Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (15 page)

She had to think about it for a moment, but finally responded, “Yes… yes I do, but what are you thinking?”

“I have a friend who’s a big shot up at Texas A&M. He loves a good mystery. If we send him one of the dead birds packed in dry ice, he might tell us what is happening to your flock. If they are being poisoned somehow, having reputable proof might give us leverage with Tri-Materials.”

Penny seemed to like the idea. She produced the camera from a cabinet and a few minutes
later, they were bouncing across the pasture in the ATV. It didn’t take long to find a victim.

“I’m going to hold the bird so
my friend can get a perspective. You snap a few pictures,” Dusty said.

He bent and held the still-limp chicken, making sure his hand was positioned in a certain way while Penny snapped the photographs. “Take some of the surrounding pasture,” he added.

They returned to the house, and while Penny printed off the photos and wrote a letter, Dusty packed the plastic-wrapped, sealed corpse into a box. They added a few printed images and the note, and then she set off to town to purchase dry ice and make a stop at the post office.

“Send it next day so it doesn’t stink
to high heaven when it gets there,” Dusty advised as she pulled out of the driveway.

“Mitch is going to kill me,” he chuckled as he watched her drive off.

Agent Shultz didn’t like the hospital’s smell. Rather than elicit any impression of sterility, the aroma of disinfectant and floor wax seemed to heighten a foreboding sense in his consciousness.

It wasn’t any surprise that he associated his surroundings with the most negative context possible. There hadn’t been any chance to sleep for what seemed like days.
The occasional fast food combo meal had kept his stomach from growling, but hadn’t provided proper nourishment for the sleuth’s body.

H
is new position as the lead investigator was proving more difficult than he’d ever imagined. It wasn’t the workload, he surmised, but the constant second-guessing of decisions.
It truly is lonely at the top
, he mused.

As he exited the elevator and began the long walk down the corridor, he finally focused on what was really bothering him – delivering a truckload of bad news to his boss.

Arriving at the private room’s threshold, he took a deep breath and braced for what was sure to be a bad encounter.

Special Agent Monroe was actually sitting up in bed, a paperback book being supported by one of his tube-laced arms. The injured man’s greeting was sincere. “Tom! I’m so glad you stopped by,” Monroe started, “I’ve been wondering what was going on.”

After a quick round of polite small talk covering Monroe’s state of healing and the recent heat wave, Shultz inhaled deeply and got down to business.

“Weathers is still alive, sir,” he began,
his tone evident of a drive to just air it out and get it over with. “He not only survived the incident at the ship channel, but also managed to elude us again down in Clear Lake.”

Monroe’s reaction wasn’t at all what the junior agent expected. A look of concern crossed the older man’s face and then, almost in a whisper,
he asked, “Any casualties?”

“No, sir. We were lucky. He used the Olympus Device to blast his way past a roadblock, but no one was seriously hurt.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that we didn’t lose any more men. We’ve had enough of that as of late. I had a feeling we hadn’t seen the last of that man yet.”

Shultz looked down at the floor, his tone reflective. “I made a call
… a decision that now I’m questioning. Instead of throwing every resource available into capturing him, I ordered a low profile attempt to utilize the element of surprise. It didn’t work, and now we have no idea where he’s gone to ground.”

Monroe actually smiled at his co-worker, his eyes showing genuine understanding and concern. “I wish I had a d
ime for every order I’ve second-guessed. While a certain level of introspection can lead to a healthy dose of wisdom, you can’t dwell on bad calls. Everybody makes them.”

For a moment, Shultz thought the fiery tempered man beside him was drugged. The calm, fatherly-like reaction the last thing he had expected. But Monroe’s eyes were clear and bright.

“You seem surprised,” the patient added.

Shultz grunted, “Let’s just say I expected more of a passionate response.”

Monroe smirked and shook his head, “Do you really think I made it to the top of one of the bureau’s largest offices by pure hellfire and brimstone? I learned my leadership lessons the hard way, Tom. I have no doubt you did your absolute best given the circumstances, and that’s all anyone can ask. We’ll find him… we always do. What do we have to go on?”

The junior agent actually welcomed the chance to talk it through, surprising himself at how easily his thoughts started pouring out. “We know he purchased pre-paid debit cards and cell phones down at Clear Lake. We know he spent the night with Grace Kennedy at a hotel there. We’ve apprehended her at her property in Fort Davis, but she’s not
cooperating… claiming attorney-client privilege and a loss of memory.”

Monroe smiled, “Figures. She’s not stupid.”

“I’m waiting on the Attorney General’s office to make a decision on any charges concerning Miss Kennedy. But other than that, the trail has gone cold.”

The two men continued to discuss details of the incident at Clear Lake, Shultz informing his boss that he thought Weathers was hesitant to kill. “He could have blown that roadblock to kingdom come, but he didn’t. He fired it into the ground. He escaped via a stolen motorcycle, which we later found. He’s also obtained possession of a helmet, which is smart as hell. None of our drones can see his face with it on.”

“You’ll get him, Tom. I’m sure of it. He’ll turn up; they always do.”

“Thank you, sir. I needed to hear that,” Shultz said as he stood to leave.

Juanita saw the FBI man exit the patient’s room, her nerves raw and flayed. She knew her sister was dead if she messed up, a part of her worried that it might be too late regardless of how well she followed her orders.

