Erebus

by R K MacPherson

  The van was set up for surveillance operations.

  “The import business must be doing well,” he offered.

  “Who’s after you?” The driver countered.

  Dash let out a small sigh of relief. At last. “The OSI. They’re Air Force inv—”

  The driver glared at him.

  “Sorry.”

  The apology seemed to mollify him. “Why are they after you?”

  “I’m not sure. I got some information about some nuclear material, an aircraft carrier, and some company here in LA.” Dash took a deep breath. “Rasul brought it to me.”

  The driver stiffened. “Why aren’t they after him?”

  Dash closed his eyes and tried to remember his brother’s smile. “They found him. He was killed this morning.”

  “What?” The driver’s voice went up an octave.

  The van swerved to the left, then sharply to the right as he oversteered. White-knuckled, the driver steadied the vehicle. They got onto the 10 and headed east towards downtown. Neither spoke. Dash sensed his conflicting emotions, but the driver radiated rage. They drove for another thirty minutes, getting off the freeway and doubling back more than once. They arrived at a small warehouse that announced itself as Shiraz Imports. The door opened automatically, and they drove in.

  Dash climbed out as the great metal door groaned shut behind them. Fluorescent lights cast a greenish glow. Several shipping containers lined one wall, with two stacks of boxes on pallets. In the southeast corner, a pair of doors led to an office and a restroom. A set of stairs led to a loft over the office.

  “Wash yourself up,” the driver grunted. “I’ll find you something to wear.”

  “Thanks.” Dash all but whispered.

  The bathroom wasn’t elegant, but it was clean. In addition to the usual facilities, Dash saw a small bench next to a faucet with a shower on a hose next to a small shower stall. No curtain hung from the ceiling, but it would be a good place for a practicing Muslim to perform their ablutions. Washing the feet was an important step and rarely were facilities found outside of a mosque.

  Dash washed out his hair, watching the blood and dirt swirl around the drain in the floor. He cleaned out his ears and eyes, then hung up the shower and stripped out of his clothes. He took a quick shower, grateful to be alive, despite the aches in pains in every corner of his body. He rubbed his fingertips until he got all the bloody grit from under his fingernails.

  Two knocks on the door startled him.

  “Some clothes for you, just outside the door.”

  Dash swallowed. “Thank you.”

  He finished his shower, then dressed. Blue jeans, clean socks, cotton underpants, and a green-plaid button-down shirt a size too small for his frame.

  “Okay. No more falafel for a month,” Dash grunted as he zipped the jeans up.

  When he stepped out, he didn’t see anyone around the warehouse, so he hopped upstairs. There, he found a small prayer rug, pointed towards the Kaaba, as well as two folding tables with several laptops and an electrical workbench.

  “I don’t have any shoes in your size,” the driver said, not looking at him. He’d taken off his jacket and wore a denim shirt tucked into his gray cargo pants. A compact pistol rode in a hip holster. “I did what I could for yours.”

  Dash’s new sneakers, so cute just a few hours ago, looked aged. Still, they were only dirty. They hadn’t gotten bloody during Dash’s fight with the OSI agents, unlike the rest of his clothes.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Are you hungry? I have some leftovers.”

  “No, thanks.” Dash didn’t want food after showering off blood. “What are you doing?”

  “Downloading the data from the phones you took.”

  Dash stepped closer and offered the memory stick Rasul had left him. “You should look at this.”

  He turned around and held out a dark, callused palm.

  Dash gave it to him and watched as he turned away. “Listen, um, Dad... Thanks for finding me.”

  His head slumped as he leaned over the table. “I missed Rasul’s call this morning. When I heard it, I—” His father’s fist slammed into the table, shaking the tools and parts. “I waited all day for him to call again. No messages, none of the protocols I taught you two—nothing.”

  “You answered my call,” Dash said, offering an olive branch.

  His father turned around. “Yes.” He gave a mirthless laugh and rubbed his abdomen. Fasil shook his head. “Father of the year.”

