Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (11 page)

Patting his mouth with a napkin, Vega leaned back in his chair and smiled. Inside, he was preparing to change from the skeptic to the negotiator. What Freddie was offering was indeed of interest to his superiors, but he didn’t want to give the man across the table even the slightest hint of any value.

“While that is interesting dinner conversation, I still fail to see why you think this would be valuable to my business associates?”

“Because of the energy potential and other uses of the technology,” Fredrick explained. “I may be making incorrect assumptions, but I judge you a man of significant resources, both human and capital. If the owner of G
od’s gun is desperate and on the run, it might allow the acquisition of that weapon, which could lead to all sorts of immensely profitable endeavors.”

He knows who and what we are, but is playing coy
, Vega thought.
Very smart.
The recent string of events around the Bayou City Houston hadn’t escaped the cartel’s attention. The Port of Houston was one of the key entry points for illicit cargo, and the repercussions of its closure were already being felt throughout the organization.

Beyond the mere economic impacts, the level of destruction
at both locations was something that had raised more than one eyebrow within the organization. In-fighting among competing cartels in Mexico was a constant drain on resources, more and more profits being absorbed by the never-ending turf wars. Just to hold on to existing territories and markets required a small, very expensive army. And then there was the government itself.

Often appearing
weak and unstable, the Mexican federal government was a juicy target. More than one of the big bosses had dreamed of one day taking over the entire country. Drugs, human smuggling, and prostitution were profitable, but nothing made as much money as government. The estimated amounts of bribes and graft in Mexico City alone made the Gulf Cartel’s activity look puny by comparison. Throw in taxation, government-owned businesses, and the currency manipulation of central banks, and you had a recipe for a serious moneymaker.

The Post’s article titled “God’s Gun” had been picked up by numerous newspapers throughout Mexico and Latin America. No one quite believed it, but the mere concept was enough to make powerful men salivate with desire. If only such a weapon existed! Whoever possessed it could rule the entire planet.

“How reliable is this source?” Vega casually asked, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice.

“I believe what Juanita says. She
is so stuffy and highbrow with her old-fashioned thinking and conservative Catholic values. She wouldn’t lie.”

The cartel man digested
the statement for a bit and finally smiled slightly. He took a final sip from his glass, set his silverware in the center of his entrée, and glanced at his watch, his action disappointing the young banker. “I must be going. Thank you for making the effort to inform me of this situation. I’ll be in touch soon.”

Freddie stood with his client, his mouth trying to form a sentence of protest. “That’s… that’s it? You’re not interested?”

Vega threw a scolding, disappointed look at the younger man. “I didn’t say that. I will pass this information along and see if anyone has any interest in this resource. Until then, I suggest you have a relaxing weekend and think about how we can invest our money and not suffer the same decline of equity as this last week. Good evening.”

Fredrick stood stunned for a moment, watch
ing his benefactor weave among the crowded matrix of dining room tables and hustling wait-staff. He was just about to leave himself when their waiter appeared beside the table. “Here is your check, sir.”

“Well
, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he mumbled. “He didn’t even pick up the tab.” 

Vega’s cell phone was in his hand before the valet had even pocketed the tip. As his plain, non-descript sedan pulled out of the lot, his boss picked up the call.

“You’re working late tonight,” the v
oice answered with a chuckle. “Or are you calling me at this hour trying to impress me with your dedication?”

“We should speak, sooner rather than later,” Vega replied, his tone sounding
with both urgency and respect at the same time.

“I’m in the south right now,” the voice responded, indicating Panama City, or south of Mexico.

“This is a subject I would feel more comfortable addressing face to face,” Vega answered, letting his superior know it was a matter of importance.

“Go to the airfield
first thing in the morning. My plane will be there,” came the instant response. And then the line went dead.

The Texas soil wasn’t cooperating. Hard packed, clay-thick
, and seemingly kiln fired, Dusty thought it would be easier to dig a hole in concrete. Even though, it felt good to use his muscles on an honest task.

Taking a break to wipe the sweat from his brow, he judged there was an hour’s worth of daylight left. Despite the slow going, he would hav
e enough time to finish the chore and make it back to the barn before the sun slipped below the horizon.

He was just reaching
again for the digger when motion caught his eye. There was something stirring across the distant pasture, still too far away to identify with ease.

He continued to sink the post-hole, removing small amounts of dirt with each scissor-like action of the handles.
Again, he glanced up, thinking he had heard the rumbling of a motor. He was right.

Th
ere, about 300 yards away, idled an ATV. The Texan’s heart raced for a moment, as the two men standing next to the vehicle appeared to be wearing uniforms.
They’ve found me
, he thought, preparing to make a mad scramble for his own transport and wondering if he could outrun the law enforcement officials.

