Gemini Series Boxset

by Ty Patterson

  ‘What’s in the load?’

  ‘Paper. Bales of colored paper that are made into posters for Hollywood.’

  Quincy removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His took a deep pull from a bottle of water, and glared at a bird that had the temerity to peep through the door of the container that was his study.

  ‘You’ve got a paper plant there? I’ve never heard of it. I thought those posters got made in China. Doesn’t everything come from that country?’

  The freight manager laughed ruefully, ‘They’re tough competitors, but so far we’re holding our own. We’ve been in business for a few years now. Not many people know of us. No idea why.’

  They agreed on pick-up times, contracts, and after the manager had explained the approach to the loading bay, Quincy went whistling to the main home.

  He picked the load up at dawn the next day, watching keenly and shouting instructions as a crane placed the container on the bed of his truck. Didn’t know paper could be that heavy, he thought as his truck sank a couple of inches.

  He cross-checked a few more details with the freight manager, a text message to Debbie, and then he was off just as the first ray of sunlight streaked through the clouds and lit his cab.

  He got on the I-90 E the first day and settled down to serious driving. He cut through Idaho, passing through the Lolo National Forest and halted for the day at a truck stop just after he had crossed into Montana.

  He passed through the top corner of Wyoming, spoke to Debbie when he was in South Dakota, and ended the second day just before the Minnesota border. He jumped out of the cab, washed in the bathroom of the rest stop, and enjoyed his evening meal slowly, leisurely, like a man who’d just completed over a thousand miles.

  He greeted a few fellow truckers, talked about the weather, routes, exchanged cell numbers with a couple of them, and then climbed into the sleeper of his Peterbilt.

  Just before starting the next day, he uploaded all the photographs he had taken of his trip so far, to an online storage service. Most of them were scenic pictures, but a couple of them were of dangerous drivers he had passed. He memorized the plates of those drivers and made a mental note to steer clear of them if he came across them again.

  He patted the door of his truck affectionately and set off on day three, hugging the border of Minnesota and Iowa. Lunch was a beef sandwich that he’d gotten packed the previous night at another rest stop, under the overhang of a tree underneath with a few other travellers.

  He nodded politely at them, washed down the sandwich with a gulp of coffee, and set off again. He left Wisconsin behind and it was in Illinois that disaster struck.

  A biker overtook him from the left, coming close to him. Quincy let him pass, correcting slightly, gripping the wheel with both hands. Another one appeared in his mirror, coming up fast, on his right.

  Quincy sounded his horn loudly, warning him to be careful. He saw the biker give a careless wave and then he disappeared out of sight. The next moment, he heard a couple of thumps on the container and the biker shot ahead.

  Quincy swore and when he was settling back, another biker came from the left, so close to the rear wheels that Quincy instinctively turned right. He corrected swiftly, then overcorrected, the angle of turn increasing suddenly when the biker thumped the container with a clenched fist.

  The sounds startled Quincy and the truck veered out of control, its heavy load rocking its body, and crashed into the side rails. The truck swayed for agonizing seconds and then Quincy, his eyes glazed, his eyes squinted, saw to his horror, the container tip and break free from its securing bolts.

  The restraints sheared as if made of putty, no match for the weight above them, and the container fell with a tearing groan of metal on concrete.

  Silence for a while, and then Quincy stirred. He seemed to be unharmed; the cab’s belts and safety features had kicked in. His cab was damaged, he knew, judging by the way it had smashed into the railings.

  The load!

  He unbuckled as quickly as he could, opened the door gingerly and hopped down. He looked behind and stood aghast at the sight that beheld him.

  Trucks, cars, a couple of bikes, were backed up behind the container that lay on its side. The container’s doors had fallen open and paper bales lay strewn on the highway.

  That wasn’t what transfixed Quincy.

  It was the pieces of paper fluttering in the air and lying on the concrete that gripped his attention and that of every traveler.

  They were hundred dollar bills.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Zho was one of the watchers, sitting in his rented SUV three trucks behind the accident on the I-90 E. He saw the Peterbilt yaw to the right and in the distance heard the blare of horns from several vehicles and drew to a hard stop.

  He left his vehicle and ran to the growing throng of onlookers, several of whom were approaching the crashed vehicle, aiming to help its driver. They leapt back when the container canted and its doors burst open. The first bale fell, another landed on top of it and papers flew in the air.

  The shock of surprise from the watchers was as loud as a crowd at a football game. One man took the first tentative step forward. He looked behind him uncertainty and didn’t see anyone stopping him. Mustering his courage, he rushed forward and caught the first bill in mid-flight.

  He examined it and yelled in delight, ‘It’s genuine.’ Other people rushed forward and the highway became a feeding frenzy as the watchers stuffed their jackets, their trousers, their jeans, all available pockets, with the money. It was there to be taken. No one was around to prevent them.

  More people flooded in as word spread. Some clambered inside the container and dragged more bales out, while others ripped open the undamaged bales. Fisticuffs broke out as greed reigned; the driver vigorously protested with some people but he was rudely shoved back.

