“That wastes too much time.”
“True. I don’t know the specifics of their timeline, but I can say that Barry Hurst—he’s the developer—is an up-and-up guy. I have nothing but good things to say about him.”
“That’s a relief. I’m guessing that’s where a majority of our people would be living if we relocate here.”
“They’ll love it. I know my wife and I do.”
“You live there?”
“Yep. On Circuit Circle.” He smirked. “Cheesy, I know. But it’s a nice neighborhood.”
“I kind of thought you’d be one of the folks out at Green Hills Estates.”
“You’d have to ask Devon about that. That’s where he lives. We’re much more comfortable where we are.”
Ananke asked him other questions about the area, repeating some she’d asked Scudder at lunch. When she felt enough time had passed, she said, “Thank you. I appreciate you taking a break to talk.”
“My pleasure. And if you still want to ask Devon anything, I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
As soon as she was back in her car, she called Shinji. “It’s Devon Rally’s place.”
“That’s the slimy one Rosario told me about, isn’t it?”
“Find out everything you can about him.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Morgan Harris had not gone back to bed after Shawn Ramey and her friends made their unexpected visit.
If what Shawn and the others had told her was true, Tasha had inadvertently gotten mixed up with something big and bad happening right here in Bradbury. Morgan might have been scared for her girlfriend before, but she was terrified now.
Her first thought was to go to Scolareon and lock Kyle Scudder in a room until he told her everything. But she knew if Shawn and her friends were really here to help—and Harris’s gut told her they were—then doing that might screw things up for them.
She paced through her house, overflowing with energy that needed release. This pent-up anxiety gnawed at her, screaming that she needed to do something, until she got it in her head that shadowing Shawn would be a good idea. She justified the plan by telling herself she’d only be making sure Ananke hadn’t fed her a pack of lies, but in truth, she was hoping to be close by when they found Tasha.
She grabbed her keys and headed out the door, but made it only a few steps before she realized the flaw in her plan. Shawn would know her car. Morgan thought for a moment, and pulled out her phone.
“Hi, Sarah,” she said, when her old high school friend answered. “I’ve got the day off and was wondering if I might borrow your pickup to run some errands?”
As she knew would happen, Sarah said yes.
Her next call was to Travis Blake, one of the junior officers who was always looking for extra shifts. “Travis, it’s Morgan Harris. Would you be interested in covering graveyard for me tonight?”
Morgan parked down the street from the Collins Inn, and picked out Shawn Ramey’s Mustang in the parking lot through her binoculars.
She settled in, ready for a long wait, but only eight minutes passed before Shawn exited the inn and walked to her car. As the Mustang drove away, Morgan followed at a discreet distance.
Turned out to be a short drive, as Shawn parked a few blocks away near TJ’s Grill. She entered the restaurant at half past noon. Morgan found a parking place half a block away, and toyed with the idea of walking by the café to see if Shawn was meeting anyone.
That thought vanished the moment she noticed two of Shawn’s associates, the Asian woman and the Irish guy, strolling down the street, looking in shops. Though they avoided walking by TJ’s, their presence in the area couldn’t be a coincidence. When it seemed they might be heading her way, Harris pulled back onto the road and made a quick U-turn to avoid being seen.
Her new vantage point was farther down the road, but she still had a decent view of the café’s entrance. Shawn reemerged almost exactly an hour after she’d entered. As she headed toward her car, her two friends, who’d continued roaming the neighborhood the whole time Shawn was inside, quickly made their way to another vehicle.
Morgan was worried the other two would follow Shawn and spot Morgan if she tried to do the same, so she let the Mustang pull onto the road and waited to see what the others did. When they headed in a different direction, she pulled out and took off after the Mustang. As she passed the café, she nearly hit the brakes in surprise when the door opened and Kyle Scudder walked out.
Was he the one Shawn had met? Did that mean Shawn was actually working for Scudder and the people Tasha had tangled with?
Morgan followed Shawn back to the Collins Inn. Again, the woman stayed inside the hotel for only a short time before returning to her vehicle. Her destination this time was Digital Paste, one of the star tech firms that were transforming Bradbury.
What did Digital Paste have to do with Tasha? Morgan couldn’t remember her girlfriend ever mentioning the company.
She chanced driving by the entrance soon after Shawn had gone inside, and caught a glimpse of her standing in the lobby, seemingly waiting for someone.
Twenty minutes later, Shawn returned to the Mustang, and Morgan followed.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lunch was lighter than breakfast, enough to replenish the energy expelled during the morning’s testing session and fortify everyone for the initial trial that afternoon. Much to the chagrin of several of the participants, no alcohol was served.
As soon as the meal was completed and the dishes removed, Miss Riefenstahl entered the room, carrying an envelope.
“Congratulations to you all for your work this morning,” she said. “Your scores have been tabulated, and your individual levels determined. These have been used to appropriately tailor the groupings for today’s trials, and determine the equipment best suited for each of you.”
As she opened one of the envelopes, Mr. Welles said, “Aren’t you going to tell us our levels?”
