Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (12 page)

His little speec
h concluded, Dusty began to trek back to the Boyce property, intentionally sidestepping the two security men. The older one reached for his sidearm.

He was too slow…
and too close. With one motion, the man from West Texas snapped the end of the post into the guard’s lower arm, landing a numbing blow, and pinning the limb mid-draw. The pistol flopped to the ground. Before the antagonist could even think of reaching for the dropped weapon, the end of the post slammed into his midsection, a whoosh of air signaling it had hit its mark. The security man dropped to his knees as Dusty kicked the pistol away.

The second guard hesitated, stunned that the confrontation had spiraled into violence so quickly. Before he could react, the sharp, pointed end of the fence post was six inches from his eyes, Dusty’s scowling face and weight-forward posture clearly prepared for a strike. “Go ahead, boy,” Dusty growled. “Fill your hand with iron. I’ll break your fucking neck before the muzzle clears leather.”

The kid lifted his arms into the classic, “Don’t shoot,” position and backed away from the menacing post. “I didn’t start any shit, Mister,” he retorted with a voice a few octaves too high.

Dusty shook his head and spun, moving briskly back toward his home turf. He glanced over his shoulder twice, making sure no one was feeling frisky. He threw the post into the wagon with more force than n
ecessary, the anger still surging through his veins. 

He cast one last disgusted glance at his foes and then accelerated away from the scen
e. “What’s this world coming to,” he mumbled into the air rushing past. “That’s about the most piss-poor security force I’ve ever seen.”

Vega kept a bug-out bag packed and ready for such events. In honesty, its primary justification was for a time when the authorities were gunning for him, but it had been used for regular business trips as well. Riding the elevator down to the garage from his 21
st
floor flat, he rehearsed his presentation to the cartel’s top man.

“Uncle” or “Tio
,” as he was called in the Spanish-speaking world, was an internationally known figure. With an estimated personal worth in excess of 10 billion dollars, the head of the Gulf Cartel was ruthless, shrewd, and extremely aggressive. No one rose to the top of such a cutthroat enterprise without such qualities in abundance. Vega feared the man.

Notorious for punishing incompetence with slow, torturous death, legend had it that Tio often executed his victims personally. Vega had witnessed the results of his superior’s management style, arriving at a prescheduled meeting only to find his boss eating dinner while seated on a stack of headless bodies. It was clear from the
blood-splattered shirt that Tio had wielded the nearby machete with his own hand.

Now, Vega was on his way to meet with one of the most powerf
ul men in the world. A man whose empire traversed into numerous countries and who possessed weighty influence on every continent. He wanted his presentation to be professional, fact-based, and to the point.

As he returned to his car, Vega tried
to count the number of face-to-face meetings he’d had with Tio. In the 23 years he’d been employed by the cartel, there had been less than 20 meetings. Only a handful of those had been private, between just the two of them.

Accelerating
up the entrance ramp for I-10 east, he checked the time. He’d be early, the remote, private airstrip just over 90 minutes outside of Houston. Still, when Tio was involved, it was always better to err on the side of caution, allowing for the sort of unexpected delays so common in the nation’s fourth largest city.

“God’s g
un,” he whispered to himself. “With such a weapon, I could rule all the cartels myself. Hell, I could rule the entire world if it is as powerful as they say.”

His mind raced with the possibilities, the adrenaline rush
he experienced was as much of a surprise as his upcoming journey.
No wonder the U.S. authorities are keeping their mouths shut
, he pondered. If this weapon really was the cause of all of the recent destruction, they are wise to keep it under wraps. Who wouldn’t want to possess such capabilities?

He shook his head as Houston sped by the windows, even the mere thought of treachery making him nervous. Tio was rumored to have a sixth sense when it came to disloyalty. It would be unpleasant if such tales were true. Still… to hold such power…
.  

The ride from the Panama City airport to the Hacienda Polo & Country Club passed quickly, the stocky, scar-faced driver anything
but talkative. Vega wasn’t put off at all, such behavior common among the cartel’s security staff, especially Tio’s private guard.

The scenery
outside the car’s windows seemed more Mediterranean in flavor than Central American. The pastel colors, rounded architecture, and palm-lined boulevards tended to remind travelers of the south of France. There was luxury here, a mixture of plantation lifestyle and tropical charm that resonated through the more affluent communities. The passenger was well aware of desperate poverty in that locale as well, but the route to the polo grounds avoided such areas.

Panama was
now considered neutral territory by the cartels. Ever since Operation Just Cause, the U.S. military invasion in 1989, the local government officials weren’t bribable. During that mission, the United States had sent in over 29,000 troops to depose the former dictator, Manuel Noriega, because of the dictator’s corruption.

General Noriega had been a known associate of the Colombian cartels at the time. He woke up on December 20
th of that year to find an entire Airborne regiment parachuting down on his head. Hundreds died during the ensuing fight, with one entire neighborhood burning to the ground and leaving 20,000 citizens homeless.

Ever since that day, cartel activity was unwelcome and dealt with harshly. No elected official in his right mind wanted the 82
nd
Airborne Division to pay a visit, and they had proven it was a short flight from Fort Bragg.

In reality, the illegal behemoths could have circumvented even the most vigilant authorities and had done so in countless nations across the globe. Tiny Panama had been spared because the competing organizations had needed what most called the “Switzerland of Central America,” a neutral territory where even the
most acrimonious rivals could negotiate, relax, and even dine side by side without incident or fear of violence. It was the one covenant that all of them honored.

