To his credit, when Mike finally told Conrad where he’d come from and how, allowing Con a day to absorb it, Con had understood and accepted Mike’s explanation for his uncanny ability to call them right—every time. It was logical, if you bought the concept of time travel and had an open mind.
Moses’s confidence in Conrad was so solid he’d promoted Con to head of security. The Dom Derrick who had saved Mike’s life was completely dead now: Conrad Joseph had arrived, fully formed. And there Con stayed, an ever watchful and calming presence at Zhang Corporation, the only person on the premises who knew his two bosses were from another time.
Still, as much as they trusted Conrad, he was not privy to the inner workings of the company. No one was. Moses and Mike parceled out tasks carefully, with no one department aware of the other moving parts to their project, which were unfolding elsewhere in the company. It was a wonderful balance—high production and zero resistance.
Late one night, last week, Mike had asked Conrad how he was doing. “I mean really doing, Con. We’re both so busy we don’t have a lot of chances to talk anymore.”
Conrad had smiled brightly and said, “Things change. You can’t help it—that’s life.”
So, the conclusion was, Conrad wasn’t upset with this new distance between them. Maybe he didn’t even notice it? Con wouldn’t understand the work, the new direction Mike was going in; he was too naïve, a straight shooter and very likely unable to see the big picture. Some of the things Mike and Moses were forced to do, could seem, on the surface, repugnant to many. But these were necessary steps, steps only someone with fortitude and advanced knowledge could make happen.
That was okay. Bottom line? Con had his back and Mike trusted him with his life.
Arriving at Moses’s penthouse, where they conducted much of their work these days, he found Moses hunched over a small screen, his face pinched.
Mike grabbed a coffee and went to study the screen over Moses’s shoulder. He took a sip then asked, “What’s up?”
“It’s the freaking waste management unions. They’re blocking every DRA scheduled for the entire east coast. Rising waters, unstable sites. The hiring of local workers instead of unionized workers. It’s all going to hell, and it’s centered in Florida.”
Moses snapped the screen closed and sat back with a huff of exasperation. “You just can’t make these people see what’s good for them. We’re gifting it! It’s a flipping gift and they don’t see it.”
Mike took another sip, then set his cup down. “They see it all right. They see a great big payday. You’re not talking their language, Moses. You’ve got to talk to them so they understand.”
Moses eyes flashed in displeasure at Mike. “I’ll not be blackmailed by the mob wearing three-piece suits. They don’t care about rising waters and threatened freaking marshlands and unstable locations. They care about their cut.”
Mike sat on the arm of a chair beside Moses, facing him, and laced his fingers together in his lap. “That’s not the language I’m suggesting you speak to them in. You’re right. You pay them off, and they’ll be back, hands out, looking for more. Not only that, word will get out and every DRA we build going forward will have a pay-off price tag added to the bottom line.”
“We’ll never reach maximum capacity by 2045 at this rate.” Moses rubbed at his face with his good hand, then looked up at Mike, his expression beaten. “Until we get rid of all the crap piling up all around us, we can’t move forward.”
“Here’s your solution.” Mike slid from the arm of the chair into the seat and reclaimed his coffee. “Who’s behind this protest? What’s his name, or their names?”
Annoyed, Moses sighed, “Terrence Boss, Lenny Crenshaw, and Dave Webb.”
“Are they friends? Do they hang out together?”
“What the hell, Mike! I’m not their social secretary. I have no clue.”
“Be patient. I’m getting to the good part. If they’re friends and hang out, that works for us. If they aren’t, we make something happen so they do meet up with one another, publicly.”
“And?”
“And we have them killed.”
Moses blinked in shock, his dark eyes widening in disbelief. “What the hell, Mike?” he repeated, only this time, he whispered.
“We don’t have time to play games here, Moses. These guys are parasites. What do you do with Parasites? You eliminate them. If you don’t, they’ll suck you dry.”
Moses continued to stare at him, though his eyes were no longer shocked, but had narrowed, considering.
