by Ramy Vance
“You need to die,” Buzz said. “But according to our calculations, we have to go back at least five hours so we can hit the border before Alister does.”
“Five hours?” Martha glanced at her watch. “It will take about half that just to fly to Detroit. That’s if we can find a flight leaving, like, right now, and then if we can get to the airport in time.”
Buzz flipped open the drapes to the garden and stood at the window overlooking his domain. “Fortunately, I’m prepared for this very thing.”
“What a surprise,” Reuben said. “You bought a jet?”
“No. That’s so bourgeois.” He flipped his hand dismissively. “I made a jet-copter. You ready?”
Reuben turned to Buzz. “Ready for what?”
“This.” Buzz pulled a samurai sword off the wall, and with one seamless swing, took Reuben’s head off.
Reuben—Wednesday, February 8, 1:43 p.m.
Reuben reinhabited his body. Buzz and Martha got their emails then, and after viewing the timeline and notes, they were all caught up.
Buzz grabbed his head. “Fuck me in a peach tree; we’ve got everything we need.”
“Almost,” Reuben said. With the help of the nanobot, they reviewed everything they had learned about the crossing at the border before Reuben’s previous warp. Then Reuben turned to Buzz. “You got a jet-copter, somewhere, right?”
Reuben—Wednesday, February 8, 1:58 p.m.
Buzz careened the golf cart through the gravel-lined pathways of the property. He was actually dressed this time, looking sharp in hunter-green trousers, a blue and white striped waistcoat over a white dress shirt, and a baby-blue suit jacket. He had combed his hair and changed his usual silver-rimmed glasses for black-rimmed ones that gave him just the tiniest edge of cool.
“The advancement of robotics in the last thirty years has created an expansion of its application toward aerodynamics,” he rambled.
The tiniest edge.
Reuben tuned him out and tried mainly to focus on keeping both himself and Martha anchored in the golf cart. They drove for quite a while, down dirt backroads that Reuben had no idea even existed.
He tried not to fall on Martha when Buzz made a hairpin turn and they descended steeply. “What’s the statistical probability of an object being ejected at this velocity?”
Buzz smirked, in on the joke. “It’s lower at higher speeds due to centrifugal force. That’s why roller coasters work.”
To make his point, Buzz floored it, and he laughed while both his passengers screamed. They finally arrived, thankfully in one piece, at a large open shed with a metal bay door that was pulled up.
Reuben saw nothing anywhere except empty fields and grass. “Where are we?”
“This is the hangar. An old dairy farmer owns this field,” Buzz explained as they all disembarked the vehicle. “But he went bankrupt in the early 90s when he tried to sell unpasteurized milk and got sued. He managed to hang on to the land, though. I guess it’s been in his family since the 1800s. But he can’t afford to do much with it, so it sits here. I rent it from him cheap so I can do experiments, and he looks the other way. It works out.”
They all went inside the hangar, and it was exactly what Reuben expected from Buzz. Robotics experiments every which way, and tools, and…
A large missile-shaped device in one corner.
“Is that a bomb?” Reuben asked.
Buzz’s eyes twinkled, and he patted the orange, shoulder-height missile. “Yeah, I tinker around a little. Nothing too fancy. What? It's not even radioactive.”
Reuben shook his head. “You scare me, dude.”
“You know you could go to jail for that,” Martha reminded him.
Buzz pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nah, the Pentagon knows about it. I’m doing some testing for them.” He threw an orange tarp over the bomb. “It’s best that no one else knows about it, though.”
Reuben and Martha looked at Buzz for more information, but he wouldn’t give it. Instead, he pointed them toward another device.
The helicopter. It looked like it had started with the body of a gutted Toyota Sedan, but it was way cooler. Reuben ran his hands over the shiny red metal that now had double propellers overhead and a homemade nose that he assumed had been welded onto the body. “You did this all yourself?”
Buzz opened the driver’s door to reveal the entire front seat had been transformed into an elaborate cockpit. “Mostly. I had a bit of help with the cosmetics. But this baby should get us to Detroit in forty-five minutes, maybe less.”