But they didn’t approach. Dusty watched as one man lifted a pair
of binoculars and gazed in the gunsmith’s direction.
Maybe not
, he decided, and continued to dig with his back toward the onlookers.

The pistol was sitting in his ATV’s seat, less than 20 feet away. When he heard their engine noise growing closer, he thought about making a dash for the weapon, but didn’t. Again, his observers stopped – this time less than a football field away.

After a few moments, Dusty chanced a glance in their direction and found them still sitting in their ride. One man was again checking him out with the binoculars. There was an odd symbol on the side of the small off-road buggy, an emblem he recognized as the Tri-Materials logo.
Private security
, he realized, relaxing just a bit.
They’re probably making their rounds and are so bored they’ve decided to watch a man do honest labor for a while.

He was just setting the new post when he heard their motor again. This time they stopped less than twenty feet away.

Dusty looked up and nodded, mumbling a low “Good afternoon,” as the two private cops dismounted. There was no reply. After waiting a few moments, he shrugged his shoulders and continued to work on the job at hand.

Without realizing it, Dusty stepped across the fence line, the position necessary to straighten the post. The dust hadn’t even settled around his boot when a voice rang out. “That’s private property! You’re trespassing!”

Raising his head to first look at the guards and then scan down the fence line, Dusty threw them a look that clearly indicated he didn’t see the problem. Both started walking closer, their pace aggressive and with purpose.

“Please stay off of
the facility’s grounds, sir, or I’ll detain you for trespassing and call the authorities,” spouted the older of the two.

Realizing immediately their intent was to intimidate him, Dusty ignored the remark and continued to work. They stopped a few feet away, their posture agitated and nervous.

“Threatening to have a man arrested for mending a fence isn’t very neighborly,” Dusty commented, never taking his eyes from his task. “I don’t think I’m hurting anything by having one foot on your side of the property line.”

He then looked up, scanning the two rent-a-cops with a critical eye. Both had pretty, crisp uniforms, complete with small patches and rank insignias. Both wore reflective
sunglasses and baseball caps with logos that matched the emblem on the side of their ATV. Both wore shiny black patrolman’s belts, complete with sidearm. Both looked nervous.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s an inch or
a mile, sir. My instructions are to keep all non-authorized personnel off Tri-Mat’s property. You are clearly on our side of the line.”

Dusty grunted, sorely tempted to antagonize the over-zealous man. He stopped mid-thought, realizing that any action on his part might result in the county sheriff being called… a deputy who might recognize Dusty’s face from a wanted poster.

Using a voice much more polite than what he was feeling, Dusty replied. “I think if you check the county ordinances, you’ll find that adjoining properties are allowed an easement for repairs,” he bluffed.

The statement obviously wasn’t what the two men expected, and a hushed conversation ensued while Dusty continued to work on the
hole. Eventually, the older guard returned to his ATV and picked up a small radio.

It was all Dusty could do to keep from laughing as he listened to the guard call his supervisor. The response that crackled over the airwaves was even funnier. “Hold on. I’ll call the corporate attorney and see if that’s true.”

He unhooked the wagon and used the ATV to stretch the wire, all the while his audience monitoring his progress. With the final staple hammered into the new posts, Dusty set about policing up the worksite, picking up tools, and double-checking his work.

When he bent to retrieve the old posts, he noticed the odd indentations on the wood again
. Glancing across at the guards’ ATV, he noticed two scuffmarks on the unit’s bumper. “No,” he whispered. “They wouldn’t go that far.”

He eyed it again, deciding it was the right height.
Knocking down a neighbor’s fence is akin to declaring war
, he thought.
Feuds have been started over less
.

Recalling the incident with
Penny’s husband, Dusty decided that might just be what he had walked into – a range war of sorts. The thought caused his temper to rise, any sense of self-preservation pushed to the back of his mind. He hefted the post and moved to the fence.

Both of the guards seemed shocked when Dusty started to climb through the wire carrying the broken post. “What are you doing?” the younger one asked, his hand moving to his sidearm.

Dusty ignored them, marching directly to their ATV. He held the post upright, matching the scarred wood exactly to the bumper on the front of the vehicle. “Well I’ll be damned,” he grumbled and then spun to face the two men, squaring his shoulders and spine.

“I
’m not sure about down here in south Texas, but where I’m from, fouling another man’s fence is a serious offense,” Dusty said, his voice low and mean. “I don’t know whose idea it was, or who did it, and I don’t care. What I do want is to deliver a message. This is a dangerous game someone’s started, and I’m
more
than willing to play. Mike and Penny Boyce are good, peaceable folks.
I’m not
.”