Halon-Seven

by Xander Weaver

  Dargo took another drink and refilled the glass. He took a deep breath and looked at the freshly filled glass. His gaze was lost in the thick fluid for some time. He shook his head and set the glass back down. Then he pushed it across the counter, as far as his arm would reach.

  Things used to be much simpler. When had that changed? He hated Cyrus! Well—perhaps he wanted to hate Cyrus. In some ways it made things easier. Things were complicated before Cyrus had come into the picture. Dargo had deep regrets that predated Cyrus. But there was no changing things now. If he were honest with himself, he would admit that Cyrus had actually saved Natasha’s life on more than one occasion. Literally saved her life… Was it fair to blame him for her death, when she would’ve been gone long before, had it not been for him?

  Damn it, he hated that boy!

  When he took another deep breath, Dargo realized he’d been grinding his teeth. There was no doubt about it—it was time to get out of this line of work. Everything had gone off the rails. He was working for a man who, more and more, was proving to be unstable. At the same time, Dargo found himself running surveillance—more precisely, hunting—a man he somehow both hated and respected at the same time.

  Dargo was not prone to complex emotion. What he sensed was a harbinger. Things were not right here. More and more, he believed that things were going to end badly.

  Trying to push these thoughts from his mind, he went back to the notes he’d taken while reading Bayer’s journal. The man had fallen from grace in the eyes of the Science Academy. He had used his increasing free time to widen his search of the directorate’s archives. That was when he found a clue. They were records that were initially only tangentially related to Alexander’s Fountain. But he followed the trail, and it was the thread that eventually led to Professor Walter Meade.

  Bayer initially located a shipping manifest showing the transfer of technical hardware to the Alexander’s Fountain laboratory less than a week before the facility was destroyed. Bayer was about to pass the shipping record by until he noticed the sheer volume of hardware being transported to the laboratory. It wasn’t much of a leap to think such hardware was moved to the facility to conduct some kind of research on Alexander’s Fountain. The only problem was that the manifest didn’t detail the hardware being transported. And none of the documents Bayer found detailed a test within that timeframe.

  On its own, this didn’t help Bayer with his search, so he worked backward, using the shipping records as a starting point. He backtracked the shipment to the costal port where it arrived in Russia. From there, he tracked it back to the freighter which transported it. The freighter had no more detail on the shipment’s contents, so he had continued working backward. This was where Bayer was truly surprised. He found that the shipment originated in the United States. New York City, to be precise. After New York, the trail became nonexistent. But Bayer was shocked that the technical hardware destined for a secret facility in Russia would have started its journey in the United States. Particularly at that time in history.

  Lacking additional leads, Bayer had gone back to the records. Shipping records held no answers, so he widened his search to any records pertaining to the same timeframe and specific to the United States. It took him almost six months, but he finally found a tenuous connection. Bayer located reports indicating that, in the weeks leading up to the shipment’s arrival in Russia, his country had conducted some sort of covert operation within the borders of the United States.

  In this case the timing fit, but the information was incredibly scarce.

  Again rubbing his eyes, Dargo reflected on how much easier the research might’ve been if the records were computerized back when Bayer was doing this research. The man had literally spent months searching through forgotten archives all over Russia. Bayer had started out as an intelligent and dedicated scientist. But this mystery became his white whale, and he had literally thrown away a promising career in pursuit of it.

  From there, Bayer had visited the United States. A Russian making such a trip was virtually unheard of at the time. This would have been during the Cold War. Though, from the sound of the journal entries, it was likely the Soviet government would’ve been happy to be rid of Bayer by that point.

  Nonetheless, Bayer followed the trail to the United States where he somehow located records detailing the warehouse facility from which the Russians had stolen the American equipment before smuggling it back to their shores. These records led to the name Rumsfeld Pellagrin, Walter Meade’s predecessor on the Meridian project. So, naturally, somewhere along the way, Bayer had connected Pellagrin to Meade.

  All of this brought the journal to the present day. The entries were nonspecific, but it seemed that over time, Bayer’s pursuit of the miracle power source from the Alexander’s Fountain experiments had led to the project Meade’s team was developing. The project they called Meridian. Some kind of teleportation device.

  Teleportation still seemed like science fiction, as far as Dargo was concerned. But he couldn’t deny what he’d witnessed first hand. He and his team had sightings of Cyrus Cooper and Reese Knoland in California one minute and in Chicago moments later. As impossible as it seemed, teleportation was the most viable explanation. It was this technology that Bayer sought to control. But what was he trying to build in Europe? And why was Bayer, already a very wealthy man himself, setting up loans with some of the largest banks in Switzerland?

  Chapter 34

  Library of Congress, Washington D.C.

  Thursday, 2:20 pm (12:20 pm Colorado Time)

  It had already been a productive day, and it wasn’t even noon yet. At least not on the West Coast. The constant shifts in time zone were wearing on Cyrus.

  Taking a slow, casual look around the reading room, he made sure no one was paying him undue attention. Less than a half dozen people sat at tables scattered around the room, each engrossed in reading of their own. It took only a moment to locate a table near the window with a sweeping sightline, allowing him to keep every occupant in view. He had retrieved a packet of information from a dead drop on his way to the Library of Congress building. Against her better judgement, Special Agent Mindy Shaw had come through and left the files he’d requested. The records detailed the upper echelon of the Alvares drug cartel.

