing. Air Tractor 300.”
Buck flipped through a binder on his desk. “Tail number?”
“N1776G,” Logan said.
Buck looked up from his book, studying Logan. For a moment, they just looked at each other without speaking. Buck seemed to be trying to figure something out. His eyes jumped back and forth, scanning Logan like a laser printer.
Finally, Buck said, “You look a little scrawny to be dancing with a woman like that.” Then he let out a long laugh that morphed into a haggard smoker’s cough.
Logan showed him Jack Vermillion’s ID. Buck scanned it and handed it back as he tossed Logan the keys to the airplane.
Logan did a quick pre-flight. Within ten minutes, he was in the air.
The air over Alabama was clear and bright. He kept the plane flying steadily at about 1,000 feet above ground level. He crossed the state line into Mississippi in only a few minutes. He decided to take a somewhat circuitous route to Wyoming. As far as he knew, no one tracked him to the airstrip in Tuscaloosa, and no one should bother a crop duster flying barely above the ground. He decided to play it safe anyway. A spy who made assumptions is a spy who ended up dead. He pushed the speed as he turned north over Arkansas. He’d fly it up to Minnesota, cut hard west for Montana and then come back south to Wyoming. It was at least four hundred miles out of the way, but he wanted to be sure.
The propeller chopped through the air with a rhythmic staccato. Somewhere over Arkansas, his butt fell asleep. It was going to be a long day. He was still low enough to get cell phone reception, but he couldn’t risk it. He wanted badly to call Sydney and make sure that she and Eric were okay. That was an excellent way to get all of them in trouble, though. He would have to just assume Sydney was handling it. She was at least as good a spy as he was.
* * *
Abu Kishaa called his cult of followers, “apostles,” and they rolled up their tents in the middle of the cold desert night. They hooked their trailers and wagons to four-wheelers, dirt bikes, mules, and to their shoulders. The band of about five hundred followers didn’t represent the entirety of Abu Kishaa’s support. If his group of zealots was only half a thousand cranks in the desert looking for salvation, Sydney probably wouldn’t have bothered. She would have kept an eye on the movement, but it wouldn’t have been particularly noteworthy. The tired, lonely, and afraid searched for salvation in the desert for as long as human beings walked the earth.
It was no mistake Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad all led congregations in the desert. The purity of the desolation made it much easier to feel close to God. They weren’t close to God, as far as Sydney could tell. She was just close to Abu Kishaa.
The handsome prophet with the sculpted beard and the swept-back black hair walked in the middle of his pack of followers. All around him, ATVs and dirt bike engines droned, and tires churned up sand. They moved at an average walking pace. Sydney and Eric were close to him as they walked. They were two of his most prized acolytes: a white Danish woman and a blue-eyed Jew. When Abu Kishaa was ready to go public to the whole world with his message, his white followers were made for CNN primetime.
Abu Kishaa spoke animatedly, his hair tousled, waving his hands as if he were trying to control a firehose of words before they overwhelmed him. He talked loud enough to be heard by Sydney and Eric over the sound of the engines. He spoke for the benefit of a woman named The Scribe. She was a skinny Arab woman with her hair pulled back in a tight bun underneath her hijab. Abu Kishaa didn’t issue any guidance on hijabs, so most formerly Muslim women still wore them.
The Scribe wrote down everything he said on a tablet she charged from a generator whenever they stopped. Abu Kishaa’s holy book would be immediately available online as soon as it was finished.
He said, “In the name of Chemosh, the vengeful, the wise, and the forgiving. I bring a word. You have heard it said the son of Yahweh transformed water into wine. Truly, I say to you, this was a trick of the Opposer. It is kn
own to us wine is a liar. Wine loosens the tongue for boasting and deceit but glues the tongue for praise. I say unto you, followers of Chemosh, it is an abomination to drink wine. A wine drinker is a braggart and a deceiver. The Lord Chemosh has given unto us grapes for the nourishment of our bodies. He has given unto us Abu Kishaa for the nourishment of our spirits.” The scribe’s fingers flew over the tablet as she walked.
Abu Kishaa went on. “There is only one fruit he has given unto us for the nourishment of our minds. This is the bulb of the qedex. Called Silphium by followers of the gods on Mount Olympus, qedex has been given unto man for the nourishment of the mind.”