  Laying on a cot on the ground level, Dash’s fingers traced over the scar on his leg.

  Fasil Bandari was born with a different name in a different life. Once a top operative for Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence—the VAJA—he’d defected after his superior tried to force himself on Dash’s mother. Fasil killed the man and fled across the Persian Gulf to Qatar. From there, he used his network of contacts to secure new identity documents for his family and disappear in the vast facelessness of the United States.

  Rasul was five years old when the family came to the United States. His father liked the money, his mother loved the money, and Rasul didn’t care. All he had cared about was that they lived an hour away from Mickey Mouse.

  A year later, the Bandaris took in a young boy, orphaned by a drunk driver on Santa Monica Boulevard.

  His father didn’t adapt well to expatriate life. The Iranians they met were delighted with life in America, scoffed at the struggles in Iran. They’d fled with the fall of the Shah, bringing their money and families and never looked back. Most didn’t even pretend to practice Islam.

  Fasil, on the other hand, was practically a professional Muslim, extremely observant. Their mother tried to be a good Muslimah. Rasul took after his father, a devout young man, while Dash struggled with the strange faith, particularly as puberty came and he found himself very interested in sex.

  His father had not taken that well.

  In Islam, sex outside of marriage was forbidden, plain and simple. Noor tried to argue that Dash was just a normal boy, but Fasil wasn’t having it. He became enraged and struck Dash. His mother and Rasul had defended him, tried to shield him, but Fasil could not be stopped. Dash defied him again and again. One night he’d sneaked out of the house and met up with yet another girl.

  Fasil had caught them kissing. He roared and charged them. The young girl fled, but Dash stood his ground. When he tried to backhand him, Dash used the training Fasil had given him to protect himself. He parried his strike and tried to run, but Fasil had grabbed his head, tearing at his hair. Now trapped, Dash had fought back.

  At some point, a knife appeared in his father’s hand. A flash of light across Dash’s thigh and he screamed. Steel glinted through the blood and the battle stopped, as if a referee had called a timeout. Fasil, still enraged, looked shocked and stood motionless, his eyes staring at the blood pooling on the ground.

  Dash’s anger broke the spell and he snatched the knife from his father’s hand and slashed him across the stomach. The wound was deep, and it was his turn to scream. He clutched at his belly and fell to the ground.

  Dash had fled.

  His mother and brother had left home that night. Together, the three of them started a new life. Rasul and Dash went on to school and their mother invested her money well. Dash hadn’t seen his father since their battle, but he remembered the different ways he taught them to make contact in an emergency.

  And Fasil had come when he called.

  The scar didn’t hurt any longer, but his heart twisted as he listened to his father working in the loft. His body, however, didn’t have the energy to waste on emotions and his eyes fluttered closed as he fell asleep.

  Thirteen

  THE SEDAN’S INTERIOR LOOKED like a scene from a horror film. Castillo and Boscardin surveyed the carnage inside with professional eyes, but Mosley’s sightless gaze and gaping mouth broke Castillo’s heart. The image of the jagged cut across the agent’s throat seared itself into her memory. Her
friend had died but would have lived long enough to know of its inevitability. Castillo’s sense of empathy projected what emotions must have run through Mosley’s mind in her final moments.

  “What am I going to tell your kids?” Castillo asked under her breath.

  Death notifications were part and parcel of a commanding officer’s responsibilities, but that never made it easier. Especially in this case. They couldn’t tell her family the truth, but they couldn’t conceal the death long enough either. Time worked against her now that LONGHAUL was under way.

  Golden light covered the canyon road as the sun climbed into the morning sky. Castillo hadn’t gotten any sleep during the night, but her fatigue burned away as rage fueled her.

  Riordan did this. One man, unarmed, had killed four OSI agents—two of whom were in a separate vehicle.

  Rasul Bandari had proven to be an evasive little shit, difficult to track, but his brother put him to shame. He continued to evade capture and he’d demonstrated a ruthlessness that civilians normally didn’t possess.