  It had taken some maneuvering to convince Shaw that it was better for her not to ask questions. That was easier said than done because, when he requested the information on Alvares, he had specifically instructed her to ensure that nothing she provided could blow back on her. It didn’t take a Washington insider to read between the lines. She had known Cyrus was taking some kind of action against Alvares and didn’t want the provided intelligence back-tracked to her. She hadn’t liked the arrangement, but she owed Cyrus so that loyalty had won out.

  Shaw deserved credit. He’d put her in a difficult situation. She could’ve simply refused to help. It would’ve been completely understandable. Or she could’ve backed out gracefully, claiming that she couldn’t get the information from the computer network. It was true that any records she accessed via the FBI’s mainframe were tagged, reflecting her access. Therefore, pulling files via the mainframe was off limits. To avoid that, she had gone low tech. There was plenty of non-digital intelligence available to an agent who knew not only where to look, but how. In the end, she made a routine visit to the records room, ostensibly to review files from an unrelated case. While she was there, she copied what he needed pertaining to past and present investigations of Alvares.

  She hadn’t needed to explain to Cyrus how she’d done it. He knew how he would do it, if he’d been in her place. What impressed him was that she had come through. That, and she’d provided the information with nothing more than a request that he not get killed.

  Now he sat at one of the library reading desks, leafing through the files. He considered Bola Alvares’s summary report: male, Hispanic, six foot two, two hundred forty pounds. The man had a shaved head, stone cold dark eyes, and he was
built like a wrecking machine. Alvares clearly spent a lot of time in the gym. That meshed with what Cyrus found in the man’s psych profile. Alvares ruled his crew with an iron fist. He was known to be brutal both with the competition and within his own ranks. The man’s physical bulk and reputation were powerful forms of intimidation. Cyrus wondered how the man would react to someone who didn’t care about his looks or his reputation.

  The main concern for Cyrus was a disparity in the files. One psych profile indicated that Alvares was a tightly wound sociopath who was quick to exact punishment on anyone who got in his way. But another report described the man as a calculating tactician, skilled at manipulation and savvy when it came to business. The two reports couldn’t be more diametrically opposed. Cyrus needed to know which personality he would be facing when he made his approach.

  Reading through a number of the included reports, Cyrus began to form his own picture of Bola Alvares. It seemed likely that a portion of each report was accurate. The truth between two opposing stories was often found in middle. As long as the man wasn’t completely bipolar, Cyrus was confident he’d be able to work a more accurate profile of his own.

  The Alvares cartel was known to be bloodthirsty and savage. Cartel enforcers were responsible for the mutilations and dismemberments of rival gang members. If Alvares was the crafty businessman indicated by one of the FBI profiles, his brutal and fearsome acts were theater, used to promote his reputation. A form of intimidation. Theater, but dangerous just the same.

  But if the alternate profile was accurate, the man was nothing short of a sociopath with little impulse control. Not only did Alvares have a reputation for personally killing his rivals, but he was said to do it using their own weapons. If there was truth to the tale, it was believed that Alvares took his rival’s weapon as a trophy after the kill.

  Despite the contradicting personal profiles, both reports agreed on Alvares’s rise to power. He’d started out as a street thug some twenty years back. An aggressive and brutal nature had helped him rise through the ranks of a local gang until he ran the outfit. After that he amassed more power, until he masterminded a small coup and ousted some mid-level drug lord, south of the border. From there, he quickly expanded his power base. After destroying a rival Mexican drug gang, he began spreading his reach through the southwestern United States. It hadn’t taken long for Alvares to become the name in Mexican-American drug trafficking.

  If Alvares got his hands on the teleportation technology, he would drown the United States in illegal narcotics. It would be a disaster. No one would be able to stop him.

  The first step was to find out which members of Alvares’s organization knew about Meridian. Step two was to make sure none of them ever shared that information. Anyone with knowledge of Meridian was a threat, and that threat had to be eliminated. Cyrus wasn’t fooling himself. This would be wet work. It was one of the reasons he’d left the Coalition. But as a part of that outfit, he’d only ever had someone’s word that what he was doing was the only solution to a problem. In this case, he knew for a fact this was the only way to eliminate the threat to his people.

  It wasn’t that his conscience had a problem with the work at hand. More generally, it was disappointment that the life he’d left behind wasn’t dead and buried after all.

  The next file had exactly what he needed: a list of Alvares’s lieutenants. It was the key to discovering who knew about Meridian. In less than two minutes, Cyrus had the list memorized, including pertinent information relating to the organization’s hierarchy. Next was a record of Alvares’s movements over the past six months. This log would allow him to locate Bolo Alvares. It showed everywhere the man had been and how long he had spent there. People were creatures of habit. Even drug lords.

