She turned the wheel ten degrees to the right, scanning the area ahead for changes to the landscape since she’d last traveled this route. She didn’t notice any, but then again, it had been ten months since she’d made this trek. Plus the previous visit was made on foot, not while four-wheeling at high speed.
She heard a whistle of static and then a man’s voice crackle with electronic tones and sequels.
“—a leak before I have to head to the shop for my shift. This is Jesse, by the way . . . ugh, over.”
Masago scanned the interior of the vehicle for the source but didn’t see it. She felt the Tumbler drift wide on its own, refocusing her attention. She corrected the car’s path, keeping it from heading for a boulder or cactus. Her eyes checked the rearview mirror, more so out of habit than need. A massive dust cloud was forming behind her, billowing out and up to mark where she’d been. She decided to slow down to reduce the dust. Someone could easily spot it from a distance—like the armed guards stationed at Rocket’s front gate. They wouldn’t know it was her. Not in the Tumbler. It looked military. A threat. If they opened fire . . .
Then it hit her. She knew the source of the voice. The Tumbler was equipped with a proximity sensor and it must have been activated by the car’s built-in communication system—one of her brother’s inventions. It meant she was getting close to her destination. She felt around the dash for the microphone while keeping her eyes on the road, but it wasn’t there. Crap, she’d left it in the rear cargo area, stuffed inside one of the bug-out bags she and Lucas had thrown in earlier.
“Jesse who?” another man answered across the radio. She recognized the voice. It was her brother’s.
“Jesse Donnor, sir. Over.”
“I was kidding, dumb-ass. This is an open channel. Use proper radio procedure or pack your shit and leave.”
“Sorry, Rocket, sorry—ugh, this is Cannibal at station one. Hold on. Something is hap—”
A few seconds of radio silence passed before her brother responded.
“Nighthawk to Cannibal. Repeat your last. And stop using my name. This is your last warning. Over.”
Masago didn’t know Jesse “Cannibal” Donnor. He was obviously new and inexperienced. She’d met some of the other members of Rocket’s team, but not this clown. Rocket must have been busy expanding his ranks, taking in supplies, labor, and muscle in exchange for advanced weapons and tactical training. New members had to be vetted and pass extensive training to prove their worth before they were granted right-of-entry and protection when the time came.
Her brother was a freak when it came to security and preparedness, training his team for every contingency, including government meltdowns and coronal mass ejections. Rocket was a bit intense, especially when it came to his beliefs. However, they weren’t half as intense as his short fuse. His temper was legendary for all the wrong reasons, but she couldn’t blame him. Those were family traits passed down from their eccentric, missing father.
Her foot found the brake pedal, slowing the Tumbler to one mile per hour. The trailing dust storm caught up and drifted past, dissipating into a wandering memory. She’d expected to see two guards at the fortified, iron gate with razor wire across the top, but there was only one.
He was a tall behemoth, with stringy black hair that had been slicked back across his head and down the back of his neck. A ball cap was in one hand and a pair of triangular-shaped binoculars in the other. She assumed the muscular beast was Jesse Donnor, the rookie her brother had just scolded across the radio. The guard put his cap on, then put the binoculars to his eyes, aiming them at her.
“About time,” she said, wondering how the man hadn’t seen her earlier. The dust cloud should’ve been visible for at least the past five minutes.
She recognized the unique shape of the binoculars Jesse was holding in his hands. Their father had invented them long ago, but an earlier version. Rocket had taken the old man’s design and increased the range tenfold and added a heads-up display for range and direction. Masago had meant to borrow the pair during her next visit, but not today, she decided. She needed to talk Rocket out of his truck. One thing at a time, she reminded herself. Don’t ask for too much all at once.
The radio in the car woke up from its short slumber.
“Nighthawk to Cannibal. Respond. Over.”
She caught a glimpse of the AK-47 on Jesse’s back when he turned slightly. It hadn’t moved from its stored position, but she figured it would, soon.
