by Jess Walker
They walked on.
Dexter asked, “Do you want to hear more about this memory card? You deserve to hear the truth after everything you’ve done for me.
Lawrence nodded. “Start wherever you like.”
“I invented a revolutionary metal that is ninety-nine percent indestructible. It’s called Immortal Metal. This is the same metal that will be used to build a giant pipeline from Canada to the US and Mexico. The pipeline project has not started yet, but will, very soon. A month ago, Bluenose Energy laid one hundred kilometers of the pipeline as part of a pilot project to determine the viability of it. The results were incomprehensible. The oil flowed at speeds never thought possible. It delivered the oil in record times and incurred very little damage.
“I discovered something troubling though. The pipeline is not going to be used to transport oil. It’s going to transport drugs and weapons. I have all the proof I need on a memory card. It shows everything—the corruption, the drug transactions, and the secret biochemical formula for Immortal Metal. I got into the mainframe computer at the Bluenose Energy Headquarters, the master computer that is connected to all the smaller computers. I erased everything on Immortal Metal. Nothing was left behind of it, all of it gone, including the secret formula.”
Lawrence shook his head. “Where is the memory card now?”
Dexter blushed. “I mailed it to you.”
“You did what! You don’t even know me. Why did you do such a thing? It borders on sheer stupidity.”
“It sounds stupid and perhaps it was, but you were my only hope. I have no friends, no family, nobody.”
Lawrence glared at him “When did you mail it?”
“Just before the retreat. You looked like an honest guy. I read up on what you and Sam had done up North. Amazing. Once the retreat was over, I planned on telling you everything. I needed a safe place to hide the card and a safe place to go once the crap hit the fan. You were my safe place. You looked trustworthy—somebody I could count on. There was a reporter I was going to see after the retreat to spill the beans to. I guess I will be missing the meeting,” he shrugged, a gesture that was somewhat self-deprecating.
“I was going to bring the card with me and have it on my person, so I could show her everything. I changed my mind at the last minute. That’s when I mailed it to you. Luckily, I listened to my gut, otherwise they’d have the card, and I’d be floating somewhere face down in the river.
Lawrence felt a twinge of anger rising in his belly.
“Sam, the kid that lives with me, will be in danger. They must not find out that you mailed the card to my address! If they know where it is and get it, it’ll be the end for all of us, Sam included.”
Lawrence let out a long sigh as he shook his head in resignation. “Shall we carry on? We got tracks to make.”
They continued down the endless stretch of road, navigating their way up the same hill the truck had just disappeared over. Eventually, they came to a driveway that was covered in ruts and potholes. The driveway extended uphill for three hundred yards. At the top, they stopped when a farmhouse came into view.
The two-storey, red brick, century-old farmhouse sat on a well-manicured lawn, surrounded by a white picket fence. Adjacent to it, several yards back, sat an old barn with a red tin roof. Smoke drifted from the chimney, a sign that somebody was home. Lawrence opened the gate, and followed a flagstone path to the front door.
Lawrence knocked on the door. A minute later, an old man wearing blue overalls and a red plaid shirt answered.
His luminous green eyes surveyed them both as he took in their disheveled appearance.
“What can I do for ya?” he asked.
“We’re in desperate need of your help,” Lawrence said. “Do you happen to have a phone available?”
“I do,” the old man replied hesitantly. “Looks like the two of you got into a fight with a mountain lion.”
“Something along those lines,” Dexter muttered.
“The phone is all yours if you want to use it.”
He made a feeble gesture for them to come inside.
Lawrence noticed something peculiar about the man. He hadn’t moved an inch the whole time he had conversed with them. He seemed glued to the floor like a puppet standing still in a contrived pose, as though somebody else was controlling him, moving the strings so to speak. Something about this situation didn’t feel right.
“What are you waiting for?” Dexter said. “Let’s go inside.”
Lawrence glared at him. “Just wait a second, would you?”
