by Al Turner
“That’s a good point. As impressed as I am, though, they’ve just scratched the surface. Maybe its time to give ’em what they want. We could certainly use all the help we can get.”
The idea had occurred to Pops, though he was still resistant. “One step at a time. Let’s finish up here, find Jack, and then go after them.”
“Sounds fun. Well, at least more fun that watching this crappy documentary.”
Without hesitating, Pops started the video again before Shelby could find something else to talk about.
SEVERED RELATIONS
The dusty brown Chevy pickup made its way east on Interstate 10. Sanchez had just gotten off the phone as he entered Biloxi, Mississippi. After briefing Pops on what had transpired, he called his wife to assure her he’d be home soon and reminded her to have a big hug and kiss for him. Mrs. Sanchez had informed him she would likely be sound asleep, but his cold dinner would be sitting in the microwave. He didn’t have the heart to tell her he had grabbed a burger, as he couldn’t wait any longer to eat something. He promised not to stop at the casinos, as he often did when he passed through that area.
Shortly after entering Biloxi, Sanchez noticed the headlights behind him. That in itself wasn’t noteworthy. However, something else about the vehicle bothered him. If he sped up, the dark SUV behind him did too. If he slowed down, it matched his speed. Sanchez performed one last test to confirm he was being followed.
As he approached an exit leading to several casinos, he moved to the left lane and passed a red minivan. He waited. Like clockwork, the SUV also changed lanes. The exit was just ahead of him. He decided to time his next move.
As Sanchez was right on top of the next exit, he turned the wheel hard right and crossed to the other lane, barely catching it. He slowed down as he entered the off-ramp to avoid overshooting the sharp turn. The driver of the SUV couldn’t react fast enough and missed the exit. They immediately pulled off onto the shoulder and backed up. He noted it was black and its windows were tinted to conceal its occupants.
Sanchez hit the gas and headed for the back roads along the coast. His old truck couldn’t outrun the other vehicle, but he’d be damned before he let anyone outmaneuver him. He was a betting man, and the odds were in his favor that he knew the back roads better than his pursuers. Several large casinos were found along the coastal area and he'd been to all of them over the years. Only the locals would be more familiar with the region.
After he had changed course and followed the twisting and winding roads for a while, he noticed he was no longer being followed. He made his way along the back streets of the Mississippi coast until he hit Highway 90, then followed it east for a short while. The road closely paralleled the interstate he’d been following; it was just farther south. Sanchez began to feel paranoid about being on a major road, however, so he headed farther south until he was on the parallel route closest to the shoreline. He called and left a voice mail for Pops to give him an update.
From behind him, he heard Mark stir. The man moaned for a bit before he sat up and realized he was someone’s captive. Sanchez glanced back at the mirror to see Mark’s bloodied head.
“Good morning,” Sanchez said.
“Where the hell am I?”
“In the backseat of my pickup,” Sanchez said. “Just sit back and be a good boy so I don’t have to sedate you again.”
“Sedate? You knocked me out, you bastard.” Mark, his arms behind him and handcuffed, leaned forward and used his knee to stop the blood from trickling down the side of his face. A jolt of pain shot through him as he touched the spot where Joe’s bat had struck.
“I can’t take credit for the bump on your head. That was someone else’s work. Serves you right, though. You were threatening to shoot us. After two attempts, you’re lucky to be breathing, bud.”
“I need something for the pain.”
“When we get back to civilization,” Sanchez said. “Thanks to your buddies, we’re taking the longer route.”
“Buddies? What happened?” Mark asked, nervously looking out the back windows on either side of him.
“Don’t act so surprised, dude. Your friends caught up to us. I had to give them the slip.”
Mark laughed, but it wasn’t the funny kind. “They’re not my friends, cop. I can only hope you lost them.”
Sanchez glanced at him again in the mirror. “We seem to have lost them so far.”
“Just wait. They’ll find us.”
“You seem so sure,” Sanchez said curiously. “Your employer hasn’t exactly sent the brightest bulbs our way.”
“The people who will be following us don’t work for my employer. I was told that if I missed my target again, I’d be marked myself—no pun on my name intended.”
Sanchez smiled at this, then decided it was wise to press on with his questions. “Well, if they’re not working for your boss, who are they?”
“Who knows?” said Mark. “My team lead told me some black ops types were coming on board. You know, the type of guys who help topple governments. It would be wise to avoid them.”
“They sound spooky,” Sanchez said, trying not to convey how concerned he really was.
“They are,” Mark said. “That’s why I took a chance to grab the girl again. I figured if I got her, I had some insurance to get the hell out of this mess.”
Sanchez determined he sounded sincere. He had his phone ready to call Pops again, but he wanted to see if he could get anything else out of Mark first. The man angered him with his talk about taking Carson. He’d known her most of her life. She was almost like one of his own kids. “Glad you didn’t get her. She’s a good kid. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”
“Oh, I used to be the good soldier boy once. I learned you don’t get anywhere being the nice guy. I wanted to get out of this shithole job but needed one good score to do so. This was my chance.” Mark’s voice trailed off, as if some sad reality had set in.
