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OMAHA

  by

  by

  Kevin O'Kane

  Copyright 2014 by Kevin O’Kane

  This is a work of fiction. The events, characters and settings are imaginary and are not intended to represent actual places, events or persons. Any similarity is wholly coincidental.

  Other books by this author

  Omaha

  The Mumps Programming Language

  Basic IBM Mainframe Assembly Language Programming

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The author may be contacted at: [email protected]

  Second Edition

  September 27, 2014

  Build 418

  https://threadsafebooks.com

  Enter, my noble guest, and you shall find,

  If not a costly welcome, yet a kind:

  For I myself, like you, have been distress'd,

  Till Heav'n afforded me this place of rest;

  Like you, an alien in a land unknown,

  I learn to pity woes so like my own.

  1. Monday January 8

  Time: 2 PM

  Arms tense and hands clenched nervously onto the steering wheel, Mike rushes to his rented farmhouse several miles north of Des Moines. On a sunless, cold, gray January afternoon, his car rattles and bounces its way west on a nameless gravel county farm road. The outside temperature is 7 below, the wind chill is -20F. The car's heater chatters vainly.

  Mike's beat-up old hardtop heaves and sways over the uneven loose stone surface, passing endless snow patched fields. It thumps across an unguarded railroad grade crossing, a loose old ramp of worn wood bridging shiny rails on which endless trains cart corn, soy, coal, and freight to ports south.

  A colorless cluster of silos a few miles north fades dimly in the gathering haze. In the dismal churning sky aloft, flocks of crows scavenge for the last remains of summer. Gusting winds stir dry corn husks into furious small cyclones.

  Slowing, he turns onto a stony driveway but quickly halts at the sight of what's down the long path ahead. After several moments of panic and indecision, he takes his foot off the brake and the car creeps slowly forward to the sound of rock crushing beneath its turning tires.

  He slows to a crunching halt in a small farmyard. In the leaden winter light, engine idling, he looks numbly at the smoldering remains before him.

  Of the old farmhouse, only the chimney and a few pipes remain upright. The rest is a smoking, fallen ruin of charred timbers. Discarded before what was once the entrance are three red gasoline cans.

  Anxiously looking to see if anyone's hiding in the small grove of trees, he pulls on his heavy gloves, and stretches his knit stocking cap low over his ears. The rusty hinge creaks as he opens the door and cautiously gets out.

  Nervously, he walks up to the blackened remains to see if there is anything salvageable. He hears only the sound of wind and the distant, cawing crows.

  The floors have collapsed into the cellar. Burned pieces of furniture, the stove, refrigerator and other debris are scattered across the basement. Around the yard, in the driveway, the bushes, everywhere, he sees his papers and files blowing about. He realizes that the place was ransacked first, then torched.

  In frustration, but with a note of despair, he says "Shit," and kicks at small a rock. It sails upwards then arcs downward into the cellar, landing with a metallic thud on the old stove below.

  Returning to the car, he leans against its warm hood and surveys the remains. Pulling off one of his gloves, he reaches through his coat into a pocket and extracts a cigarette. Feeling through his pants for his lighter, he slides it out, hunches over, back to the wind, and lights the cigarette. He takes a deep drag then flicks the tiny ash to the wind.

  But, in the corner of his eye, something moves. He turns quickly. In the distance to the west, far down the road, a rising, spiraling plume of dust is moving his way.

  Ambush! They were at the west end of the road. They saw my own trail of dust. They were waiting there behind the trees, out of sight of any farms, the way I normally come home!

  Mike tosses the cigarette, jumps in the car, shoves the transmission into forward and floors the gas pedal. The rear tires spin on the loose stone and the car fish tails into a quick 180-degree about face. It lurches back down the driveway. Swerving onto the county road, he races to escape.

  Picking up speed, he kicks up his own dust cloud. He wants to get to the blacktop a few miles east and the safety of the small farm town beyond. The crows screech and scatter skyward from the fields as his car clatters by.

  A bullet pings his bumper, then several more. Some hit the trunk. He ducks when the rear window bursts into a great starry pattern of cracked glass. They're gaining.

  His spinning tires on the crushed rock liberate a growing plume of wind borne stone dust that hides him from the pursuing SUV. But, when the road turns and weaves around small hills, the cloud parts and both prey and predator get to glimpse one another clearly.

  The SUV is now about a quarter mile behind and closing. He struggles to open the gap but he's going as fast as he can on this bumpy road without losing control. Their SUV is better suited for this terrain.

  From behind, they shoot blindly into his spiraling screen of rock powder. Few find their target but the sound of each round grows closer.

  Ahead, hidden by a small hill, the grade crossing comes into view. However, to his left, a southbound freight rumbles his way at 80 miles per hour. Both he and a hundred cars of freight, preceded by three soot belching diesel locomotives, are seconds from the crossing.

  Panicked, Mike whispers to himself, "This is it."

  The silence of the winter wasteland shatters as all three engines' air horns shriek in a thunderous, dissonant, warning chorus. Seeing the inevitable collision, the engineers quickly shunt the air brakes and flip the emergency overrides to the electric traction motors.

  Eight hundred axles scream metal against metal while the giant diesels rev to full power. The electric motors rumble menacingly into reverse. Knowing that it will take the better part of a mile to bring this juggernaut to a halt, the frightened engineers brace for the unavoidable impact.

  Mike flattens the accelerator pedal to the floor. The old V8 engine throbs up to redline, the transmission slams down out of overdrive into high, wheels spin, and his car unsteadily lurches forward.

  His crushed stone dust plume belches.

  Mike's car rumbles up, onto, and airborne over the wood planks just as the first screeching, trumpeting locomotive slices through the crossing.

