Vapor (9 page)

“This is suicide.” Nick Mickles squinted. “I can’t see a thing with all this debris in the air.”

Grover Herman stared out the front window. Dirt flew everywhere, spinning in mesmerizing fashion. “We can’t stop,” he replied. “We have orders.”

“This is dumb. No one’s going to be traveling in this weather. We should just pull over, wait out the storm.”

“Jeremy will have our heads if we do that. You heard him. He said to secure the drone as quickly as possible.”

The SUV bumped over a small hill. Mickles gritted his teeth. “Screw him. I say we—”

“Hold on.” A large silhouette materialized out of the darkness. “I think that’s it.”

Mickles tapped the brake pedal. The vehicle rolled to a stop. For a moment, he stared at
Nautilus
. Then he twisted his neck to the right. “Looks like Pascal was right.”

“About what?”

“About that.”

Herman followed his gaze to a medium-duty commercial truck. It was parked in front of a sand pile, a short distance from the drone. Producing his satphone, he dialed a number. “We’re on site, sir.
Nautilus
is in decent shape, but it won’t fly again.” Herman paused. “And it looks like you were right about the salvage team. We’ve spotted at least one truck in the vicinity.”

After a short conversation, Herman hung up the phone.

“Well?” Mickles asked. “Are we killing them?”

“Not yet,” Herman replied. “Pascal wants them alive for questioning.”

Mickles chuckled. “Poor bastards.”

Cracking his door, Mickles climbed out of the truck. The sand was relentless, packing into his nose and scratching at his skin. Wind howled as it ripped across the arid land. Hunkering down, he soldiered forward.

The medium-duty truck came into view. It had slammed headfirst into a wall of sand, which had been thrown up by the crashed plane. Mickles studied the rectangular-shaped object on the flatbed. Then he turned toward the cab. Most likely, the salvage team had been injured in the accident. Securing them would be a simple matter.

He flashed hand signals at Herman. Herman nodded and began skulking along the truck’s passenger side.

Moving cautiously, Mickles approached the driver’s side door. Stopping next to it, he tried to peer through the window. But dirt caked its uneven surface, obscuring his view.

He glanced behind the cab, catching Herman’s eye. Lifting a hand, he counted down from three. Then he grabbed the latch and opened the door. At the same time, Herman opened the passenger side door.

Mickles aimed his knife into the truck. His brow furrowed. A distinct sense of uneasiness crept over him.

The truck was empty.

The wireless revolution had made everything, including home burglary, easier and more efficient.

Ed Hooper parked his car next to the cobblestone walkway. Glancing outside, he took in the massive stone residence. It was an elegant three-story structure, located on two acres of high hill property. The house, purchased by Barney and Patricia Samuels just three years earlier, was situated in the middle of Spring Valley, considered by many to be Washington, D.C.’s most affluent neighborhood.

Popping his door open, Hooper stepped outside. He had it on good authority that the Samuelses were out for the evening. That gave him plenty of time to do what needed to be done.

The lawn was manicured and bright green, with nary a patch of dirt to be seen. Lush greenery, the kind available only to those willing to pay for it, surrounded the house on all sides.

Glancing over both shoulders, he was pleased to find he couldn’t see the surrounding properties. Like many of Spring Valley’s super-wealthy, the Samuelses had found a way to live in a country setting, smack in the middle of a heavily urban environment. And the price for such a slice of paradise?

A mere seven million dollars.

He strode fearlessly to the front door, chuckling at the many signs for Swabnet Security that dotted the otherwise-unblemished lawn. Swabnet, like pretty much all residential wireless alarm systems, utilized radio frequency signals. If someone happened to open a tagged door or window, a silent signal was deployed to Swabnet, which proceeded to contact the occupants as well as the local police. It was simple to understand.

And even simpler to defeat.

He stopped outside the front door. These days, everything was wireless. Homeowners had even taken to arming and disarming security systems via remotes and smartphone apps. This made it easy for him to capture system passwords.

Alternatively, he could use his radio to perform a replay attack. Then he could just enter the house during one of the many subsequent false alarms. But on this particular evening, he was feeling rushed. He didn’t have time to wait for the Samuelses to issue remote commands. And false alarms, although almost always ignored, would certainly raise a tiny bit of suspicion.