“Well, people aren’t objects you can use for your own benefit. They have lives and dreams too.”
“Shit, dude, you sound like my old man. I don’t need the lecture.”
“Maybe you should’ve listened to your father, son. It might have made a difference.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Tell me again why you’re so sure these spooky fellas are going to find us. They have access to some government satellites or something?” Sanchez cocked his head to look out and up, thinking he might actually catch a drone circling.
“Well, my car and phone could be tracked by GPS. I guess I must’ve come off as a real screwup because the guy who picked me up even made me wear this tracker around my ankle too.”
“Shit,” Sanchez said as he realized what Mark was saying. He figured on the car and phone, but he didn’t think to check for any other devices on the man. He fumbled for his phone and began madly pressing buttons.
From the corner of his eye, Sanchez saw the headlights to his left. It was too late to do anything but brace for the impact. As they passed a cross street, the SUV struck the driver’s side door and sent the truck spinning off the road. It finally came to a stop in a sandy area less than a hundred yards from the water. It was well planned—no houses or other structures to get in the way.
Sanchez’s head lay on his steering wheel, bleeding. He was barely conscious as men surrounded his pickup. They came in from the back passenger side, since the driver’s side was smashed in. In a swift, businesslike way, they yanked Mark from the back of the cab and moved him to the front of the truck. They tossed him on the hood, and he was too injured to even beg for his life. He merely repeated, “I don’t know,” to whatever they asked.
There were four of them, all dressed in black. One of the men, the leader, walked up to the driver’s side window. He brushed some shattered glass aside and poked Sanchez with the silencer attached to his pistol. “Wakey, wakey, mate,” he said, his accent clearly Australian.
Sanchez flinched and tried to raise himself
up. It took a moment for the ringing in his ears to abate. He reached up and wiped the blood that was flowing over his left eye. He could make out the face of a man—a square jaw, and intent eyes meeting his. The man said something else, but Sanchez had to fight to return to reality. “What?” he asked, still groggy.
“Your name’s Rick Sanchez, mate.” The man pointed to the name plate above his badge. “It says it right there.”
“My friends call me Rick. Sanchez will do. You are?”
“Everyone just calls me Ryder. You’re in possession of something we need, mate.”
Sanchez brought up a blood-covered hand and waved it toward Mark, who was being questioned in the headlights. “He’s all yours, man.”
Ryder stopped just short of laughing as he slapped the door. “Nah, that’s not what we came for. Sure, we’ll settle unfinished business with ol’ Mark. No, we took your briefcase. I bet you’re glad you had it and not those kids. Tragic when the young get involved in this business.”
Sanchez tried to focus on the man. “Yeah, lucky me. I’ll let you settle your business and be on my way.”
Ryder seemed amused, but his manner soon turned sober. “Truth is, I’ve got another purpose for you. First, tell me what you know about the whereabouts of the Page clan.”
“You’d be wise to avoid them. They’re good folk, but I doubt they’d like you much.”
“Fair enough, mate. Just tell me where Jack Page is.”
“I don’t know.”
“And if ya did?”
“I’d still tell you I didn’t know.”
Ryder laughed and shook his head. He glanced at the front of the truck, where Mark was pleading for his life. One of his associates, done with his questioning, raised a silenced pistol and pulled the trigger.
Sanchez saw the blood from Mark’s head splatter across the truck’s hood. He glimpsed the dead man’s eyes as his body slid off and hit the ground. Mark’s executioner gazed at Sanchez, leaving little doubt there would be more than one casualty that night.
“I have a family.”
“We all have family, mate. It’s a brutal business.”
Sanchez’s thoughts turned to his wife. His grown children would be fine, but he wondered how she would fare without him. He always knew such a day might come. He could accept his fate but felt terrible for the missus. “I’m going to miss them.”
“I’m sure the feeling is mutual,” Ryder said and gripped his pistol tighter. “One more question before we part ways. I hear you were once mates with Conner Page. What was is like knowing a bloke like that?”
The question surprised Sanchez, who laughed out loud. When he finished, he stared straight into the night. He could hear the ocean surf in the distance; it had always been music to his ears. “You’ve heard of Conner?”
Ryder looked a little impatient, as if time was short. “Didn’t know him personally, but there were stories. For what little time he had, his training was put to good use. We had a common mentor, he and I.”
Sanchez was curious what sort of a man had been sent after his friends. He apparently knew about the secret world from which they came. “He died in a car accident.”
Ryder grinned. “A cover story to avoid too many questions, but you knew that already.” He patted Sanchez on his mangled shoulder. “I hear he got good odds before the government assassins caught up. I’m glad all I have to worry about is an old man and a preacher nowadays.”
“You should worry,” Sanchez said as he strayed closer to unconsciousness.
Ryder caught one of his men pointing to his watch, a reminder it was time to go. “You referring to the old bloke, Pops? He was good in his day, but he’s ready to be put out to pasture. His hired hands are no more of a threat than Victor’s toy soldiers. Those two can kill each other for all I care. This time next week, I’ll be on a beach somewhere back home.”
