by Calvin Wolf
Chapter Twelve
1
As the sky began to brighten in the east, signaling the impending dawn, the line of drones on the straight section of highway idled loudly. William Watterson watched as the MIST cylinders were placed in the unmanned planes, each cylinder being carefully secured in the cargo bay of each drone. They’re flying them out of here.
Knowing that time was running out, Watterson hoisted himself from his hiding place inside the canal. His limbs felt weak and rubbery, but he wouldn’t be needing much endurance. His phone call had set something in motion, and he knew help was on the way. But if those drones managed to get airborne before the help arrived, the MIST would disappear. There would be no guarantee of recapturing it.
Watterson clawed his way up the embankment and, in a tremendous stroke of luck, discovered a guard with earbuds jammed into his auditory canals. Oblivious to any threat, the mercenary was quickly relieved of his AR-15 and knocked over the low bridge railing into the canal below. Wheezing and bleeding anew, Watterson knelt on the pavement and aimed the rifle toward the state park’s entrance. Meters beyond the entrance, lined up in a column, the six drones made easy targets.
As mercenaries yelled, noticing Watterson’s presence, the old cop began shooting. He pulled the trigger as many times as he could before he himself was struck down. As his life ebbed out of him, he heard someone yell to launch the drones. “These ones won’t work!” was the enraged reply, and Watterson smiled. Seconds later, his soaked pockets were being searched by mercenaries. They discovered the cell phone and tried to turn it on. Waterlogged, the device would not respond. Had they been able to get to the call log, they would have discovered that the final one was to a blocked number in Washington, D.C.
“This one’s been hit three times!” a mercenary yelled as he stood beside a sparking and hissing drone. He and a partner began opening the cargo bay to take out the invaluable MIST cylinder. Moments later, as they plucked the glass from dry ice with gloved hands, they were erased from existence by an atomic fireball.
2
The five men stood outside the Prada Marfa art installation, looking inside at the beautiful and ironic scene. Boris Elkanovitch, Adam Welsh, Hector Rodriguez, and Hank and Carl Hummel crossed their arms and did not speak. Each of them could feel the MIST hidden inside, signaling to the nanocells that now infiltrated their organs, muscles, and bones. “You know, we could reshape the world,” Boris Elkanovitch said. “This stuff is magic. Pure magic. You could use it to save lives.”
“And give you a cut to make profit from?” Hank Hummel snapped.
“A cylinder for each of us would be fair,” Adam Welsh suggested. “And we throw the sixth to the wind. A kind of twist of fate. Let the wind carry it into the mountains behind us, turn it into an enchanted land.”
“No, not when we’ve come this far. We’ve given up our lives to get rid of this stuff,” Hector Rodriguez declared. Adam Welsh laughed.
“I guess you guys don’t know. This is only half of it. I hid the other half at the Balmorhea State Park. No matter what you do here, six cylinders of the stuff are ready to be released into the pool at the park’s opening.” In the east, the sun suddenly rose in mere seconds, astounding them.
“Looks like Balmorhea’s open for the day,” Welsh laughed, confused. Then, surprisingly, the sunrise dissipated and pre-dawn darkness returned.
“That was a nuclear explosion, not a sunrise,” Carl Hummel said softly. “I guess someone else found out about your little ruse.” The man in black looked crestfallen.
Boris Elkanovitch noticed something in the mud and announced to the group that he had found Adam Pastorius’ body. “I bet he committed suicide. Or something like that. He wanted us to all be here, looking at this Prada Marfa, and thinking about the MIST inside.”
“Well then, why don’t you enlighten us?” Welsh snapped. He had had about enough of his Russian counterpart.
“I think he just wanted to slow us down, make us overthink things,” Boris responded. He took a step forward, and the three Texans moved to block his path. “You’re not going anywhere,” Hector growled.
“You should take off while you can, Lieutenant Rodriguez. Hank Hummel only dragged you here as a pawn to deliver to Adam Pastorius. To save his wife and kid.” Boris looked over at Carl Hummel. “Same for you, brother. Hank promised you to Pastorius as well.”
“I forgive him,” Hector said coolly. “I would have made the same trade to convince Pastorius to get my own family back.” Carl nodded in affirmation.
“So you’re all willing to die here to stop me from getting my hands on this stuff? Go home. Go back to your lives,” Boris hissed.
