Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (22 page)

Despite his best effort, her mind was set in stone. His baby sister had become a strong-minded, stubborn woman, an
d he couldn’t talk her out of her plan. There was also a streak of guilt that restrained his effort. He had left her behind, single-minded in a quest to better himself. Who was he to deny her a chance at a better life?

On their way to the bus station, the siblings had passed a small sidewalk stand selling handmade silver trinkets and jewelry. Zeta had stopped and pointed, saying
, “If you are determined to set out on this journey, let me give you something to comfort you during your travels.”

He’d purchased a cheap St.
Christopher’s necklace, splurging to have it engraved as they watched the artisan carve Zeta’s message of love and luck.

Sitting in his office now, the c
olonel’s fondest memory of those days was his sister’s reaction to that tiny hunk of silver dangling from the serpentine chain. She had glowed with joy, cradling the prize and kissing him relentlessly on the cheeks. At the time, he’d assumed it was his gift that initiated her warm response. He had replayed that event so many times in his mind, the years of wisdom and afterthought finally revealing the true reason for Consuela’s warm reception. While meaningful, the religious symbol formed into a metal disk did not prompt her reaction. Rather, the colonel’s gift-giving gesture acknowledged his sister’s sacrifice for him, and that had made Consuela feel so valued.

For
days, he’d waited on news of her safe arrival. Every mail call was a disappointment, every phone message read with anxious eyes. After a week, he knew something was wrong. At ten days, he requested an emergency leave to go and find his beloved Consuela.

It took three days to track down the coyote that had lead his sister’s group of hopeful men and women across the Arizona border. The young man was in the hospital, suffering from dehydration.

“The U.S. border agents caught us just on the other side,” the young man had claimed. “They started shooting at us, and we scattered into the desert night. It was chaos, everyone running in all directions. They found me three days later, almost dead, and deported me back here.”

“And my sister?
Consuela? What became of her?”

“The gringos told me they had found several bodies that day.
That is all I know, señor.”

Zeta lost control of his temper. He sprang at the bedridden man, clutching his throat with an iron grip. “You lie! You are a criminal and a villain! Tell me! Tell me the truth!”

Something in the coyote’s eyes saved his life that day. Zeta remembered the man didn’t struggle or fight, but merely stared back into his attacker’s face.

“I’m telling you the truth,
señor. You can kill me if you wish. I don’t care. The ghosts of those lost souls will haunt me for the rest of my days. It would be a relief to stop seeing their faces when I close my eyes.”

For some reason, Zeta believed the man and spared his life.

Zeta had used his position to gain a visitor’s visa into Arizona. He’d driven a rented car to the main Border Patrol facility in the area indicated by the coyote.

“We find bodies in the desert all the time, slick,” the gruff, uncaring American had responded. “You’ll have to be a little more specific.”

Zeta suppressed the urge to strike the man, barely holding his temper in check. He provided the date, general area, and description of his sister.

After several clicks on the computer keyboard, the agent finally responded. “Yes, we recovered a body matching that description in that area.”

“Her remains?”

“Our policy is to wait five days for the deceased to be claimed. After that, the corpuses are buried by the state. I have photographs of the body if you would like to attempt an identification.”

Zeta’s world became suddenly small and meaningless as he stared at the photographs. It was Consuela, her skin red and purple in death. He didn’t see the blistered, cracked lips or sunburned skin – only the vision of her vibrant eyes and wonderful smelling hair filled his senses.

“And the cause of death?” the Mexican hissed.

“Gunshot wound.”

“Who? Who would shoot an innocent, unarmed woman?”

The American behind the counter frowned as he read the computer screen. “There was no autopsy or forensics performed. Our agents don’t normally fire on illegal immigrants unless they’re fired upon. Was she smuggling dope? Was she a mule being escorted by armed men?”

The exasperation and anger in Zeta’s voice was obvious, “She wanted to be a waitress, sir, nothing more. She had never even held a firearm.
Where is she buried?”

The border agent provided the address. As Zeta turned to leave, the man had called out. “Sir, there were also some personal effects recovered from the victim. If you’ll hold on just one minute, I can
retrieve them.”

A few minutes
later, the man returned carrying a small plastic bag of clothing and the St. Christopher’s medal. Zeta pulled out his sister’s bloody blouse and found two bullet holes in the back of the stained garment. Rage pounded in his head as he gripped the cloth with white knuckles.

