by Debbi Mack
He seemed amused.
“Just don’t hurt me, please,” I said, my lines coming back to me. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but believe me, I’m not your enemy.”
The man stopped and peered at me.
“Honest.” I gulped. “The Feds are after me, but I don’t want any part of it. They think I’m on their side, but I’m not. I’m just a writer. I’m on no one’s side but my own.”
Cynthia started to say something, but the dark-haired man held up a hand to silence her.
“Why are you pretending to help the Feds?” he asked.
“I told you. They’ve been after me, and I’m just playing along, so they’ll leave me alone.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
“Why would I lie?” As I said it, I thought of several reasons.
He leaned toward me. “You tell me,” he said, as if he’d read my mind.
I merely shook my head. “I’m not lying. I swear it.” I felt like I was vying for an Academy Award against Meryl Streep.
The man straightened and turned to Cynthia, who leaned against the desk.
“Let’s give her some time to think about it,” he said. He turned to me and added, “I want you to write down anything Fred or Selby told you. Anything. It’s important.” He turned on his heel and stalked out.
Cynthia looked at me and rapped her knuckles softly on the desk. She walked over to the lamp and shut it off.
“You can use your laptop at the desk or write it by hand.” Cynthia jerked her head a couple of times toward the desk. She stared at me intently, as if trying to send a telepathic message.
I realized she wasn’t pointing a gun at me anymore. I rose.
“Careful,” she said. “Don’t be stupid.”
“No. No, I’ll cooperate.” My tongue felt like it was coated with glue. “Could I have some water? I think I’m entitled, as a . . . what? . . . prisoner?”
She nodded. “No problem. I’ll take care of that. Meanwhile, you need to get to work.”
For a moment, I relaxed and drew a deep breath. Cyn moved to the desk, picked up a pad and pen, and turned to me. “They’re listening,” she mouthed, as she handed me the writing implements and then left the room.
I pondered Cyn’s behavior. What now? Gathering my wits, I trudged over to the desk, placed my laptop on it and sat down. What could I tell them that wouldn’t get me in trouble? All I had were suppositions based on what little I knew.
I pulled out the laptop and set it up. Turning it on, I tried to think of anything Fred or Selby had actually said about the group and came up empty. Well, that wouldn’t take long to write.
All I knew was that Fred had joined the group to help me research my novel about terrorists who were exploring the darker repercussions of a new physics theory that challenged Einstein’s relativity model.
I knew Selby studied geology, including plate tectonics.
I had no idea what one had to do with the other, if anything. All I had were assumptions about fault lines and earthquakes.
I was typing out these pitiful bits of information, when Cyn walked in with bottled water.
“Please excuse the informality,” she said, handing me the bottle. I twisted the cap and lifted it to my lips, knocking back almost half the contents.
After pausing for breath, I swiped my hand over my mouth. “Thanks. I was parched.”
“Take all the time you need.” Cyn pulled a drawer open and, without a word, pointed inside. It held a small black rectangle. I picked it up and examined it. It had a USB port at one end. A flash drive.
This can’t be an accident. I thought of Cynthia, cocking her head toward the desk.
My eyes narrowed. What was Cyn up to?
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Jessica
I glanced about, wondering about hidden cameras or microphones, then positioned the flash drive at the USB port and paused to consider before I shoved it into place.
I accessed the flash drive and found several folders. I opened one that said “Invoices.” This displayed an array of files. Word and PDF documents.
At random, I double-clicked a file. It was an invoice for drilling equipment. I shook my head and tried opening another. Geologic surveys.
“What the . . . .?” I shut my mouth. If the room was bugged, I didn’t want to clue anyone in on my thoughts. Were these people drilling around fault lines? Planting explosives? Mining uranium? Is that what Selby’s part in all this was?
I shook my head at that last thought. Not uranium. They could probably pick up the materials to make a bomb on the black market much more easily than they could dig for it themselves.
I went back to the folders and found one that read “Maps.” I opened it to see even more files—all PDFs.
I clicked on one and saw a topographical map. Could it be of the San Andreas Fault? It didn’t look like it. I saw a river, but that was all. I was still straining to find a fault line when Lucius came inside.
Before I could act, Lucius strode over. “What are you doing?” Cyn stood to my other side, saying nothing.
He stood beside me, glaring at the computer screen.
Lucius’ face turned red, then purple with rage. He started to speak, but all I heard was an odd popping sound. Open-mouthed, Lucius stumbled and grabbed the desk. He’d sprung a leak in his upper chest and blood spurted out.
I heard the noise again and Lucius collapsed. I looked at Cyn, who held a silenced pistol, still smoldering from the shots. I started to say something, but she lifted a finger to her lips and moved toward me. With shaky hands, I switched back to the document I’d been working on and typed, “WTF?”
“It looks like you’re making progress,” she said aloud, setting the gun on the desk and placing her hands on the keyboard.
She typed, “Room is bugged. Copied files from their computer this AM. Haven’t seen yet.”