“What loss is a few lowlifes?”
At this, Moses’s eyebrows rose, and he pursed his lips, considering. “And how do you propose to do this? Got a few hit men on the payroll I’m unaware of?”
Mike drank his coffee, thinking. “We don’t use Con. He’s trustworthy, but this he won’t do. I have someone else in mind.”
Moses blinked, continued to stare, waiting him out.
“Remember René Pelletier?”
Moses grimaced. “Mr. T-Bone? Had to have his South American beef steak? The moron. If he’d had his way, six thousand more hectares of the Brazilian Rainforest would be gone and your local burger joint would be serving “the real stuff” with secret sauce as we speak. I hated that guy.”
“But then he went away.”
“Some kind of spider bite, wasn’t it? Poison that kills within…” Moses slowed and stopped, his eyes widening again, only this time with admiration. “That was you?”
“A little bit of irony. Killed by one of the species he was destroying the habitat of. The headlines were stellar as I recall.”
“Poetic justice,” Moses offered, his expression still in awe.
Mike smiled happily and drained his cup. It was a good day when he could surprise Moses. He shrugged and stood. “Want another coffee? I’m up already.”
Moses nodded his head, up and down, slowly, a gradual grin transforming his face.
Together they worked it out, using backdoor people Mike had been cultivating over the last several months, making use of a slush fund he’d quietly created when he first started at Zhang Corp. He’d named the fund D5, a private joke with himself: Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap. Sometimes he’d been a little impatient with the status quo and needed to help the transition along. A Politician railing against Zhang Corp, for instance, was suddenly caught in a compromising position. With pictures, of course.
Two whistle-blowers down at Oceans Renew, their plastics recovery operation, had the tables turned on them. Evidence came to light that one had a slush fund of his own, which he vehemently claimed to know nothing about, and it was revealed the other had a second wife and family tucked away up in Vernon. No pretending that didn’t happen. The kids in both families were carbon copies of their big-mouth father. Oceans Renew had skated. There were regular payouts, greasing greedy palms on many levels of local government. A permit granted here, a delayed infraction charge there. Money talked. Problems and people disappeared. Funding D5 was cheap at twice the price. D5 cut through the crap and made things happen. Things like this DRA issue.
By the end of the day, Mike and Moses had the Florida problem solved.
There would be an unfortunate accident involving a private plane touring the proposed DRA site in Alexander Springs, Florida. Sadly, the pilot would be sacrificed, but they’d make sure his widow, if there was one, would be compensated generously. In fact, New Earth Corporation would do so publicly. Why not capitalize on the situation? A two-fer: Eliminate the problem while receiving good press helping out the grieving widow.
Mike grabbed his phone and called down to his driver. “We’re heading home early today, Lawrence. Taking the wife out to celebrate.”
When Mike let himself into his penthouse, he was feeling very good. Everything had been set into motion. The mishap would occur tomorrow around noon. The invitation to fly over the site had been snapped up by Boss, Crenshaw, and Webb. Boneheads. The promise of a photo op had cinched the
deal. The pilot was chosen—and yes, there was a “soon to be” widow. She was young and pretty. Zhang’s generosity would go down well in the media. The plane was receiving special attention now.
Mike was surprised to find the condo dark and quiet. Had Cherry’s meeting gone long? He didn’t like that—these were supposed to be a distraction, not a crusade. He’d speak to her about that when she got home.
He’d get in a short workout and shower before dinner. Tonight, he’d be working on upper body strength. He’d been rocking the protein powders laced with steroids for a few months now and was liking the results.
He slipped out of his jacket and loosened his tie, making his way to his bedroom. One day, maybe sooner than he’d dared to hope, Cherry would vacate the guest room and move back into the master with him. With her abrupt change in mood, maybe even tonight. Standing before the bathroom mirror, he shed his wig, gave his head a satisfying rub, happy to witness his biceps bunch and jump with the action. Just for fun, he took a moment to flex his pectorals as well. Looking good, man, looking good.
