Inception_The Bern Project_Volume One

by M James Conway

  John picked up his towel and wiped himself off. “What’s up, old-timer?”

  Frankie pushed himself off the door frame and held his hand out, presenting a lit joint. “Still good to go for tomorrow?”

  “Yep, looking forward to it.” John took a hit, rekindling the euphoria and the relaxation.

  “Good. Pot Luck Festival is going to be great this year.”

  “What time you want to leave?”

  “Earlier the better. I was thinking around seven o’clock or so. I’m going to get packed up tonight…you know, the shirts, bongs, hats and whatnot.” Frankie took another hit and continued, “I figure we’ll take the Scout, top down, blast some Rolling Stones and smoke a dab before we go. You know, gotta have Mick Jagger with us. Anyways, will be good times. I’ve got primo parking and tent placement this year. Right next to the food stands and the entrance. I mean, shit, I’ve been participating there for the last ten years or so. The least they could do is give me a better place for my tent, you know? Anyways, since everyone will have the munchies, they will have to walk by my tent first. Cheap shirts, good company…what’s not to like?”

  John nodded. “Morgan will be there, too. Probably later, though. If not, could he ride with us? Will you have room?”

  “We’ll make room for Morg if need be.” Frankie looked down at his watch. “Crap, I have to get back. The old lady is making her breakfast casserole, can’t miss it. You know how Helen gets.” Frankie shook his head.

  John smiled at this. Frankie adored his wife, a retired nurse, and he always liked to play it off like she was pestering and hassling him, trying to fit the role of an old married couple, but John knew better. “You better get before she throws the old ball and chain around your ankle, huh?”

  Frankie shot a finger gun at him and said, “Now you’re getting it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He started walking back toward his house, using the trail that connected their property, when he turned back around to face John, his long silver hair and beard glistening in the morning sun. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a brown bag that looked half full. “Almost forgot,” he said, as he tossed it to John, “a little gift for you and Morg. New crop.”

  John opened up the bag and looked inside. There were about two handfuls of rolled joints. “Damn, dude. Thanks. What is it?”

  Frankie looked confused. “Marijuana.”

  “Gee, no shit? I meant, what kind?”

  “Oh. Oh, that. One hundred percent Sativa. A hybrid between my two best. Never been smoked. You’ll be the first.” Frankie scratched his head. “I take that back. You’ll be the second. I had to sample my own product. You know, this Viet Cong shrapnel in my ass has been giving me the shits. Pain, aches, tightness, the works. This new shit gets rid of it, pronto. Check it out, let me know. Anyways, I got to get on out of here. See you tomorrow?”

  John nodded and watched as Frankie walked off, his limp more pronounced than usual.

  * * *

  John locked up the workshop and headed back to the house. He heard a faint ringing emanating from inside. He opened the slider door and grabbed his cell phone off the table.

  “Go for John.”

  “Good morning, Hetebro.” Morgan had always called him that. It was his subtle way of calling him his heterosexual brother.

  John checked his watch. 8:46AM. “You dreaming about me again?”

  “You wish, you big hunk of a man, you. I’m at Teanies.”

  Morgan owned a coffee shop on Capitol Hill in Seattle where he “employed” John. It was the perfect cover for both of them to funnel contract money through the business. That meant neither of them had to worry about providing customer service. They just had to exist. Ironically, their lack-of-respect attitude toward customers had proven to be a hit and the coffee shop thrived because of it.

  “Okay. What’s going on?”

  There was a long pause before Morgan responded. “We’ve got another.”

  He was referring to a contract. “Holy shit. Already?”

  “Yep.” Morgan didn’t divulge further. The details would be explained later.

  “Okay. I’m going to shower then ride down. Give me about an hour.”

  “You’re going to ride that death machine? Try not to die before we can do this one.”

  He said goodbye, then clicked off.

  John took a quick shower and dressed for the ride. He grabbed a pair of khaki tactical BDU pants, a blue and black flannel shirt and black Danner boots.