“Station one? Report!” Rocket said.
Jesse let the binoculars drop from his hands, dangling down the front of his chest by a leather strap wrapped around his neck. He put his chin down, angling it toward the radio stuck to the left side of his vest.
The vehicle’s comm unit crackled again, opening the frequency for another transmission. She heard a man clear his throat, then take a deep breath. The sounds matched what she was seeing with Jesse. She stopped the car and put the transmission into park.
“We have . . . a visitor. Over,” Jesse said, unshouldering his AK-47, pointing it at Masago.
She got out of the car, slowly, with her hands up, not wanting to make any sudden moves. She took a deep breath, allowing her to shout across the clearing.
“Don’t shoot! My name is Masago. I’m Rocket’s sister!”
The radio ignited once again. “Cannibal, describe what you’re seeing. Over.”
“Rocket, uh, Nighthawk. There’s a girl. Beautiful and Asian. No offense, I’m just saying. She’s an Asian chick. In a military assault vehicle or something. She’s at the gate and says she knows you. What should I do?”
Masago wondered where Rocket had met this slug, and why was he stationed at the main entrance—alone?
“Did she identify herself?” the voice on the radio asked.
“Melody or something, sir. Not sure. Says she’s family. Orders?”
A moment later, a mosquito buzzed Masago’s face, which was odd, since it was December. Mosquitoes are rare in the arid southwest and even more rare in the dead of winter. Then she saw a glint of light reflect off the bug’s metallic wings. She tried to follow its path as it changed direction every half second, finally zipping above her head and into the cover of the burning sun.
“Adjusting buzzer-cam,” Rocket said over the radio.
The buzzing device circled around in front of her, this time taking a hovering position three feet from her nose.
“That’s my sister, asshole. Stand down. Let her through.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
Masago jumped into the Tumbler, pulled forward and approached the gate, then waited as Cannibal rolled it aside. She drove past him, maneuvering the vehicle across ditches and ruts that formed a trail past an array of dormant garden boxes.
She recognized the group of four mobile home trailers stationed to the right. One was used for reloading ammo while the others were tasked as squad quarters and storage. Construction framework was in progress for several permanent structures across the west side of the property, not far from the homemade shooting range and tactical training courses that covered much of the remaining acreage.
At last count, Rocket had seventeen people living on and working the compound with him. He earned money teaching survival skills and defensive tactics, and by offering firearms and explosives training to the public. His team also reloaded and sold ammo as well as made homemade knives and other unique weapons.
She passed a few more people, none she recognized, each one staring at the familiar movie vehicle rolling by.
The sunlight dimmed after she drove under the camouflage netting strung across the center of the property to foil satellite surveillance. Next, a rickety barn came into view as she pulled the Tumbler around and parked behind the trailers.
Her plan was to head to the barn, where she figured Rocket was busy at work. It was his playground—his sanctuary. The place where he spent most of his free time tinkering and inventing gadgets like the flying mosquito cam; anothe
r skill he learned from their father.
Gunfire erupted beyond the barn, and Masago gripped the wheel out of instinct. Her eyes darted to the left and found at least ten men, women, and children standing side by side, a few feet apart, wearing ear and eye protection as they fired automatic weapons at metal reactionary targets scattered along the shooting range. Many of the bullet-riddled targets were in the shape of people, but some were designed to resemble vehicles, including two painted like police cars.
Most of the shooters held AR-15s, but three of the men were holding Glock pistols—probably Model 30s—forty-five caliber short frames. Her brother’s handgun of choice. Reliable. Simple to operate. Virtually indestructible.
Masago scanned the group but didn’t see Rocket. She thought they might be members of one of his public shooting classes. A blur of motion next to a leafless tree on the right drew her attention. A man’s face appeared. It was Rocket. He raised one hand above his head and waved for her to join him.