She reached into her pocket, pulling out what appeared to be a common ink pen. Grasping the device with sweaty fingers, she entered Monroe’s room and found the patient sleeping. “Thank the Lord in Heaven above,” she whispered silently and moved with measured steps toward a small table of flowers and cards in the corner.

There, behind a potted fern, rested an identical device. She made the exchange without Monroe waking, stuffing the voice-activated digital recorder back into her pocket.

It was only after she had exited the room that she took a breath, her heart racing
as if she was being chased. Returning to the maintenance closet, she dialed a phone number from the cell phone Victor had provided. Only a slight shadow of guilt soiled her mind as she reported in. She would do anything to save Tessa.

Tio
was listening to the recording for the third time. While his English was passable, he scanned a Spanish language manuscript while trying to visualize the meeting between the two FBI dogs. He wanted to detect every nuance of their conversation, dissect every inflection, and ensure his bi-lingual translation hadn’t overlooked the relevance of any details.

When the recording ended, his initial reaction was a deep grunt, and then a sigh.

“So the weapon exists,” he finally commented, looking up at Vega.

The cartel’s
financial manager was uncomfortable speaking of things that he hadn’t seen with his own eyes. “It appears so.”

Tio rose and stepp
ed to the balcony, gazing absentmindedly at the beach below. The high-rise condo overlooked Tulum, Mexico, one of the cartel boss’s favorite retreats.

The crystal blue waters and bright sand didn’t seem to influence Tio’s
mood. Nor did the two topless girls sunbathing just on the other side of the thick, sliding glass doors. His mind was elsewhere, traveling down corridors that only he could fathom. Finally shoving his hands into the silk bathrobe’s pockets, he turned abruptly and announced, “I must have this device.”

V
ega had been dreading such a response. During the drive to the resort and subsequent passage through the rings of security surrounding the condo, he’d been reasonably sure he could predict his boss’s reaction.

It was rare that Tio ever changed his mind. The instructions he’d received at the last meeting with the cartel
chief had been clear – he was to avoid any further participation in the matter. But then something had changed.

When the contents of the recorded hospital conversation had become known, the boss had thrown caution to the wind and ordered Vega to take charge of the project. The reversal, and associated risk of exposure, had
been a surprise. It was a clear indication of the man’s single minded intent to hold the rail gun in his hands. Such linear thinking was dangerous.

“All assets are to be utilized,” Tio continued. “Pull out all the stops. I don’t care what it costs or what the ramifications are – I want this weapon.”

Vega was no stranger to superiors having impractical agendas. His six years in international finance before being recruited by the cartel had provided an eye-opening education into a lack of reality often shared by powerful men. Still, Tio was usually levelheaded. Brutal and aggressive, he had proven himself capable of ultimate violence while seeming callous, void of emotion.

Generally ruled by logic, he was most
often realistic in his expectations.
The power represented by the rail gun is tempting,
Vega thought.
Even I would sacrifice much to hold it in my hands.

“Our intelligence-
gathering apparatus isn’t nearly as sophisticated as what the Americans have at their disposal, sir. If they can’t find this Durham Weathers using all of their available assets, I question our chances of success.”

Tio spread his arms wide, “We have some
capabilities that the Americans don’t possess. Our network of businesses and people on the ground may provide information unavailable to the Yanks. They may have drones and sophisticated electronics, but we have people with eyes and ears. A lot of people. Utilize them, and find this man.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Vega rose to leave, Tio gestured with his head toward the women on the balcony. “Do you require female companionship? I’m bored with those two and plan on dismissing them later today. While they aren’t unskilled, an hombre must vary his tastes or find himself stagnated. I’m sure they could provide you with an excellent experience.” 

Before
Vega could respond, a sly grin appeared on his master’s face. “It is especially entertaining to observe what they can do with each other,” Tio added in a low voice.

Mitch eased his chair away from the computer keyboard and removed his glasses. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to erase the strain induced by countless hours spent staring at the simulation results. Sighing with frustration at the limits imposed by his frail, biological light receptors, he conceded there was no known treatment that offered instant improvement to his vision, opting instead to stand and stretch his chair-weary back. “My spine isn’t doing much better than my eyes,” he commented to the empty room.

Despite his physical condition, the professor’s mind was still working overtime. He had abandoned trying to reproduce the effects generated by his brother’s invention, instead deciding to focus on how to use the technology for positive, life affirming, non-destructive applications.

Without the physical rail gun to reverse-engineer, his super computers could only speculate on the shape of the magnetic field created by Dusty’s revolving apparatus. Quickly realizing that was the key, he’d tried a few hundred different configurations without success. He could propel matter, but at no greater velocities than any of the common rail gun designs being developed by the military.

Mitch had then changed the point of attack. Instead of his sluggish, overworked human brain attempting to define the winning combination of shape, rotational speed, and configuration, he’d written code that would instruct the computer’s much faster processor to calculate a finite number of possible solutions. After that, a process of elimination could be invoked.

It didn’t work.

When the ultra-fast computer reached one billion different combinations, he’d terminated the program with a frustrated peck on the keyboard. It would take years to eliminate each possible variant.

Back to the drawing board.

But his heart wasn’t in it. The irony of recreating Dusty’s device at the behest of the government wasn’t lost on the scientist. In fact, it flew in the face of all the sacrifice, risk, and suffering his brother was enduring. His frustrating encounters with the Department of Energy had proven, yet again, that Dusty was right. The technology would eventually find its way onto the battlefield, and that would ultimately result in doomsday.