  He was heading to Capitol Hill and the weather was warm and beautiful, so he didn’t want to ride heavy. More gear meant more heat and there was no way he was going to wear leather in ninety-degree weather. People who didn’t ride never understood that a tremendous amount of heat emanates from twelve hundred CC’s of power between your legs, literally turning the air around you into a furnace. Of course, wearing leather was safer, but comfort would win out.

  He grabbed his chrome skullcap helmet off the shelf, glancing at several pictures on his wall of burly, long-haired and bearded men. Next to the pictures was his old jacket, hanging from a bronze hook with varying shades of black from where the patches of his motorcycle club used to be.

  The Crush MC.

  He shook his head at the thought of the brotherhood they always claimed. Five years ago, he had left The Crush MC – a club his grandfather had started – under very bad terms, having beat Rome, the Vice President, to within an inch of his life for raping a thirteen-year-old girl. He had told the club what he found Rome doing and that he needed to be kicked out, but the club thought otherwise.

  The club had sided with Rome and John decided he and The Crush were going to part ways. He had been the sole aye vote in casting out the Vice President. It was then he knew his time with them was done. As a punishment for his vote, Rome had sent three of his toughest and most loyal men after John. When he didn’t hear back from them, Rome had gone looking for them and found the three men unconscious, bloody, and broken. He had also found rocker patches pinned to the wall with the knives of the men that lay at his feet. Since then, the aye voter had had a $50,000 bounty on his head.

  John walked to his garage and sat upon his black Harley Davidson Street Glide. He fired it up, feeling the vibration from the engine coursing through his body. He revved the engine a few times, the sound very comforting to him, yet the memories of The Crush always seemed to linger in the background.

  He kicked the stand and put it in gear.

  Fuck ‘em, he thought. Try and get me.

  He rode down the dirt driveway, not knowing that in a few days, he would get his wish.

  Chapter 4

  Mike “Redmond” Smith used his arms to push himself up into a sitting position on the chaise lounge, the sound of the Doors singing about women in L.A. on a Sunday afternoon pumping through his headphones.

  He threw his sunglasses on and finished the last half of his warm beer.

  The sun was working its way to the top of the sky, saturating the air with humidity and heat. The water of Puget Sound reflected the bright light in all directions.

  He looked over his shoulder to the ten-thousand-square-foot mansion up on the hill, his men keeping busy. He had to admit, he would miss this when it was all over: relaxing by the water on your own thirty-five-acre island with twenty-four of your men. The problem was, it wasn’t his island, nor was it his mansion.

  It had been a year since The Bern Project went live, and the work leading up to this point had been tedious and dangerous. Promises had been broken and people had to die, including the owner of this island.

  Marco Meck had been an integral part of this operation, being the one who had led the scientific team in the development of the virus. Marco had been a loner and a homely man who was rich beyond rich, yet never seemed to be able to find a woman who was willing to sleep with him. Even gold diggers have standards, apparently. General Woods had studied Marco with due diligence, paying attention to every detail of the man’s life in or
der to see if he was someone who would be on board with a world changer. He had gambled on the fact that the promises of fame and wealth in the new world would have women crawling to him. It had worked and Marco had been more than willing to make this happen. Unfortunately for him, General Woods and the others had a change of heart once they realized that Marco had outsourced some of the work and wasn’t shy about bragging about his soon-to-be importance.

  Marco, among others, had had to be neutralized, in order to keep this operation secret, which had kept Redmond and his team very busy over the last year.

  Redmond lay back down on the lounge and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and focused on the sound of the water lapping on the underside of the pier, trying to relax as much as possible.

  He tried to keep his thoughts off the operation, but it didn’t work.

  Couldn’t work.

  This operation was just one day away from starting and he was too excited to not think about it. He and his team were going to deliver the payload on Saturday – as were several teams across the country – and it would diminish and cripple the population by fifty percent.

