All Mike wanted to do was get this man’s check and get out. Only after four grating hours of touring the estate, admiring the gaudy art collection, the pristine stables, the manicured grounds, and extensive wine cellar, did he make his goal. With a cashier’s check in hand, Mike was driven back to the airport by Juan, who’d flashed him a sympathetic smile when he’d made his final desperate escape out the Bromberg’s front door.
With this eighteen-million-dollar cashier’s check, Mike could finish up the medical lab in the Portland Oregon Sanctuary. With this money, Mike could save lives—lives that mattered. With this money, coupled with Charles Wood’s work, Mike and Zhang were destined to save this planet.
Yes, the money was flowing in at a breakneck speed, but he was spending it just as quickly. The funding of the sanctuaries was eating up the bulk of his time, but he could not stop. Time was running out. He had no choice but to suck up to these losers, loosen their death grip on their riches, then spread it around as quickly as he could. They were almost where they needed to be…
Once in the limo, Juan let him know he knew why Mike had come. The client had a big mouth, it seemed, and all the staff were aware. So—not a secret.
“No kidding,” Mike replied wryly. What did it matter? He still had the idiot’s money and the Jamboree was just over a month away.
They chatted all the way to the airport, Mike learning more about what Juan had built back in Costa Rica. “Why are you driving a limo, Juan?”
“Wrong skin color, my friend,” Juan answered, shrugging in acceptance. “What can you do?”
At the airport, Mike gave Juan a card, a different one than he had given the client he’d travelled here to meet—and fleece—with the real number to call if there was ever an emergency situation in the future, stressing that he keep the information to himself. “The future needs people like you, Juan,” he told him, shaking the man’s hand.
Juan looked at the card doubtfully. “Doesn’t this cost lots of money?’
“Some people pay their way with their skills. I believe you have those skills, Juan.”
Juan’s expression warred between disbelief and gratitude.
“I’m serious, Juan. First sign of trouble, you call that number, talk to Bill Skinner, tell him ‘dominoes fall’, then follow his instructions.” Mike shook the driver’s hand again when they parted.
He really did hope Juan would survive. Juan was one of the good guys.
Mike’s other project was building up his personal army of believers, the future Protectors of Earth. He needed enthusiastic followers, believers who had nothing to lose and everything to gain by signing up with New Earth. These men were not destined to enter Sanctuaries; these were men he needed in the trenches.
He’d started this project last year as well, with fringe groups, the disgruntled and disenfranchised—rich ground to fish for devoted followers. This task he gave to his D5 crew, not wanting to be a recognized member of the movement himself. Again, his distance would ensure the future of the POE.
The D5 guys’ work was stellar. What could he say? Their specialized skills were extremely well-suited for cruising indelicate situations for fringe personalities and future rabid followers. Biker Bars; any bar, for that matter. The waterfront. Homeless shelters. Down at the unemployment offices. At protest rallies. Anywhere people who felt left behind or disrespected, over-looked, or forgotten—these were his target people. It was a stuttering start, for sure, but once it was off the ground and word spread, the D5 guys were having all sorts of success. Soon, early POE members were sporting a club shirt, taking courses, doing weapons training and self-defense, winning accolades for tasks mastered and surpassed. Different ranks formed, with citations awarded to those with leadership qualities and recognized loyalty to the cause.
A mandate was written and pledged to. Secret, and illegal, missions—which tested members commitment to the cause—were routinely assigned. Once accomplished, recruits were rewarded with cash, recognition, and advanced in the now established ranks.
Over time, the POE numbers blossomed, from one hundred to over four thousand strong, all hiding in plain sight throughout metropolitan Vancouver. Mike was very pleased.
Next step—subcutaneous devices to deliver inoculations against “best-guess future viruses”. Mike always chuckled at this unofficial/official description. His entire POE would be immune weeks before the virus was dropped, a virus they had no idea he was implementing.