So, he kept it simple, utilizing his radio to jam the intra-home communications as he picked the lock. As expected, Swabnet’s system retorted with anti-jamming counter measures, designed to issue an audible alarm while simultaneously triggering a separate transmission to the security firm. But Hooper easily defeated the countermeasures.

In less than a minute, he’d entered the foyer. Closing the door behind him, he turned on his flashlight. The foyer was larger than his entire apartment and better decorated too. A tall, arched corridor stood directly in front of him. A curving staircase rested to the left of the corridor. On either side of him, separate hallways connected the foyer to other rooms.

He turned his gaze to a small sitting area situated across from the staircase. It was styled in rustic fashion and contained an assortment of chairs and sofas, which appeared to have been made from recycled plastics. Burlap sacks covered the cushions. Two hardwood end tables, topped with LED lamps, were positioned amongst the seats.

Hooper stared at a giant impressionist painting located behind a sectional sofa. It depicted the Samuels’ residence in all of its glory. Once upon a time, he would’ve been jealous of their wealth and possessions. Rich people, by and large, just seemed so happy. But he’d learned that this happiness was, more often than not, a facade. Rich people, like everyone else, faced insecurities, doubts, and fears.

Hooper went to work, crisscrossing the house. He searched the library, the dining room, the sunroom, the living room, the covered porch, the powder room, and everywhere else. Each room was substantial in size and covered by vaulted ceilings.

As he passed through the residence, he noticed an abundance of ultra-modern green technology. Touch screens controlled LED lighting, air systems, and automated blinds. He even saw remote-controlled toilets, outfitted with heated seats and music players.

It was truly a magnificent residence and as far as he could tell, about as eco-friendly as current technology allowed. Seeing it made him doubt his initial theory. The Samuelses weren’t just rich. They were filthy rich. They certainly didn’t need to steal billions of dollars. And even if they had wanted more money, he doubted they’d rob a clean energy fund to get it.

But he kept going, moving from room to room, searching everything and leaving tiny transmitters in his wake. They were invisible to the naked eye and would easily escape detection.

Shortly, the Samuelses would be hosting a fundraiser in their home. His plan was to visit the residence and question them about the Columbus Project. He’d catch them off guard and raise their anxiety levels. Then he’d go outside and listen to every word they said. If they were behind the theft, he’d know it soon enough.

After clearing the top three floors, Hooper headed to the basement. He passed through a recreational room, filled with vintage arcade video games.

Cracking a door, he entered an office. It was as stylish as the rest of the home and just as eco-friendly. Although many environmentalists looked down their noses at technology, considering it the enemy of nature, the Samuelses appeared to hold a decidedly different viewpoint. They’d used technology as an asset, allowing them to build a better home and perhaps, a better tomorrow.

He conducted a cursory search. So far, he’d found nothing of interest, not even a single mention of the Columbus Project. And nothing in the office changed that fact.

As he turned to leave, he saw a single framed photograph mounted on the far wall. Something about it piqued his interest.

Hooper studied the grainy picture. It depicted ten individuals, dressed in outdoorsy clothes and posing in front of a campground. A caption under the photo read,
The Separative
.

Much younger versions of Patricia and Barney Samuels knelt in the foreground, their arms around each other, smiling like they didn’t have a care in the world. But it was the other individuals that caught his attention. Four of them were easily identifiable.

Kate Roost. George Kaiser. Janet Baker. Bert Bane.

Otherwise known as the respective secretaries for the Department of the Interior, the Department of Transportation, the Department of Agriculture, and the Department of Defense. In other words, he was looking at an old photo of five high-ranking bureaucrats before they’d joined President Walters’ administration. All five of them had helped control the Columbus Project’s purse strings. Some would’ve considered it a coincidence, albeit an epic one. But not Hooper.

He didn’t believe in coincidence.

Guilt swirled within me as I slipped outside the aircraft.

You made a mistake.

By focusing on the reliquary, I’d allowed others to draw close to us. Now, our options were limited.

Let it go.

Silently, I dropped to the dirt. Two men were positioned on either side of our truck. They appeared to be searching the interior.

Extending a hand toward the aircraft, I helped Graham to the ground. Beverly followed suit, closing the panel behind her. Then we retreated to a small hill and circled around for a better view.