  His car slams back to earth. It jolts up and down and heaves left to right. Mike hits the brakes, fighting to regain control. Finally, it steadies. He made it.

  His pursuers had gained to within fifty yards, but, as a result, became fully engulfed by the dust cloud. Greedily focused only on closure with Mike's car, they scarcely hear nor heed the warning horns.

  Suddenly, the dust, cut from its source, becomes transparent. They see the rushing leading edge of the second engine and its vivid, speed blurred, red and yellow logo.

  The driver screams and slams on the brakes. The SUV tumbles out of control and begins to roll. The four yelling guys inside are thrown around like sacks.

  The SUV careens into the second engine just ahead of the diesel's rear carriage. It is swiftly sucked beneath, sliced and shredded. The derailing engine disconnects from the one ahead.
The third engine quickly jumps the track along with the first of many cars of heavily loaded rolling stock.

  The second and third engines flip on their sides and skid sideways across the tracks. Thousands of gallons of diesel fuel spill. The freight cars tumble and zigzag off the rails, dumping tons of dried corn in great heaps onto the mangled remains of the engines and the SUV.

  The gasoline from the SUV's ruptured gas tank ignites. The diesel soaked corn ripples into a tide of flame. Black smoke and flames billow skyward as one car after another continues to pile corn, coal, chemicals and fuel upon the pyre of flaming railway wreckage.

  About a mile beyond, Mike slows to a stop, gets out and looks behind him. His hands tremble and his heart races as he lights a cigarette and stares at the growing, wind driven inferno building in the distance. Slowly he regains his composure, tosses the cigarette and resumes his journey east. Fire engines and police cars race past him on their way to the wreck.

  A few miles later, he joins the paved road. From there he turns onto an intersecting highway south, then east again and, finally, up onto the I35 South on-ramp. Soon it merges with I80 West for the beltway circuit around Des Moines.

  Still shaking, he pulls out his cell phone and taps the dialer for Jessica. Each time it rings, he becomes more afraid that they got her too.

  Finally, she answers saying, "Okay, are you at the house yet?"

  "No, I'm on the I35/I80 beltway."

  "Huh?"

  "When I got to the house, it was burned down."

  "Burned down? What the hell happened?"

  "They torched it. And they were waiting to ambush me."

  "Uh-oh!"

  "Yeah and they chased me half way across the county."

  "So how come they didn't catch you?"

  "Seems a train got in their way. It'll be on the news."

  "What? You mean the grade crossing?"

  "Yep."

  "And they didn't make it through?"

  "Nope."

  "You wrecked a train, didn't you?"

  "Nope, they wrecked a train. I had nothing to do with it. They should'na been driving so fast. I'll tell you more later."

  "Are you okay?"

  "Yep, I'm okay, just a bit shaken up."

  "What did you see at the house?"

  "Oh, the place was a mess. My papers were tossing all over the place, the floors had collapsed and there were three empty gas cans outside the front door."

  "Crap! So I guess we're in trouble?"

  "Yep, a whole boat load of trouble."

  "Where are you now, Mikey?"

  "Getting the freaking hell out of Des Moines. I'm just past Urbandale."

  "Okay, now calm, down and slowly, tell me, exactly, where are you going?"

  "Duh? Down there to get you."

  "Hey, this is my first real big computer conference. How about you just let'em chase you around Des Moines for a couple of days until my geek fest is over?"

  "Whaaaat? Are you nuts? I got bullet holes in the back window. Damn it, this is serious. What part of shot dead don't you understand?"

  "All right, already. You're not dead yet. Don't stroke out. I'm just kidding. Calm down and stop hyperventilating."

  "This is as calm as I'm gonna get."

  "Good. Hold that thought. Because, while you were out train spotting, I got on my laptop and you're right, Jack's on to us, or, more specifically you. I don't think he ever paid any attention to me. Sexist pig, his mistake."

  "What'd ya find out?"

  "I hacked his email account, as usual. He's put the word out that he's looking for you and willing to pay well. No specifics, just that he wants you, dead or alive, preferably dead."

  "That's about how I figured it given my little railway incident."

  "So, exactly where are you now?"

  "I'll be coming up to the I35/I80 split in a couple of minutes. I'll be in Columbia in about five hours then we'll go hide out in the Ozarks."

  "Nope, not gonna happen. You are definitely not coming here. First, there's a blizzard on its way and, second, if Jack gets hold of your cell phone records, he'll see who and where you called. Then Jack will send some guys over here from St. Louis, and, well you know the rest. And third, no, honey, I'm really not ready for the Ozarks. I'd rather take my chances in a shoot out with Jack."

  "That can be arranged."

  "What about that friend of yours out in Omaha that I looked up for you on the Internet? How about going out there? You think he might be able to put us up until we can make a real plan?"

  "Yeah, David? That might work. I haven't seen him in a while but, yeah, he'll help us find a place to hide out for a while. Anyway, the further from St. Louis the better, I guess."

  "You got it. Okay, then, when you get to the split, you head to Omaha and I'll meet you there."

  "So how are you gonna get there if I don't come get you?"

  "Don't worry, I'll get to Omaha myself and meet you there. Just keep going. I'll see you there tomorrow."

  "No, I'm coming to get you."

  "No, idiot, if they trace this call, I don't want to be sitting here five hours waiting for someone to come after me too. I want you to go to Omaha. Now. Is that clear?"

  "Yeah, but..."

  "I'll clear out'a here as soon as I can and meet you there tomorrow night. You be at that club he owns and I'll meet you there."

  "All right, that's the only address I have for him. You have it, right?"

  "Ahh, I was the one who found it for you, remember?"

  "Oh, yeah, right."

  "Geez, Mikey, let's put the panic attack on hold. I'll see you tomorrow night at that club. But I'll be there late."