  The operatives they had embedded throughout the country would be their best resource. Find survivors, become part of them and report back. Intelligence, especially human intel, was the best way to retrieve vital information about potential resistance. He knew the operative that was in Seattle right now waiting for the fun to begin. Redmond had worked with this agent on prior missions over the years and knew that Raider was a highly-trained field agent and former CIA operative. “Ruthless” was the first thing that came to his mind when he thought of Raider, and knew it would work out just fine. Raider’s best quality was the ability to blend in to any situation and play any role needed to make the mission succeed. Redmond felt this was an advantage, as most soldiers and veterans gave off a certain vibe that just screamed out “trained killer.”

  He had to admit, watching this all unfold from their very own island would be quite the show. He had implemented a roving patrol around the small island, using five men to walk the perimeter, keeping unwanted boats and visitors from thinking they could come visit a deserted island. There were signs that stated this was a private island, but Redmond had been young and dumb once. For teenagers, that was basically an invitation.

  “Hey, Redmond, they’re five minutes away.”

  Redmond turned and saw Wolf standing at the entrance to the pier. Wolf was the newest member of the team, a heavily-built man of Irish descent who had tree trunks for forearms and body hair everywhere, hence the nickname. He was well-trained and did what he was told, but didn’t click with the other men. He was a former Green Beret who had served several tours in Afghanistan and Iraq and acquired quite the reputation for brutality, which had caught General Woods’ attention. Redmond still had reservations about him, but no matter. He would just keep him close and watch his every move.

  “Thanks, Wolf. Are we prepped?”

  Wolf nodded and put some Copenhagen in his lower lip. “Yup. We’re just waiting for them to get here.” He turned to leave and said, “Oh. Nitro is doing some barbeque. He’s shitfaced, of course, so I don’t know how good it’ll be.”

  “God damn it! Tell him to stop drinking so damned much! I need you all sharp!”

  “We have told him. Several times, actually. He’s treating this like it’s a vacation and not a mission. Of the tens of thousands of men in our employ, we had to bring in a drunk?” Wolf spat into the water, then continued, “Maybe you should speak to him. He seems to respect and fear you.”

  Redmond took a deep breath and said, “Yeah. I’ll be up in a few. Make sure the weapons are cleaned.”

  “I’ve already cleaned them.”

  “Oh, well, good for you! Now clean them again.”

  Redmond turned back around and heard Wolf walking away without saying a word. He looked out at the water and saw a ferry moving westbound to San Juan Island, a hotbed for summer activity. Several people standing on the near side of the ferry saw Redmond lounging from a distance and decided to wave. Families, single occupants, workers…a hodgepodge of soon-to-be victims.

  Redmond waved back. Goodbye, sheep, Redmond thought. Death is coming for you. He shook his head and put his headphones back on. The Doors had kept on playing and hadn’t missed a beat. They were now singing about the end.

  Yes, Redmond thought, this is definitely the end. He continued to smile and wave as the ferry moved out of sight.

  Chapter 5

  On his way to the crime scene, Russell called Sims on his cell phone while navigating through the early morning traffic.

  “Sims!” Detective Reginald Sims was a yeller.

  “It’s Russ. I’m on my way. What do we got?”

  “Well. It’s a first. A couple of kids said they were ‘checking out’…I’m using finger quotes here…were ‘checking out’ a Tesla when they saw some guy slumped across the back seat. They said they freaked out and called nine-one-one. Patrol had to find them so they could find the vehicle and that took an extra fifteen minutes. Needless to say, whoever did this is long gone.”

  Sounded like he’d miss Kat’s performance. He would deal with that later. The traffic started moving. “Christ. Okay. Medical examiner there yet?”

  “M.E. got here five minutes ago. We’ve got statements from the wits, the entire floor blocked off…it’s on the third floor, by the way…and awaiting your arrival. Where you at?”

  “I’m five minutes out.”

  “When you get here, park in the alleyway. You’ll see my P.O.V. parked by the commercial elevator. Park your shitty detective car there, talk to Jonesy, and he’ll show you…hang on…” Sims started talking to someone in the background. He returned to the phone and said, “M.E. is calling me over. See ya when you get here.”

