by Jan Thompson
“I wanted to get my point across. It’s life or death.” Either way, death for me.
“We’ll talk in the morning.” Tyrone invited Cayson into his cabin.
His wife had already gone to bed, but she had left some clothes and blankets on the living room futon.
“Not to worry,” Tyrone said. “We have twenty-four-hour security here. We’ll shoot down any drones that come to this private property.”
That makes me feel better.
“The question some of us have started to ask is: Why are the drones after you?”
Cayson drew a deep breath. “I’m not sure they want us dead just yet. Maybe not until after they get what they want.”
“Hmm… The fact that they were shooting to kill negates your statement that their operators wanted you alive.”
It made no sense, but Cayson was fresh out of ideas. He dared not think that the drones could get whatever they wanted out of him even if he were dead—
Icarus.
Do they want Icarus?
If that were the case, the drone operators could not be working for VenomLabs. VenomLabs had a chance to extract Icarus out of his head but they hadn’t done it.
“My entire community is now at risk,” Tyrone said. “Should we trade you for provisions for the families living here?”
Cayson’s jaw dropped. “I’m sorry.”
Tyrone held up a hand. “I made the decision to go in and extract you two when the security cameras showed the squadron of drones.”
Who owns those drones?
Could a third party have injected themselves into the project?
Twenty-Two
Stella’s host awoke early, read her Bible, and started sewing clothes using an antique Singer pedal sewing machine. During off hours, Alicia was also the community nurse.
Sitting in a small armchair, Stella leaned toward the old handheld mirror that she had borrowed from Alicia.
The stitches on her forehead were going to turn into a scar, but at least the wound hadn’t been worse.
She glanced at her left arm. Six stitches. Earned on the slopes of mud and madness.
The midnight storm was still fresh in her mind.
Alicia covered up her sewing machine. “Ready for breakfast?”
Stella nodded. She followed the eighty-nine-year-old woman out of the cabin. Alicia disappeared into the community kitchen, while Stella stood in the open field and breathed.
The mountain air was clean and refreshing this morning. All was quiet and tranquil. Stella shouldn’t have a single care in the world, save for all the deaths and destructions that were waiting for her once they left this Still Waters Community.
In the meantime, this was their retreat. Their time-out.
“Hey.”
Cayson’s voice carried in the wind toward her.
When she turned around, his jaw dropped. “That looks painful.”
His gentle fingers touched her cheekbone just below the stitches.
“I’ll heal,” Stella said.
“It’ll leave a scar.” He thumbed her lips.
“A war trophy.”
“A memory.” He lowered his lips toward hers.
She didn’t protest.
In fact, she wanted more. She wanted him to kiss her this way the rest of her life—
What am I thinking?
When they came up for air, Cayson asked, “And your arm?”
Stella lifted it slightly and winced. It felt stretched. She dropped her arm down again.
Cayson looked down. “Wow, Stella. You look like a pioneer woman with that long, flowy skirt.”
“I don’t think flowy is a word.”
“Flowing. Whatever. The calico flowers look pretty on you.”
“Thank you.” Stella had worn skirts sometimes, but Cayson had probably never seen her in skirts. On the job, slacks with holsters worked better for moving in and out of elevators and small spaces.
“How much sleep did you get?” Cayson asked.
“Three hours. You?”
“I could have had that much if Tyrone’s dog didn’t lick my face and wake me up.” Cayson laughed. “I was on the couch.”
“Somehow I don’t feel tired. I’m running on adrenaline.”
“And fear.”
“That too.” Stella started walking. “You ready to have breakfast with fifty strangers?”
“I feel bad that we’re bringing danger into this place. They didn’t ask for it.”
Stella nodded.
“I think they know where Old MacDonald is,” Cayson whispered.
“So we’ve come to the right place. They can point us in his direction and we’ll be on our way.”
Twenty-Three
After breakfast, no one left the covered pavilion with its long tables and benches. It could have easily seated a hundred people, so Stella figured they probably had room for expansion.
Most of the people here were either in their forties or sixties or eighties. There were a few people who looked like they could be in their thirties. Perhaps the kids had finished eating and left the pavilion.
Table talk included how to preserve and store food for nuclear winters.
Nuclear winters?
“Tell us your story,” Tyrone said to Cayson.
Oh boy.
Stella waited to see how Cayson would respond. Here they were, in the midst of fifty strangers.
Cayson stood up. “How much should I tell? You’re all strangers to me.”
“We’re not strangers anymore,” Tyrone said. “We saved your life—and hers—last night.”
Cayson nodded.
“Besides, you’re trespassing on private property. A thousand acres of these mountains are ours free and clear. You brought death to Bob’s family by passing through.”
“I am so very sorry.” Cayson’s voice cracked.
“Let’s start with this.” Tyrone seemed to be genuinely trying. And enormously patient with them. “How in the world did you end up here? We bother no one. We just want to live in peace.”
“What have we ever done to you?” someone said, dabbing her eyes. “We don’t even know you. Now Bob, Maya, and the kids are dead.”
