“Are those Everest drones, Gus?” I ask. “Are they actually trying to make deliveries?”
“You betcha,” he says. “This is just one of the preprogrammed routes they fly from out of the Dannemora Super Max Fulfilment Center. Sometimes, we get them on the way back, but that’s no fun because they fly back empty.”
“This is priceless,” Tony says, not without a laugh.
“Half our supplies come from shooting down these drones,” Gus adds. Then, “Great shooting, Ben. Just like you’re back on the ranch in Colorado.”
“This is more fun,” Ben Blue Eyes says.
I feel the fine hairs on the back of my neck and arms stand at attention.
“What did you just call that man?” I say. “The one who just shot down the drone? The one with the blue eyes?”
“Ben,” he says. “He’s just like you and Tony. He’s a writer.”
My head spins. For a brief moment, I feel like gravity no longer works the way it’s supposed to and I’m about to fly away into the starry sky.
“Ben,” I say. “Is that really you? Ben Stevens?”
Blue Eyes slowly begins making his way toward me, his shotgun cradled in his arms like it’s a little baby.
“Tell me it ain’t so,” he says. “My old editor has joined the Resistance.”
It takes a minute or two, but eventually everyone is introduced to one another. Of course, Ben and Tony know of one another. They were competitors, in a way. Not that writers are really in competition, but take it from a twenty-year editorial veteran, they act like they are.
We’d left the shooting gallery and we’re now seated at one of the picnic tables, plates of barbeque and cold beers set before us.
“I’d heard the publishing company went bust last month,” Ben says. “In a way, I was heartbroken, because I knew how much you loved it there, how much heart and soul you put into your books and authors. At least, that’s how you treated me for all those years, doll.”
Tony’s face goes noticeably tight when Ben calls me doll. I’ve become so used to it over the course of all these years that it doesn’t faze me in the least. Unlike in my dream during our drive up here, Ben left the traditional publishing world years ago to pursue an independent career with Everest and the Cradle Direct Publishing Program. His actions mirrored Tony’s precisely. In fact, it was probably Tony who inspired Ben in the first place when my then ex-boyfriend refused a massive advance from a traditional house in order to self-publish with Everest. The irony is that both authors, and they are, or were, major authors, are entirely unpublished now. But that doesn’t mean they’re still not wonderful writers. Everest Corp. can never take that away from them.
Tony takes a deep drink of his beer and clears his throat.
“When did you join the Resistance, Ben?” he asks.
“About six months ago,” he says. “I could see the writing on the wall with this Primary Program. I began hearing rumors about terminations. Then, when one of my good friends, also a writer, disappeared and we were told by Jacquie that no one should speak of him anymore, I was pretty damn shocked. I knew I had to do something, that I couldn’t just take somebody’s disappearance sitting down. Then I kept seeing these posters taped to light poles down in New York City about the Resistance. They weren’t much to look at. Just the Everest logo turned upside down with an arrow running through it. One thing led to another, and I was told to head up to the Alamo. I’ve been here ever since.”
“It cost him his career,” Gus says, before taking a big bite out of his freshly cooked pork. “Ben’s been a great inspiration to us all, and an even better soldier. He’s going to assist us with the morning’s operation since he knows Dannemora Super Max better than any other. He’s studied it that much.”
“I dream about the joint in my sleep,” Ben adds.
I can’t help but glance at Tony when Gus informs us of Ben joining our liberation party. He doesn’t appear unpleased, but then, he doesn’t appear to be pleased either. I have to admit, it feels good to know that Tony cares enough to be jealous. But then, I also can’t help but admit this too: As much as I have fallen back in love with Tony, I feel my stomach cramp up when I look into Ben’s blue eyes. He hasn’t changed a bit since I last saw him maybe a year ago (discounting my vivid dream of course). Same long hair, same denim shirt, tight jeans and worn cowboy boots. He dresses a lot like Tony, in fact. I guess I’m attracted to the same kind of guy. Consistency is key when it comes to matters of the heart.
