Post: The First Byron Tibor Thriller

by Sean Black

  The ground shook as it hit. The walls of the cabin buzzed with vibration. The blast wave lifted the Indian goddess, Durga, from the lion and sent her hurtling across the room toward me, her weapon-laden arms scything through the air. The lion stayed where it was, noble and ever vigilant as Durga slammed into a wall, her head separating from her body. As fire lit the outside of the cabin, I opened my eyes. Durga’s head rolled slowly toward me and came to rest a few feet away, face up.

  I stared at the goddess as her features shifted, first taking on the appearance of Sasha. A few moments later, as another bomb whistled overhead, they morphed again. This time I found myself staring at Julia.

  That bomb hit further away. I tore my gaze away from the tiny painted wooden head to the blackened window frame. A torn strip of curtain fluttered with the breeze from the blast. The largest redwood near the house was split straight down the length of its trunk. Sap the color of blood oozed from it, flowing in a stream down into the stump as the two pieces parted company and fell to the ground.

  My heading pounding, I got to my feet. Lightning bolts danced through my skull, each one more painful than the last. I reached down and picked up the effigy’s decapitated head and stuffed it into my pocket. Staggering to the blown-out window, I looked out to a scene of chaos.

  Explosions raked their way up the compacted dirt driveway, reducing it to a deep trench. The trees keened with high-pitched screams as their branches were torn away from their trunks and the red sap flowed, pooling around their naked roots.

  One tree still stood, its branches ripped from it. Halfway up, I noticed Muir’s face, the bloodied mask that had lain on the kitchen counter, nailed to the trunk. Above that was Sasha’s face. Then came the face of the gas-station attendant. Her forehead was furrowed with deep lines, her eyes staring straight at me. There were other faces too. Some I could place easily, while others were more distant and had to be clawed from my memory.

  The death masks had held my attention so completely that it took me a moment to notice the silence. The air was still. The whine of incoming ordnance fell away. Instinctively, I waited, my head still splintered with pain. After the first storm of artillery came the calm. A calm almost inevitably followed by the next wave of chaos.

  I turned around, looking for the Springfield. I couldn’t see it. I wondered if Shakti had taken it with her as a precaution. After all, it was how Lewis had gone out.

  The cabin was as it had been before the barrage. There was still no sign of Shakti or the dogs, but apart from their absence, everything was neat and untouched. I turned back to the window. My nose bumped against the glass. The landscape lay still and perfect. The redwoods soared upwards to a cathedral ceiling of needles. The trench of the driveway had been filled back in and smoothed over.

  I glanced over to the shrine. The Hindu goddess stared serenely back at me, her legs astride the lion.

  The pounding in my head began to recede. The hammer blows of pain were replaced by jabs. I walked over to the kitchen counter. The copy of the LA Times was there. My wife’s face stared back at me, along with my own. That nightmare, the true nightmare, hadn’t disappeared. But Shakti had left me with something approaching hope.

  Next to the newspaper was a handwritten note. There was a cell-phone number on it and the words, Cal Tech. Underneath that was a set of instructions. The note was signed: Good luck! Shakti

  SIXTY-FIVE

  I dressed in the clothes Shakti had left for me. With a ball cap pulled down low and a pair of Aviator sunglasses, I grabbed the Springfield and headed out of the cabin. She had taken the Escape, and left me the keys to her rusty old pick-up truck for the drive to Cal Tech.

  I turned the key in the ignition, and set off down the driveway. I took Pacific Coast Highway North, riding the edge of the speed limit. It was still early. Traffic was light. After a time the redwoods of Big Sur fell away. The road hugged the ocean. Early-morning sunlight sparkled across the water. Out on some rocks two lone pelicans huddled, wings tucked in tight to their bodies, their necks on a swivel.

  Leaving the highway, I headed north-east in a big loop that would take me back west toward San Jose. I felt my shoulders tighten as I approached the outskirts of the city. I took the 85 through Edenvale and pulled up next to the Oakridge shopping mall. I had made the first part of the journey.