I considered how to proceed. How do I word this? Is this a trap? Finally, I typed, “Why?”
Cyn read my response and typed, “I’m undercover with Feds. Do files make sense?”
I blinked and stared. All this time. Who would’ve known Cynthia was the operative?
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Jessica
I realized I should respond to Cynthia’s remark. “I’m remembering a few things. Not much,” I stated for the record. I typed, “Need to talk,” and hammered my finger down on the period key.
Cyn nodded. “Do the best you can. That’s all we can ask,” she said for the benefit of unseen listeners.
She took over at the keyboard and typed, “Hard to arrange. Shooting Lucius wasn’t part of the plan, but I’ll come up with an excuse. You understand I needed to make it look like I hated you?” Cyn continued to type, but I knew where she was going. That explained her behavior at the hotel. Why she slapped me so hard. She had to regain whatever trust she’d built with this group of wackos. She’d only just managed to get hold of the data, but hadn’t seen it yet. And she wasn’t sure how to get it into the right hands without implicating herself.
Cyn was still typing, when I grabbed the pencil. “Why didn’t the Feds just TELL me about you?” I scribbled.
Cyn looked abashed. She typed, “Probably didn’t want you to accidentally give me away. You might have betrayed me with a tell.”
I gave her a thumbs up. Damn that George, anyway. Did he think I was an idiot? I had to admit, though, it was a smart move on his part.
“I’m writing everything I can remember,” I said, to keep the dialogue going. I took over at the keyboard. “Selby was a geologist who studied tectonics,” I typed. “Does that help?”
“Good,” Cyn said, adopting a tough tone. “Get it all down in detail.” As she spoke, Cyn brought up the map on the screen and squinted at it. She frowned. Her jaw dropped and her eyebrows shot up. She switched back to the word processing program and typed, “Did he study geophysics?”
I looked at the sentence. I had no idea. I couldn’t tell
you the difference between the two. I shrugged, feeling helpless.
Cyn continued typing. This was putting on a good show for the hidden microphone, anyway. She stopped and I read, “Have you heard the news about the earthquake activity in Yellowstone?”
Yellowstone? I shook my head. What about the Golden Gate Bridge?
Cyn typed at length. When she stopped, I read what was on the screen.
She’d written, “This could be worse than we imagined, if Selby’s job is what I think. Our theory was that the group might blow up a major landmark. But these maps are cause for even greater concern. We’re talking about a catastrophe that could wipe out the entire continent, maybe half the planet.”
There it was again. The threat of near annihilation. I looked at Cyn, no doubt conveying disbelief. “How???” I mouthed.
Cyn paused, exhaled, and typed another note. It read, “By causing the supervolcano in Yellowstone to erupt.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Jessica
I stared at Cyn’s statement, unable to form a coherent response. Finally, I typed: What are you talking about???
“Can you work any faster?” Cyn said, aloud.
“I’m trying, okay?”
Cyn took over the keyboard and pounded out a reply, as I tried to make sense of the situation. I’d never been to Yellowstone, but I knew it was the site of Old Faithful, the geyser that shot off with amazing regularity. Along with being an awesome and popular nature preserve, the park was the site of many hot water springs and geysers. So, what causes hot water springs? Clearly, there must be a heat source within the earth. That heat source would have to be intense. Hot enough to create molten lava. Then I said to myself, Consider Yellowstone’s location. Not far from the Pacific Rim and the volcanic mountains in the Cascades. Mountains like Mt. Hood, Mt. Adams, Mt. Rainier and, of course, the infamous Mount St. Helen’s. But I had no idea that Yellowstone itself was part of a volcano.
I read along as Cyn typed her missive:
Homeland Sec’s been watching Yellowstone Park a while. Park is located within basin—crater of one of earth’s biggest volcanoes. Thought to be extinct. But it’s active and geologists watching with concern. Recently, ground’s been swelling and there’s been more earthquakes. According to scientists, this could mean Yellowstone coming close to eruption.
I read this with alarm and typed: So the drilling could be to plant explosives to push it past the brink?
Cyn nodded.
“Jesus,” I whispered. The word slipped through my lips, like an exhalation.
I typed: What are the chances this will work? Wouldn’t they need massive explosives?
Cyn’s response: We think they’ve been stockpiling nuclear weaponry. Easy to do these days. Terrorists network on the Internet. It’s beyond frightening what they can get. Bombs in the right places could cause the biggest explosion in centuries. Since the last time Yellowstone erupted.
I cringed at her response. What happened last time? I typed.
Cyn wrote: Ash spread for thousands of miles. Boulders blew halfway across the continent. Explosion spewed enough debris to fill Grand Canyon. Destroyed almost the entire western half of North America. But winds carried ash around the world, disrupting our eco-systems. This could kill millions, even billions, and affect everyone. Global economy would collapse. And imagine the hospitals and emergency service systems. People would die or panic.
I digested this information. If their plan works, of course, I wrote.
Cyn typed: That’s a big ‘if.’ Do you want to take a chance that it won’t?