Miss Riefenstahl paused. “The levels are unimportant, and only have bearing on our preparation. We’ve found that sharing this information can, frankly, be disruptive. That said, if you wish to know yours, you may approach me after the final trial, at the end of the gathering.”
Satisfied looks graced the faces of a few participants. These were the ones who would ask later. Each would be told the same thing, that they had ranked at or near the top of the group. Sugary words meant to ensure their satisfaction with their visit, and none of them true.
Miss Riefenstahl removed a card from the envelope. It was all for show, of course. She knew the groupings already. “Mr. Welles, Mr. Hawks, and Mr. Ford, you will be the first grouping. And Mr. Huston, Mr. Wise, and Mr. Reed, you will go next.” She lowered the card. “Now, if you would all follow me.”
She led them to the armory, where two of the young men who did double duty as meal servers outfitted each participant with the weapons chosen for them. Mr. Welles, Mr. Hawks, and Mr. Ford received identical Smith and Wesson 9mm pistols, Mossberg Maverick double-barrel shotguns, and Remington Sendero hunting rifles. Mr. Huston, Mr. Wise, and Mr. Reed were given the same types of pistols and shotguns, but instead of the rifles were provided Ravin R15 crossbows.
After the assistants ensured each participant could properly operate his weapons, they gave the men their specialized vests. Traditionally, hunters donned bright, reflective outerwear to cut down on the possibility of being shot. The trial vests performed the same tasks, though they were not reflective or made from brightly colored material. Instead, sewn into the padding were transponders that would activate a beeping signal on a weapon anytime it pointed at a vest.
Miss Riefenstahl escorted them to a pair of off-road transports that looked like tricked-out golf carts. The drive from the lodge took ten minutes, followed by a short hike led by Miss Riefenstahl down a well-worn path to a clearing in the woods.
The meadow was V shaped, with the path letting out at the po
int where the two sides met. Mr. Lean stood seventy-five feet away on a steel-reinforced platform approximately two feet high, with ramps leading down on the three sides not facing the bottom of the V.
“Mr. Huston, Mr. Wise, and Mr. Reed, if you will please take a seat in the waiting area.” Miss Riefenstahl gestured to the eastern edge of the clearing, where two rows of bleachers had been set up. As they walked off, she turned to Mr. Welles, Mr. Hawks, and Mr. Ford. “Gentlemen, this way, please.”
She led them to an area in front of the platform and had them stand in a line, facing it.
“Welcome, gentlemen, to the first trial,” Mr. Lean said. “Each group will have two hours to complete the task. Once both rounds are completed, you will return to the lodge for a quick meal, and then your next few hours should be spent resting for the midnight event. The sooner you finish this afternoon’s trial, the more rest you will have for tonight’s. Is everyone ready?”
“Hell, yes,” Mr. Welles said.
“Let’s do it,” Mr. Ford threw in.
Mr. Hawks, however, was trying to keep from shaking and said nothing.
Mr. Lean looked past the group and nodded.
A moment later, a middle-aged man the participants hadn’t seen before and one of the younger assistants escorted the game—a disheveled but nervous Caucasian man—onto the platform.
“Gentleman, your trophy,” Mr. Lean said. “I want to reiterate that the object is to work together to bring it down. If you try to go solo, it will be noted by our observers and you will be disqualified from this event. Are there any questions?”
“Yeah, I got one,” Mr. Welles said, leering at the target with a hunter’s lust. “What’s the fastest anyone’s completed this trial?”
“Twenty-seven minutes.”
Mr. Welles’s smile grew, as if he had every intention of breaking the record.
“Anyone else?” Mr. Lean asked.
The men shook their heads.
“Very well, then. For this trial, the prey will be given two minutes after they reach the woods before the hunt begins. If you leave before I have released you, you will be disqualified.”
“Does the record timer start when he—I mean, it is released, or when we go?” Mr. Welles asked.
“When you go.”
“Okay, good. Just wanted to make sure.”
Mr. Lean looked at each hunter to make sure there was nothing else, then said, “Prepare the trophy.”
While the young assistant held on to the trophy’s arms, the older man pulled out a knife and sliced through the bindings holding the prey’s wrists behind his back. The two turned the captive to face away from the hunters and toward the ramp at the back of the platform. The older man whispered something to the prisoner that ratcheted up the terror in the prey’s eyes.
“Group one,” Mr. Lean said. “The first of your trials begins now.”
The young assistant released the prey’s arm. The older one slapped the prisoner on the back and yelled, “Run!”
The man stumbled down the ramp but somehow caught himself from falling. He glanced back, his face dark with fear, before racing toward the woods.
When the prey reached the trees and two additional minutes had almost passed, Mr. Lean said, “Prepare yourselves. Five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One. Hunt!”
Something hard pressed against Ricky’s cheek. But that was nothing compared to the headache raging in his head.
It took a herculean effort to pry his eyelids open a fraction of an inch, but the effort was wasted, as his surroundings were as dark as they had been when his eyes were closed.
He tried to recall what had happened.
The transparent cages. The woman yelling at him to get her out.
The sound of gas filling the room.
Rosario coughing. And him coughing, too.
Oh, crap.
He shoved himself up, the sudden rush of adrenaline keeping most of his pain at bay.