Somehow,
he managed to steer the rental to the gravesite. There were no markers or stones, just an open field with numbered wooden posts sticking up from the ground. He found #462, the site where the American had said his sister was laid to rest. In the distance was a landfill, a place where garbage was buried.

It all overwhelmed the young Zeta. His sister had been nothing but trash to the Americans. They didn’t see a young girl, hopeful and full of life. They only saw a trespasser who was trying to circumvent their law. The injustice of it all raked his soul with claws that left deep scars that would never heal.

The pain overwhelmed him, causing him to drop to his knees and sob over her grave. So intense was the agony… so deep the remorse, he thought for a moment he would surely go insane with grief.

But then a pinpoint of light shone in his conscious. It wasn’t much to begin with, but it grew. Zeta’s sanity was salvaged by that small shimmer of relief. Revenge.
As he wept in that open, Arizona field, the shimmer of vengeance grew into resolve, pushing aside the remorse and agony. It anchored in a corner of his mind, stabilizing him with a platform of reason.

“One day I will revenge your death,” he had promised his sister’s ghost. “One day the Am
ericans will pay.”

Zeta, now a respected senior officer and the commander of men, leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Today is the day.”

Professor Middleton pushed his spectacles up his nose, and then nervously scratched his chin. “This is most conce
rning, Dr. Weathers. I’ve never seen a concentration of this specific compound before. Where did you say the sample originated?”

Mitch pretended
absentmindedness, “It was mailed to me, Doctor. I can’t recall the address, but I have it on file.”

The older man nodded in understanding – he had trouble remembering where he had left his checkbook.
“Regardless, this needs to be investigated. I would also recommend you notify the CDC and the EPA.”

“What could the possible causes be?”

The older man returned his eye to the microscope before answering. “If this was the 1960s, I would say it was industrial pollution… probably airborne. Given this animal was clearly born after that decade, it most likely is an unknown waste site. Perhaps even a landfill that is leaking into the water supply. Whatever the source, this is dangerous.”

Mitch w
anted to be clear before he chose a plan of action. “So you’re saying this compound doesn’t occur anywhere in nature?”

“
Absolutely not,” replied the professor, slightly annoyed at his colleague’s lack of knowledge. “Hydrogen cyanide, oxycyanide, and borocyanide were once used in the plating of metals, such as anticorrosive galvanization. They were cheap, extremely effective, and accomplished several steps for preparation in one nasty-ass chemical bath - the only problem being that they were also practically impossible to dispose of. Most communities don’t want cyanide in their water supplies or landfills.”

Peeri
ng up from his instrument, Middleton continued, “Like so many things in commercial manufacturing, the cheapest method is often the most dangerous. Our automobiles cost more because of the banning of substances like this, but in my opinion, it’s well worth it.”

Mitch thanked the man and exited the Agricultural Administration building. “Damn it, Dusty. How do you keep bumbling in
to shit like this? Cyanide? Wow!” he whispered.

Still, there was a bright side. He couldn’t justify the risk of visiting his brother based simply on his emotional needs. This would provide a good excuse.

Returning to his own office, Mitch found one of his undergraduate students working at the reception area. “Danny, do you know where that file of conference invitations is?”

Scanning around for a moment, the young student pointed to a nearby filing cabinet. “I believe you’ll find it in the top drawer, Professor.”

Mitch pulled the thick folder, thanking his aide and then shutting the office door behind him. He had to be careful because he assumed the FBI was always watching and listening.

He quickly thumbed through the file’s contents. Being a department head at A&M, the younger Weathers was always in demand to speak, contribute, partake or attend various conferences, reviews and trade shows. He ignored 99% of the invitations, always busy with ongoing university business or family events.

As he thumbed through the myriad of correspondence, he found a single-page letter inviting him to attend the Fourth International Conference on Photonic and Optoelectronics. His eyebrows shot up when he saw the meeting was at the Corpus International Convention Center… and had started today.

He spun quickly to his PC, pulling up a page of search results. Already, his colleagues were posting pictures of the event on social media. It looked like a pretty good size show, with several dozen exhibitors on the convention floor.

Wanting to minimize any risk, Mitch then pulled up a list of tomorrow’s sessions and speakers. There were a few that he would be mildly interested in and could justify attending if questioned.

So if I drive down there, how do I shake my FBI shadow… if they
bother to follow me?
he questioned.

Leaning back in his chair, Mitch thought it through. Like a meticulous physics experiment, his trained mind
processed every step, forward and backward.