The D5 guys and emerging POE Captains never actually said what was in the devices but implied the POE soldiers were special and would be cared for because of their loyalty. The future was a scary place, one that they were wisely preparing for, and the POE began to believe they were princes among men, privileged and proud to be in an organization that prized their well-being.
In the fall of WEN 2045, and through a corporation set up especially for the task, Mike advanced an interest in sponsoring the upcoming Boy Scout Jamboree in Seattle. His offer received the usual careful background check, as he had known it would and had prepared for. This was his super power—faking backgrounds that looked and sounded good. He was extremely pleased to receive the news that his generous offer had been accepted in February of WEN 2046, right on schedule. This meant the delivery of the virus would go smoothly. He loved when a plan came together…
By spring WEN 2046, the virus was ready for deployment and would be delivered by drones being donated to the boys on the last day. There would be a showy unveiling, naturally—Mike couldn’t resist. 5000 colorful drones would be released over the grounds, with each of the five thousand attendees to receive a drone of their very own to take home with them. This would happen at the closing ceremonies and everyone involved was pumped about the event. A perfect closing to a wonderful, wholesome event that would bring boys, thousands of boys, and their parents from around the world together, to break down barriers, learn about each other, about different cultures and ways of living. Accepting of differences, to make connections that would make the world a better place. In this global political quagmire, Mike couldn’t help admiring the organization for making the effort to bring these boys together. They believed the youth attending their global event were the future.
They didn’t know how right they were.
After he was done with them, the world really would be a better place. Better than they could possibly imagine. Why? Because they didn’t imagine big enough. They didn’t reach for the stars. He did.
Each boy would have arrived with at least one chaperone. That instantly doubled his infectious carriers to ten thousand right off the hop. Then consider transportation—buses, taxis, planes, ferries, and that was just scratching the surface. Consider meals—restaurants, corner convenient stores, arcades, gas stations, public washrooms, malls, movie theaters. Consider all the employees of all these places. No one would be safe. No one.
Meanwhile, back at home, on the nightly news: Whales were dying on beaches in greater numbers all around the world. Game reserves in Africa were no more—it was a free-for-all, and both the animals and the locals there had lost. Plastics recovery had ground to a halt and looked to be tied up in international courts for years as the buzzards hovered overhead, looking for their slice of the pie.
Half of Florida, it seemed, was under water, as were the Bahamas, Cuba, and Turks and Caicos. Haiti was done for, Dominica not far behind.
No global warming, huh?
New Orleans’ levy failed once again, only much more spectacularly this time. What a logistical nightmare that was. The twist this time around was the adversarial reaction of neighboring states, Texas in particular. Where, in the past, homes were opened to flood victims, now the welcome mat was gone. Texans claimed they were done with refugees flooding—ha ha—into Texas year after year, draining—ha ha, again—their resources, and had gone so far as to man major border crossings with protectionists brandishing weapons, which they had aplenty. How had this happened, neighboring states viewing others as an enemy
? This wasn’t the United States of America anymore…
Listening to the news anchor reporting the latest Texas border skirmish, Mike frowned. The States hadn’t fallen into anarchy this early in the twenty-first century in any history book he had studied back on Cloud Rez… Which meant that he and Moses had already changed history with their presence here.
Mike paused. Which action had changed it?
Was it something big, like playing the stock market and cleaning up, year after year, funneling money into their pet projects? Had so many others’ fortunes been so deeply affected, either favorably or unfavorably, that America’s downfall had been hastened?
Was it Charles Woods absence that made the difference? They fully intended to share the man’s discoveries and developments when the time was right, but Mike could clearly see things were very different already.
Was it a big change, like raising a former nobody up into an influential position, like Conrad, the snake in the grass, or a small change, like a missed meeting that resulted in a pivotal shift of some sort?
He glanced at his watch and shrugged. Grimly would be here any time.