Martha looked at him dubiously. “Under an hour? Commercial flights do two.”
“Yeah, half of that’s prep and half ‘cause they’re slow. We can hurry and get there quicker. What are you waiting for? Get in.”
Reuben and Martha both shrugged at each other and climbed into the back seat of the makeshift aircraft. Once they were seated, Buzz activated airtight locks from the driver’s seat.
Ruben followed Martha’s lead and strapped on his seatbelt. “You do have your pilot’s license, right?”
Buzz turned a key and yelled over the roaring engine, “Eh, more or less.”
“Very comforting,” Martha yelled back. “You could have at least lied to us.”
“Do we get a safety demonstration?” Reuben asked.
Buzz pulled a lever, and the aircraft lurched to life. “Yeah, don’t die. Or in your case, what does it matter?”
Buzz’s taxi out of the hangar was less than graceful and made Reuben wish for the golf cart ride. The ascent was quick, and Reuben realized how much movement commercial planes absorbed. As the helicopter rose, the trio was strapped flat to the back of their seats like astronauts in a rocket, and Buzz fought every little breeze and wind from the cockpit. Reuben felt queasy, and a small headache started to form in his temple.
“How often has this thing gone out?” Reuben asked as they hit an air pocket. The impact turned his headache and stomach-churning into full-blown nausea.
“Huh?” Buzz yelled over the noise.
“I said,” Reuben tried again, “how often has this thing gone out?”
“Oh, this is the first real trip. I’ve done a few test rides, though.”
With a jolt, the copter leveled, but the last part was all Reuben needed.
“Aw, shit,” he whined and felt his breakfast rise.
Martha threw a fast-food takeout bag at him, and he fought the urge to vomit, but it was no use. He barfed inside the bag.
“Sorry,” he mumbled to his disgusted companions.
Buzz grinned back at him. “I guess I shouldn’t do this, then?” Buzz jerked the copter into a sharp nosedive. He laughed as both Martha and Reuben screamed and Reuben threw up again.
Martha smacked the back of Buzz’s head. “Stop being a jerk.”
Buzz laughed but leveled them out. The ride quieted after that, and after vomiting twice, Reuben actually felt a lot better. Sort of.
He decided to calm his nerves by thinking about what would happen at the border. They would definitely need backup. How could they get it? He could call Aki. She wouldn’t have any knowledge of any of this, so he’d have to be careful how he brought her onboard, but he’d find a way. She would be on board.
He pulled out his phone and, surprised to see service at this altitude, dialed the office. When a CIA receptionist answered, he identified himself with his agent number and asked for Aki’s line. It was difficult to hear over the roar of the aircraft, but he hoped that would play into his urgency angle.
She answered on the first ring. Good sign, he thought.
“Hey, it’s Reuben Peet from the office.”
“Reuben? Wait, the tech guy from the window?”
“You got it,” he told her.
“With the dance moves?”
“Uh…yeah.”
She chuckled. “Wait, where are you? What is that noise?”
“That’s what I’m calling about. I’m on a helicopter, heading to Detroit.”
“
Detroit? What’s in Detroit?”
The jet-copter turned, and Reuben gripped the door handle. “I got a lead on something. It’s a strong lead. I can’t get into it right now. But, it’s got something to do with the Schaeffer case.”
“Schaeffer? How do you know about that?”
Shit. Reuben knew he had to be careful with what he said. There were things he couldn’t officially know, not without trying to explain that he could warp back in time, which there was no way she’d believe.
“It’s not really about Schaeffer. He’s a decoy…” Reuben’s mind frantically searched for a plausible reason for how he could know all this. “Look,” he said. “I know I may just look like an ordinary tech guy. But I’m actually working undercover.”
“Sven put you undercover?” Aki didn’t sound convinced.
“No.” He bit his lip. “Sven’s boss did.”
“Oh shit. I didn’t know. Damn, yeah, no offense, but I thought you were just a tech guy.”