He hadn’t seen a single indication of continued FBI surveillance, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. He operated daily under the assumption that they were reading every email, listening
to every phone call and probably had his office bugged, perhaps even with video capabilities.

A short time
later, he sat at the Java Barn nursing a cup of the best coffee on campus. The table of paper in front of him was already filled with two pages of notes.

I can do this
, he thought.
I can see Dusty, and they’ll never know
.

The undergraduate was absolutely thrilled Dr. Weathers had selected him to attend a professional conference. Part of the exhilaration was replaced with puzzlement when the department head asked if the student could drive his own personal car. The elation completely disappeared when the professor announced they had to leave at 4 a.m. In the morning. Tomorrow morning.

Still, it would be good to get out of College Station for a few days, and the university was paying mileage and meals. It was agreed.

The predawn adventure began with both the passenger and the driver keyed up, but for completely different reasons. The student was anxious to impress the man who would control his grade and potentially his career. The teacher was charged with energy because he was going rogue and risking imprisonment.

“I reserved us a spot in one of the lab demonstrations,” Weathers announced as the Texas countryside passed by. “Dr. Cummings from Texas Tech is conducting a workshop on the restrictive principles of sub-element velocities.”

After a deep yawn, the driver nodded vigorously. “I’ve read about that. He’s trying to develop a desktop version of a particle accelerator.”

“Yes, you’re correct. Personally, I’m a bit worried about the direction the project is headed. He’s using the vibrations from gamma radiation as a substitute for miles and miles of magnetic fields. While I applaud the concept, any usage of radioactive materials in the lab is a concern.”

The kid decided not to comment on that, the science more interesting than any political or social fallout concerning terrorism, bomb-building materials, or community exposure.

The
two continued driving south, managing to bypass the outskirts of Houston before the gridlock of morning traffic. Corpus was still another three hours away, but Mitch felt comfortable with his schedule.

Dusty hadn’t slept. Throughout the night, every little creak and
rattle had sent him peering into the darkness with a white knuckled grip on his weapons. Twice he’d been tempted to just start walking to somewhere… anywhere. But there wasn’t any place to go.

The fiery-red sun cresting in the east provided him with some relief. Deciding there wasn’t anything he could do at the moment, he prepared to refi
ll the birdfeeders. If evil found its way to the ranch, then he’d do the best he could to survive, and that was that.

Given his newfound resolve, he stopped and took a moment to admire that fresh-day smell and note the heavy dew that sparkled on every surface.

The new day was a relief for his troubled mind. He’d never quite understood why watching the sun come up filled him with warmth and calm, but it seemed like it always did. “Maybe it’s some engrained primordial instinct,” he whispered to the new Sol. “Maybe after a 100,000 years, we’re programmed to celebrate surviving the night.”

Whatever it was, he enjoyed it every time, and some days, like this morning, it was powerful therapy.
This is the one good thing I’ve discovered about being an outlaw,
he mused.
I really do appreciate the little things that I might not experience tomorrow.

Penny’s voice interrupted his thoughts, “Good morning!”

“Ma’am,” he replied, tipping his hat.

“Mr. Hastings called last night and said I should be at the courthouse tomorrow and to make sure and bring bail money. I’ve used up most of what we got for that pistol and was wondering if you’ve found any of Papa’s other guns that were worth selling.”

Dusty thought for a moment before replying, “Yes, there are a couple that might bring in some serious money if we can find the right buyer. I’m not sure Laredo is the best place to shop them though. I was going to talk to you about maybe listing them online after I finished cleaning them up.”

“What about Corpus Christi
? That’s a much bigger city.”

He shrugged, “Couldn’t hurt to try, I suppose. I’m not familiar with that town – never been there.”

Penny smiled, “I was thinking of taking the girls and driving over that way this morning. It’s not that far really, and I have a sister who lives there. I was going to hit her up for a loan just in case the guns were worthless. If you want, we can load them up, and you can ride over with us. While I’m visiting Sissy, you can take the truck and visit a few gun shops.”

The thought of exposing himself to more people didn’t initially sit well with Dusty
, and his concern must have shown on his face.

“We can have some fun while we’re at it,” Penny said, bolstering the idea. “
I suspect we would all benefit from the fresh sea air. And since you’ve never been there, we can visit a few of the tourist attractions. I think the girls could use a little fun in their lives right now anyway.”

Her enthusiasm was difficult to debate. “Okay,” Dusty finally
agreed, “I’ll get a few of the guns ready just as soon as I finish feeding the poultry.”