Sanchez took a deep breath, as if it were his last. He could taste salt, unsure if it was the sea air or the blood in his mouth. “Around here, we take care of our own. You have a best friend, Ryder?”
“Archer, the one who just relieved ol’ Mark of his worries, is about as close to a cobber as I care to have.” As he said it, a glow appeared from Sanchez’s half-buttoned shirt. “Someone’s calling, mate.”
***
Ryder reached into his shirt and retrieved the phone that had somehow found its way there during the crash. “Give me your hand.”
As Sanchez complied, Ryder wiped the blood off of it and used his thumbprint to unlock the phone. He went through the phone quickly, looking for anything useful. He noted the missed call was from Jack Page and wondered if the man was close by. That would be the real prize, he thought. He typed a message on the phone, but there was one last thing to do before he hit send.
Sanchez had closed his eyes and seemed to have drifted to some magical place. He hummed an unfamiliar tune.
Must be a religious song, Ryder thought. “Need a moment to make good with your maker?”
“Did that long ago,” Sanchez murmured.
“Then give my regards to Conner when you see ’im, mate.”
Just before Ryder pulled the trigger, he could have sworn he heard, “Tell ’im yourself.”
He snapped a picture of Sanchez’s lifeless body and, along with the text he had written, sent it. He tossed the phone into the cab of the truck and motioned to his men.
As he walked up to the newly arrived SUV, his associates finished torching the one they had crashed. They approached the pickup that held Sanchez’s body to do the same.
“Get anything?” one asked.
It took Ryder a moment to say anything. “That was the most relaxed bloke I’ve ever killed,” he finally said.
The other man snickered, but Ryder didn’t share in the humor. He tried to shake off the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. A chill ran down him as he watched the flames dance and the thick smoke rise high into the night sky.
GAME CHANGER
The video presentation wasn’t as boring as Shelby had thought. Not only had he managed to stay awake, but he also had feedback and questions for Pops afterward. While the feedback included the suggestion that popcorn would have made it a better feature, the questions indicated a man who appreciated good research.
“I’m impressed,” Shelby said afterward. “I’m also a bit disappointed there was only a single frame with me in it.”
“I’m sure Jack will include more in the deleted scenes for the Blu-ray edition,” Pops said sarcastically.
“I do have to wonder about something, though. Jack rescued that mad scientist and you hid him away? All those people died, including your son, and you saved one of the bastards responsible for it all.”
“It wasn’t his fault that certain parties sent in saboteurs.”
“Of course not. He and his brother just built something that made Oppenheimer’s project look like a science fair exhibit.”
“My son initially vouched for Dr. Eriks when he brought him to me. I’ve found him to be a good man.”
“Dr. Eriks? Is that what Erich Dasinger calls himself nowadays? You know, I met his brother briefly—before he got sucked into another dimension. That old fart has to be about a hundred years old now.”
“He’s a few years older than I am.”
Shelby stretched his arms and yawned. “Like I said, Pops, he’s ancient. Hey, why do you think Jack made that documentary? I doubt anyone’s going to let him run it on the History Channel.”
“I wish I could tell you what goes through my son’s mind.”
“He seems to be a man of many thoughts but few words.”
Their thoughts were interrupted by a perimeter alarm. Both Pops and Shelby looked at the main monitor, which showed Jack heading toward the entrance.
“Speak of the devil,” Shelby said.
Pops noted the look on Jack’s face as he approached the door. “Something’s wrong.”
Jack entered the room and stopped just past the
doorway. He had the lost look of a man who had seen death. Pops was sure he himself must have looked the same when he heard about Fumi.
Shelby walked past Pops and closed the space between himself and Jack. “Who is it this time?”
Jack struggled to find the words. “They got to Sanchez.”
“Oh hell,” Shelby said, taking his hat off and throwing it across the room. He kicked one of the walls. The thick glass managed to absorb the blow without cracking.
As Pops walked over to the other two, he saw the phone in Jack’s hand. He retrieved it and grimaced at the picture of Sanchez, slumped in the cab of his truck. The bloody hole in his temple left no doubt he’d been murdered. He read the accompanying message aloud. “G’day, Jack. Tell Pops we need to catch up. Cheers.”
Pops tossed the phone back to Jack in disgust. “I can think of a couple of Aussies who might have done this, but one of them’s been dead for years. I don’t remember the other’s name, but the other guy did some contract work for the guild.”
“One of yours?” Shelby asked.
“No, one of Stella’s last projects.”
“Just great—one of the witch’s flying monkeys. You still wonder how involved the guild is?”
“The evidence is mounting,” Pops admitted. “Whoever they are, they also have the briefcase.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. Was he thinking about his children and where they were going next? He walked over to the computer table and displayed a map on the main screen. Two places were marked. “The device in the briefcase will purge most of its data after being played once. The new owners will find a few files on it, should they look hard enough. One is this map that shows the locations of both Echo and Source. However, if they do have connections in the guild, they already know what’s there.” He brought up a satellite image and zoomed into what appeared to be dirt and trees.
“The cavern?” Shelby asked.
“The cavern.”
“What are they going to find there, son?” asked Pops.
“Possibly my children, if we don’t warn them.”