She took the keys, crawled out of the hatch, closed it, and walked over to him.
He used two fingers in the corners of his mouth to whistle sharply at the shooters on the range. They turned their heads. He drew a finger across his neck. The trainees put their weapons down and huddled together to reload their magazines with more rounds.
Rocket Fuji was several inches taller than Masago and noticeably thin. Too thin. She was shocked by how much weight he’d lost. Obviously, he was too busy training to eat properly. His jeans and baggy tee shirt were marked with holes and smears of dirt. Apparently laundry was not on the top of his list, either.
His dark mullet had grown several inches in the back and stood bushier on top since the last time she’d seen him. He looked like a backwoods Asian redneck who doubled as an Elvis impersonator, though Rocket couldn’t carry a tune.
Rocket smiled and hugged her with a notebook-size device in one hand. She caught only a glimpse of it, but thought it was a hybrid device—a cross between a touch-screen iPad and an old-school control unit for a remote activated toy—complete with twin toggle switches and analog lights. He needed a bath, too. The smell of perspiration and chemical fertilizer was overpowering.
Rocket let go and took three abrupt steps back, staring at the Tumbler, then at her. “What’s wrong?”
Masago swallowed. “I need a favor, bro.”
Rocket narrowed his eyes. “Does this favor involve a body? Maybe two?”
She shrugged, thinking about the men she’d buried with the detonation of her home. “None you need to be concerned with.”
“That’s my sister,” he said, smiling. “Can I show you something first?”
“I’m kind of in a hurry. Can it wait?”
“It won’t take long.”
“If it’s the mosquito camera, I saw it at the gate.”
“That’s the smallest long-distance drone ever invented, if you can believe the propaganda coming out of Washington. Who knows what the government isn’t telling us, right?” Rocket asked, with a quick pace to his words. He nodded. “But, no, this one is live right now, so it really can’t wait.”
“Looks like your classes are getting bigger,” Masago said, pointing at the range. “One of those girls looks pretty young.”
“She’s five. Same age as when Dad started training us.”
“I barely remember that.”
“She’s Zed Bradshaw’s daughter. You met him once, I think.”
“Oh, yeah. The neat freak.”
“That’s not a class, though. It’s membership practice. Ever since the activity started.”
“Activity?”
“Haven’t you heard? The military lit up the Catalinas! Three Apaches, from what I’ve been able to gather.”
“Military training happens all the time in the desert. I don’t see what’s the big deal.”
“It wasn’t practice. It was a live op. I know the difference. Attack choppers opened fire, raining down hell across the terrain. It’s all a lie, I tell ya. A damn lie. Don’t believe anything they tell ya. Not a fucking thing.”
“Did you go check it out?”
“Na, it won’t matter. I’m sure the feds sanitized the area as soon as it was over. That’s SOP.”
Masago didn’t respond. He was just Rocket, being Rocket.
“There’ve been reports of other skirmishes, too. The Marino brothers’ compound was hit and weapons were stolen.”
“Really? That close?”
“Yep. No survivors. I tried to warn those amateurs about the gaps in their security net, but nobody ever listens to me. You try to help some people, but they just roll their eyes and mumble crap under their breath.”
“I always listen to you.”
“Yeah, sure. In your dreams maybe.”
“I do. You just don’t remember.”
“Ah, well. Whatever. Anyway, I thought it best to activate our membership and have everyone check in. Time to prepare. Something is going down. I can feel it in my bones.”
“Then why is the rookie out front?”
“We’re working on it, but not everyone’s here yet.”
“He’s a liability. Cannon-fodder would be a better handle than Cannibal.”
“Does the fact that you’re driving the Tumbler have anything to do with all of this?”
Masago rolled her head around her neck, trying to loosen the knot forming on the side. It seemed to work. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re driving it. In public. Wasn’t that Dad’s rule number eleven?”
“Maybe I just wanted to visit my brother. Did you ever think of that?”