  "Why late?"

  "I'm in Columbia freaking Missouri. How many travel options do you think there are down here? Anyway, I'm not gonna take any chances. And, by the way, power down your cell phone so it can't be tracked. Jack may have a few friends or clients working for one of the carriers and it's not difficult to locate a phone's signal and trace it to a cell tower. Oh, yeah, and don't be drunk when I get there."

  "If I can't use my cell phone, how can I call you?"

  "You won't and neither will Jack. I'm powering down as soon as I hang up. And don't use the Internet."

  "You sure you can do this?"

  "Oh really, give me a break. Geez! The question is, can you get there in a blizzard in that shit can of a car of yours?"

  "There's nothing wrong with my car that a little body putty wouldn't fix."

  "A boat load of body putty."

  "All right, whatever. Then I'll see you at Mo Rún in Omaha tomorrow night?"

  "Eh-yep, that's the plan. Now hang up, turn the phone off and head west Mikey. I'll see you in Omaha. And Mikey?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Be careful."

  "You too."

  He powers down the cell phone as ordered and parks it on the seat next to him. Damn, she can be a nuisance. Too damned independent for a woman. At the highway split, as instructed, he veers right onto the ramp to I80 West. Taping out a cigarette with one hand, he puts it in his mouth, punches the lighter and flips on the radio. Next stop Omaha.

  Mike's bullet pocked car thumps west on the segmented concrete road slabs past scattered truck stops, farms, silos, grim towns, endless fence posts and barren winter fields upon which prowl great flocks of black birds. The sky is dark ahead. Fast moving clouds churn above and the wind continues to build from the southeast. The radio station in Des Moines says there'll be two feet of snow by morning with gale winds along with severe blowing and drifting. Temperatures will drop well below zero. A monster blizzard is building in the Rockies and will soon prey upon the plains.

  Buffeted by the growing cross winds, his car veers unpredictably from one side of the lane to the other. He passes long processions of forty ton 18-wheelers and triple bottomed trailer rigs weaving like flags in the growing storm. The gusts are now over forty miles an hour. Just west of Adair, Mike figures it's about another 60 miles to g
o. The snow will start soon. If he's lucky, he'll just make Omaha before the roads close.

  As he motors slowly through Council Bluffs in the gray and wasting light of dying day, snow begins to accumulate on the road. Giant IA DOT sand trucks with ten-foot plow blades are out in conga lines making a freak show of yellow strobe lights flaring in the horizontal blur of wind driven flakes. His car jerks as it tracks its way west through the icy ruts out of Iowa and into Nebraska.

  Crossing the deserted Missouri I480 bridge into Omaha, high above the frigid river below, he struggles to keep the car in lane now that he is fully exposed to the unobstructed fury of the gale. Finally, making it across the bridge onto the elevated interstate, he drives through central Omaha. Scarce window lights on the tall buildings confess that their occupants have fled for the day. A few miles west and south of downtown, he exits the interstate down onto a deserted street in a semi-industrial neighborhood. A few blocks from the off ramp, he pulls into the nearly empty parking lot of a faded motel.

  After checking in, he dashes across the road to a convenience store. Returning a few minutes later, he shakes the snow from his coat and settles in for a stale, plastic wrapped sandwich, fries and a plastic cup of cheap wine drawn from a screw top bottle of limited vintage. Retrieving a carton of cigarettes from his gym bag, he extracts a pack. After slapping the top several times on his palm to compress the loose tobacco, he opens it, and taps out the sprout of a new cigarette. Lighting it, he inhales deeply, leans back and chugs another gulp of the wine.

  Surrounded by the litter from his bad convenience store supper, he broods over his predicament. He sits still in the dimly lit small room. The only sounds are those of the whistling wind and some metal sign in the parking lot flapping and squeaking in the gusts. Staring at the stippled ceiling above, he wonders what's next. If his former friend in St. Louis finds him, not much.

  A few cigarettes and the better part of the wine bottle later, he clicks on the TV and flips between a motley collection of local stations before settling on one. He stares numbly at aging, career-end readers bantering cheerfully about the weather between seed and feed commercials.

  The storm sprawls anonymously across a thousand miles of towns, cities, farms, cattle, prairie, and people. Final totals will be measured in feet followed by massive drifting and then an Arctic blast of frigid air. Temperatures will fall to -25F with wind chills to -60F. These are forecast to settle in for the next week or more. Mike winces as he turns to eat the last of the soggy cold greasy French fries from the oily paper packet.

  As a TV commercial drones on, he decides that, despite the entreaties, and many fine examples shown for his edification, in the final analysis, no, he doesn't want any hybrid seed corn this year.

  A quick flip to the local weather feed shows the radar with white in all directions. For now, at least, maybe he's safe, hidden by the storm.

  Time: 8 PM

  He checks his watch. It's eight. Clicking off the TV, he moans and thinks to himself that the time has come to get on with it. He pulls out the street map of Omaha which he bought at a gas station over in Iowa and checks the location of the motel against the address written on a stained small piece of paper he carried in his wallet. The place he's looking for should be about two blocks away, more or less.

  Looking out the window he decides that there is no way he can take the car, not in this storm, it'll be buried in a drift. He figures he's got to walk it. It's not really that far, but, in this weather, it won't be nice. Reluctantly, he begins the ritual of winter robing, pulling on his jacket, scarf, stocking cap, hood and gloves.

  Finally, draped like a mummy, he steps stiffly out into the parking lot where his face is quickly slapped by a forty mile an hour sub-zero horizontal gale of snow. The flakes hit him like blown sand. Staggering, he stretches the scarf further up over his face leaving just a slit for his eyes between the scarf and the pulled tight stocking cap. Thus girded, driven by relentless fate, he starts hiking the two tortuous blocks up the street.

