But that’s enough for tonight.
Bedtime.
JOHANNESBURG – 2:07 A.M. MONDAY
When I board the plane home, it’s a charter.
Fuck first class.
I had expected to be home by Monday morning but had stayed to recruit. The plane fits the twelve of us nicely (which is saying a lot, considering all of the men besides myself are bulky rough necks) and I have plenty of room to video conference with Augustus.
“Yeah?” Augustus answers without any affectation.
He’s in his room, in his chair, and wearing the same outfit as when I left three days earlier. I doubt he’s showered or moved much since I left, as I tend to hound him on hygiene while Steve and Travis avoid him at all costs, opting to talk on conference; if it weren’t for me, Augustus would never move for the entirety of a job and he’d never be seen in person.
“First – shower,” I tell him.
He groans like I told a bad joke.
“How did it go?” he asks, suspiciously.
“Like I thought it would.”
He overhears commotion behind me.
“Who else gonna be joinin’ the party?” he asks, even more suspiciously.
My eyes lift over the computer to the South African flag tattooed to the side of Dingane’s scalp; his eyes had grown tired over the years but his body had never seemed more dangerous, his grimace a constant series of lines circling his mouth. Him and his men are scattered around the plane, some of them lying in the large isles or resting on two joined seats with their legs over the side.
“An old…associate. Next, I want you to shut down your operation immediately—understand?” I interrupt as Augustus tries to object and continue on without a response from him. “Good. Disconnect all lines, all drives, everything by noon. What time is it there?”
“Nine a.m.”
“Start packing it up now – I don’t trust the location, we’re gonna move for preparation. Tomorrow is still a go. Okay? Disconnect. Sit around, eat a twinkie…” he’s already unwrapping one, “…and I’ll be there in a few hours.”
As he starts to say something, I disconnect.
From an airline phone, I call the number of a prepaid phone.
“Finally,” Steve answers. “We’re pretty confident there’s only four. Unless they went to Kensington or something—but that doesn’t fit, your theory fits. They’re all along the Broad Street rail line. North Philly, the one near China Town and Market East, the one near Spring Garden by Vine, and the last one’s near Walnut and Locust. All of the places are right along that one line and most of them are around two. The El. Patco. Regional.”
It appeared that, out of all the maps we found, one had (very purposely) been let to slip through the cracks: Mans el-Ray Pasquale had been watching the subway routes.
“Do we know why they’ve waited?” I ask.
This was the one question that remained: Why hadn’t they just done it already?
“Only thing we’ve found so far is a convention Wednesday—it seems likely even though I don’t understand it. But, this is probably the event. Like you say, no coincidences, right? Senator Atwater is making an appearance Wednesday afternoon at the Convention Center.”
“Subway tunnel runs right under it?”
“Yeah. But why organize all of this? If the Senator is behind this, what is it? A fake attack?”
I let out a loud breath of air.
“What?” he asks.
“Just a theory. Wealthy Senator knows about trillions off the Iranian coast based on the research of a mining company he owns part of.” Pause, thinking. “Has a bill to clear the embargo in Iran. And then he contacts people…” pause, thinking, “…to help him, contacts the Seven Devil Nation somehow. They—they agree to help him based on the information he’s brought – but their help is to help the whole, right?” I ask myself, working out the details. “So they handle it. When he’s assassinated, by Iranians, the bill will pass. The water will be free. The man at the forefront to reap the benefits will be dead. And the Seven Devil Nation will have the jump on billions.”
“Maybe,” he says, thinking through it quickly and dismissing it. “Doesn’t matter why. All that matters is when and how.”
“And Steve, please make sure you have enough Hacker-plus-plus for eleven more men?”
“Funny,” he laughs.
“I wasn’t joking.”
BROOKLYN – 4:19 A.M. TUESDAY
And at 4:19 a.m. Tuesday morning, David is shot from out of Fort Hamilton.
