Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (19 page)

“My lantanas are blooming a bright orange this year,” the title of the post read. “Is anyone else seeing such a wonderful color
?”

A few of her fellow gardeners had responded with various replies. Dusty had no idea what a lantana looked like, but started typing a response that included their secret word – Canadian.

“We are seeing similar colors here in Laredo,” he started. “I’m giving credit to the cold Canadian air that swept through last winter. I was hoping for some red or yellow, but I’m just fine with the current bloom.”

He wanted to say more, but couldn’t risk the exposure. She would know where he was and that he was fine.
Grace had told him that she frequented this and a couple of other forums on a regular basis. She didn’t think the FBI would find anything unusual about the activity. He couldn’t think of anything more to add that would read like an appropriate response from a fellow plant-lover and posted the message. 

After
finishing the secret correspondence, he began driving to the courthouse, hoping the attack on Mr. Hastings hadn’t completely ruined the woman’s day. He took his time, meandering through the side streets and avoiding traffic as much as possible.

“Why
do you want to get involved in all this?” he kept asking himself. “You’ve got enough problems as it is. The entire United States government is looking for your sorry ass, and now you’re contemplating getting involved in a local dispute that’s none of your business.”

The pickup’s cab didn
’t answer the question, so his conscience tried to fill in the gap.

Dusty realized he needed
to do some good, to offer a sense of balance to the universe for the damage the rail gun had caused. The destruction in Houston… downing those jets and the loss of life were all weighing on his soul. “Death and mayhem aren’t what I’m all about,” he whispered to himself. He realized the answer, smirking at the simplicity of his mind.

Dusty wanted to help the
Boyces because it would be an offset to the negative in his life. He wanted to partially right the wrong of his deeds.

“Run… run like the wind,” his opposite voice chimed in. “You must survive. You must play out what the rail gun represents. You must make it back to Grace and Fort Davis. You have that right.”

The internal debate raged until he parked nearby the courthouse. Penny had evidently been waiting and saw the truck pass by because she and the girls were approaching before he’d even finished backing into the spot. It was clear from the look on her face that things had not gone as expected.

After opening the passenger door and helping the girls ins
ide, she gave Dusty a disgusted look and explained, “Someone mugged my lawyer before the hearing. The judge had to reschedule.”

“Oh no,” Dusty answered, playing ignorant. “I
s your attorney okay?”

“He took a punch to the face
, and they stole his briefcase, but I think he’ll be fine. He’s a tough old bird.” She paused for a moment and sniffed, her eyes growing moist. “Mike is still behind bars, and it’s going to be another two days before the judge can hear our case.”

Dusty shook his head, “I’m sorry to hear that. Any idea who robbed Mr. Hastings?”

Penny didn’t answer at first, staring out the window as Dusty headed back to the farm. “I’m probably going to sound a little paranoid,” she finally began. “I think it was probably those jerks at Tri-Mat. Hastings said his attackers bushwhacked him from behind, so I can’t prove that.”

Trying to play dumb and yet wanting to console the distraught wife, Dusty replied, “I don’t think you sound paranoid at all.”

“I can’t blame every bit of bad luck or unfortunate incident on Tri-Mat,” she said. “They aren’t the root of all evil. Just because something bad happens doesn’t mean they’re behind it.”

If you only knew
, Dusty thought as they pulled into the farm.
If you only knew
.

The cartel always battled storing hefty amounts of cash on hand. Paper money was bulky, difficult to protect and always a challenge to process. For those reasons, they were always on the lookout for legitimate businesses that dealt primarily in hard currency. The crime empire would either partner with existing firms, or bankroll its own “company stores.” Small businessmen were always seeking a source of cheap cash, and Tio’s organization was often more than happy to provide it.

Food trucks, title loan companies, payday loan providers, gold and silver buyers and
pawnshops were all prime candidates. While most of the firms providing such services were legitimate, family-run businesses, the cartels found those markets too tempting to avoid. Any business that exchanged goods or commitments for cash helped the syndicate transfer its ill-gotten gains into legitimate, bankable assets.

It was just such a “partner” that provided Mr. Vega with the first significant clue in the organization’s search for Durham Weathers. A
pawnshop, linked into the cartel’s financial network, reported a motorcycle helmet being purchased on the same day as Weathers’ shootout with the police.

Vega would have completely missed the obscure inventory item were it not for
his searching for the keyword, “Motorcycle.” The bulletins issued to Texas law enforcement agencies were easy to access, and it hadn’t escaped the cartel’s attention that the police were looking for a man who might be wearing such protective headgear.

The cartel acted as the
pawnshop’s financial partner, and it was an easy task to fax Mr. Weathers’ picture to the manager. The answer was quick and positive – their target had been in Laredo just a few days ago.