A single rivulet of sweat beaded down the side of the old man’s forehead, trickling past his eyes that twitched nervously. Lawrence looked past the man. He saw an interior glass door, which was slightly ajar. The reflection of the sunlight, mixing with the shadows of the dark interior, bounced off the pane of glass, mirroring an image of a man who held a gun leveled at the old man.
The sight before Lawrence left him reeling. He fought to maintain a calm exterior, not wanting to arouse any suspicion that he knew something was up. He coughed nervously.
“I seemed to have dropped something of mine back there,” Lawrence lied, as he pointed toward the driveway. “Just give us a second, and we’ll be right back”.
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere anytime soon,” replied the old man.
Lawrence turned around and grabbed Dexter roughly by the arm and walked toward the gate, resisting the temptation to run until they got far enough away.
Lawrence whispered in his ear.
“They’re here. They’re watching us right now. Whatever you do, don’t turn around. We don’t want to let on that we know they’re here. Once we reach the gate, we run. Got it? See the tree line a hundred yards away?” he asked.
Dexter nodded his head nervously
“Try to get there. That looks to be our best escape route.”
Lawrence bent over and pretended to look for the lost item. He casually glanced back at the farmer to gauge the right moment to make a run for it.
“On the count of three we go. Got it? One, two—”
“Wait, on the actual number three or right after three?” Dexter asked.
“What?” Lawrence replied, exasperated by the question.
“You know, is it one, two, go, or one, two, three, and then go.”
“After three,” Lawrence hissed. “For real now, okay. One, two, three, go!”
Both men sprang forward. They reached the fence in two strides, hurdling over it and sprinting toward the tree line.
“Don’t look back!” Lawrence yelled.
A volley of shots echoed through the air. Metal darts peppered the ground around them. One found its mark, striking Dexter in the back of his leg. He stumbled forward and fell to the ground.
Dexter lay face down on the ground a couple of yards behind Lawrence.
“I’m hit!” he yelled.
Lawrence stopped and turned around. When he got to Dexter, he flopped him over his shoulder and ran toward the tree line. Darts whistled by him, one so close that it sliced his shirt on the way by. His lungs burned, and his legs felt like rubber, but he managed to continue running, ignoring the pain, desperately trying to reach the forest for cover. Twenty yards away, he collapsed to the ground. A syringe finally found its mark. It struck the back of his neck. In a matter of seconds, his body went numb and his vision black. Before he knew what had hit him, he drifted into a deep dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER 15
November 5, 2016, Late Evening—Somewhere Outside Porcupine Mountain in a Farm House…
Awareness of his surroundings slowly sunk in as Lawrence peeled open first one eye, then the next. His entire body ached. He tried to shift, to stretch, only to discover his uncomfortable position wasn’t of his choosing. He was bound to a chair, hands neatly secured, feet attached to the legs. Behind him
, he heard movement.
“Dexter?” He couldn’t see him, but Lawrence could hear Dexter’s rapid breathing.
“Yeah. This is some pickle, isn’t it?”
The fact that he was back to joking told Lawrence exactly how nervous his companion was.
They were in the basement of an old house. It was nothing fancy, just a dirt floor enclosed by a crumbling brick wall lined with recessed, boarded-up windows. Situated along the far wall was an old wooden staircase that ascended at a steep angle toward a trap door, two doors made of old pine boards that swung open from the middle. The smell of musk, dirt, and mildew permeated through the tight confines of the basement like bad body odor. The basement was unoccupied except for Lawrence and Dexter.
“What was that stuff they injected us with? My head feels like ten pounds of crap compressed in a two-pound bag.” Dexter’s words were slow and careful.
“I feel about the same. Kind of like the morning after I drank two bottles of Tequila, worm and everything, when I was down in Mexico.”
Dust floated through the air, sparkling like gold glitter against the luminescent glow of an overhanging lightbulb. The ceiling above, made of old, dilapidated floorboards, squeaked and creaked under the weight of footsteps moving about upstairs.