At the end of this recitation, Abu Kishaa slumped over. One of the men following him swooped in to catch him under his arms. He threw Abu Kishaa’s arm over his shoulder and helped the prophet limp along.
Sydney knew there was an angle. He’s preparing his followers to cultivate some kind of drug. Silphium? Qedex? Damn, what I would give to just google it right now.
What did any of this have to do with Logan Connor? Sydney needed to figure that out before she could get out of this cult. Abu Kishaa kept armed guards around the perimeter of the camp and the group as they were moving. He said it was to protect the faithful from the forces of the false prophets. Sydney studied enough cults to know that their primary responsibility was to stop defectors. She figured that she and Eric could get out under cover of darkness if they wanted. They needed to get to the bottom of this stuff about Logan first, though.
Sydney asked, “Prophet, where is this qedex?”
He lifted his head, and weakly said, “It grows only in special places near the Dead Sea.”
Okay, now I’ve got a destination.
The Dead Sea was pretty big, though. They would likely still be on the east side of it. Abu Kishaa thought he was descended from the Moabites. If Sydney remembered her Old Testament, the Moabites lived on the east side of the Jordan River.
She cracked a smile, thinking about how Eric would respond to her calling it the Old Testament.
He would have said, “Sydney, there is only one Testament. How can it be old if it’s the only one?”
Abu Kishaa saw her smiling and said, “Tell me what is on your mind, Sydney of Denmark.”
For some reason, she didn’t bother lying to Abu Kishaa. The truth was easier in most circumstances. It was more convincing. She said, “I was just thinking of the first Moabites, the ones in the Old Testament.”
Abu Kishaa nodded along. He responded, “The first followers of Chemosh did not write down their beliefs and practices, so they were lost. The whole world began to follow Yahweh instead of the true God. We will not make the same mistake.”
Is this all just part of the act, or is he a true believer? If he’s a liar, he’s the best one I’ve ever met.
The sun began to peek over the desert horizon off to their left. If the sun was rising to her left, it meant they were headed south. They were headed for the Dead Sea.
Abu Kishaa limped over, still drained from his supposed revelation. He put a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “I have something special for you, Eric the Abrahamic.” He turned to Sydney. “For you too, Sydney of Denmark. But first, I must sleep. Then, I will preach to the people who gather. For the first time, you shall see me perform my signs and wonders. You will know I am who I say I am.”
Eric sighed deeply, like a man being touched by a pretty woman for the first time. “I already believe you are who you say you are.”
If Eric is lying, he’s the second-best liar I’ve ever met. I need to extract the kid.
Abu Kishaa squeezed his shoulder. “I know, my son. I know.”
* * *
Sydney realized where they were headed when she saw the ruins growing larger ahead of them. They were headed to Umm Ar-Rasas. The site was once was a fort for Imperial Roman soldiers. It became a Christian city, then a Muslim one. Now, it was just piles of rocks and building blocks laying strewn about the desert.
Before they reached the ruined city, they came to a square tower about fifty feet high. The column was built of the same sand-colored stones scattered around the ruined road. To Sydney, it looked like a rook from a chess set.
Abu Kishaa stopped and placed his hand on the square tower. If he stretched his arms out, he could almost reach the edges of each wall.
“This is called a stylite tower,” He said. “Monks of Yahweh would live on these towers and allow their bodies to waste away in devotion to their false god. Singers of Allah would stand here and call everyone to come to pray their falsehoods. Today, I will climb this tower and preach the new word.”
Abu Kishaa turned to the man who caught him when he almost fell. The man was known only as the Brother.
He squeezed the man’s shoulder. “Brother, go into the town of Madaba and tell them The Comforter has come. Tell them to come to glory.”
The Brother rushed off to round up a few other followers and dirt bikes to head to the nearby Jordanian city.
“How many will come?” Eric asked breathlessly.
Abu Kishaa looked into the pulsating desert sun. “As many as seek salvation.”
He’s good at non-answers, Sydney thought.