Cayson’s shoulders drooped. “We came to find Old MacDonald.”
“Old Mac?” someone answered.
Tyrone lifted his hand. It must have been a signal for them not to disclose any more information than needed.
So they do know who Old MacDonald is. Perhaps also where he lives.
Stella waited.
“Until we see him, there’s not much we can tell you about who we are,” Cayson said. “I can tell you that our presence here truly endangers your lives. If you can just point us north, we’ll be going on our way.”
“Oh, a quest.”
Then the barrage of comments exploded.
“He doesn’t need any help. Arrogant millennials!”
“What sort of kids are they raising these days?”
“He probably doesn’t have any useful skills!”
Cayson cleared his throat. “I’m right here. Sort of…”
“Can you shoot? Hunt? Fish?” A booming voice asked him.
“Uh… We have grocery stores for that,” Cayson said.
They all laughed.
“Poor kid. He’ll never survive out in the wild.”
They laughed again.
“Out here, God’s nature is our grocery store,” Tyrone said quietly.
“You don’t seem to raise a lot of chickens, yet you cooked at least sixty eggs this morning,” Cayson said. “Where did you get those eggs?”
“Oh, he’s thinking. Questioning.” Tyrone smiled. “I like that.”
Some wheel noises made Stella turn to see two teenagers with one wheelbarrow each, filled with parts from last night’s drones.
“No!” Cayson visibly freaked out five ways to Christmas. “You do not want to bring those in here. They have GPS. All of you are in danger.”
“We already are,”
Tyrone said. “Our societies are in ruins. Shambles. Freedom is at stake. We are already in danger. The end is near.”
“Did I mention those things have GPS?” Cayson tried again.
“We killed them,” one of the teenagers said.
“Sure. You smashed up everything?”
“We could use parts for our radio projects,” the other teenager said.
“Ah…” Cayson looked at Stella.
“You could reconfigure them,” Stella said.
“I’m not a drone expert.” Cayson scratched his head.
“But Old Mac is,” Tyrone said.
Twenty-Four
Their bicycles took them five miles across hiking trails farther into the forested private property. Then they had to walk their bikes along a stream, being careful not to lose their packs of damaged drones strapped to their bikes and in their backpacks.
The stream was clear and cool and looked perfectly fine to drink from, but Tyrone had advised both Cayson and Stella not to.
They were downstream, he said. And there were many deer upstream from here. They got the picture.
Cayson drank filtered and boiled water from his water bottle. And so did Stella.
Her arm muscles were in pain and giving her fits, and the most powerful painkiller they had at the community was Tylenol. Halfway through this forest, Cayson had offered to carry her backpack on top of his own.
Cayson had not dared to suggest that Stella stay back and miss all this fun.
She probably didn’t know who Old MacDonald was, but once she saw him, she would know.
And Project Pericarp would be clearer to all.
Also clearer would be who Ulysses was to the FBI and other government entities who would love to get their hands on his brain.
It was too bad that Aspasia had disappeared again after that meeting with Cayson at the data storage convention.
Cayson was confident that the woman who activated his implants was Aspasia. Elusive. Evil. And madly in love with Ulysses.
They took a five-minute break on a clearing.
Slap!
“Aarrgghh!” Stella growled as she slapped her thigh and scratched.
There were red welts all over her calves above her socks and boots.
“You’re sweet, that’s why.” Cayson laughed. “Those southern mosquitoes love you.”
“Remind me why I shouldn’t move to Georgia,” Stella said, wincing and massaging her arm around her stitches. “How much longer do we have?”
Cayson didn’t know. They turned to Tyrone, who seemed to refuse to answer them.
“You don’t have to tell us.” Cayson waved at him. “If there were a zip line, we’d get to him in no time, right?”
They resumed their trek as the late afternoon sun peeked in every now and then when there was a break in the forest canopy.
Here in the forest, Cayson felt cut off from the outside world. He wondered about new developments at VenomLabs.
Are they going to fire someone for the breach of security?
Who is Mole Rat?
Had VenomLabs done any direct business with Molyneux? Cayson wouldn’t put it past the contractor to be competitive against other DOD contractors.
He wouldn’t put it past VenomLabs to do something to stir up trouble so that the DOD would do massive orders of this or that.
Who knows.
Cayson prayed quietly for his cousin, Leland, that she would be okay. Whenever she had to fly to Europe for projects for the CIA or FBI, Leland was often incommunicado. Now it was his turn to be away.
All Cayson could do was pray that God would keep her safe.
Twenty-Five
The welcome party at Still Waters Farm included a three-legged sheepdog, one Great Dane, three cats, a cow who skipped around, and five goats. They were inside a second fence away from the dirt road.
All roamed freely under God’s open skies and rolling green fields that stretched to the edge of the forest.
“The chickens are somewhere.” Tyrone got off his dirt-encrusted bicycle and removed his helmet. Part of his face was dusty and grimy.
Her arm in great pain, Stella leaned against the fence as they waited for someone to open the gate for them. She shouldn’t have come.