Lawrence heard Dexter shift on his chair. “That must be our friends upstairs.”
“By the sounds of it, they’re heading down here,” Lawrence said.
The trap door slowly swung open, squeaking on rusted hinges. Bubba sauntered down the stairs, followed by Leo and Sergei.
“I missed you guys. Last time I saw the two of you, you were lying unconscious on the ground. I believe you must have got into an accident with the head of my shovel. Lucky for you, I didn’t stick it where the sun don’t shine.
The scowl on the Russians’ faces said it all as they approached Lawrence. They gave Lawrence the look of death as they approached. Leo slapped him hard across the face, knocking him to the floor. He picked the chair up with Lawrence still tied to it and nodded for Sergei to take over. The big Russian obliged with a crooked grin. He gave Lawrence a heavy duty beat down, punching his face to a bloody pulp until Bubba had to pull him off.
“We want him alive, you idiot, not dead.”
With his eyes swollen shut and his face bleeding and bruised, Lawrence grinned at them.
Sergei lifted his hand to strike again but was stopped mid-swing.
“Stop! We need him conscious if we’re going to find the memory card,” Bubba snapped.
A look of disappointment registered on the Russian’s face. He reluctantly stepped back.
“We can do this the hard way or the easy way,” Bubba warned. “Which do you pick? If you tell me right now where the memory card is, I will let you live, but if you decide not to, let’s just say things will get pretty uncomfortable for the two of you. Either way, I’m going to find out. Why don’t you do yourselves a favor and tell me now. Where’s the memory card?”
Lawrence and Dexter stared at the ground. Both avoiding eye contact with Bubba, choosing to remain silent. Lawrence knew whether they told him or not, they wouldn’t make it out of there alive. The only way they were getting out was by escaping or in a body bag.
The Russians must have already searched them both, looking for the memory card but failing to find it. Lawrence could tell by the weight of his pockets that the gun, knife, and everything else had been taken away, except for their clothing, which hung loosely on their bodies in a sorry state of disrepair.
An uneasy silence filled the air until Lawrence broke it. He leaned over and spat on Bubba’s shoes. “Go to hell.”
Bubba turned red. Returning the gesture, he spat a wad of tobacco juice on to Lawrence’s face. The brown mixture of saliva and tobacco stung. The two Russians glared at him, puzzled at who this brazen man was and how he could be smiling at a time like this.
“I guess they’re going to choose the hard way,” Bubba said.
He nodded at the Russians who withdrew syringes containing a clear liquid.
Lawrence and Dexter squirmed in their chairs, both trying to avoid the needle, but their restraints made it impossible. Lawrence felt a sharp prick as the syringe was jabbed into the meat of his arm. The two Russians repeated the same procedure with Dexter.
Lawrence drifted into a deep state of relaxation, his aches and pains gradually disappearing. He felt as light as a feather, as though he was floating aimlessly in a delicate summer breeze. As the drug took effect, Lawrence recognized he had been injected with a truth serum, also known in the medical community as Sodium Pentothal, a barbiturate that slows down the central nervous system and increases the likelihood that its recipient answers questions in an honest and truthful manner. He didn’t—couldn’t’—care. Detached, he heard distant voices were asking him questions followed by his own muffled responses, like a conversation coming from a room next door. Lawrence felt like he was watching a movie with himself as the lead actor.
Twenty minutes may have passed or perhaps three hours, Lawrence wasn’t sure, but he eventually came to. He couldn’t recall what was said or remember much of anything, only that there was a lapse in time in which his memory seemed to be erased. He wished he could at least see Dexter to perhaps get an idea of what had transpired.
“Congratulations, your friend, Dexter, has just told me the whereabouts of the memory card,” Bubba said. “You, on the other hand, proved to be much more difficult.”
He waved his hands dismissively.
“That’s neither here nor there now, as I happen to know it was sent in the mail to your home address. Can you guess who knows your home address? I do.”