CHAPTER FORTY
Jessica
Cynthia mouthed the words, “Keep typing.” She seemed to be pondering as I did. “What happens now?” I wrote.
Cyn snapped to attention. “Finished?” She nodded to show I should answer in the affirmative.
“Yeah. I’m done,” I announced.
“Good,” she said. “Let’s take a look.”
I wondered why the public hadn’t been warned but had a feeling I already knew. Such information would likely cause folks to panic. Homeland Security would want to nip this in the bud before the group had a chance to make it happen. They’d want to keep the matter quiet for any number of reasons. All the businesses and local economies would be affected by a rash announcement of an impending supervolcano explosion. Besides, it was preventable, if we could just get the information to the right people in time.
“This will do,” Cyn said. “You can pack up now.” She hooked the laptop to the device on the shelf, printed our typed Q and A, saved it to a thumb drive, and then deleted it from my laptop. I removed Cynthia’s flash drive, stowed it with the thumb drive in my purse, and shut the laptop down. After I packed the computer and printout, she handed me her gun. I stared at it, unwilling to move or handle it. What am I supposed to do with this?
Cyn pulled out a notepad and pencil: Hit me on the head with the gun. Hard as you can. When I fall, run. Turn right, go down the hall, look for door. Notify Feds. They’ll pick you up.
I shook my head. She mouthed, “Do it.”
I gawked at the gun. Then at her face. I couldn’t.
“Do it,” she mouthed again. Cyn looked impatient.
I realized this was supposed to be my escape. I knew what I had to do.
“I’m sorry,” I mouthed as I hauled back and swung the gun at her.
Cyn winced, but she took the hit like a pro. I felt sick.
I looped the strap of my laptop case across the opposite shoulder, my purse across the other.
Still wincing, Cyn stared at me with raised eyebrows that asked, “Ready?”
I wasn’t but I didn’t have a choice.
Cyn upended the chair. She let herself slump to the floor. I ran.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Jessica
I made a break for the front door, expecting to see the crazy-eyed man or one of his cohorts, but apparently they’d left me in Cynthia’s and Lucius’ capable hands. This seemed almost too easy.
As I reached for the doorknob, a large pair of men’s hands grabbed my arms from behind. I kicked and thrashed until I got an arm free and went for his eyes. But he caught my hand and pulled me close until I couldn’t move at all.
I remembered the listening device and screamed.
The man’s grip didn’t loosen. “Jesus, lady. You trying to make me deaf?”
I stood there, stupidly, waiting for the rescue team.
Someone knocked at the door. We eyed each other. Who’d be knocking? Jehovah’s Witnesses?
My captor moved around me, careful to keep a tight grip with one arm around my waist. A bald edifice of flesh, he checked the peephole. “No one’s there,” he said.
He turned toward me and was about to speak when the front window shattered. We both hit the floor.
“What the . . . ? The man rolled off me, displayed a holstered gun, and muttered, “Don’t move.” He peered into the living room, got up, and retrieved a brick from the floor.
He glared at me. I shook my head. Clearly, it wasn’t from the rescue team.
“Hmmph.” The bald man rose, unholstered the handgun and strode to the door, opening it. He surveyed the yard. I followed suit and peered out from behind him.
“I dunno.” He shrugged and started to close the door. A pistol appeared at his temple.
My gaze moved up the arm with the pistol to find Billy.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Jessica
Billy was smiling, although he didn’t look quite like himself. His eyes had an odd glow. As if he were relishing the moment.
The bald man tried turning his head toward the gun. Billy yelled, “Don’t move, motherfucker! I’ll blow your brains out.”
All I could think to say was, “Thank God you’re here. What took so long? Where’s your partner?”
“He got delayed. Never mind him.” Billy seemed lit with an internal fire.
The bald man, who stood frozen to the spot, ventured
a thought. “Look, son. Put the weapon down. Let’s talk about this.”
Billy only jammed the gun harder against the man’s temple.
“Are you really ready to shoot a man in cold blood?” the bald man asked.
Billy smile widened. A shot roared and echoed through the room.
Bloody grayish brain matter splattered all over me, the doorframe, and the wall. The debris speckled Billy’s clothing, too. The bald man had crumpled to the floor, his skull half blown away.
I did a dry heave, then another.
Billy lowered his weapon. “I was born ready.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Jessica
“Why?” I sputtered, struggling not to lose the croissant and coffee I’d had earlier.
“Because I could.” The words seemed to come from another being. Not Billy. Was he possessed? Brainwashed?
I was still trying to make sense of the situation, when he grabbed my arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
I didn’t resist.
He ran, me stumbling beside him, to where he’d parked a mid-sized car behind a hedge. I tried to think. How could I delay our departure?
“Wait,” he said. “Take off the belt.”
“What?”
He pointed the gun at me. “You heard me. Take it off.”
Oh, shit. Where was the goddamned rescue team?
Billy glared at me. “Do it. Now.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Joe
When Cotter woke up, his first view was of a brick wall. He tried to move and invisible blades stabbed his skull and lower back.