He ran a hand over his body to make sure nothing was broken. Thankfully, other than the sore cheek and the headache, he seemed to be okay.
He slowly rose to his feet and reached for the pocket where he usually kept his phone.
“Right,” he muttered, remembering.
He’d destroyed his phone. It had been the right thing to do, but it sure would have been nice to have use of its flashlight.
He extended an arm, intending to shuffle forward until he found a wall, but he hit a flat surface without having to take a step.
Good. This is good. Just need to follow it to a door and I’m in business.
He moved down the wall, keeping a hand on it, but went only a few steps before he reached a corner. He turned down the next wall. Two steps, another corner.
Dread rose in his chest as he headed along the third wall. When he quickly reached yet another corner, he raised a hand above his head. Two feet up, it hit a ceiling.
He hadn’t woken on the floor of the room where he’d collapsed. He was in one of those crazy Plexiglas cells.
His first instinct was to hit the walls and scream at the top of his lungs, like the woman he and Rosario had found. But he knew, from being on the other side, it would only get him a whole lot of nothing.
He began a tactile examination of the cell, paying special attention to the seam where the box met the platform. As he feared, they fit tightly together. Without any tools, he had no way to lever the box out.
He tried pushing up on the roof. Nothing.
Thinking maybe he could dislodge the box by tipping the whole thing over, he threw his weight against the side over and over, but the enclosure remained rooted in place.
He stood in the center, his shoulder sore from beating it against the wall, and tried to come up with another method. Before another idea came to him, the overhead lights flickered on.
He blinked, and for a few seconds, could see nothing but white. Then things started coming into focus. He wasn’t in the room he’d blacked out in.
There were only three other transparent cells here. And unlike the other space, this room had a wide, stainless steel workbench running along two of the walls, plus several stainless steel tables scattered around. But the most disturbing things were the restraint-equipped dentist chair—there was no other way to describe it—in the center of the room, and the heavy-duty hoist hanging above it, attached to tracks that ran across the ceiling.
He checked the other cells. They were all occupied, but like his, none had cots. Rosario was in the cell farthest from him, apparently still unconscious. In the containers between them were an African-American man and another woman, both also out.
From across the room, the door opened. For a brief second, he considered dropping to the floor and feigning sleep, but he was pretty sure they already knew he was up. There’d been a camera in the other room, so one was probably here, too.
He moved to the end of his cell and stared toward the entrance.
The young guy who walked in was the same one Ricky and Rosario had seen helping Slater. Ricky watched him pull a full-length leather apron off a peg on the wall and put it on. Next, he donned a pair of heavy-duty rubber gloves that extended all the way to his elbows.
If Ricky didn’t know any better, he would have thought the kid was about to slaughter a cow. Though there were no cows in the room, Ricky worried he wasn’t too far off about the slaughtering part.
The kid spent some time at one of the workbenches, pulling things out of drawers and fiddling with them on the counter. He faced the other way, preventing Ricky from seeing what he was doing. After he finished, the kid carried a metal tray over to the table next to the dentist chair, and reclined the chair as flat as it would go, swinging its arms to the side.
He pulled a thin rectangular box from a pocket on the apron and tapped it. The hanging harness moved toward Rosario’s cell. Another push on the remote brought the rig to a halt above her.
Slater’s man walked over, peered at Rosario, and reached under her platform. Ricky co
uldn’t see what the guy was doing, but he knew it must involve the buttons beneath.
When the kid straightened up, he studied Rosario again. From all appearances, whatever he’d pushed had done nothing, but Ricky didn’t believe that for a second. He was willing to bet more invisible gas had just been released in her cell to make sure she stayed asleep.
Slater’s man stepped over to the other woman’s box, checked inside, and flipped something under her platform. He repeated the process at the box of the man next to Ricky.
He then walked up to Ricky’s cell.
The asshole locked eyes with Ricky and smirked. If the wall hadn’t been between them, Ricky would have smacked the look right off the kid’s face. Since that was currently not an option, he simply stared back, his expression blank.
The game of don’t blink went on for nearly a minute before the kid snorted and leaned down in front of Ricky’s cell. Ricky guessed it was his turn to be put under, but instead of the whoosh of gas, he heard the echoing sounds of the room beyond the Plexiglas.
The kid stood up again. “Buddy, I don’t know who you are, but you sure broke into the wrong place.”
A whole list of smartass retorts played through Ricky’s mind, not the least of which was “Do you always talk in clichés, or is this a recent problem?” But he held his tongue, his expression unchanged.
The kid’s smugness cracked a little at Ricky’s non-reaction. With a tad more venom in his tone, the guy said, “If you think you’re getting out this, you’re sorely mistaken.”
Sorely? Who taught this guy to speak?
“By this time tomorrow, it’ll all be over. I hope you’re ready to meet your maker, scum.”
Video games. That has to be it. He watches too damn many video games.
The kid reached under the platform and flicked off the speaker. Again, Ricky assumed he was about to be gassed, but his jailer walked away without the air in the cell changing.
Ricky watched as the guy opened Rosario’s cell and transferred her into the harness.
Town at the Edge of Darkness (The Excoms Book 2) Page 23