Time. Time travel. Who could figure it out? For someone who had arrived in this world, in this time, through a Time Bore, you’d think Mike would know more about the science than the next guy, right? Not so. Even Moses had admitted over drinks one night that he had no idea how the Bore worked, and that he’d only followed Wood’s schematics and hoped he didn’t screw it up.
Mike likened traveling through the Time Bore to driving his car. He couldn’t build one, and frankly had no idea how the thing worked, but he could still get into it and drive himself where he wanted to go.
He snickered to himself. His father would have called this willful ignorance. Touché Father. Like I give a crap about what you think of me anymore. The days of chubby Payton were long gone.
He could make himself nuts over the puzzle or let it all go. It would mean nothing in a matter of days, weeks, maybe, in any case. Everything was about to change, irrevocably—and definitely for the better. He had other fish to fry.
He hoped he and Zhang—that was a laugh—Zhang never showed his face around here anymore. Still, he hoped they hadn’t taken too long to put their plan into action. Fingers crossed, the Jamboree went as planned. That’s all he asked; he’d take care of the rest. Just let the Jamboree go as planned.
Mike startled when his accounting manager, Allen Campo approached him with a sheaf of papers, his expression worried. He’d been so quiet, off in his corner, Mike had forgotten he was even here. And the worried expression? This was not news—Allen Campos’s expression was always worried.
“What’s up, Chi—Allen?” Mike asked, knowing that if he got right to it, it would be over all the sooner. Chicken Little was what Mike called Allen in private. With Allen, the sky was always falling.
“I’ve discovered some very disturbing money transfers, Mr. Eggers.”
Mike swung his chair to face Chicken Little squarely. “Oh? How so?”
“There has been a flurry of activity in these four accounts here, sir.” He pointed out four hi-lighted lines on a crowded spreadsheet. This man lived and breathed spreadsheets. Someone needed to take him by the hand and lead him toward a sunny window, perhaps introduce him to the concept of sunshine and outside and living a life, talking to real people…
“There have been transfers from these accounts, funds transferred into gold, which then disappears… I don’t know to where this gold has been transferred to. It’s extremely alarming!”
Mike fought rolling his eyes. It just wasn’t fair. Chicken Little was an earnest, honest man who was only trying to do his job, had served Mike well, and he was under a huge handicap—Mike had never been totally honest with him. Glancing at the numbers, Mike guessed that neither was Moses—to either Chicken Little, or Mike. What was Moses up to now? Hiding gold of all things? Like that was going to help him in the upcoming months. And hiding out on his stupid island in the Strait? The truth was, Mike didn’t need Moses anymore.
Moses, I could squash you like a bug if I chose to, you silly, silly man.
Mike stood and put his arm around Allen’s narrow shoulders, causing the little guy to jump. Mike walked him amicably toward the elevator. “It’s okay, Allen. I know Moses is working something out with these accounts. Between you and me, I really don’t care.”
Allen gasped at this but allowed himself to be guided across the room. Allen was a digger, not a fighter.
“Why don’t you call it a day? In fact, take the rest of the week off. I’ll deal with Moses, find out what he’s up to and settle this once and for all.”
“But Mr. Eggers! This will look bad at tax time. This smacks of hiding funds… and maybe even…” Allen’s voice dropped to a whisper, “money laundering…”
By tax time, there would be no auditor to review these files, these accounts, or any accounts, for that matter. By tax time, currency as Allen knew it would not exist.
At the elevator doors. Mike turned the little accountant to face him. “You know our financial situation, Allen. I’m not worried, and neither should you be. Let me deal with Mr. Zhang. I’ll slap his wrist if I must, and make sure he keeps his fingers out of your pie.”
The elevator doors opened revealing Daniel Grimly, a muscle-bound D5 freelancer, who started at seeing Mike and Allen waiting before it. “OH!” he blurted—definitely not his style—and hastily reached to press the button to close the door.