  Trudging up the middle of the deserted, snow swept road, he bends into the gale like some anonymous lumbering animal on the prairie. The wind and snow lash down in turbulent waves. Bathed in the orange light of sodium vapor street lamps, his eyes see only barely a blur through the tightly wrapped scarf. After a block and a half, he finally looks up into the face of the wind.

  There it is, he thinks to himself. Through the dense blowing snow and a swaying, lone nearby street lamp, he sees a huge hulking brick building half a block away. A great green neon sign blinks brightly through the near whiteout blizzard blur, Mo Rún.

  What the hell does that mean?

  Infra red sensors and imaging devices automatically begin to track his movement.

  Approaching closer, he sees that, whatever it means, it's big. "Holy shit," he mutters under his breath, "Look at the size of it, what the hell is this, a warehouse?" He crunches onward through the ruts of snow, his goal now only a few dozen yards ahead.

  Nearing the building, he looks through a small fogged window near the doors and sees the place is mobbed. To himself he wonders, "How many people in Omaha go clubbing in a blizzard? Why are they out on a night like this?"

  Now, at the entrance, he pauses and gapes. Before him are massive doors, each maybe fifteen feet high and ten feet wide, old warehouse doors, made of heavy cedar beams and hinged on massive brass fittings.

  Curious, he kicks off the top layer of snow and discovers that the wide steps are marble with inlaid brass, the logo of the original owner, he supposes. "On brazen steps the marble threshold rose, And brazen plates the cedar beams enclose," he recites, the flickering memory of some long forgotten English Lit class.

  Cut and hinged in one of the ancient huge doors is a portal of more normal size. He pulls on it hard against the battering wind and stumbles in. At once, from all sides, he's jeered, "Shut the freaking door."

  Clouds of snow explode about him. Fugitive flakes land and quickly vanish on the bare hot skin of a wave of sweating, dancing couples a few feet beyond. The bouncer asks for ID. He hands it to him. The bouncer swipes it through a reader and then gestures him in.

  Mike whacks the caked snow from his coat and stocking cap which he rolls up and pushes in a pocket. He takes his coat and hangs it in a side room with hundreds of others pretty much like it. Combing back his long hair, he shakes the ice from it, kicks the slush from his shoes and whacks at the cakes of snow stuck to his pants. Thus preened, he ventures into the main room.

  He looks around and sees lights everywhere, pin spots, lasers, scanners, and moving yokes, all dancing in sync to the roaring music that throbs from all sides in surges. The rhythms pound the head and the lyrics conjure a dream state. The air glitters with swirling, colored, floating flakes suspended in a world of sound and light. He stands stunned. He has passed into another world, in the full glory of its passion while the world outside, the real one of snow, wind, fire, and bullets, fades, if only briefly.

  Dressed more like a vagrant than someone out for a night of clubbing, he mixes, unmarked, among the busy throng, borne by the tide, and passes unseen along until, full in the center of the floor, he looks about in awe.

  Above him the open atrium rises four or five stories. The interior is the size of a football field. The walls are rough red brick. All around, in the scant light above, he sees balconies.

  Everything is wood, brick and wrought iron. The place is windowless except for the few near the entrance and dark reflecting skylights high in the exposed, massive wooden rafters above where fairy lights are set in starry constellations.

  On the main level, is a vast, sunken central dance floor. Above this is the open atrium to the beamed roof aloft. All around the dance floor is a fifteen-foot ceilinged area above which are the balconied floors above. Thick, cast iron pillars are arrayed every ten feet to support the parapets above.

  Centered on the west side of the building, beneath the floors above, is the main entrance and the bounce
r's podium. To its south is the large coat room, partitioned from the rest of the club. At the far south end of the building is a lounge area of tables, chairs, and couches.

  Along the east outside wall, opposite the main entrance, is a long polished wooden bar with a massive brass footrest below and fronted by about fifty stools. Above and behind are rows of glass shelves against the polished red brick, laden with multi-colored liqueur bottles and crystal glasses. Several bartenders serve the happy throng.

  A broad, high, wooden stage platform extends across the better part the north end of the building enveloped in heavy dark, draped, velvet curtains. Above, one of the floors is missing, the area is easily thirty feet high. Mics, amps, cables, floor speakers and music stands are scattered all about.

  Mike whispers, “Now purple hangings clothe the palace walls, And sumptuous feasts are made in splendid halls.”

  At the south end of the polished bar, furthest from the stage, rises a pulpit-like semi-circular array of flickering flat computer screens and keyboards behind which stands a tall, long haired, geeky guy in a black T-shirt emblazoned in white with the logo AYBABTU. The console array faces northwest, diagonally across the expanse of the club. To the right of the console is the bar, to its left is the lounge area. From this perch, the guy in the black T-shirt has a ruling view of the entire scene.

  Suspended by many steel cables from the rafters high above and centered over the dance floor is a crisscross array of black painted steel beams. From these hang eight massive black speakers and a huge array of electrical equipment, spotlights, lasers and yokes of all sorts.

  Dangling from unseen cords, huge disco mirror balls spin. They glitter and flash in the multicolored pin spots from the central lighting array. Attached to the balconies all around are even more, endless racks of lights and lasers.

  Then sudden cheering rises from the crowd, as lasers flicker brightly through the dark. Blasting cords of music engulf the hall. Air guns flash in bright bursts of light and smoke, shooting glitter into the vault above.

  Aloft in air unseen, and mixed with night this airy, weightless mist of Mylar flakes, flashes in the wildly splaying lasers. The sound builds and the crowd begins to dance. Visions in the night, he thinks to himself. Thin and aerial shapes, light as a dream.