  “See ya.” Russell clicked off, turned down the alleyway, and pulled in behind Sims’ personally owned Cadillac CTS.

  He got out and walked to Officer Jones. “Hey, Jonesy, which way?”

  Without talking, Officer Jones pointed his thumb behind him and nodded for Russell to follow. He followed Jones to a service elevator on the north side of the structure. “Long day?”

  “Yeah, fuck long days. It’s sunny out. I’ve been working straight through now, sixteen hours. I’m tired, hungry, can’t see straight…ran out of Copenhagen. So yes, it’s been a long day.” Russell didn’t respond, so he said, “Sorry. I’m just tired, Russ.”

  Russell gave a quick laugh. “Think of the overtime. You’re young and I would love to say it hardly ever happens, but…you’ll soon find out.”

  Jones took a deep breath and said “Serve and fucking protect and all that shit.”

  “Now you’re getting it.” Russell smiled. They got in the elevator and took a quiet ride up to the third floor. The doors opened to a flood of artificial lights emanating from the left. Russell got out of the elevator and was met by Patrol Sergeant Vickers, who pointed toward the lights. “That way, Detective.” To Jonesy, Vickers said, “Jones! You’re off. Have a good night.”

  Russell walked toward the lights, heard a “Thank fucking god” come out of Jonesy, and saw Sims’ big back blocking the view of a dark Tesla parked ass-end against a wall. “Sims!”

  Detective Second Grade Sims turned around, causing shadows to dance between them. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. That’s Cat with a capital C, by the way. Speaking of which, how is she? She talking to you yet?”

  “She was never not talking to me.”

  “Not yet. She’s a teenager. She’ll come round and start ignoring you.”

  “Yeah, but after this…” Russell pointed to the Tesla “…probably not. Kat and her friend Christina are going to some open mic thing tomorrow and want me to go.”

  “Christina. She that chubby little idiot savant?”

  Russell shook his head. “Christ, Sims, you’re a real charmer. But yeah, that’s her.”

  “Yep. Looks like she won’t be talking to yo
u. Follow me.” Sims was a huge man. He had played college football at Washington State University and was All-American offensive tackle. Standing six-and-a-half feet tall and pushing three hundred, he had drawn the attention of several scouts, when his dreams were shattered by a torn knee during the final game of the year. Realizing his dream was over, he looked to his second career choice: police work.

  Sims pointed to the Tesla. The rear doors were open and a bright halogen light was pointing at the back seat, as if whoever was in there was center stage, giving a performance. Russell looked and saw the medical examiner back out, carrying a long thin metal rod. He looked over at Russell. “I can’t get it yet. He’s on his front, prone, and I can’t reach it unless you want me to ruin the scene.”

  “We’ll get it.” Sims looked over and beckoned the coroner’s assistants over to them. Russell started to intercede when Sims said, “Don’t worry, Russ. We got pics from every angle and Wagner is already on his way to the station to start the paper. Technically, we could both be at the station right now since we’re done here, but I wanted you to see this.” He flipped open his pocket book and said, “Car is registered to an Ali Bugunolov. Recognize the name?”

  “No clue. What…a rich guy?”

  “I’d say. Oh, forgot. When it comes to computers, you’re like a hot blonde at a rap concert. Completely screwed. Anyways, he’s one of those big I.T. executives. Can’t remember the name of the company, but he was on the news not too long ago. Developed some sort of virtual reality gaming system or delivery system or some shit. Maybe some security stuff. I don’t know, whatever. Did a few talk shows, articles in magazines, social media, et cetera… Anyways, he resides in Medina, so you can imagine he’s got some bucks. Big ones. His address is on the water, probably next to Bill Gates or some shit. Boat, pond with crazy-eyed fish, maybe some housekeepers with big titties walking around. Wagner and I were going to head over there. We just have to confirm identity and notify next of kin. Hopefully, they’ll be at the house, if he has any. Or maybe one of his sex slaves.”