“No, no, come on in.” Mike smiled and waved him into the penthouse, now more his than Zhang’s. “Allen and I were just finishing up. Come on in.” To Allen, he said, “Thank you for the hard work, Allen. I’ll keep your good advice in mind, and we’ll talk some more next month. I’m thinking by then, everything will have shaken out just fine.” Mike knew he would never see Chicken Little again. Turns out the sky was falling…
The two men edged around one another, Daniel’s expression carefully neutral, Allen’s wary.
Once the door was closed behind the little accountant, Mike led the way across the silent penthouse, the sounds of his and Grimly’s shoes tapping across the marble tiles absorbed into the soft furnishings and drifted through the open doors out into the warm spring air.
Mike smiled slightly. So innocuous, that sound. Two sets of steps, each moving toward diverse destinies.
He stepped behind the bar.
Grimly sat on a tall stool. “Came straight from the airport.”
“What’s your poison?”
“Jack Daniels.”
As Mike had predicted. He filled two tumblers, sliding one across the polished mahogany to his chief fixer. “We’re all set?”
Grimly gave a quick nod before sucking back half the contents of his glass. The man did love his booze like he loved oxygen but had never to Mike’s knowledge let that love interfere with the “other duties as assigned” portion of his job description here at D5. With the task done, he could now indulge.
Instead of following suit, Mike left his own glass untouched, its amber contents sparkling through the cut crystal, spilling a half moon of light across the warm wood of the bar. Quietly he considered Grimly. On the books, this man and his subordinates did not exist. Their names appeared on no payroll list. In fact, Allen Campos would find no trace of Grimly or any D5 operatives anywhere, no matter how hard he dug.
Just how Mike liked it. Grimly and his ilk were cash-and-carry kind of guys, with Daniel Grimly being Mike’s dream employee—the man to whom no task was too big, too small, too gruesome, or too outside the letter of the law. Grimly was Mike’s outlier and had served Mike well these last two years.
Mike leaned back and crossed his arms, allowing a small smile to play across his face. “All units squared away?”
“Under wraps ‘til the last day, just as you ordered.” Grimly raised his eyebrows and tipped his head. “I gotta say boss, in five days’ time, there’s going to be some mighty excited boys come the end of that Jambo
ree.”
“That’s the goal. Excited, happy boys.”
Grimly drained his glass and visibly relaxed. “I don’t get the reason you supporting the Jamboree has to be anonymous. You’d get miles of good PR from this donation.”
“It doesn’t count as selfless if they know who you are,” Mike replied softly. He raised the bottle. “Again?”
Grimly nodded. “Thanks.”
Mike filled Grimly’s tumbler, capped the bottle and returned it to its place among the others lining the mirrored wall of shelves behind him before thoughtfully wiping his hands on the damp cloth hanging over the tap of the bar sink.
Grimly chugged from the glass, then tilted his head again. “You not drinking?”
Mike grimaced. “Not my poison of choice, Dan.”
Grimly sent him a lopsided grin. “Don’t know what you’re missing.”
Mike just shrugged and wiped the bar in lazy circles. “I should have been a bartender. No tough decisions. Much more relaxing than being a CEO.”
“Yeah?” Grimly leaned on both elbows and softened his normally glaring expression. “I might like being CEO one day.”
“Nah. It’s overrated.”
Grimly blinked slowly, filled his thick chest with a deep breath and let it out slowly. His broad shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes and let almost a full minute pass before opening them again.
Mike asked, “You beat?”
“Yeah. It just hit me.”
“Well, I appreciate you heading down there, making sure the kids’ final gifts would be delivered as planned. It’s sure to be a once-in-a-lifetime event. I really needed it to go well. That’s why I entrusted the task to you.”
“I’d never let you down.”
“I know. Hey. You really are beat.” Concern crept into Mike’s voice. “Want to crash here?”
Grimly blinked in surprise. “I…”
Mike came around the bar. “Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”
“I – I don’t know what’s got into me…”
Cursed Apprentice (Earth Survives Book 2) Page 41