“That would be a first.”
Masago cleared her throat. “So, this thing you wanted to show me. Better than the mosquito cam?”
His face lit up, pointing at a lonely tree with a twisted trunk fifty feet away. “See that ugly tree just beyond the razor wire?”
Masago smirked at her brother. “Wow, you invented a remote controlled tree? OMG! The world will never be the same!”
“Funny, sis,” Rocket said, flipping her off. He thumbed the power switch of the remote control unit. “You see the white coffee can? Third branch? Halfway up?”
Masago squinted, seeing the rusted curve of the can’s lid. It looked like the top was strapped on with rubber bands. The number 212 had been stenciled on the side of it in white paint.
“Not really. I could sure use a good pair of binoculars. I wonder where I could get a pair? Hmmm. I think Cannibal isn’t using his?”
Rocket sucked in a long snort through his nose and then spit a wad of snot into the dirt at her feet. “Depends. Why didn’t you use the comms in the Tumbler? Did you lose the mic?”
“No, it’s in the car. I promise.”
“Why didn’t you radio in, instead of driving up unannounced?”
Masago bit down on her lip. “Really? You’re going to grill me about procedure?”
He nodded.
She pointed at the can in the tree. “What does the number two twelve mean?”
“So you can see it?” he asked in a sarcastic tone.
“Well, maybe a little.”
Rocket sighed. “It’s the attempt number.”
“You’ve blown up two hundred and eleven trees so far?”
Rocket waved the glowing remote at the fence line. “No, we used it for blasting when we extended the fence line.”
“What’s in it? C4?”
“Nah, government won’t let that shit out of their sight. I used a unique concoction of household chemicals. Stuff you can get anywhere. Wait till you see the power.”
“That tree is creepy. I feel like it’s staring at me.”
“Yeah, I hate it, too. Time for it to go,” he said, fiddling with the control unit.
“Don’t you think we should stand behind some kind of blast shield? This is how rednecks die, you know. Blowing stuff up.”
Rocket belted out a laugh. “Only when they turn to the camera and say ‘hey, watch t
his.’ Then you know body parts are about to get mangled.”
She laughed.
“No, seriously, this is a focused charge. It’ll only destroy what I want it to—the tree—not the surrounding area. It’s a surgical, low-shrapnel, shaped charge. Pretty cool, don’t you think?”
She shook her head. “Boys with toys.”
“Besides, if anything is going to get me killed, it’ll be my crazy-ass sister.”
“Crazy-ass sister? We have another sister? Is she cuter than me?”
Rocket stuck out his tongue, then lifted the remote and pointed the front of it at the target. He licked his lips. “Time to say goodbye, Mr. Tree.”
He dragged his finger across the screen and flipped one of the switches. Nothing happened.
Masago rolled her eyes. “Now that’s the most awesome thing I’ve ever seen. Way to go, brother. You need to get a patent in place before someone steals the tech.”
He shook the remote and tried again. Nothing happened.
She put her hands on her hips. “Are we done now?”
“Must be a transmission error. Or a mixture problem.”
“Maybe you should have tested a smaller charge first?”
“I did. Worked fine.”
“That’s a cool remote control unit, though. Maybe you can sell it on eBay. I’m sure someone would buy it.”
“Now you’re just being a B-I-T-C—”
Before Rocket could finish spelling the word, an explosion ripped the air, sending dirt, sand, and tree parts everywhere.
“Holy crap!” she screamed, covering her ears and ducking for cover behind Rocket.
“Exactly,” he said, reaching up to sweep the ends of his mullet behind his ears. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about!”
“That was awesome, bro.”
“I know. Right?”
An odor drifted into her nose, but it wasn’t the smell of burned carbon like she had expected. She sniffed again, thinking her senses were confused. She stared at her brother.
He tilted his head. “What?”
Reversion (The Narrows of Time Series Book 3) Page 13