“The operation won’t be easy, doll,” Ben warns. “But then, I’m sure Gus has filled you in on the dangers already.”
“Dude,” an agitated Tony interjects, “can you lay off the doll thing?”
A stillness seems to settle over the table. My pulse elevates. Gus’s eyes go from Ben to Tony and back to Ben again. All that can be heard is the crackling of the fire, an owl hooting in the near distance, a crack of a shotgun shell being fired at a passing drone, and the beating of my heart inside my brain.
“My apologies, Tony,” Ben says after a time. “It’s a bit of a nickname I gave Tanya many years ago when she first started publishing me. If it bothers you, I won’t say it anymore.”
That’s when Tony exhales. He gets up off the picnic bench, comes around to where Ben is sitting. The tension is so thick, I feel like it can be cut with a dagger. The entire compound is sitting on the edge of their seats. But when Tony smiles and releases a giant laugh, everyone . . . including myself . . . breathes a sigh of relief. Holding out his hand, Tony takes Ben’s hand in his and squeezes it, not like new friends, but thumbs up style, like old warriors who fought side by side in another life a long, long time ago.
Tony sits back down.
“You realize we’re no longer published authors, Tony,” Ben offers.
“So I’ve heard,” Tony says. “So much for my new book.”
“You got a new opus going?” Ben asks. “That’s more than I can say. What’s it called?”
“I was calling it The Devil Knows You're Dead,” Tony says. “It’s another in my Moonlight detective series. But who knows if I’ll finish it now.”
My heart pounds, because I’m recalling my vivid dream and the manuscript sitting on my desk. The Devil Knows You’re Dead by Anthony Smart. I also recall reading a paragraph from it outside the coffee shop. Did he tell me the title? I can’t really remember with everything that’s happened since. Things are getting just a little too weird, even for a fiction editor like me.
“Finish it,” Ben says. “You’re still a writer. We’ll find ways to get our books published. That I can promise you.”
Tony smiles, sadly. In the meantime, my head is spinning. Am I dreaming again? Or is this really happening to me?
“I believe you, Ben,” he says. “I truly want to believe you.”
The night proceeds like tomorrow and its dangers will never come. We eat and drink our fill. When some of the Resistance members bust out the guitars, we dance and sing under the light of a thousand brilliant stars. Like I said, I might be dreaming, but I swear, in some really strange but wonderful way, I have never been happier. Never felt more alive, more wanted, more relevant to the people who love me and need me.
Later on, when Tony and I retire to the small cabin allotted us not far from the Alamo Park, we make love in the big feather bed until the sweat coats our skin and we are entirely drained of strength and can’t move a muscle even if we wanted to.
“We’re making up for lost time,” Tony says, staring up at the dark ceiling.
“That’s a lot of time to make up,” I say. “And the night is young.”
“We’re up at dark-thirty,” he points out while gently touching my hand. “It’s not that young, babe.”
I can’t help but giggle because I’m a little drunk and so very happy, regardless of the peril the morning may bring.
“Tony Smart,” I say, “are you going to use something like sleep as an excuse for not making love to me again? Or are you jus
t getting old?”
“Now, them’s fighting words,” he says, gently rolling over and onto me.
I’m entirely surprised, but pleasantly surprised, when I feel his hardness has once more returned, and he enters me again. I know this will be our last moment together for a while, so I want it to be slow, gentle, and sweet. But something else happens this time. My eyes wide open, I see Tony’s handsome face and feel him inside and out. He is my world right now. But I also can’t help but see Ben’s face. If I close my eyes, I feel him touching me. I feel him inside of me. I feel him bringing me to that special place.
When it arrives, I can’t help but release a small scream and my fingernails dig into the soft skin on Tony’s back. He too releases and for a long moment, he lies on top of me, holding me tightly like he’s never going to let me go. Now if I close my eyes, I feel the tears roll down my face and I pray that when I open them back up, we will be back inside his apartment in North Albany after our morning coffee date, and all this will have been just a complicated dream.