  The last folder contained pamphlets detailing the different vehicles known to frequent each of Alvares’s residences. The FBI and DEA used the information to help monitor and track the vast fleet of vehicles Alvares and his people used. Some of the information was important, some not at all. Cyrus memorized every bit of it. He would be walking into the proverbial lion’s den. The more information he had, the better prepared he would be for whatever he faced. He had a plan, but, as they say, no battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy.

  Almost ready to leave, Cyrus pulled up the left sleeve of his jacket and looked at his wrist. After studying his skin for a moment, he fished a small tube of superglue from his jacket pocket. He dabbed a bit of glue on the skin of his left wrist and blew on it to help the glue set. Once satisfied, he returned the tube to his pocket and pulled his sleeve back into place. He gathered up the files and headed for the library exit. Turning right when he reached the sidewalk, Cyrus became increasingly aware of his surroundings. The nagging tingle that had begun to pull at his senses when he’d arrived in D.C., only an hour before, had grown into an annoying irritation. He’d spent years avoiding situations that might land him on the radar of the Coalition. A confrontation with Alvares was virtually guaranteed to put him squarely in their spotlight.

  He scanned the crowded street once more but still found nothing suspicious.

  Of course not.

  They weren’t onto him yet, but he knew that wouldn’t last for long. He was about to bring heat down on Alvares. By the time he was finished, Cyrus knew there would be no hiding from his old employers.

  Chapter 35

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Thursday, 4:55 pm (5:55 pm Colorado Time)

  The afternoon had passed quickly for Cyrus. He’d teleported to Miami and collected a small satchel containing the gear Nathan arranged for him. Next, he rented a small two-seater Bell helicopter from an airfield just outside of Santa Barbara. The flight to Las Vegas took almost two and a half hours, but it was still faster than driving. Upon landing, he took a cab to the nearest low-rent used car dealership he could find. There he purchased an old, red Ford F150. It was a 4x4 that was jacked up on aftermarket suspension. He paid cash and drove it off the lot within minutes of making his selection. The salesman was more than happy to cut corners on the paperwork for a customer paying cash.

  A few blocks from the car dealership, Cyrus pulled the truck into an empty parking lot behind a boarded up service station. Looking around to ensure he was alone, he triggered the hood release and hopped from the truck. He took the satchel with him and leaned under the hood. A few minutes of work with a Leatherman multi-tool and he was finished. Pulling an old Smith and Wesson 357 Magnum out of the bag, he double checked its load before sliding it into the back of his jeans. He made sure his t-shirt covered the gun. Last, he took a small device out of the bag. He flipped a switch on it before placing it inside the heel of his boot.

  Once the satchel was empty, he stuffed it behind the truck’s bench seat and climbed back behind the wheel. Then he pulled out onto the road and headed for the city limits. Fifteen minutes later, he was clear of Las Vegas and following a road that was virtually free of traffic. The four lane highway stretched out across the desert, disappearing with the endless sand and scrub at the horizon.

  It took almost twenty minutes before Cyrus reached the entrance to an opulent upscale neighborhood, built squarely in the middle of nowhere. The housing development seemed a modern oasis springing from the middle of the open desert. A very plush, exclusive oasis, judging by the homes he passed as he turned into the neighborhood. Each home was two or three stories and extremely ornate in design. Every one of them was a mansion in its own right.

  The neighborhood was laid out in ten-acre plots. Each lot an immaculate patch of green grass and thick plush foliage—not the sort of greenery common to homes of the region. The homeowners paid a high premium to maintain that level of gardening and lawn care. Most yards of Las Vegas homes tended to be covered with more gravel than grass. What was the point of trying to grow a lawn in the desert? Only the ultra-rich or the extremely foolish would fight nature in such a way. As Cyrus passed another sprawling estate covered in green grass and towering leafy trees
, he considered that perhaps it required homeowners to be both ultra-rich and extremely foolish.

  Nearing the back of the subdivision, his destination came into view. It was a double lot taking up the end of the cul-de-sac. This was the Alvares estate. The entire twenty-acre property was surrounded by a ten-foot-high security fence, lined on the inside by an expertly manicured hedge, which afforded those inside the grounds a fortifiable level of privacy.

  About a hundred yards up the road, before he reached the gates leading to the Alvares estate, Cyrus saw a high aerial antenna set on the edge of a neighboring property. The top of the pole held a series of electronic devices. Several of them looked like weather sensors, the sort of high-end meteorological kits that people set up in their yards to transmit weather data to their computer or smartphones twenty-four hours a day. But Cyrus knew better. Some of the gear at the top of that pole was for evaluating weather conditions, but some of it was courtesy of a combined FBI/DEA task force that had been surveilling Alvares for the better part of the last three years. Cyrus knew the equipment contained several cameras that were filming and shooting still photos of people and cars approaching and leaving the Alvares estate.

  As he drove past the surveillance station, he was careful to shield his face from the cameras. Showing up on the day’s surveillance logs would lead to a lot of questions he didn’t want asked. Luckily, thanks to the photos provided by Agent Shaw, Cyrus knew where the cameras were hidden. And, even if he didn’t have the inside knowledge, it wouldn’t have been difficult to guess. There was a high probability that Alvares was well aware of the surveillance as well. Such was the nature of drug enforcement at this level.