So many people talked to him in preparation for the flight; he caught little of it and had practically no idea what was being said 90% of the time. The day prior, as he recovered in his hotel room, David had tried to work out all the details from Shepard how Dawlish Publishing could acquire access to a military aircraft on such short notice. Shepard had explained it repeatedly but the only words David could ever really tell he was saying were NEPOTISM and MONEY; he just assumed that someone had an “in” with the army and paid a fair amount of money for this privilege. There was the sneaking suspicion that Shepard had, on a few attempts, said something along the lines of “testing new equipment” and that it wasn’t the military but “contractors that built military aircraft.” At the sight of David’s panicked face, though, he returned to NEPOTISM and MONEY.
Terror had filled David when he saw the aircraft and the safety precautions, especially those related to an ejection mid-flight, which were absolutely horrifying. As he climbed into the back cockpit of a “something-something-A79” (maybe?), and two men on either side strapped and tethered him tightly to the seat, his nerves caused him to nearly vomit. The fear escalated exponentially every second leading up to the engines starting. Once the cockpit had closed, locking him in with the pilot in front, and the engines rumbled soundlessly – the whole of the craft’s body shaking gently, as if purring – David felt a warm feeling fill his body, like a tiny burning star in his belly; the trip would be alright, he decided, no matter what. And it was too late now.
He had to get to London.
He had to find Kate.
He had to win her back.
There was no other option.
So, at 4:19 a.m. the aircraft took a running leap off the runway traveling faster than David had ever or would ever again travel in his life.
ST. LEWIS – 9:30 P.M. MONDAY
Monday is the long drive to St. Lewis, Missouri.
Chris and Lizzy made one short stop in Jefferson City for lunch. It didn’t feel like it had the same impact as the other stops had on Chris’ adventure. They ate at a nice restaurant and Chris mentioned that Jefferson City (or just outside of it) had been where his father’s family had been from but, in all the years, he had never tracked down a living relative; they had vanished like cockroaches to the light.
After the sandwich, he gave Lizzy the option to stay but she declined, wanting to head to St. Lewis. They arrived at the arch near nightfall and, once again, get a fancy hotel room.
“What’s in St. Lewis?” Lizzy asks, mid-brushing her teeth.
She drools toothpaste onto the carpet.
Chris laughs.
“Ain’t much, really. ‘Cept it’s a few hours to Livingston County in Illinois…”
Isn’t that where that girl lived?
[finishes; gets in bed]
It is. We’re gonna go to a little commune that used ta be there. I don’ know—I hope it’s still there, I ain’t been there since I’as twelve.
Tell me what happened to the old man and his daughter!
Eh, that one’s a bit sad.
Why don’t I tell you the otha’ half to April Mae Junebug?
[thinking] What story did you tell me when I was four?
That one, I think.
I don’t think you did. I…there’s like, I sort of—
Nope, it’as that one. How ‘bout I tell you the story of the place where we’re going?
Mmmmm…okay.
So the poli
ce picked me up an’ I’as just a twelve year old boy, lyin’ through’is teeth. ‘Cause I got picked up in another state, the police couldn’t verify much of my information – which’as lucky, ‘cause they’d’ve found me lying though my teeth pretty damn quick.
So they sent me to Illinois but, since they couldn’t find my parents—I told ‘em my parents’re dead and that I left but they knew it wasn’t true and, since I didn’t tell ‘em about my real mother, they shipped me to a commune in the state of Illinois.
And when they shipt me upstate, it was in convoy with prison convicts.
Extraditing convicts to other states.
It was surreal.
I got to sit up front with the driver and there was mesh between us and the guys in back but they kept tryin’ to talk to me and—I mean, big, muscly, scary men were back there crying and plea…[realizes it’s inappropriate]
Anyways, they took me ta this little area where’n there was a new state program where orphaned kids could work together in an environment where they built shelter and grew crops.