  “Where did you learn to do all this, Dash?” Castillo turned around and studied the wreckage in the canyon. “Who taught you how to survive?”

  Boscardin walked a slow circle around the wreckage, studying the tire tracks in the dusty road.

  Castillo’s phone rang, a tone she’d come to dread.

  “Good morning, admiral.”

  “Colonel, I am concerned.” The cold tone suggested anything but care. “Four of your people died last night?”

  Castillo stood up straight, turned away from the sunlight. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Riordan escaped custody.”

  The admiral growled. “Did you at least recover the data?”

  “No, sir. Riordan didn’t have it on him when we captured him.” Castillo shivered despite the warm morning. “My people scoured the other girl’s apartment. She didn’t have it either. Boscardin finished up there six hours ago.”

  “Colonel, time is a factor. The LONGHAUL launches are sparking curiosity worldwide. The planned cover stories will hold, but not if there’s a counter argument in the media. A journalist with this information is too dangerous to our mission.” The admiral’s icy tone hardened. “Take Riordan off the board, Colonel. Do it today, whatever it takes. Anyone he’s had contact with, eliminate them. We can’t afford any risks.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “After that, get to Vandenberg. I’ll have a transport waiting for you.” The admiral chuckled. “They’ve been waiting long enough, wouldn’t you say?”

  Castillo sighed. Her children’s faces appearing in her mind’s eye, then her husband’s—Deandre. The past few weeks had been difficult, but the price was worth paying to secure her family’s place.

  “Yes, sir.” Castillo smiled. “It’ll be good to see them again.”

  Now warm and collegial, the admiral said, “Good. Then finish up and contact me when it’s done.”

  The line disconnected, and Castillo whirled around as Boscardin jogged up to her.

  “Looks like he walked out of here,” he announced. “I’ve got footprints headed back the way they came.”

  “Then let’s go get him.”

  Boscardin drove as Castillo worked the laptop, locating all calls within a kilometer of the crash site, then isolating them. Nothing lined up, though or looked suspicious. She expanded the radius to five kilometers but came up with zilch.

  Dash had escaped, but after being captured. He wouldn’t have many resources with him, so he’d have to improvise. On a hunch, Castillo punched in the four phone numbers used by each of her agents and searched again.

  Vandeleur made one phone call after he was murdered.

  Shiraz Imports.

  The name sounded familiar, but not enough to spark a memory. Still, Castillo called their temporary office to have it run down.

  The youngest member of her detachment answered the phone, Molly Quentin. Very green, but promising.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Bring up everything on Shiraz Imports and feed the names of anyone involved into DELPHI. Riordan called it last night after killing our people.”

  Quentin’s sharp breath was natural for a rookie. OSI agents seldom faced death or danger, so to lose four at once was a jarring blow. Still, Quentin would harden soon enough, or she would have, had there been time for that.

  “I don’t see a lot to work with. A warehouse in Long Beach. It’s got a business license and import and export licenses but doesn’t have a clear line of ownership. I see a string of companies in ownership—looks like a front to me. Smugglers, maybe?”

  Castillo smiled. Inexperienced or not, Quentin had great instincts.

  “Any names listed?” She asked, ignoring the question.

  “Ruhollah Khomeini, president.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Castillo rolled her eyes.

  Quentin’s voice tightened. “Uh, no, ma’am. Why?”

  “Ruhollah Khomeini was the leader of the Iranian revolution in 1979.”

  Quentin couldn’t hide her bewilderment.

  “As in the Ayatollah Khomeini. Someone’s fucking with us.” The corners of Castillo’s mouth edged upward.

  “Oh.”

  Quentin didn’t follow the meaning, and why should she? 1979 was more than twenty years before she’d been born. Hell, Castillo only remembered the name from college history.

  “Well, feed the ayatollah’s name into DELPHI. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” Castillo doubted it. He needed to take more direct action, but with Riordan’s killing spree, she was running out of assets. “Boscardin’s going to come back. Go with him and check out their address.”