  Retreating to the bar, he finds a stool at the far end, near the computer pulpit, and orders a scotch and soda. As he does a curious canary lands on the bar, tilts its head and eyes him suspiciously. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a small cellophane wrapped bag of soup crackers, opens it, and spills a few before the tiny bird. The bird gives off a happy song of approval and hops forward. Snatching one of the tiny crackers, it flies away. But quickly, three other little birds alight, chirp a greeting and pluck the remaining pieces. They likewise fly away. Looking up, he sees them disappear into their airy kingdom aloft and wishes he could do the same.

  Swiveling around and facing towards the dance floor, he leans back to survey the scene before him. Fully three hundred people are in attendance, he guesses, and it's still relatively early. The crowd mingles in groups, laughing and shouting. The lounge area is mobbed, as is the area around the bar and the great central dance floor beyond. The recorded music from the speakers high above floods the room in the rich cords of an old rock and roll ballad. The great stage is being set by roadies for a band who are yet to appear.

  After a few moments, he leans to one side and asks the guy on the stool next to him, "Say, do you know if this is David Shea's place?"

  The guy turns, looks a bit quizzical and with a sweeping gesture across the room replies, "Ahhh, yeah dude, this is Shea David's. Really something, ain't it?"

  "You mean Chez David's?"

  "Whatever."

  A bartender places a basket of pretzels on the bar between Mike and the guy he's talking to then nods to the geeky guy at the computer console. A hidden wireless mic activates.

  "Anyway, it's quite a show. How long has it been here?"

  "Oh, a couple of years, I guess. It's pretty much the most popular place in the city now. David's a legend. Thus, I take it you must be new here?"

  "Yeah, just blew into town. Nice blizzard."

  "Well, makes you concentrate on indoor activities. Where you from?"

  "Most recently, Des Moines. If this is the David Shea I think it is, I need to speak with him. My name's Mike, Mike McAneas."

  "I'm Steve Smith, glad to meet you."

  "Say, how do you pronounce the name of the place, Mo Rún?"

  "Mo as in Joe and Rún as in swoon, emphasis on the Rún. Almost like maroon except an Oh sound at the beginning."

  "What's it mean?"

  "Not a frigging clue. Ask David."

  "You have any idea where I can find David? Do ya'know where he lives or when he's here?"

  "Oh, yeah, he lives here, man. Way up there," as he points towards to the dimly visible rafters several stories above.

  "What'ya mean?"

  "There are penthouse apartments up there, man! David and some of the people who work here live up there."

  "Where?"

  "See, up there, around the sides, you can see the balconies. Never been all the way up there myself but I know that on the top floor there are apartments opening out onto the balcony. If you look, you can see the same on the lower floors but there are no apartments there, just offices, or so the story goes."

  "How do you get up there?"

  The geeky bartender in the black T-shirt eyes Mike suspiciously and begins typing on his keyboard. Quickly an invisible infrared targeting laser and then several unseen cameras focus on Mike.

  "Oh, see that door over there, down at the south end of the wall beyond the main entrance? There's a freight elevator behind it. You go up that way."

  Mike shouts over the sound system, "Here, let me buy you a drink and tell me more."

  The guy at the console scans Mike's fingerprint taken from a used glass and begins processing it against a database along with the data from Mike's driver's license captured by the bouncer at the door. After a few minutes he text messages the results through the club's encrypted wireless network to others around the dance floor and to David, who's sitting at the main control console in a massive computer room on a floor above. David scrutinizes the images being captured by the security cams.

  Mike plies Steve for information for the better part of an hour and three double gins and tonic until suddenly he hears a great roar behind him. He turns to see an explosion of pyrotechnics and Mylar glitter shoot from air guns. Over at the far side of the club, people are jumping up and down, cheering and waving. The sound system plays a brassy fanfare as Mike asks his new and somewhat drunk acquaintance, "What's going on?"

  "That's probably David," Steve shouts, "He usually makes an appearance around now to introduce the bands."

  A huge gong sounds and a cloud of theatrical smoke billows twenty feet into the air. First to emerge from the cloud are three women in their early twenties who sprinkle the path with multi-colored Mylar petals as David, bowing theatrically from one side to the other, follows. The crowd screams.

  David, dressed in a black shirt and jeans, has short reddish blond hair, thin, on the tall side, about six foot three. While the flower girls toss their last petals in his direction, with sweeping bows, they withdraw behind the dark velvet curtains.

  David faces the applauding crowd as shrill whistles pierce the smoky air. He holds a wireless microphone to his mouth and says, "Okay people, we got a little snow storm outside so we need to make our own little storm inside. We've got a great group here tonight, all the way from Kansas City and if it doesn't stop snowing, they may be here until April so I hope you like'em. I want you to welcome for their first trip to Omaha and their first Nebraska blizzard, the incomparable Prairie Mayhem!"

  The crowd screams their approval in return. David waves his arm low as the members of the band jog on stage taking bows. They plug in their instruments to the stage amps and spend a minute t
uning up. Then the lead singer takes the microphone and says, "Hello Omaha! Hello cold, snowy Omaha! Are you ready for some hot Rock & Roll?"

  The crowd cheers, claps and whistles its assent. David trots off the stage. The building shudders as the first guitar cords burst forth from the speakers both on the stage and suspended from girders above. The lasers, keyed to the sound system, splay thousands of colored pencil thin beams in the vault above creating a luminous canopy of light. After more belches of pyrotechnics and several more Mylar confetti blasts, the evening's entertainment commences.

  David makes his way over towards the bar shaking hands and saying hello to some of the regulars. At the other end, Mike takes leave of his seriously drunk new friend who's clutching the bar for balance and looking like a deer staring down a Peterbilt. He threads his way through the crowd.