It’as called Illinois Outreach. The commune was called Upashamus.
They called it that ‘cause the person that ran it had been there a long time, taking in kids and helpin’ ‘em while their parents’re located and so on, like an orphanage but with more teambuilding. Guy’s name was Shamus and everyone would always say, “Take ‘em up ta Shamus.”
Anyway, that’s where…
[lizzy snores softly]
PHILADELPHIA – 2:15 P.M. TUESDAY
The charter plane pulls up onto a private runway where two stretched Hummers wait for us. The drivers to both open the door for us…then stop, both of them gawking at the eleven hulking men and me.
We split and pile in.
They already have the address to the destination, something I don’t even have. We travel the way there and, even with two stretched Hummers, the insides to both are crammed with people and supplies. Muscles and body odor and sweat fill the interiors immediately following the closing of the door. We open all windows but it doesn’t much help. The driver sections us off.
All of the men are mid-waking, having slept most of the flight to prepare.
They’re dressed similarly, in dark green or black. I told them that, if there was a need for anything more than what I had already bought everyone, I knew where I could find a Russian arms dealer with an impressive arsenal.
There’s only one rule:
No deaths.
We arrive at the destination in the far south portion of Philadelphia, near the water front. It’s an abandoned boat house for larger vessels. From the outside pulling up, the exterior is intimidating. About forty feet high, tin, with rusted orange spreading from every crevice and crack. There’s a window near the top but, otherwise, it’s only an amazingly large garage door and a teeny tiny door (by comparison) for people.
The lot in front of the boat house is wide open and empty. Grass and weeds grow between cracks in an otherwise endless sea of pavement. In the distance, there’s an active ship yard with a large amount of shipping containers.
We get out of the hummers and stretch, everyone (except me) grabbing their duffle bag of clothes and whatever supplies. We enter through the unlocked front door as both stretched Hummers hightail it out of the yard behind us.
Steve and Travis meet us in the first room past the door. The room has a long table with old dirty, rusted chairs on either side and a ton more stacked against the back corner. The room leads along half the yard, opening without a wall or divider at the edge of the massive front garage doorway; there’s a large rectangle of water just past the windows lining the opposite side of this conference room, long, wide passageways on either side leading to the second massive garage doorway, where ships could dock from the ocean.
The place tastes like iron when we enter the air.
The lights are a dim yellow, most of them flickering.
Steve and Travis rise from sitting on the floor; they’ve obviously been waiting for some time. The large table – about the size of four picnic tables combined – is partially covered by maps, pictures, markers, transit lines, and so on.
“Where are we gonna set our shit?” one of them men asks.
“Uh…anywhere you want. We unpack when this is done.”
The men look disappointed.
“Just drop your shit – I’m not paying four hundred thousand for you to be comfortable. Show me you’re worth it,” my attention is mainly on Dingane, who stares emotionlessly back, “We need you up to speed.”
Dingane nods as if he expected nothing less.
“Where’s the hacker?” I ask Steve and he points to a bag.
“Let me talk to you a moment,” he says, pulling me aside.
“Can it wait?” I ask, annoyed; every second counts now.
“It’ll take just a moment.”
I follow Steve just out of earshot.
“Are you sure giving these men the hacker is a good idea?”
“Yeah,” I assure him. “We’ll isolate each one when they do it. If they show – I don’t know, psychotic fits or something, we’ll stop. But they need to try it if it’s going to make them that much more proficient.”
“Alright. I also made this for you.” Steve hands me a little tube like the normal ones, tiny and shaped like a cigarette, except this one’s colored red. “This is…something new. Different.”
“Okay. What is it?” I ask, looking at it.
“Well, imagine if the hacker embellishes intelligence and focus and so on?” I nod. “Okay, well, this one does something similar except it embellishes, say…anger and violence. Or adrenaline, yeah. It turns you into a mo’fuckin’ wreckin’ ball.” He’s trying to sound tough but it comes off as odd and slightly humorous.