Adam Welsh bolted for the glass windows, intending to simply leap through them, but Boris grabbed him and threw him back. He was the fastest and most powerful of the MIST-infused, and he glared at the other three challengers. “Don’t try it!” he growled, eyes glowing yellow. Carl narrowed his own eyes and suggested that the three of them could overwhelm him.
Welsh was suddenly back on his feet, running around to the back of the building. Boris turned and leapt through the glass himself, seeking a shortcut. When Welsh ripped open the back door, he found himself face-to-face with his foe again. The man in black tried to close the metal door, but Boris fired a fist through it.
Boris was dragged backward by two pairs of strong arms and hurled through the now-empty window frames of the Prada store. “And stay out!” Hector cheered. Boris popped to his feet, but was immediately set upon by Carl Hummel. The former football player drove the Russian into the mud, but was fought off with a flurry of strikes. Welsh tried to enter the purse showroom again, but was stopped by Hank.
Hector Rodriguez ran to the purses and found the MIST cylinders inside. Without stopping, he snapped the glass with his bare hands, destroying cylinder after cylinder. Silvery plasma ran through his fingers. It felt like lightning.
Outside, Boris drove Carl headlong into the side of one of the Hummers, leaving a horrendous dent in the armored panel. Adam Welsh got a forearm against Hank’s neck and drove the writer’s head into a wall. Both aggressors stared at Hector and his silvery, dripping hands. A breeze blew through the destroyed structure and streams of MIST particles flew into the emerging dawn sky.
“You’re a dead man!” Boris screamed. Carl, looking up from the mud beneath the Hummer, announced that they were all dead men. He held up his cell phone and announced that he had called the White House seven minutes ago.
3
The state troopers gave Whitney blankets, hot drinks, and a quiet office in which to rest with her daughter. She could not stop the tears. Ava was still asking about her Daddy, and why he was not with them.
“We saw him!” Ava said, and Whitney sobbed. They rocked back and forth on the cot, and outside the room people began yelling about a nuclear strike. The world is coming apart.
A man in a suit entered the office and delivered a cell phone. “It’s Hank’s aunt, the Secretary of Defense. She wants to talk to you.” The man swiftly left the room and closed the door behind him.
“Is Hank dead?” Whitney asked.
“I’m afraid he is,” the older woman replied. “And I am so, so sorry. To eliminate the MIST, we launched a nuclear weapon at Hank’s location. It was what he and Carl wanted, what they demanded.”
Whitney could not speak.
“Whitney, you are not alone. I am resigning immediately and will be coming to visit you, to help with anything you need. Hank’s parents will be with you. We will take care of everything.” Not knowing what to say, Whitney ended the call and lay down on the cot. Ava snuggled in next to her, telling her Mommy not to cry.
Through the wall, she could hear people arguing next door. “There was an explosion outside Valentine, but not strong enough to be a nuke. If they launched a nuke, it didn’t go critical,” a man said. Someone asked just what the
hell that meant, and the first speaker explained how everything had to go just right to trigger a nuclear chain reaction. “If something gets messed up, it’s just a big dirty bomb, with only the conventional explosive detonating. It wouldn’t even level the town of Valentine.”
Maybe Hank is alive. If something went wrong with that weapon, maybe it means that Hank is still alive out there. I need to find out.
Whitney picked up her daughter and exited the office. Men in uniforms and suits were running around in a frenzy, ignoring her. She walked through hallways and corridors, eventually finding the exit. As dawn broke in the distance, she entered a parking lot and began searching for a car with keys in it. After several minutes, she found an older, unmarked Crown Vic with keys dangling from the ignition. She shifted Ava to her other hip and tried to door knob. The car was unlocked.
Setting her toddler on the passenger seat, Whitney cranked the engine. The undercover cop car roared to life and its in-dash screens flickered to life, revealing the vehicle to belong to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Whitney buckled in her daughter, did the same for herself, and eased out of the parking space. In the early dawn light, a myriad of men and women rushed about, dealing with important issues. Nobody stepped in front of the Crown Vic and pounded on the hood, demanding she turn off the engine.
Given the horrific events of the past few hours, it was unlikely that anyone would look into a missing cop car, especially an older one that seemed soon destined for auction or scrap. Maneuvering around side streets, Whitney soon found a main thoroughfare heading to the highway. On the open road, she hit the gas and headed back toward where she had last seen her husband.
4