Whew. Reuben smirked. “And that’s the way it’s got to stay. But I’ve found myself in over my head, as these things sometimes go. This thing, we’re talking international war crimes. It’s big. I need some help.”
“OK.” Aki’s voice took on a grave tone. “Tell me what you need. How can I help?”
“I’m heading to the Detroit-Windsor border. I’ve got a tip that it’s going to go down.”
“Canada?”
“Yeah, but our side. I’ll need backup. I’ve got an NYPD officer here, she’s in it all the way, but she’s out of her jurisdiction.”
“Right, I hear you. I actually can make it if you send me an address. But there’s no one else here to go with me. Want me to run it by Sven?”
“No,” Reuben said quickly. “You by yourself should be just fine.” He hoped. Besides, the fewer people he had to let in on this, the better. The jet-copter started to bounce like a buoy in the water; he was starting to feel sick again. “I’ll send you the address if you give me your cell phone number.”
She did.
Reuben smiled as he saved it in his phone. “All right. I gotta go. Really appreciate the assist.”
“No problem, Reuben.”
He ended the call and the sick feeling in his stomach intensified. He rummaged around on the floor for another puke bag but couldn’t find another bag. In the end, he had to grab a puke bucket—Buzz’s autographed Mets helmet. He vomited runny green chunks.
“Is this helmet real?” he asked as the acid rose in his throat for another round.
“It was,” Buzz muttered as he stared at Reuben hunched over it.
Reuben’s stomach did a full turn, and nothing came out but spittle. It was so unsatisfying to go through all the pain of throwing up and not actually get the release of anything coming out.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Martha—Wednesday, February 8, 3:40 p.m.
Martha hiked up the road toward the Windsor border crossing, leaving Buzz and Reuben waiting in the rental. The trucks would be coming by in about twenty minutes, and if this plan was going to work, she couldn’t smell or look like a woman that had just spent an hour in a fucked-up jet-copter two feet from a puking passenger.
A tiny wooden homemade goods gift shop sat about a quarter-mile before the border, and she stepped off the asphalt shoulder and into the dusty yard. There wasn’t much to speak of, although they tried. A Canadian flag waved proudly from the railing, reminding visitors what side of the bridge they were on.
She stepped inside. It was a one-room gift shop with trinkets and troves galore, featuring flags and maple leaves and a Valentine’s Day table that showed off red, white, and pink cookies and cakes.
A portly blonde woman in her early fifties greeted her from behind the register. “Hello. What can I get you for?”
“I just need a restroom,” Martha said.
The woman made a face. “Oh dear, you do need a little freshening up, now don’t you?”
Martha blushed and glanced down at her jeans and V-neck combo. She’d thought she’d done fine dressing for a day hanging with Reuben, but between meeting Buzz and the helicopter ride, she’d had quite the day. “Yeah, it’s been something.”
The woman pointed toward a wooden door with a flowered wreath on it. “Right through that door. Take as long as you need.”
“Thanks.”
Martha entered the flowered door, set her bag down, and caught her reflection. No wonder the lady had freaked out. She did look bad. She ran water over her face and fought with a green spot on her pant leg. She knew what it was but refused to let herself identify it. She rubbed the stain out satisfactorily and noticed the perfume and lotion set. Ah yes. She covered herself in perfume and lotion and fixed her hair into the classic damsel-in-distress messy bun. She grabbed her bag, poured out her makeup bag, and quickly fixed her face.
“Great.” She smiled at her reflection.
She pulled down her V-neck and plumped up her bra to show a little more cleavage than she normally did. Still not quite right. What was missing? Some leg. She looked down at her jeans and had an idea.
Martha poked her head out of the door. “Ma’am?”
“Can I help you, dearie?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a pair of scissors, would you?”
“Scissors?” The woman looked at her, confused, then shrugged. “Sure.” She handed Martha a long red-handled pair.
“Thank you.” Martha smiled and shut the bathroom door. She stared at her jeans. “OK, I used to be able to do this when I was a teenager.”
She slipped them off and took the scissors to just below the crotch. This is going to be so cold outside…
“I hope this works.”