He turned to the two Russians.
“Wait till the package has been delivered and received at his home before you make a move. He has a kid living with him. He should be no trouble, and if he decides to make trouble, you know what to do.”
Lawrence overheard the brief exchange of words and knew the type of kid Sam was. He would cause them nothing but trouble. The Russians were going to be in for a rude awakening, especially if Silver was around.
Bubba laughed as he turned to walk away.
“Sit back and make yourself at home.”
His big frame struggled up the decrepit stairs followed by the Russians.
“The next time you see me, it’ll be with the card!” he shouted, as the trap door was slammed shut behind him.
Lawrence sat in stunned silence. A deep feeling of anxiety, fear, and helplessness crept over him. Sam was going to be in a world of danger, and there was next to nothing he could do to stop it except pray. And pray he did.
Part 3
CHAPTER 16
November 5, 2016, 9 a.m.—Lang Michigan, Big Al’s Diner…
Charlotte Wilson opened the door and walked into the restaurant. Square laminate tables perched over vinyl bucket seats lined the window, each with a clear view of the parking lot. A counter with swivelling bar stools and a deep fryer in the back surrounded by a makeshift kitchen centered the interior of the restaurant. Heads turned her way, and the light chatter dulled to a murmur. She felt the weight of staring eyes as she made her way to an empty stool. Her ebony skin, high cheekbones, and round almond eyes, framed by her black silky hair done up in a ponytail made the men drool and the women stare, possibly with envy.
She sat down and casually surveyed the restaurant for Dexter but failed to see him. The novelty of an outsider being in the restaurant quickly wore off as the clanging of utensils and plates and the drone of conversation resumed. A blonde hair, blue-eyed waitress came over with a pot of hot coffee and a mug. Her nametag read Amanda.
“Can I get you a coffee?”
Charlotte nodded. “Thanks.”
Amanda poured her a cup and left the milk, cream, and sugar on the table. “You want a menu?”
Charlotte was a
head of schedule, twenty minutes to be exact. She didn’t know how long she would be. Her grumbling stomach told her she’d better eat before she started chewing the countertop. Her last meal had been at the airport the night before. “Thanks.”
“The special for today is scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. That’s actually the special every morning,” the waitress grinned. “Al isn’t big on change around here. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
She handed over the menu and left to tend to another customer. Charlotte saw Al at the back, deep-frying something and flipping some eggs and hash browns. Standing only five-foot two-inches and weighing well north of two hundred and fifty pounds, he was as round as the Michelin man but moved like a well-oiled machine in the kitchen.
She took a stack of printed files from her briefcase and scanned them, reading over the parts she had highlighted. Days ago, she’d done a little bit of research on Dexter, wanting to find out who he was and what he was all about—to see if the facts he’d given over the phone backed up his story or if it was pure bullshit. It wasn’t hard for her to find him on the Internet. After she entered his first name into Google, followed by a variety of search terms along the lines of energy and oil, his name popped up: Dexter Fairfax. Judging by the pictures she found under Google images, he looked to be just out of school, twenty-something.
The articles on him were full of accolades, nothing but praise about his short tenure at Bluenose Energy and the projects he’d worked on. His present project was on a revolutionary metal. The articles she’d found didn’t go into any specifics about the metal, just a cursory glimpse into the scheduled date of completion and logistics.
The waitress came back with a pen and paper in hand.
“Have you decided yet?”
Charlotte looked up. “I think I’ll try the special.”
Amanda nodded her head and refilled her coffee cup. “Good choice. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Charlotte had read that Bluenose Energy was in the business of oil—shipping, producing, discovery, and anything in between. Its latest project was the building of a controversial pipeline. From the endless mass of articles she found, there were two opposing camps: those who supported the building of the pipeline and those who were against it. If it was built, the shipping process would be expedited tenfold and a ton of money would be pumped into local economies. On the flip side, the environmental implications and risks associated with such a project would be high.