Still, everyone understood that the American DEA kept an eye on the comings and goings
of area visitors. With their high-tech observation capabilities and practically unfettered access to Panamanian personnel, the drug lords kept a low profile while in country.
Leave it to the Americans to fuck up a good party
, Vega mused.

His driver entered the full parking lot of the Hacienda Country C
lub, circling to park inside one of the many stables that dotted the grounds. Before the vehicle had come to a complete stop, the rear passenger door opened, and Tio slipped in to take a seat beside Vega. The driver exited, leaving the Mercedes sedan running so the air conditioning could deal with the equatorial heat.

“I assume you had a pleasant journey,” the boss opened.

“Yes, sir, I did. Your jet is a remarkable machine.”

“Our time together is limited. My body-double is in the men’s room, but even the
burliest shit doesn’t take so long. If I don’t return soon, the DEA hawks will become suspect and send people to find where I’ve wandered off. Seeing us together wouldn’t be good for your career in the United States.”

Nodding, Vega got right to business, explaining quickly his recruitment of Freddie and the subsequent progression of the relationship. When he came to the part
about the FBI agent and God’s gun, Tio’s gaze became intense, reminding his guest of a lion about to pounce on a herd of unaware antelope.

“So your source claims the weapon is real,” the drug lord responded. “This correlates with other information I’ve received.”

The boss then paused, clearly thinking about what he wanted to have happen next. “You’ve done well,” he finally announced. “Take an extra 200K for yourself as a bonus. Use it to reward your resource if you wish. But now, you’re through with this. You are not to associate with the type of activity that will be required from here on out. Right now, you’re clean. I want you to stay that way.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tio reached across and patted Vega on the shoulder. “Enjoy your trip back to Texas.” And then he was gone, a rush of hot, moist tropical air filling the void as he exited the vehicle.

Hank’s pickup was waiting at the truck stop when the private tour bus arrived. The driver made an announcement that all of the passengers would have 90 minutes to eat, stretch, and use the facilities.

Grace had actually been quite surprised at how nice the trip from Houston had been. Most of the passengers were elderly, retirees who wanted to travel but didn’t want the hassle or risk of driving or flying. The bus had been comfortable and quiet enough that she had actually fallen asleep.

She had used one of the no-contract cell phones to call her neighbor, Eva sounding a bit surprised to hear Grace’s voice.

“Honey
, are you okay? We heard about the incident at the Port of Houston and were concerned that Dusty and you might have been caught up in all that. We’ve been worried sick.”

The attorney still didn’t trust the FBI and didn’t want to talk about anything over the phone. She decided to stick with her story. “I’m not sure what happened, Eva. I found myself wandering around Houston in a daze,” she explained. “I had a little cash in my pocket and took a bus out here, but I need a ride home.”

Eva seemed to catch on, the next question about Dusty never making it out of her throat. “I’ll send Hank right away. He needs to get out of this house for a while anyway. He’s not done much since his arrest.”

And there he was, right where Eva said he would be.

Hank drove her straight home, the pair making only unrelated small talk about weather, the upcoming 4-H fair, and the price of grain during the ride. In a way, Grace was thankful for her driver’s reserved demeanor.

Cooter was happy to see her, actually rising from his perch and
affectionately wagging his tail. Grace had arranged for one of the neighbor boys to feed the old hound, and she was glad to find her pet’s food and water dish brimming with substance.

Her first priority was to watch the news, actually hoping to hear nothing about Dusty or additional problems in Houston. The national cable channels carried
little other than follow-on stories about the ship channel.

Next,
she browsed the internet, just to be sure. A trifling blurb about a gas line exploding caught her attention, but she shrugged it off not recognizing the connection.

After browsing the stacked mail, her next task was a super-hot bubble bath. Then she was going to get to work on Dusty’s behalf.

As she drew the water, a mental list of contacts was already forming in her head. Beyond the obvious senators and representatives, she recalled important, powerful people she had met in government and industry. Wasn’t one of her law professors now clerking for a federal judge? Didn’t one of her clients in Dallas now run a huge lobbying firm in Washington?

Grace smiled as she slid
into the stress-melting water. She was happy to be back home, a strong feeling of wellness battling away what had been a hectic week. “Dusty needs to feel the same way,” she whispered to the bubbles. “He needs to see his home again and enjoy familiar surroundings. I’m going to get him back here – one way or the other.”

The hot liquid
performed well, dissolving the stress and grime of travel. Grace leaned back, closing her eyes and letting her mind wander. Despite her desire to relax for just a few minutes, she couldn’t help but worry about Dusty. The fact that the news reports didn’t contain any specific information wasn’t conclusive.
I hope you made it to wherever you’re going
, she thought.
I pray you made a clean getaway.

A squeak of a floorboard caused her eyes to snap open. She inhaled sharply when they focused. There, standing in her bathroom were three men. Clad completely in black, their chests bulged with pouches and body armor. Only their eyes were visible through narrow slits in their
facemasks, evil-looking rifles aimed directly at her head.

“FBI,” hissed the lead man. “Are you alone?”

It took Grace a moment to regain her composure, the intrusion so fast and overwhelming. Her first thought, after glancing at the narrow, claw foot tub, was sarcasm. The reply, “No, my security men are all in here with me,” died before it left her throat.

When she finally began breathing again, o
ne thought dominated her consciousness.
I guess this answers any question about Dusty making it out undetected.