  I checked the time on a bank sign. I had been given a twenty-minute window. If I was delayed, even by a flat tire, I was screwed. Shakti had good friends, people willing to risk life and liberty not just for her but for me as well, but even they had limits. Both Shakti and the person I was meeting knew that the consequences of defying the federal government by helping me would be a life spent in prison. And that was a best-case scenario. Manning, Snowden – no one wanted to be next on that list.

  Keeping the sunglasses and the ball cap on, I got out of the pick-up and walked to a Mercedes SUV. I opened the front passenger door and got in. The driver was a trim, well-groomed white man in his late fifties. He didn’t say anything to me as I closed the door. I could see that he was gripping the wheel tight, presumably to stop his hands shaking. This type of meet was routine to someone like me but no doubt terrifying to him. The man’s index finger tapped against the wheel as he pulled out into traffic. Was he scared of me or of what he was doing? Would he bail out of the vehicle any second while I was surrounded? I had no way of knowing.

  We headed for the center of San Jose, passing a high school, stores and residential streets. An elderly Hispanic woman juggled two bags of groceries as she got into her car. A couple of high-school kids sloped along the street, either ducking out early or heading in late.

  A dark blue sedan pulled in behind us at a stop sign. I watched it in the side mirror until the middle-aged woman behind the wheel turned off again.

  Despite the German-engineered air-con working overtime, the man next to me was sweating. The show of nerves was starting to get to me. I decided to breach the silence. ‘How you holding up?’

  The man swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘Okay, I guess.’ He nodded ahead. ‘We’re almost there.’

  Like everything else in America, there was one set of rules for the unwashed masses, and another for those with the deepest of pockets, or those who worked for large corporations. Flying was no different. When it came to private and corporate aviation, security was fundamentally self-regulating. A law unto themselves for those who flew commercial, the TSA didn’t dare intrude into the lives of the truly wealthy.

  The Mercedes pulled up at a separate gatehouse from the main airport. The driver lowered the window. The security guard asked him for the plane’s tail number. He ticked something off on a clipboard, the barrier rose and we were on our way. We drove the short distance to a small enclosed parking lot where I would catch a private shuttle bus to the aircraft. Not being able to drive directly to the aircraft steps was one of the few concessions to security.

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  I followed the driver’s gaze to a black Town Car as we got out of the Mercedes, the shuttle bus already rounding the corner and heading for us. A man and a woman exited the Town Car. The woman, a platinum blond with tanned leathery skin, waved excitedly at my driver as her male companion strolled toward us.

  ‘People I know,’ said the driver. ‘Don’t worry, they’re not on our flight.’

  ‘John, why, imagine seeing you here.’ The woman greeted the driver with a southern accent and a pair of air kisses. ‘And who is this?’ she said, taking me in from head to toe with a look that left nothing to the imagination. Her husband joined us, shaking John’s hand.

  Before he could stumble, I stepped in, offering them each a handshake. ‘David Walker, nice to meet you.’

  The woman stared at me as she shook my hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Walker.’ She hesitated. ‘Have we met?’

  John was finding his feet in the new world of subterfuge. ‘David lives on the east coast. He’s been out briefing me on a couple of issues with one of our su
ppliers.’

  The husband snapped his fingers. ‘Lemme guess! Chinese? Have to keep an eye on those guys. Am I right?’

  I smiled. ‘Hundred percent.’

  The shuttle bus had stopped next to us. The doors hissed open. ‘I swear I’ve met you before somewhere,’ the woman was saying.

  We let the couple board first. They sat near the front. I guessed this was about as regular as those people’s lives got. I had now placed John as John Gillhood, a west-coast-based tech wizard turned businessman – I’d seen him interviewed on cable TV. A piece clicked into place as I dredged up some vague memory of him having been involved in bmi or brain-machine interface technology. Few men are entirely without motive. Gillhood’s interest in the area of bmi tech not only explained Shakti knowing him, but also his willingness, despite his nerves, to help me in such high-stakes, and potentially deadly, circumstances.