“No uniforms,” Beverly observed. “But they move like soldiers.”

Graham frowned. “Who are they?”

“I doubt they’re locals. Few people still live in this area.” She looked thoughtful. “Most likely, it’s a mop-up team. They probably work for the same people who sent the drone this way.”

My jaw hardened. “So, they know who killed Lila?”

“Most likely, yes.”

One man retreated to his vehicle. The other one crouched down and approached the plane. “I’ll take care of him.” I glanced at Beverly. “Can you get the other one?”

She looked doubtful. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

I nodded.

She spun to the side. Then she took off across the landscape.

Jumping to my feet, I headed down the hill. Dirt churned in my wake, flying into the sky to join the dust storm.

The man turned around. An astonished look appeared on his face.

I groaned inwardly. I’d hoped to sneak up on the man. To capture him without a fight. But as he twisted a knife in my direction, I knew that was no longer an option.

I slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. He tucked into a roll and sprang to his feet. Then he charged me.

Bending my knees, I leapt to the side, hoping to dodge his attack. But the man reacted quickly, swinging a thundering punch in my direction.

His fist struck my torso. I fell to the ground. Before I could regain my footing, a heavy knee pressed down on me, pinning me to the dirt. A calloused hand grasped my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his second hand.

It still clutched the knife.

The man pressed the blade against my throat. “Keep still,” he said. “There’s no need to die.”

“I agree.” I flung a fistful of dirt into the wind. Particles soared into the man’s eyes. He recoiled. His knife jerked away from me.

I leapt to my feet. Blindly, the man swung his knife in an arc. The blade nicked my arm. I grimaced as thousands of dirt particles swarmed the wound.

I charged him. He aimed another swipe at me. But I grabbed his knife hand as I crashed into him. He hit the ground and I landed on top of him. He groaned softly. Blood gushed out of his torso, a few inches beneath his heart.

As I rolled off of him, he pulled the blade out of his chest. He stared at it for a moment.

Then he fell limp.

Sweat beaded up on my forehead as I checked the man’s pulse. He was dead, impaled by his own blade.

I took a deep breath. I hated death, especially when I was the cause of it. Sure, he’d pulled a knife on me. But that didn’t make me feel much better.

I steeled my emotions. As I searched his pockets, faint crunching noises sounded out. Reaching for my machete, I spun around. Then I relaxed. “This one’s dead.” I wiped off my goggles. “Did you get the other one?”

“He came at me with a gun,” Beverly replied. “I had to put him down.”

I ran a hand through my hair, shaking a pound of dirt out of it. Then I glanced at the corpse. “I searched his pockets. They’re empty.”

“Same with my guy. And there’s nothing traceable in the SUV either.”

My gaze shifted to their vehicle. “So, we still don’t know who sent the drone.”

“No. But at least we’ve got its navigation data.” She paused. “I say we take the SUV. The sooner we get out of this place, the better.”

Something flashed in the distance, capturing my attention. “What’s that look like to you?” I asked with a nod at the horizon.

She spun around. Her body stiffened. “They’re—”

“Headlights.” Graham picked his way across the loose soil. “Plenty of them. These guys must’ve been scouts, sent ahead to secure the plane.”

Beverly looked at me. “We should go.”

I glanced at our truck. “Not without the reliquary.”

“We can’t fight all those people.”

“She’s right,” Graham said. “If we stick around, we’re as good as dead. Especially after they see what happened to their friends.”

I was acutely aware of my earlier statements. And I still believed them, albeit for private reasons. The reliquary, rich in history, was worth more than my life. Maybe more than all of our lives.

The stiff wind blew Beverly’s hair across her face. Swiftly, she tied it behind her head. “So, what are we doing?” she asked. “Fighting? Or running?”

Fight or flight? It was an age-old question, one with no good answer. If we fought, we’d face a large, presumably well-armed force. We could hold them off, but only for a little while. If we fled, that same force would find the bodies and chase after us. Either way, we’d end up dead.

Try as I might, I couldn’t see a way to save the reliquary. Our only option was to survive, to give ourselves a chance to get it later.

“I’ve got an idea.” I inhaled deeply. “We can’t fight or run. But we can do something else.”

“What’s that?” Beverly asked.

“We can die.”