The group of followers began to set up their camp around the stylite tower. They threw up tents and dug holes for lean-to poles. Some of them just sat on the desert ground and tore into whatever food they’d brought with them. Most of them carried MREs. There was an entire wagon of MREs pulled by one of the brothers on a four-wheeler. Sydney didn’t know where they’d got them from. They’d probably raided some UN relief stockpile.
They set up Abu Kishaa’s tent, really just a camping tent one might see for a family at a campground anywhere in the world. It was unassuming and plain. Abu Kishaa worked very hard to seem like a man of the people. Maybe it wasn’t an act.
As the followers milled about, eating and setting up camp in the desert sun, Sydney tried her best to seem nonchalant. She kicked at a small pebble on the ground as she whispered to Eric.
She whispered, “We need to start planning our escape.”
He seemed offended. “Why? Why would we leave?”
Sydney was shocked by the force of his outburst. He seemed like he genuinely wanted to stay. She narrowed her eyes at him. He must have realized he was too forceful. He said, “I mean, I’m just…we’re getting great information. There’s a lot more to learn from Abu Kishaa.”
“From Abu Kishaa or about Abu Kishaa?” Sydney asked.
“About him. That’s what I meant.”
Sydney wasn’t convinced. “Don’t get too close to him, Eric. Remember why we’re here and who he is. He’s affiliated with Titus Crow’s network somehow, and we’ve got to figure out what the link is.”
“I know,” Eric replied as if responding to his mom scolding him.
She glared at him. “He wants to kill Logan.”
“I know. Okay?”
Sydney must admit, she did want to see these signs and wonders. What would it mean if he actually could do miracles? A great con artist or something much, much bigger?
CHAPTER THREE
The sky over Wyoming gleamed a brilliant blue without a single cloud. Logan’s Air Tractor continued to chop through the air as he headed for a cattle ranch about two hours outside Cheyenne. He made sure to skirt the city as he flew. He stayed low to the ground and away from busy skies, so nobody at the FAA or any air traffic control tower would register his little crop-duster. He could see Cheyenne stretching out beside him, though.
The city looked like something out of medieval history, a town dropped into the middle of a barren prairie. Roads snaked into and out of it like black veins, connecting it to rural areas and the rest of the state. He followed the interstate for a while before hooking west and heading back over the wilderness. The forger met in different fields depending on the day. Today was a Tuesday, so she would be at a cattle ranch called Myatt Ranch. As far as Logan could tell, the forger didn’t own any of these ranches, a
nd most of the ranchers didn’t know she was using their land. Farmsteads out there were so big, he could land an airplane without the rancher knowing. He only needed a few hundred feet to land and take off anyway.
After maybe another half hour, he spotted the cattle grazing field where he would meet the forger. He set the crop duster down in the plain with a bumpy landing. No matter how flat prairie ground seemed to be, everything was rough when dropping several thousand pounds out of the sky at sixty miles per hour. He kept the engine running and the propellers spinning while he waited.
This was going to be the most challenging part of his plan. He was going to let himself get captured.
After another thirty minutes or so, a Ford Bronco came bumping and chugging into the field. The truck, a 1980s model, bounced on a lifted suspension as it roared towards him. The driver hit the brakes, and the tires slid to a stop.
A man in a ribbed tank top and blue jeans stood up on the running board and leaned over the top of the truck.
“You lost?” He shouted over the roar of the truck and the airplane.
Logan shouted back, “Can’t be lost if you don’t know where you plan to go.”
The man got back in the truck and pushed open the passenger door. Good, Logan thought, the code hasn’t changed.
That was a sign he was in for a setup, though. The forger was usually more careful. She changed codes pretty frequently. She was doing everything she could to get Logan into the truck.
Logan hopped out of the plane but left the engine running. He walked over to the truck.
“You going to cut the engine?” The driver asked.
Logan pulled a pistol out of his shoulder holster and pointed it at him. “I don’t plan to stay long.”
The driver studied the pistol and nodded his head. He sucked his teeth and scratched the back of his head. “What gave us away?”
Logan said, “Somebody burned me in Alabama. Figured it was the forger. Where is she?”
The driver pointed down at the prairie grass. “Oh, she’s around here somewhere.”
East of the Jordan (A Logan Connor Thriller Book 2) Page 2