  I guided John to a couple of seats at the back of the bus. I could feel the woman’s eyes on me. It was impossible to tell whether it was good old sexual curiosity or something that would prove more problematic.

  A few moments later the shuttle bus pulled up next to a light aircraft and the couple got off. The woman’s eyes never left me. I had noticed that the bus driver, a Hispanic man in his fifties, who smelled of cigarette smoke and cologne, performed his duties as if everyone around him was invisible. He didn’t speak; he didn’t look; he merely did.

  We settled ourselves into our seats on Gillhood’s plane. Gillhood had already dismissed the captain and a lone member of cabin crew. If either of them recognized me, they had shown no sign. I suspected they were like the bus driver, paid not to notice things.

  It was a short taxi to the runway, and we were off, barreling down the runway and into the air. Gillhood got up from his seat, headed for the tiny galley and returned a few moments later with an ice bucket, two Waterford crystal tumblers, a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label, and a couple of bottles of mineral water. I waved away the whisky and watched as Gillhood poured himself a hefty measure.

  ‘I would’ve asked you how come you’re so freakin’ calm, but Shakti already explained that part to me,’ said Gillhood, as I unscrewed the plastic cap from a water bottle and took a sip. Now that we were in the air, he was chatty. He kept his voice low, his only concession to discretion, as he peppered me with questions. When my answers proved evasive, he gave me a flash of the man who had got to the point where he would be prepared to take such a risk, and have the money to do it. I wondered whether Muir had known of the connection between the wealthy entrepreneur and Shakti, and whether that explained why he had sent me in her direction.

  ‘Did you know about any of this before Shakti got in touch?’ I asked him.

  ‘Everyone knew that DARPA was working in this area. That’s hardly been a secret. I guess no one knew how far along it had come.’ From the way Gillhood was staring at me, I was starting to feel like a prized zoo exhibit. ‘They tend to release things into the public domain in small pieces. Their way of testing the waters of public opinion.’

  ‘This has gone beyond that,’ I said. ‘They want the whole thing to go away. Me included.’

  Gillhood shrugged. ‘Why do you think I agreed to help?’ He reached out a whisky-clumsy hand to touch my forearm. ‘Do you know how important you are?’

  I peered out of the window as we cleared the clouds. There really was no such thing as a free ride, and that went triple if it involved a private plane. ‘Important or valuable?’ I asked.

  ‘In the world we live in, they’re interchangeable.’

  ‘Not as far as the government’s concerned,’ I said.

  Gillhood smiled and had another sip of Scotch. ‘Of course not. Someone else is usually picking up the bill.’

  ‘You’re taking a big risk by helping me.’

  ‘I’m giving you a ride. If I’m asked I’ll tell them you didn’t give me an alternative. That’s hardly going to be much of a stretch, given what’s happened recently.’

  ‘That why you were sweating so much back there?’

  At first Gillhood didn’t answer. He followed my gaze to the window as the plane hit a patch of turbulence that buffeted it violently from side to side.

  ‘To be honest with you, when Shakti asked me to help you, I wasn’t sure what to expect. You seem much more … I don’t what the word is …’

  ‘Much more human?’ I offered.

  Another shudder rattled the plane as the sky around us darkened.

  ‘Yes. Although that’s not perfect either. After all, the worst things that you’ve done, someone could say that’s the human part of you. We’re a strange species in that regard.’

  I couldn’t argue with him on that score.

  SIXTY-SIX

  Four hours later we dropped from the clouds toward the Manhattan skyline. Banking sharply south we headed for the small private airport near New Jersey’s Meadowlands. I borrowed Gillhood’s tablet computer and, using the onboard Wi-Fi, worked my way quickly through a couple of national and local news channels. Although I had slipped down the running order, following yet another college campus massacre, the outlook was bleak. I was still wanted for the deaths at the facility, I was being named as the only suspect in Muir’s murder, and, worst of all, Julia was still missing.