  “Understood.”

  “And wear body armor. Riordan is too dangerous. Kill on sight, is that understood?”

  Castillo glanced at the driver’s seat. Boscardin’s grim expression said everything.

  She hung up on Quentin and rubbed her eyes.

  “Ma’am, what if Riordan isn’t there?” He asked.

  “Depends on what you find. If you think he’s been there, and you think he’ll come back, stake out the location. Set up some cameras and sit on it. If he’s been there and gone, get me a lead and run it down.”

  “And if we find anyone else?”

  Castillo’s eyes narrowed. “If he hasn’t been there, we were hunting narcotics. Sorry for the trouble. That sort of thing. And, if he was there...”

  Boscardin finished her thought. “Kill them.”

  “Yes. Kill them and burn the place to the ground.”

  Fourteen

  FASIL STOOD NEXT TO THE valise on the table.

  “This is worth a fortune,” he mused. “This alone is worth killing for, but they’re after your data.”

  Four hours of sleep had done a lot to restore Dash’s strength. His arm still ached, but not as much. Still, he had to cover a yawn. “What do you mean?”

  Fasil opened the valise and removed a laptop. When prompted for a password, he hit the Enter key and the system revealed itself to him.

  “You blanked the password?” Dash asked.

  Fasil shook his head. “Stupid to use an operating system with such vulnerabilities. A portable unit should be better protected.” He tapped the screen. “Look closer.”

  Dash’s face appeared in a window, beside a map of the greater Los Angeles area. Crosses marked locations he’d been in the past twenty-four hours, the most recent in shades of red, the earlier ones in fading gray tones.

  “Makes sense that they’d plot my movements,” he said. “So?”

  “Give me someone’s name.”

  “Wei Yifei.”

  “I meant a name I can spell.” Fasil arched an eyebrow. “Enter it in.”

  Dash did so, then gaped as Yifei’s face appeared on her driver’s license. An hourglass rotated on the screen. “Just like that?”

  “Keep watching.” Fasil produced a pack of cigarettes and lit one. Taking a deep pull, he exhaled a plume of blue smoke.

 
Dash scowled and waved the smoke away. He detested smoking, but since his father had taken him in, he didn’t think he could just tell him off for polluting the air.

  The computer beeped and Yifei’s location appeared in a bright red cross on the map off Clarington Avenue. Dash recognized it as her morning yoga class. An image of Yifei driving her car, taken from what looked like an ATM. Several other pictures appeared, still images at odd angles, but they looked like they came from cellular phones. Some showed Yifei, wearing a lavender sports bra and black leggings, a few outside the yoga studio, others inside. A video feed appeared, showing Yifei performing the warrior pose.

  “Oh, my God! Is this live?”

  Fasil nodded. “It’s fantastic, isn’t it? Real-time, crowd-sourced surveillance. They send out a facial pattern, sift through every device in an area, and boom—instant tracking.

  “That’s how they’ve found me all the time. They weren’t tracking phones because I hadn’t had them long enough.”

  “Oh, you probably did, but yeah, this is how they stay up on you. You vanished in the hills and didn’t get picked up by anyone’s phone when you came back into the city.” Fasil’s cigarette flared as he took another puff. “Anyone with a mobile phone, a laptop, a tablet, or those AR glasses—they all became eyes of the state.”

  “It’s like The Matrix,” Dash murmured. He turned to his father. “Are they tracking this computer?”

  Closing the laptop, Fasil shook his head. “Doubtful. My internet connection goes through several routes and VPNs. Costs me some speed, but it would take serious effort to nail down the location. Just to be safe, however...” He pointed at the laptop’s camera, covered by a small piece of electrical tape.

  “That’s a relief.” Dash let out a long breath. “Do you think they’re tracking Yifei?”

  “Hard to say.” Fasil stubbed out the cigarette and walked to the stairs. “If their operation is compartmentalized, it’s possible they don’t know about her, but if they know about you, it won’t take them long to figure out how to find her.”