  The driver fell, got to his feet, pulled out his cell phone and spoke into it, and then took pictures of the mob.

  Zho walked to the edge of the crowd, keeping out of the way of the driver’s camera, picked a lone bill and examined it. He stuffed it in his jacket and went back to his vehicle and waited for the cops to arrive.

  It had gone down exactly the way he had planned it. Steinke wasn’t a random pick. They had their eyes on him for a long while, after sifting through several owner operator drivers. He fit their requirements. Drove long haul as well as short haul, had driven that particular route several times, and had a blemish free record.

  The blameless record was important. The plan required that the driver not be found at fault.

  Finding the bikers was a little more challenging. In the end, Zho had to settle for shipping in a few stuntmen from Hollywood. They practiced till they got the scare tactics just right and then waited for the call from Zho.

  Zho had eyes on the truck ever since it left Northlyn. He himself had been holed up in Rockford, Illinois, and when he heard the truck had entered the state, he fell in behind.

  At the stretch of highway that had been identified previously, he had given the signal and the incident had turned out as rehearsed. The bales were designed to explode on impact, the bills were supposed to fly in the air and scatter.

  They did.

  The first cruiser raced through the melee of vehicles and people and came to a stop at an angle to block access to the currency. Officers stepped out and a loud speaker came on and people were asked to step back.

  More police vehicles came in, and from above came the sound of blades whipping through the air. It was a chopper from a TV station. The media had beaten the cops to aerial coverage.

  Zho wasn’t paying attention to the activities on the highway. His eyes were focused on the screen of his phone as he scanned social media. The first mention of the flood of currency on the I-90 E came half an hour after the accident.

  The cops were yet to arrive then.

  The next mention came fifteen minutes later. Free money on the I-90 E, exclaimed
a Twitter poster, followed by several emojis. That was retweeted several times. Don’t go to the bank, go to the highway, was another.

  He went to a TV channel’s website and was gratified to see live coverage of the accident on the I-90 E and the reporter’s breathless commentary made him grunt in satisfaction.

  The cameras focused on the cops interviewing the driver and then bundling him into a cruiser. The bikers had long since left and Zho knew they couldn’t be identified. All of them had been sporting false number plates and since when was anyone identified after wearing biking gear and full face helmets?

  He felt sorry for a moment at the thought of the driver. He had been suckered into the crashing; none of what happened had been in his fault.

  Sorry? Zho’s thumbs paused on the buttons of his phone and he examined this alien emotion. Since when did he feel sorry for anyone? Zho regarded Peng Huang as his younger brother and he was the only human being in the world for whom Zho felt something. Everyone else was either ally or enemy or of no relevance.

  Sorry. He wasn’t totally surprised at what he felt. In the recent years he had been wondering what life was about, what the killing was for.

  Killing. That reminded him. There was more to be done. He boxed up the strange emotions and the peculiar train of thought and tossed it away in a corner of his mind.

  Some day he would open the box again and re-examine its contents. Or maybe not.

  It took seven hours for the I-90 E to clear and for traffic to resume moving. In that time the cops had cleared up the currency and had sealed the bales. They were placed in the container which was locked and two cruisers stood guard.

  A crane lumbered along and lifted the container and placed it to the side of the highway, freeing up the lane. A tow truck would come later in the night and take away the Peterbilt and another semi would take away the container to Rockford.

  Northlyn had been informed, insurance companies had been notified, and witnesses had come forward to support Quincy’s statement of the bikers and their dangerous driving.

  Zho didn’t follow any of that. He had sent a final message to his gang before setting off to Northlyn.

  That message was a single word.

  Begin.

  The Northlyn plant had close to a hundred employees, all carefully selected, with very few of them having big families. Many employees were single, some were single parents, and a few had two children or more.

  The 41S owned the plant through a maze of shell companies; an acquisition that had been arranged several years back by the Hong Kong fixer. Over time, the new management had changed the demographic profile of the workers. There were Chinese migrants, South American workers, staff from the Caribbean…the plant felt like it was some international association.

  Zho knew the staff changes were deliberate and were planned for a day just like this. Migrants were less likely to attract attention if they went missing

  He reached Northlyn thirty hours later, driving across the country, stopping only for the occasional break. He had traced Quincy Steinke’s route in reverse, but any irony was lost on him. Zho didn’t deal in irony.

  He didn’t check into any hotel since he preferred sleeping in his car. He parked in the lot of a large convenience store and rested for a few hours before freshening himself in its bathroom.

  He reached the plant when the morning shift was already underway. He called the head of the plant in for a meeting, along with the various managers and shut the door to his office.

  They knew him. They feared him.

  He removed his knife and his gun and placed it on the table. ‘Will anyone talk?’ he asked in Mandarin.

  He killed the freight manager that night, and four other workers. He buried the bodies in a landfill site and visited the homes of ten other workers. He placed his knife on the throats of the workers’ women and looked at the men.

  They got the message. They wouldn’t talk.