  For the first time in a long time, I was grateful for the implant. If I was to find her, assuming she wasn’t already dead, I would need every ounce of control I could muster. As the small plane shuddered to a halt, Gillhood unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up. ‘I have a car that can take you into the city. After that … there’s a limit to how much I can help you.’

  I stood up and shook his hand. ‘I understand.’

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  As night fell, the temperature plunged. I watched from across the street as two uniformed NYPD cops stood sentry at the entrance to my apartment building. In the lobby, I could see the doorman. The usual guy, a short Dominican man who traveled in every day from Queens was gone. The man standing there now was six feet two, two hundred pounds, white, and almost certainly military or connected in some way. Military personnel, at least those currently serving or with recent service, carried themselves differently from civilians.

  I kept walking, my face turned toward the steel-grey river. Two blocks north, I crossed the street. I walked for one more block before hanging another right. The route took me behind the apartment building.

  Without waiting, I ran to the wall. It was around twelve feet high. I climbed it easily, momentum taking me most of the way, brute strength doing the rest. My fingers dug into the stone, creating handholds from the previously smooth surface. My hands found the top and I pulled myself up and over. Further down the street there was an access gate for deliveries but doing things that way would leave clear evidence that I had been there.

  Beneath me was a small communal garden. I jumped down. I stayed close to the wall as I ran, heading for the fire escape. Taking another run up, I made the bottom of the ladder with ease and hauled myself toward the first metal platform.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Graves

  The car lurched violently as it took the corner onto Amsterdam Avenue. Graves grabbed the front passenger seat to steady himself. ‘It’s him?’ he asked, for the fourth time in as many minutes, and got the same answer as he had the previous three times.

  ‘Affirmative.’

  Storefronts whipped past in a blur as he glanced out of the window. Ahead and behind, Amsterdam was a carpet of flashing red rollers as they moved in convoy toward the apartment building on Riverside Drive. A three-block perimeter had already been established, NYPD working alongside the DHS and other federal agencies to make sure that Byron Tibor didn’t slip past them.

  They had already been tipped off a few hours ago that he had arrived at Teterboro on a private jet earlier in the day. It hadn’t surprised them that John Gillhood, a billionaire tech entrepreneur, had facilitated it, although how he had hooked up with Byron was still a mystery. Gi
ven that Gillhood had already lawyered up and was playing the victim card, claiming coercion, it would likely remain that way for some time to come. Not that it mattered too much. The important thing was that they finally had Byron – the last live ember of the PSS Program.

  Graves pressed his finger against his ear and listened in on the chatter. They had four specialist search teams moving into the apartment building. Any residents found were being evacuated on the pretext of safety. So far the story they had fed the media had stuck, and now they were close to the end, he wanted it to stay that way. There was even talk that if the situation could be resolved without public exposure, the program might possibly be reopened. Intelligence had surfaced of a parallel program being conducted by the Chinese – and they had the advantage of being a lot less considerate of public opinion than the US. There was nothing to settle a president’s conscience more quickly than the idea that someone else was about to gain an edge. First things first, though. They had to recover Tibor with a minimum of fuss.

  They hung another bone-juddering left onto Broadway. The comms chatter was that the evacuation was going smoothly. Most of the apartment building’s residents had been accounted for. Tibor hadn’t been located yet but they were picking up sound from the apartment. Teams were moving in from ground and roof level. He had nowhere to go. The decision had already been taken that even if he had taken a hostage or hostages they weren’t going to wait. As soon as the building was secured they were going in. If extracting him using normal procedures failed they had special clearance to call upon the services of a SEAL demolition team to take down the whole building if necessary.

  They slowed as they approached the NYPD sawhorses at the edge of the perimeter. The car nudged through the small crowd of residents huddled together in the freezing cold. Buses were on the way to take them to an evacuation center. Graves guessed that the one plus of this going down here was that the plans were in place, all ready to be deployed.