  David and Mike went to a private college near Chicago. David was from east Tennessee and had one of those curious, Elizabethan southern drawls. He was pre-med. Mike grew up in eastern Iowa, near Dubuque. David is a bit taller than Mike. David had long hair then, the same pale white complexion characteristic of his tribe, and thin. Not much has changed except the length of the hair, Mike summarizes. They met during freshman orientation and were good friends the next four years. Mike lost touch with David after they both left college. The last Mike could remember was that David was in medical school in St. Louis while he looked for a job as a reporter.

  As David spots Mike, he does an abrupt but insincere double-take, thrusting his arms to each side and shouting, "Hey Mikey? Mike McAneas? Is that really you?"

  They converge and shake hands as David continues, "I can't believe it! How the hell are you man? What'ya you up too? How did you get here? How did you find me?"

  "Hey, David! It's been a while. I see you've lost your fear of crowds," replies Mike smiling.

  "Well, sort'a, still get a bit nervous every time I introduce a band," says David. "Come on down to the end where it's a bit quieter, I think the band's trying to shake the snow off the roof. They may succeed."

  They head towards the south end of the bar, back near the computer pulpit. David says to Mike, "You still drink scotch?"

  "But of course."

  David turns to the geeky bartender in the black t-shirt and says, "Hey Todd, how about glass of scotch over here, the good stuff." Then turning back to Mike he says, "So, dude, what'ya been up to? What brings you to the Riviera of the Midwest?"

  "Ahh, I came here for the surf boarding?"

  "More like snow boarding, if you can find a hill."

  "Yeah, well, maybe it was snow boarding. There are some gnarly drifts out there."

  "Yeah, totally tubular, and the frostbite is free."

  Todd, the guy in the black T-shirt, brings the drink and places it on a white napkin and says, "Here ya'go," then returns to his computer terminals.

  David steels a quick look at Todd and raises his eyebrows momentarily then pulls out a pack of cigarettes, taps it so about three pop up and offers them to Mike saying, "Still smoking?"

  "Ahh, right again. Old habits die hard," as he pulls one out, puts it in his mouth and begins to feel around his pockets for his lighter. Retrieving it, he flicks it open and lights both.

  "So, again, what brings you to Snow-maha? People don't often make surprise visits during blizzards."

  Mike puts the lighter back in his pocket and says, "Omaha? I came to Omaha for my health."

  "What do you mean health? We're in the middle of a freaking blizzard on the prairie. No one comes to Omaha for their health, at least not in January. What's the real story?" he says frowning a bit.

  "Well, I'm kind'a in a little bit of trouble and sort'a hiding from some people who would prefer to see me little on the dead side of the ledger. That kind of health."

  "Ohh?" says David with a new level of interest.

  "Yeah. So, I figured I needed to disappear for a while and this might be the best place to disappear to. Geez, who the hell would look for anyone in Oma-haha, for Christ's sake?"

  "Well, you found me here. So, tell me, have you finally discovered your true calling in life and run off with a mob boss' daughter or something?"

  "Ahh, no, not exactly. He doesn't have a daughter but he does have one hell of a bad temper."

  "Oh?" says David raising his eyebrows. Todd does too.

  "Yeah. Oh." says Mike, sheepishly.

  "I got a feeling we need to talk, right?"

  "That's probably a good plan," says Mike.

  "Come'on, let's go upstairs, it's a bit quieter and there's a few hundred fewer people hanging around," says David as he takes his drink from the bar, turns and says to Todd, "We'll be upstairs."

  Todd frowns and says, "Okay, are you sure?"

  "Yeah, it's okay. Better get ready for some sleepovers. I don't think any of these people are even gonna go through the motions of trying to make it home tonight."

  Todd nods and says, "Way ahead of you. We've already got the cots and blankets out of storage. They're stacked up out back and I'm thawing out stuff for breakfast."

  Mike follows as David leads him around the side of the club and over to the far corner door to the freight elevator. Pushing the heavy door open, they enter a large enclosed room. As the heavy steel fire door closes behind them, Mike hears the discrete clicks of bolts automatically sliding into place.

  On one side is an old wood-floored freight elevator the size of a bedroom. In its open cage, a single naked bulb hangs from its roof and swings slowly in the draft from above. The exposed walls are old pocked, rough red brick. On the other side is a sliding metal door to an outside loading dock. It hangs on wheels set in a greased track above and slotted to a metal rail below.

  The poorly insulated room is cold. The rising and falling wind outside rattles the heavy steel loading dock door. The squalls wail dissonantly through cracks between the steel door and the brick wall and combine with the muffled rumbles, thuds, and distant filtered notes of the band on the stage outside. Above the elevator cage, the shaft extends into darkness.

  "Right this way, if you please," says David jerking up the old worn wooden gate. As they step onto the elevator, the floor bounces slightly at their newly added weight. The gate drops behind them with a thud. Mike's eyes flicker about apprehensively. "Don't worry, it's safe," says David as he punches the top button on a worn old brass control panel.

  Solenoids clatter followed by the piercing whine of a large electric motor spinning up. The clutch engages, the floor lurches, the cage rattles and they're jolted upwards. Shadowed bricks and steel beams pass quickly in the dim light of the cage's single bulb until the motor quits and unseen metal brakes wrest the elevator to an abrupt halt. Mike staggers a bit in the sudden braking. David pulls the gate open and they exit onto an apex of balconies. Behind them, the gate drops with a bang. They walk over to the balcony and survey the dance floor far below.

  "What was that about sleepovers?"