Then he cleaned off the thick makeup he used to minimize his facial scar. Maybe he should consider more corrective surgery? He was sick of the deception. He changed into sweats and headed to the gym, a necessary evil if he was to keep the weight off. He would never be “Pudgy” Payton Wisla again.
He frowned and stopped at seeing Cherry’s bedroom door ajar. She always kept it tightly closed. A ripple of warning skated across his scalp. Something here wasn’t right. He stepped into her room. Everything looked the same.
So why did it feel so different?
All the clues, all the markers he hadn’t recognized dropped from the sky and shattered into pieces all around him. He darted to the walk-in closet, yanked open the doors. It was torn apart, clothes everywhere. Cherry’s suitcases were gone.
He ran back to his bedroom, fumbled inside his clothes for his phone. He punched Con’s number. It rang and rang.
And an echoing ring sounded from the condo’s great room.
A cold wave washed through him.
No.
He hit “end”, dialed Conrad again, and headed toward the great room as it rang in his hand—and rang in his condo.
The truth of his world exploded all around him; his heart banged painfully inside his chest, its hollow beat roared inside his ears. Hugging the wall along the hallway, he willed his body to move toward the distant ringing. Feeling the strength desert his legs, he launched himself across the polished floor, staggered the last few steps to the kitchen breakfast bar and fell against it, swallowing against the bile that rose in his throat.
Conrad’s ebony phone rang and rang as it lay on the granite counter.
Beside it lay Cherry’s bejeweled phone—and their two condo cardkeys.
18
INDIES: DAY SIX: WEN 2047
KEEPING HER MIND ALERT, despite feeling disoriented and occasionally down-right dizzy on her feet, Wren obeyed the gang’s instructions. Coru had already let her know he’d find a way out. She’d make sure she was ready. She wouldn’t disappoint him again.
Their captor’s leader’s name was Max. No last name. Just Max.
Once they’d disarmed the Indies, with each of them covered closely by a well-armed, if not well-dressed, gang-member, Max took possession of Wren’s crossbow, his hands too familiar when he untied her quiver from her thigh. His eyes lit up as he admired it, turning it over in his hands. “You like playing Robin Hood in my forest, little lady?” His eyes snapped toward her, drilling into hers as if he could uncover some secret she was keeping. “Got nothing to say?”
He pulled an arrow from the quiver as if with idle curiosity, but Wren could see the stone-cold heart inside his chest. A low hum of danger radiated from him, as yet unformed, an ever-present condition he employed to keep his followers in check and himself in charge. He was capable of atrocity if it meant he’d stay at the top of the heap.
Fearfully, she watched as he set the sharped-edged arrow, pulled back the bow and raised it up, aimed off toward the street lights strung along the highway below. “I can see the attraction,” he mused. “Very hands on.”
Decision made.
It played out inside her head in a heartbeat. Wren screamed out, “No!”
Max turned sharply. Coru leapt in front of her, shoving her aside. The arrow flew.
Coru grunted when the arrow pierced his thigh. He doubled over, gripping the top of his leg with a moan and fell to the ground, his face a mask of pain. Blood poured from between his fingers.
Three men grabbed Nelson before he could reach Max. Wren ripped free of her single captor’s grip and threw herself between Coru and Max. “You think you’re a big man, shooting an unarmed man at close range? You’re a coward!”
Max tilted his head and shrugged. “Oops?”
Ignoring him, Wren swept the circle of raggedy men surrounding them with narrowed eyes. Nelson had been successful only in gaining more restraining hands and stood now gasping within a circle of men, all panting at their efforts to hold him back. If Nelson’s thoughts had physical powers, Max should have been writhing, prostrate on the ground now.
Wren demanded, “Who has something I can cut the shaft with?” She stuck her palm out, fingers splayed and shouted, “I want it. Now!”
No one moved. Her eyes landed back on Max, burning with hatred.
He returned her stare, then gave it up, rolling his eyes and waving toward Coru dismissively. “Billy, cut the thing. We’re not carrying him to the POE.”