But when I open my eyes, I see the cabin walls, and I make out the light of the fire that still burns inside the fire-pit in the Alamo Park, and I know what’s happening to us . . . to our loved ones . . . is all too real. As Tony kisses me gently on the mouth and wipes away my tears with his fingertips, I can’t help but ask myself this: will we live long enough to ever make love to one another again?
Morning comes down hard on the Alamo. Tony is up before me. When I flick on the lamp, I see him standing in the middle of the cabin floor, wiping his face with a washcloth. His arms and chest are bare, muscular. He offers me a smile.
“Good morning, babe,” he says. “Time to get moving. Gus will be expecting us in ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes,” I say, rubbing the life back into my face. “I hope Gus has coffee.”
Tony laughs. “There will be something to eat and drink at the picnic tables. Now, let’s get moving.”
Less than ten minutes later, we’re standing at the same picnic table where we feasted on roast pork and too many cans of beer the night before. A simple breakfast of coffee, orange juice, and fresh baked bread are laid out on a platter on the table. There’s also four, sound-suppressed AR-15s, each of them accompanied by three additional banana-shaped magazines that hold thirty rounds apiece. The rifles are also equipped with rack-mounted laser sites. I’ve fired an AR-15 many times before down in the city, but never have I fired one outside the confines of a range. Certainly, never have I fired one at another living human being. Something tells me I’ll get my chance this morning.
Four night vision headsets are also laid out on the table. Being able to see in the dark will also be a first for me (how many times have my authors required their action/adventure characters to don night vision goggles?). Lastly, four pair of tactical gloves are set out. We’re already wearing the tactical vests provided by the Drake Search Engine Army so that portion of the outfit is already covered. Tony hands me a paper cup filled with hot coffee.
“Would you like a piece of bread, Tan?” he asks.
“I don’t think I can stomach anything right now,” I say, sipping the still hot coffee.
“Nerves?” he questions.
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe it’s just occurred to me that we’re not trained to pull off an operation like this one.”
Tony sips on his own coffee.
“It’s your parents and my brother we’re extracting,” he says. “Sheer will of force will win the day for us, Tan.”
“But what if I get to the prison and freeze? What if I find I can’t do it? That I don’t have the courage.”
He places his free hand on my shoulder.
“I’ll be right by your side,” he says. “You can do it. You can do what it takes to get your parents back. I mean, aren’t you the girl who jumped off a twenty-five-story building? If Gus thought for a second that you weren’t capable, he wouldn’t trust you to be a part of the team. Besides . . .”
His voice trails off.
“Besides what, Tony,” I say.
“It’s only normal to doubt yourself before an operation like this.”
Speaking of Gus, he and Ben approach the picnic table.
“Good morning,” he says, not without a smile. “I trust you slept well.”
“As well as can be expected, Gus,” Tony says.
Tony nods at Ben. My former author nods back.
“Grab your gear,” Gus says, “and let’s saddle up while it’s still dark.”
Off in the distance, a couple of shotgun blasts ring out.
“Do they ever stop?” I ask Gus. “The drones, I mean.”
“Never,” he says. “It’s a constant stream of goods being delivered by consumers who live and die by their almighty God, Everest dot com.”
“It’s crumbs for the slaves,” Ben says while running a hand though his thick, long hair. A gesture that has always made me feel slightly dizzy. He picks up a piece of bread, breaks a little off, tosses it to some black crows gathered on the lawn.
“When we’re through,” Tony says, “you and I will be back in the bookstores, Ben. Because when Everest is gone, bookstores will have a rebirth.”
“Publishers, too,” I say. “I’ll have a job again. This time, I’ll publish you both. How’s that sound?”
“And I’ll open up a hotdog and barbeque franchise,” Gus adds. “A Gus’s Hotdog Shack on every street corner, accepting real U.S. currency.”