  "Oh, the blizzard. They can get here but most of them won't be able to go home. This happens a couple of times a year. I think they look forward to it. That's why the place is so crowded. It's the big sleepover at Mo Rún. They know we bring out the cots and blankets and give'em breakfast in the morning. It's how they spend the big snow storms. Sometimes, I think I'm running a freaking homeless shelter."

  "Ahh, taking care of the neighborhood drunks?"

  "Neighborhood? Some of them drive half way across Nebraska when they hear there's a blizzard coming."

  The freight elevator is in the southwest corner of the building. On the fifth and top floor where it stopped, two long dark corridors lead off at right angles. A four-foot high brick walled balcony runs around the entire floor and overlooks the central dance floor far below. Above them are the wood rafters and the fairy lights. Along the corridors, are a few dark solid doors. The floor and walls are polished brick. Dim spotlights recessed into the ceiling every 10 feet or so shine soft yellow circles on the red brick floor.

 
Mike looks down upon the dancing throng. The music at this height resounds in the echoes of the cavernous vault below. In the dancing colored lights, the floating metallic plastic petals swarm in unseen drafts of air. As the band thunders out an old ballad, the crowd sways to the rhythms of the music. He's momentarily spellbound by the scene of light and motion beneath.

  "Over here, to the right, there's my apartment," interrupts David.

  They walk about halfway down the corridor to the east until they come to an otherwise unmarked, solid, unlocked door which he pushes open and gestures for Mike to enter.

  The door quietly closes behind them. Mike stands at one end of an enormous dimly lit apartment, eerily quiet, given the ruckus below. It's a loft with a floor of polished stone and walls of uneven, old, red brick. Aged polished wood beams above conceal low wattage indirect lighting aimed upwards onto the ancient dark wooden angled roof above. The trussed rafters are two feet thick fastened together with hundred year old decorative wrought iron bars and braced with two-inch thick steel rods joined in heavy steel turnbuckles.

  To his left is a raised kitchen area with all stainless steel appliances and cabinets. A long burnished marble counter at one end juts out perpendicularly from the far wall. Along it are set high wooden chairs with low backs.

  To his right is a dark sitting area with three long low white leather and chrome couches arranged in a U-shape facing the southern wall. In the center of the couches, is a great dark, polished inlaid wooden table. Incandescent pools of pale light descend from opaque dark shades upon the tops of crystal columned lamps with silver bases sitting in the centers of dark parquet wooden end tables. Upon the tables are ashtrays and bowls of heavy glittering cut crystal.

  Against the southern brick wall is a great flat HDTV fully eight feet wide and four and a half high. Below the screen sits a long, low, glassed doored cabinet full of electronic equipment where many red, yellow, blue and green LEDs strobe silently to unseen signals. The silent screen displays several windows with scrolling news feeds and others with maps and some with security cam shots of the club below.

  Further down to the west, the room is dark. A ten foot stretch of wall is covered from floor to ceiling with dark drapes. In front of these is a concert sized polished black grand piano lit by one tiny pin spot attached to a rafter above. Beyond the living room, a hallway recedes into darkness.

  David flips a hidden switch. To the low hum of an unseen motor, the drapes begin to part revealing a panoramic window across half the far end of the wall. From the roof, floodlights shine on the street below. In the gathering storm, billows of snow swirl in tiny cyclones as the wind rolls off the roof above. A few lights are faintly visible from the nearby interstate, mainly the yellow strobe lights of the highway crews making futile efforts to keep the drifts at bay.

  Pulling a bottle of expensive scotch from a cabinet near the door and handing it to Mike, David says, "Here, go make yourself comfortable while I get some ice and soda."

  Mike walks over and sits on the couch facing east towards the kitchen where David fetches a bucket from a cabinet. He fills it with ice cubes from the freezer half of the big stainless steel refrigerator. Opening the other side, he grabs a couple of bottles of soda water. Returning to the living room area he arranges these on the large central table then grabs a couple of ashtrays from the end tables and places them on the table too.

  Mike looks up and says, "Glasses?"

  "Oh, yeah, I usually just drink right from the bottle. I guess you want to do it the formal way, right?"

  "Clean glasses, please?"

  "Geez, we're getting picky in our old age."

  David returns and tosses him a hundred dollar Irish cut crystal chalice which Mike bobbles a few times before getting a firm grip. "Will that do?" He sprawls on the couch to Mike's left, facing the big screen.

  "Very nicely, thank you. I'm suitably impressed. You can pass the bottle now."

  David scoops some ice for himself, pours the scotch then pushes the bucket, scotch and the soda water across the table. He opens his soda water and mixes it with the scotch.

  "Thanks. And how's the cigarette supply?"

  David opens a drawer and extracts a pack and tosses the pack to Mike saying, "By the way, you hungry or anything?"

  "Yeah, I could do with some food, I've been on the road most of the day. Not a lot of dining options beyond some really bad convenience store crap."

  "What'ya want? We got twenty different kinds of pizza downstairs."

  "Pizza it is. Just no anchovies."

  David pulls out his cell phone, punches in a couple of digits and says, "Hey Todd, can you send up a couple a pizzas? Yeah, everything except anchovies. It seems refugee boy here hasn't eaten today. Thanks." and flips the phone shut. "It'll be here in a few minutes."

  Taking an ashtray from the table and putting it next to him on the couch, he leans back, puts feet up on the central table and lights a cigarette, and, head back, inhales deeply. Then, in an exhaled billow of smoke, asks, "So, what the hell's up? Who wants you dead?"

  "Well, at the moment, one person in particular. The main drug lord for this part of the country. Seems he doesn't like me anymore."

  "Anymore? He used to like you?" says David, his eyes open saucer wide.

  "Yeah, I was his best boy."

  "Then you do drugs?" says David as he glances quickly at a small green LED under a tiny lens just above the big screen.