Billy, an undernourished, stringy-haired teen produced a grubby cutting tool, clipped off the tip of the arrow, which had sliced clean through to the back of Coru’s leg. Coru bellowed when Billy yanked the shaft back out from the front. Billy tossed it into the scrub and stalked back to stand with his friends.
Wren tore the bloody edges of Coru’s pants apart to see the wound. “I need water. And something to wrap this with.” To Coru she whispered, “Why?”
“Why not?” he ground out through clenched teeth, his eyes squeezed shut, holding back a groan of agony.
A bottle of water was thrown down beside her. “You got a shirt. Why not use it?” Max smirked. This drew a smattering of laughter from the men crowded around her and Coru and a new fear skittered across her skin.
Coru murmured, “Don’t even think about it.”
Nelson jerked out of his captures grasp, pulled open his jacket, dropping it to the ground, then ripped off his own shirt, tossing it over to Wren. “Use this.”
Max tittered, “Well, you’re no fun.”
Nelson spat, “That’s because this isn’t funny.” He hadn’t lost any of his edge. In fact, Wren felt Nelson’s resolve double with the appearance of the gang.
She opened the bottle of water and poured it over Coru’s wound, rinsing the blood, stopping to see how quickly it returned, assessing the damage. A few inches over and he’d have had an arterial bleed. A wave of dread washed over her at the thought of Coru bleeding out before her.
“It didn’t happen,” Coru answered in an exhale of pain. “I’m okay.”
“How can you—.”
“Just go along.” Coru let loose one of his hands from his leg and gripped hers, hard, squeezed it, covering hers with his blood. “Wrap it up. I’m good.” But he said this through clenched teeth and was panting in rhythm, fighting to regain control. He was forgetting that she could experience his pain with him. Coru was not good.
And he’d taken that arrow in her place. Amanda’s words echoed in her head. They’ll put themselves at risk to save you.
Max and the rest of his followers were milling around now, impatient to get moving. Wren worked quickly, staunching Coru’s bleeding as best she could, as quickly as she could. After she’d packed Coru’s wound and tied it off with Nelson’s torn shirt, Max had two of his men haul Coru back onto his feet with no intention of slowing their pace on his account. Max allowed Nelson to shoulder much of Coru’s weight but had Wren’s
hands tied behind her back. He believed the two men would not try anything while she was tied. He brought them along—back the way they’d just come, it turned out. Coru staggered, his direction lurching as he struggled to right himself time after time. Wren bit down on her lip to keep from calling out to him, knowing it would be of no help.
There was a foggy mist rising from the grass now that the rain had ceased, lending a surreal, other-worldly feeling to their surroundings and bringing a rich earthy scent with it. Wren could see the head of their column disappear into that mist. Looking back, she saw their followers emerging from the mist closing in behind them. It was spooky. Who knew who was ghosting along with them under cover of the mist?
No one, Wren, Coru protested. You’d read them if they were there.
I don’t trust myself anymore. I missed these men’s thoughts until it was too late. What if I’m missing more?
Are you trying to miss them? Are you slacking off?
Of course not!
Then forgive yourself. Relax, let your sensors come back naturally. You’ve only been back in business a few days. You drove yourself into the ground protecting Mattea and his team. They’d have died a dozen times otherwise. It was only once they’d reached the Pitt River Bridge that they had a problem and we know why—you can’t read the Hive Mind; Mattea couldn’t hear you.
Waylon…
Waylon was killed saving Mattea, saving his team, who are now safely on their way warning hundreds, maybe thousands of others. It was who he was.
She blinked back tears. I can’t let them see me cry! I-I can’t do this anymore… She shut down and stumbled on, willing her emotions back in check, concentrating on staying on her feet. She was so lightheaded. It was heartbreaking to watch all the advancement they’d worked so hard to earn disappear step by step as they were forced to march back into Hume Park. They’d been so close to the tunnel. So close.
“Wren!” Nelson called out to her sharply.
Cursed Apprentice (Earth Survives Book 2) Page 30