  In truth, Zho didn’t care if they spilled their secrets to the police. All it mattered was that they didn’t squeal in the window of time that the plan needed to succeed.

  He was confident they would keep silent during that window. They didn’t fear death. They feared Zho.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The second part of the plan kicked into play when Zho texted, Begin.

  A researcher in Texas, who was really a Chinese spy, sent the first tweet a full day later. I-90 E bills may not be real. #fake #counterfeit.

  Several other people, all part of the plan, put out similar messages within a few seconds of the first. The messages were reposted and several dummy Twitter accounts kept retweeting them at regular intervals.

  By midday, the social media networks were frothing, and media channels were ecstatic that they had a headline-screaming story that could run for days. The U.S. Treasury was forced to break its silence and acknowledge that the container had four million dollars’ worth of currency. All of it was counterfeit.

  They confirmed that the Secret Service - which was initially formed for investigating counterfeit currency, a remit that it still had - was investigating and more updates would follow. That was the only news conference they gave.

  Meghan and Beth watched the events unfold in fascination, their investigation temporarily forgotten.

  They had split the investigation into two strands. One was still focused on Cali and this time they were looking into security camera footage in the months leading to her disappearance.

  If they found such footage, they could analyze who she met, whether she was being followed, who she spoke to. It was a challenging task even for Werner; the supercomputer was hooked into the relevant databases, but the problem was that very few organizations kept recordings that old.

  The second strand searched similar footage for Lian; the twins were trying to pin down her movements in New York, trying to trace which hotel she had stayed in. They were trying to find how Cain got hold of her.

  ‘Idiots,’ Beth shook her head in disgust when a TV reporter interviewed some of the money grabbers on the highway; those who were brazen enough to come forward and register their deep disappointment and anger that the bills were fake. It was as if they had been cheated out of their new found wealth.

  The twins’ social media accounts were flooded with excited posts about the counterfeit currency; they had blocked several repetitive posters and had stopped checking their feeds. The froth would disappear in a day or two; the social media bubble didn’t last long.

  Meghan played with her keyboard and idly looked up the Northlyn plant. Owned by an investment company whose officers were missing or not reachable. Typical set up. Ownership trail will lead to some offshore tax haven and disappear.

  The managers at the plant had been arrested, but none of them had been forthcoming. She felt Beth kick her and saw her sister bob her head at the third occupant in their office.

  Zeb was peering at his laptop, flicking through several images of men who appeared to be Chinese. He hadn’t glanced at the TV, hadn’t commented on the highway incident, and hadn’t even spoken to the twins.

  He had been at his machine when the twins arrived that morning and hadn’t even thanked Beth when she had plunked a mug of coffee in front of him.

  No idea what he’s up to, Meghan indicated. ‘Zeb? Hotshot?’ she called out.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘What’s that you’re looking at? Who’re those dudes?’

  ‘Not related to your investigation.’ He folded his machine, grabbed it, and walked out of the office with a wave.

  Meghan turned to the sound of keys being pressed; it was Beth texting furiously. ‘Mark?’

  ‘Nope. Broker.’

  Meghan leaned over her shoulder and read the burst of messages.

  You know what the Wise One’s working on? He’s mighty secretive. Beth.

  Only his Maker knows. Maybe not even him. Broker.

  Meghan snickered and clapped her sister on her shoulder, ‘Broker knows. He ju
st ain’t telling.’

  ‘Maybe it’s some Agency thing.’

  ‘Possible. Let’s get our butts to work on Cali and Lian.’

  Zeb was hunting for the man who had pinged his inner radar. He had been looking into the 41S and the Triads initially, taking up where the sisters had left off in their investigation, and had delved deeper.

  He had rejected the two Triad gangs early on after talking to a couple of moles in them that Broker and he had cultivated a long while back. They had such moles in several gangs in the city and often shared intel with various law enforcement agencies.

  He focused on the 41S and looked up every known hood with the gang. He had followed several of them but not one had given off the same vibes.

  He had then looked deeper into Peng Huang, and had asked Werner to go as far back as possible in the gangster’s life. Werner had obligingly returned several gigabytes of photographs, videos, news articles, and police reports.

  He had read about Peng Huang’s story, of how he had formed the breakaway gang, he had pored through newspaper reports of arrests, and had scanned police reports. None of the men in Werner’s exhaustive dump felt like the ghost.

  It has to be someone high up in the gang, maybe Peng Huang’s right hand man, Zeb thought as he crossed his hands behind his head and rocked in his chair. Someone so good that he hasn’t surfaced in any police report. A true ghost.

  He let his mind roam and free-associate; Chinese gang, Chinese girl, Chinese spying, high technology research. The Chinese angle was so obvious that it was impossible to ignore. Yet, that has proved to be a dead end. Lian wasn’t a spy.

  So why’s the ghost following the twins? Revenge?

  He crashed his feet to the floor and rose abruptly. It was early morning, rush hour yet to start. It was when he did his best thinking, when alone in the office with the subdued sounds of the city in the background. Free association wasn’t working at the moment. Maybe a run would help.