Tyrone got off his phone.
That phone bothered Stella. Could anyone find them here? All they had to do was triangulate…
A small truck rumbled toward them on the winding dirt road. Its windows were down, and some instrumental jazz was playing from the dashboard. It came to a stop a yard away from the gate.
When Stella saw who came out of the truck, it became all clear to her.
Old MacDonald was Dmitri Proskouriakoff, only one of Russia’s best old school hackers. Highly sought after by the CIA, he had given up his motherland citizenship to move to the United States to train NSA hackers on how to destroy FSB systems.
Some people, including Stella, had wondered if Dmitri’s heart was still Russian.
And whether he still worked for the FSB.
Dmitri eyed her as he unlocked the gate.
Well, he was easy on the eyes, in spite of his age. From Stella’s recollection, Dmitri was in his seventies. He looked fit. He looked like he could take her down.
Hadn’t Tyrone said that he was a drone expert?
Who owned the armed drones in the forest? They had a few samples strapped to their bicycles, but what if those drones belonged to Dmitri?
Dmitri greeted Tyrone first like they were best buddies. Then he turned his attention to Cayson.
“I haven’t seen you in forever.” Dmitri shook Cayson’s hand.
“I thought you moved home to Russia.”
Dmitri shrugged. “I can’t leave my farm. Just bought another twenty baby chicks.”
One of FSB’s best hackers was raising chickens in America. Stella couldn’t wrap her mind around it.
“And who is this?” Dmitri bowed to Stella.
“Stella Evans, a friend of Cayson’s.” She shook his hand.
“Just a friend?” He looked disappointed.
Twenty-Six
“Vegetables and herbs from my garden.” Dmitri beamed with pride at the spread he had offered his guests at dinner. “I planted, I watered, but God gave me the harvest.”
Sitting adjacent to Cayson, Stella waited for him to say something about thanking God for the food. She didn’t know Dmitri from Adam and wasn’t sure if Dmitri was a praying man.
He had mentioned God though.
Cayson squeezed Stella’s hand lightly. “Shall we say a blessing?”
Stella nodded slightly. And so Cayson did. Afterward, the loudest amen came from Dmitri.
Stella tasted her salad. “Mmm. Very good.”
“Told you,” Dmitri said. “You cannot outplant or outgrow God.”
“You said God a lot,” Cayson said. “You didn’t talk about God much, friend. You weren’t religious at all.”
“Five heart attacks can change a man.” Dmitri dabbed the corners of his lips with a cloth napkin.”
“What? You? You look too healthy…”
Dmitri raised his hand. “Ulysses had five heart attacks. They changed me. Or shall I say, I got scared.”
Ulysses.
“Speaking of him, where is he?” Stella asked.
Dmitri didn’t answer her.
“You used to cuss a mile a minute,” Cayson said to Dmitri, cutting off Stella’s inquiry.
She was sure the men had heard her question. She was miffed at Cayson for not following her lead here.
Didn’t he realize what was at stake?
They were not just having lunch with an old friend. They had to find a way to get back to Atlanta, extract Icarus from Cayson’s head, shut down MedusaNet, and do all that without getting killed.
“Ah, I keep my mouth clean these days,” Dmitri said. “Good for the soul.”
“Is it?” Stella asked.
“Is it not?” Dmitri replied.
Stella could say
a number of things in response, but something in her spirit told her to stand down.
And wait.
There’s a time to speak and a time to listen.
“Well, you cussed in Russian,” Cayson said. “I’m sure most of it was lost in translation.”
Dmitri laughed.
It was an interesting laugh, Stella thought. Kind of a cross between contentment and chaos.
Contentment because Dmitri seemed happy, albeit living by himself in a rustic log cabin in the middle of nowhere in this mosquito-infested deep south.
Chaos because surrounding this retreat of his were swarms of drones protecting his property and his life.
That told Stella one thing: Dmitri had enemies.
Dmitri had called the drones his civilized air patrol.
Civilized.
Stella smiled as she recalled Dmitri mentioning that he had named his drones Sheepdogs.
He hadn’t said how many there were.
“You’re FBI,” Dmitri had said to her earlier, before lunch.
“This is my last assignment,” Stella replied.
“Was.”
Finishing up her salad, Stella thought about that single word Dmitri had said about her last assignment.
Was.
This was my last assignment.
This is my last assignment.
What in the world did Dmitri mean by changing the tense of her sentence? Was she heading to a new assignment?
What did Dmitri know about her?
Who in the world is Dmitri Proskouriakoff?
When Dmitri’s personal chef brought out prettily plated catfish for their lunch, Cayson rubbed his palms together and dug in so quickly that Stella realized she hadn’t known that part about Cayson.
His profile had been on the FBI records for her to see.
Born in Florida and raised in Georgia because his father had found a new job teaching at the Georgia Institute of Technology—better known as Georgia Tech—Cayson had grown up in a technology-driven home. His mother was an intellectual property attorney for some big software companies.
Cayson’s favorite color was green, and he hated driving in Atlanta traffic.