“Good!” she replied. “I’ll roust the girls
, and we can get going right after breakfast.”

They arrived at the conference later than Weathers had anticipated - the drive-thru breakfast, need for gasoline, and one additional restroom stop delaying his timetable. Still, they could just make it if they hurried.

After obtaining their ID badges and welcome packets, the two men found the
ballroom housing the workshop. It was all that Mitch had hoped it would be.

Texas Tech was trying to
elevate the reputation of its physics program and had clearly spared no expense. After being distributed a pamphlet reiterating the necessary safety precautions, Mitch and his charge found themselves in a line of academics, waiting to enter the main conference room.

They
inched forward slowly, patiently progressing through the cue until they were issued disposable safety suits, complete with hood and radiation badges. “These are provided in the unlikely event of the worst case scenario,” a post-grad announced as she circulated through the crowd helping attendees don the coverings.

A small booth had been erected, the function being identical to a nightclub’s coat check. Mitch watched his partner remove his
A&M jacket and handed it over to the smiling attendant. “Better leave your cell phone and keys,” Mitch advised. “I hear there are some serious magnetic fields involved in the lab.”

“Of course,” the embarrassed student responded. “I should know better.” A sly grin formed at the corners of Mitch’s mouth as he watched the kid empty his pockets.

When the girl handed over the two numbered tickets, Mitch casually reached out and pocketed both. His student didn’t notice.

After the coat check, the two men began pulling on their white, astronaut-like costumes. Mitch leaned close to his charge and whispered, “This is bullshit - nothing but a bunch of hype. We ran similar experiments two years ago, and there’s not enough radioactive materials involved to blow you
r nose, let alone require safety suits. What a publicity stunt.”

The kid nodded his agreement and said, “Still, it
’s good marketing. You have to admit that. All these eggheads can take selfies and show the folks back home how serious the conference was.”

“The only serious work being done here is at the hotel bar,” Mitch responded. 

Once they had slid the plastic clothing over their street clothes, the duo was then escorted into a makeshift lab that had been created within the huge convention center.

Dozens of people were attending, the throng milling about. “Looks like a convention of Pillsbury Dough Boys,” Mitch observed as they joined the multitude of white-suited academics.

“Either that, or we’re on a filming location for a bad 1980s music video,” came the response.

“Hey!” Mitch protested in jest. “I’m a child of the 80s. Be careful now.”

Soon enough, the meeting was called to order. The gathered attendees formed a semi-circle around the centerpiece of the lab, a l
arge table adorned with complex-looking lab equipment. The man in charge, Dr. Cummings, was introduced and stepped to the center of the display.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending our workshop. Today we are going…” and so it started.

Mitch waited impatiently for the boring introductions and preamble to pass. When their host actually reached the interesting part, the professor put his hand on his stomach while leaning in closer to his student.

“That egg sandwich I had this morning isn’t settling well,” Mitch announced. “I feel like I might
toss my cookies. I’m going to go back to the hotel and rest for a bit.”

The kid seemed concerned and turned to go with his professor. Mitch put out a hand and said, “No, you stay here and
attend the rest of the meetings and labs. We have to justify this trip to my boss, so at least one of us has to see what’s going on. Besides, I’ll probably be back in an hour or so. I’ll catch up with you then.”

“I hope you get to feeling better
, Professor.”

“Thanks. Oh, and you’ll probably need this once you’re done in here,” Mitch remembered, handing the kid the wrong coat check ticket.

Faking his stomachache, Mitch pulled off the lab suit, replacing the protective cover with his student’s jacket. On the way to the side exit, he passed by the booth of a lab equipment manufacturer and provided his email address in exchange for a free baseball hat. The aviator sunglasses from the undergrad’s coat rounded out his disguise.

Gradually making his way to the restrooms, he recalled the convention’s layout from the schematic published online. Instead of turning right for the men’s room, he
double-checked no one was watching and then cut left.

Bright sunshine assaulted his eyes for a moment as he exited the side door. He glanced around, almost expecting a hoard of FBI agents ready to pounce. The area was empty, and that fact help settle his nerves - somewhat.

As he turned for the parking lot, he prayed his assessment of the bureau’s capabilities was accurate. They probably had his cell phone tagged, perhaps his clothing, and most certainly his automobile. There was even an outside chance an undercover agent had followed them into the convention center.

As he dug out the car keys, he checked again to see if he was being followed. No one was there. A few minutes later,
Mitch was headed west toward Laredo, his eyes constantly checking the rearview mirror.