In so many
ways, Mr. Vega had dreaded locating the fugitive. He now had a decision to make, and it wasn’t an easy call.

For the first time in his life, Vega was considering crossing the organization that had brought him so much wealth and reward. Such acts rarely succeeded
, and when they failed, torture and horrendous death were sure to follow.

He couldn’t keep the information from his boss. That was far too risky given
that any number of people dealt with the pawnshop on a daily basis. Perhaps he could walk the narrow line between outright disloyalty and Tio gaining possession of the super-weapon.

He would downplay the lead… make it seem uncertain or questionable. If Tio wanted to send in an army, Vega would talk him out of it. He would use phrases like discretion, unwanted
attention, and flushing the prey to bolster the argument. He, Vega, should travel alone to Laredo. He should investigate this lead solo. If it proved reliable, he’d call for support.

Repeatedly
he played the conversation through in his mind. He tried to anticipate every question, move and counter-move Tio could execute. In the end, no matter how strong his logic, Vega knew it was risky. The cartel boss was unpredictable at times, and if the man insisted on sending in additional assets, there was absolutely nothing Vega could do about it.

With nervous finger
s, he typed the message into the computer. A few moments later, a digital carrier pigeon was flying through the web, looking to deliver a message to Tio.

It was a very fast carrier pigeon.

Within a minute, Vega’s phone rang.

“What do you propose,” the unmistakable voice of Tio sounded.

“I suggest we keep a low profile and that I visit the region to verify the information,” Vega offered.

“And?”

“If it is accurate, then I will notify you, and we can proceed from there.”

The hiss of long distance communications was the only reply for several moments. Finally, “I don’t know if I like this plan of yours.”

“Let me remind you, El Jefe, that the Americans tried to apprehend our friend using force. It didn’t work out so well. I believe a more measured approach might work to our advantage, but there is no way to be sure without additional information. This is why I believe it best to carefully scout the area.”

“I don’t care about methods or processes or measured approaches. I want that fucking weapon, and I don’t care what it takes. Do it.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Vega responded, trying to keep the relief out of his voice.

“Make it soon,” came the threatening response, and then the line went dead.

He busied himself in the workshop, examining weapons and using his new laptop to
reference information concerning some of the more eccentric models via the net. Working with what he considered fine instruments of craftsmanship, Dusty normally found his gunsmithing activities relaxing and therapeutic.

This afternoon, it wasn’t working.
 

It was clear that Tri-Materials was a bully, flexing its influence that no doubt involved hefty
contributions to the local tax base, various elected officials, and probably a little under the table gift-giving. They wouldn’t be the first corporation to dole out a little cash in exchange for a favor here or there, and Tri-Mat probably wouldn’t be the last.

Given his situation as
an outlaw, none of that should matter. He didn’t like it, wished it wasn’t so, but in reality, it wasn’t his problem. “You’ve got enough trouble in your life right now, cowboy,” he mumbled to himself.

Still, it tasked him. He couldn’t help but
feel anger over men who hurt other people for the sake of profit. Dusty had zero issue with corporations making money. He didn’t care how much chief executives took home. But when Mike Boyce was in jail while his wife and daughters suffered, that was just plain wrong. Shooting at your neighbors after knocking over their fence wasn’t exactly model corporate behavior.

Then there was the death of the county agent, which
Dusty now assumed was no accident. Clearly, the boys at Tri-Mat were playing a serious game, and murder didn’t seem to be outside the rules. Even if that death was purely coincidental, anyone capable of beating up an old man in broad daylight wasn’t to be taken lightly.

Wiping down the barrel of a WWII era bolt-action with
an oily rag, his anger continued to simmer. Glancing over at the always-nearby rail gun, he grunted at the thought of simply leveling the neighboring plant. One shot on a modest power setting would eliminate the problem, at least until the company collected its insurance and rebuilt. He even went so far as to plot the facility’s demise in the wee hours of the morning so there wouldn’t be any workers inside.

But that would only provide a temporary solution and most likely bring the entire weight of the federal government down on his head.
Mike Boyce would still be in jail, and Tri-Materials’ money and muscle would still be riding roughshod around Laredo and the surrounding county.

The fantasy of a smoldering heap of
Tri-Mat ruins caused a dichotomy of swelling emotions to fill the gunsmith’s chest. The mere thought of destroying more property and using violence to impart his sense of right and wrong went against his grain. The employees of the plant, probably innocent citizens of the surrounding community, would be the ones who suffered most. The resulting financial hardship of the unemployed workers would create a whole group of people like the Boyces.

Besides, the problem was really a broken system of justice and governance. Tri-Mat was just a small example of a flawed environment, the company’s
achievements merely symptoms of a deeper core of decay. Dusty was reminded of Winston Churchill’s famous quote;
Democracy is the worst form of government except for all the others that have been tried.