We all have a good laugh and it seems to make the morning lighter and brighter, even if the forest darkness beyond The Alamo is impenetrable.
Gus grabs his gear.
“Let’s rock ‘n’ roll, kids,” he says. “That laundry truck is already on its way to the prison.”
We grab our gear, load into the Land Cruiser and head out of The Alamo gates on the way to our destiny.
The ride is bumpy but otherwise quiet on the way down the mountain to the main road. Gus mans the wheel. Ben occupies the shotgun seat. I sit in the back beside Tony. I can’t say that I’m nervous or anxious any longer. Nor am I frightened for that matter. I’m not entirely sure what’s going on inside my nervous system at present. The funny thing is, I can’t help but wonder how some of my writers might actually pen a scene like this one. Do they write about the heavy stillness? The anticipation? The fear in knowing what greets them on the other side could be certain death? What if Gus’s contact double-crosses us? Or what if he (or she) has no intention of giving us a five-minute window in the first place? What if as soon as we get inside the prison, a whole squad of Everest Corporation policemen and women are waiting for us? What if they not only arrest us, but they execute us along with our family members? What if we’re willingly walking into one great big, deadly trap?
Maybe I’m being way too dramatic. Maybe I’m letting my imagination get the best of me. Best to not think at this point. Best to just do what I’m told, when I’m told to do it. The least I can do is follow orders as Gus Truman relays them to me.
An orange glow peeks over the mountains to the east. The main road is narrow with lots of twists and turns. If we weren’t about to break into a super max prison run by one of the most powerful and evil corporations ever to grace the planet and supervised by the most sophisticated AI system ever invented, it might be the perfect setting for a quiet country drive. This is anything but.
Soon, a giant wall can be seen in the distance. It’s gray and tall. Gray concrete topped with concertina style razor wire that glistens almost pleasantly in the rays of the newly risen sun. Printed on the wall every ten or so feet is the black Everest logo, not that the corporation requires advertising.
“There it is, kids,” Gus says. “The Everest Dannemora Super Max Fulfillment Center.”
“Looks like a pleasant place to settle down,” Tony says. But no one laughs.
“I can think of better places,” Ben says out the corner of his mouth.
Gus suddenly brakes the Land Cruiser. Turning the
wheel to the right, he pulls onto a two-track. He takes it slow for a maybe twenty or thirty feet, until he finds a small clearing surrounded by thick pines. He pulls in and shuts the engine down.
“Grab your stuff,” he says. “It’s show time.”
We all get out. Following Gus’s lead, we place the night vision goggles on our heads. We then slip into our tactical gloves. I grab my AR-15 semi-automatic rifle and load it by slapping one of the three high-capacity magazines into the housing. Pulling back on the bolt, I make sure it’s locked and loaded. Strapping it over my shoulder, I pull out my 9mm, pull back on the slide, and allow a round to enter the chamber. Now that it, too, is locked and loaded, I re-holster it.
“Ready,” I say, but my mouth is so dry I’m barely able to make a sound.
What’s even stranger is I could really go for a cigarette right about now. I quit smoking almost fifteen years ago and haven’t touched one since. But right now, I would smoke the living crap out of an entire pack if only I had one handy.
“Ready,” Tony says, pulling back on the bolt of his AR-15.
“All set,” Ben says. His rifle has been locked and loaded since we left The Alamo.
Gus opens the 4X4’s passenger side door once more, reaches inside, opens the center console, comes back out with a roll of duct tape. Closing the door, he gives us both a long gaze with his steely eyes.
“You all know what to do,” he says. Glancing at his watch. “The truck should be coming around right about now. I’ll handle the initial contact. You take my cue from there.”
“Roger that,” Tony says.
“Ditto,” I say.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, jefe,” Ben concurs in his uniquely smart-ass manner.
Gus makes his way back across the two-track toward the main road. Tony, Ben, and I follow close on his heels. We’re about to hijack a laundry truck.
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