“Why…” I look at it, “…would you create something like that?”
“Accident, I guess. I already had something similar that was an accident but I tweaked it a bit, made it stronger in some ways. I want you to have it since you’re already…the fighter, I guess. This is for a situation like that one outside Sensei Ki-Jo’s house. If you…find yourself up against a wall, maybe facing another army, you take this and you’ll…you’ll be damn near unstoppable for about twenty minutes. And it’s one-time-use only so…use it wisely.”
“Okay…thanks, I guess. We need to start.”
LONDON – 12:30 P.M. TUESDAY
David is on a street in London.
The aircraft ride had been exhilarating, causing David to do everything from scream with excitement to vomit into his little airsick bag. It had flown over the ocean with such speed that the landscape appeared to be unmoving. The ocean – miles and miles and horizon to horizon – David could sympathize with his brother’s feelings about the ocean as a vast, breathing entity; then they landed and David vomited so hard the bag fell from his hands and the puke landed all over his front.
He had cleaned himself repeatedly and again once he reached the hotel in Mayfair. Bored with the clothes he packed, David decided to leave and head out to the shops in order to buy new clothes and cologne but it never seemed to get the feeling of puke off him.
So he walks the London streets, passing shop after shop.
Since he’s early and the signing doesn’t start until 2:00 p.m., David takes several detours and becomes lost while window shopping. There are numerous stores and he wanders until finding the exact one he had hoped to find.
He exits the store forty-five minutes later, pocketing his new purchase.
Strolling leisurely, David passes an old woman with a weird expression on her face. She stares at him, passing with a crook eye. He becomes uncomfortably aware that he may still smell like vomit; or, it could be the gauze packed into his ears. Without a second glance, he continues on until, maybe half-a-block later, a young woman gives him a similarly odd look.
She approaches and David’s face grows concerned.
The woman reacts instinctively, waving her hands as if
to say she’s not going to hurt him; it must be the gauze. Maybe injured people get different treatment in London. He nods as if everything’s fine but, looking back the way he’d come, he sees the old woman following him. This startles him a moment and he turns to continue on when the young woman nearby reaches out to touch his arm.
David breaks into a sprint.
He runs the remaining block and turns the corner. As his head turns to look back, he smashes into something big and fluffy – a towering man in a large overcoat with tiny, out-perking ears. The man bends down and gives David a hand to pull him up. As David stands, the man’s face changes; first squinting, then recognition.
Ahead of the towering man is long line.
The line stretches a block and leads into a nearby store.
The two women catch up to David, both with a look of concern on their faces. They talk but David points to the gauze, still trying to look down the line leading into the store. People further up the line have turned around, leaning between one another to whisper, watching the incident unfold.
It’s glaringly apparent that David is causing a scene.
David goes to move his arm to his ears when it smacks against an outstretched arm – the young woman is smiling, her hand extended to shake, graciously.
David’s eyes dart, wary and uncertain, his head on a swivel.
Finally, he takes the woman’s hand and shakes it. She places her other hand on top as if to bless the greeting.
Throughout the line, people clutch blinks and blips of something familiar, a familiar yellow and orange. Dazed, his eyes focus on one close to him. It’s a copy of the book Captain Rivet & the Fantastic Ambruister. Some of the onlookers point at David, most smile, most nod appreciatively. Some catch David’s wild, confused gaze and give an alarmed look in return.
His face relaxes as he accepts that he’s not in danger; though still thoroughly confused, he gives a mild wave to everyone in line.
And he can’t hear it but there’s an uproarious applause from the crowd.
PHILADELPHIA – 10:00 P.M.TUESDAY
Steve, Travis, and I synchronize the time on our prepaid cell phones. Our phones and Bluetooth devices have long since been tossed into the water far from our new location. No one knew where we were, and there was no tracking us from here on out.