Martha slipped them back on and rubbed lotion over her toned legs to make them shine. She stared in the mirror and came up with one last idea. She cut the neck of her shirt farther down and let the cut pieces flap over her cleavage. Yep, gonna be cold out there. She sighed. All in the name of duty.
“Let’s go get ‘em,” she told herself in the mirror. She grabbed her things and returned the scissors.
The woman looked at her in surprise. “Oh, honey. Why, don’t you look…refreshed.”
Martha laughed. “I’m from Montreal. My boyfriend is in Detroit, and he’s meeting me. It was a last-second holiday getaway. I didn’t get a chance to change before I had to get on the plane.”
She raised an eyebrow, and Martha noticed the red-and-white rhinestone heels with the Valentine’s bears. “Could I get these?”
The woman took in Martha’s getup and hesitated. She frowned with disapproval, and Martha’s stomach dropped. It didn’t occur to her what her plan might look like.
She sighed. “I just want to buy the shoes.”
“Uh-huh.” The woman stared at her disapprovingly the whole time as she rang her up. She noticed the woman’s fingers gravitating toward the phone.
“I’m not a hooker,” Martha finally said. “The truth is, I kind of need to look like one.” She flashed her badge at the woman. “I’m an undercover cop, and I’m here on a case.”
The store owner looked at the badge. “Trafficking?”
“Yeah,” Martha lied. “We’re doing a sting.”
The woman’s face lit up. “Tell you what, the shoes are on the house. Here, take these cupcakes, too.”
Martha tried to refuse. “I couldn’t—”
She shoved a box of cupcakes at Martha. “Give them to the girls you rescue. Now go on, git. Take care of those poor girls.”
“Thanks.” Martha felt a twinge of guilt as she exited the shop. She wasn’t saving trafficking victims, but she was on a trafficking sting. That part was true. Sort of. It was her own sting, but she seemed to be on her own a lot these days anyway. She stopped in the yard to switch her tennis shoes out for the heels and shoved them and the cupcakes in her bag. She checked her phone. Perfect. She plumped her boobs up one last time and took to the shoulder.
The plan was to entice the map
le syrup truckers to stop to pick up the hot damsel in distress. According to their snooping, it would be the lead truck that had the incriminating materials. Then she would be in the cab and could circumvent the crime from there, with Buzz and Reuben in the rental waiting for instructions. With long, confident strides in the heels, she sashayed down the road, trying her best to pretend she was on the beach in Florida instead of Canada in winter.
It wasn’t long before she got a couple of honks, and then a couple of college guys in a Dodge Challenger slowed beside her.
The driver rolled down the window, and she could smell the pot. “Want a ride?” The driver’s glassy stare undressed her, and her stomach turned.
His friend ogled her from the passenger seat. “We could be down for a threesome.”
Martha rolled her eyes. “I’m a cop. Beat it, assholes.”
“Shit!” The car’s tires squealed as they split.
Shivering in the cold February air, Martha rolled her eyes again and turned back to the road. There it was, the convoy of three semis barreling in her direction. She stuck out her thumb and tried to make eye contact with any of the drivers. She swished her hips and jutted out her chest.
A blue Corolla pulled up beside her. “Hey, baby.”
She booked it past them toward the trucks, holding out her thumb.
“Forget you, too,” the Corolla driver yelled before he pulled back out onto the road. He almost cut off the first truck, and the driver was so busy trying not to hit the Corolla, he didn’t see Martha. Martha tried to flag the second truck, but he just raced past her on a mission. A couple of cars behind the second was the third.
Martha resorted to Def-Com-5 for this one. She stood in the truck’s certain vision, caught the driver’s eye, and pulled up her shirt. Talk about cold weather. The driver smiled approvingly but kept driving. Meanwhile, about five cars honked, and a woman yelled out of a minivan. “I got kids in here. Get a hold of yourself!”
“Ah, they see worse on the Disney Channel,” she yelled back.
The trucks were gone. Damn.
She stepped off the highway and called Reuben. “Mission failed. The eagles have flown the coop.”