  "No, I spy on drug dealers and expose them. I'm a reporter now."

  "Geez, you had us, er, me worried there."

  "Yeah, well it worries me too. I've been working undercover for a news network."

  "And I suppose this makes the drug people unhappy?"

  "Very unhappy. I got a bullet pocked car down the street to prove it."

  "Nice. Bet it'll be a bitch to explain to the insurance company."

  "It's not insured."

  "So, this explains you're snowy trek to Omaha?"

  "Yep. So it does. How the hell did you end up here? Didn't you go off to med school?"

  "Yeah, for a while but right now I and the rest of the crew are more interested in your story right now."

  "The rest of the crew?"

  "Yeah, you've been watched from the minute you got within 100 feet of here. When we swiped your ID, you weren't in our database. Then you started asking questions. That triggered some interest. Now they have a few questions of their own."

  "Questions? You mean that Smith guy at the bar?"

  "Yeah, he works for me. He tipped off Todd, the guy in the black t-shirt who immediately put a mic and a camera on you. By now, he and the others have probably collected and sequenced your DNA not to mention captured every shred of online data you've ever generated."

  "Who? What others?"

  "My colleagues. The nosy ones who are watching and listening to every word we're saying right now," says David as he points to the green LED over the screen. "That's a camera and it's on."

  "So you knew I was here before you came on stage?"

  "Yep. I was watching you from the control room downstairs."

  "So why the big what a surprise act?"

  "They didn't know who you were and I didn't know why you were here. We don't get a lot of social calls in a blizzard."

  "Okay. Now I'm the one who's a little worried."

  "Don't be. Todd just texted me a message saying you check out okay," says David as he slips his cell phone back in his pocket.

  "I don't understand?"

  "You will."

  A moment later there's a knock at the door, David shouts, "Come on in, it's open."

  Todd, the geek in the black t-shirt, comes in with two pizzas trays and a couple of napkins and some knives and forks and says, "Here ya'go. Thought I'd bring it up myself." He places them in the middle of the coffee table.

  "So, curious are we?" say David sarcastically.

  "Who me? Just being social," answers Todd.

  "Or got tired of watching
on the web cam."

  "That too."

  David says, "Go get yourself a drink and sit down. Like I have a choice, right?"

  "No, you don't, actually. I see you're using Mary's glasses?"

  "Yeah, don't break'em or she'll kill me."

  Mike gets up and shakes hands with Todd saying, "My name's Mike McAneas, I'm an old friend of David's, so to speak."

  "Nice to meet you. I feel like we've already met. Actually, in fact, I already do know you. We scanned your driver's license at the door and I've already done a cross check on you with the Iowa DMV, downloaded your college transcript, and hacked your email account. Nice GREs, by the way, you should'a gone to grad school. Oh, one more thing, they over charged you at that motel down the street."

  "How'd you know about the motel?" says Mike.

  "The motel? I hacked your credit card records and your bank account too, for that matter. Still working on that DNA sample we collected off your drink glass but we did get a good set of fingerprints."

  "Geez, I see what you mean about being watched."

  "Right," says David. "But we do take security around here pretty seriously."

  Sitting down and pulling a slice of pizza, Mike says, "Who's Mary?"

  Todd says, "Mary is David's bundle of joy and master of discipline."

  "Keep it up and I'll tell her what you said."

  "Ha!" says Todd as he flops back onto the couch opposite Mike and adjacent to David. "So? Okay, I'm ready, start talking. What were you saying about drug lords?"

  Just as Mike begins to speak, the door swings open and in walks Mary Murphy, one of the waitresses Mike remembers seeing earlier.

  Mary is about 27. She's in a dark purple microfiber pants suit with a wing-collar jacket, side slits, turned-up cuffs, shoulder pads and princess seams. Under the jacket she wears an open collar black silk blouse with an elaborate embroidered Chinese dragon design in threads of bright red, blue, and yellow. Around her neck and wrists hang several heavy gold chains. From her ears dangle clusters of thin gold strands bearing tiny diamonds. On her hands are several rings with glittering stones of many colors.

  "That's Mary," whispers Todd. "Don't piss her off."

  "Quiet you. I already heard that master of discipline remark. You're on thin ice," she commands as she strides into the kitchen, opens a cabinet, surveys the contents, then reaches up and pulls down a $100 bottle of merlot. Grabbing a crystal wine glass and a bottle opener, she saunters into the living room area.

  She says, "Don't mind me boys. The reception was bad. Todd, let's replace some batteries, okay? I could barely make out what you people were saying," as she tosses successively the bottle and opener to David. He snatches them from mid air, nearly dropping his cigarette. She sits on the couch next to him. He dutifully opens the bottle and fills the glass which she casually offers then lights her cigarette.

  In a slight brogue she announces, "I'm Mary Murphy as you no doubt know."

  "Happy to meet you," replies Mike as he leans over and shakes her hand.

  "Okay, the formalities are over, you can start talking now. I'm ready," she says taking a generous sip of the wine and then swings the glass back towards David for a topping-off.

  "Don't mind her, she'll lose interest in a minute and go chat-up some shopping channel," says David.

  Mary gives him a withering gaze as he propitiates her with another topping off.

  "And you, hush-up if you know what's good for you," she pronounces imperiously.

  "Actually, maybe I should put this on a pod cast. Where the hell is Lance?" says David.

  "He's working out the security for the pajama party downstairs," says Mary.

  "Well, he'll just have to watch the replay. All right already. Begin," says David

  "Am I being recorded?"

  "Yes."

  "You people really do worry me."

  "And rightly so, now start."

  "After college, I got admitted to a few graduate journalism programs but didn't have the money to go. Then my parents died. In the space of about two months, that was it. I was really on my own. My parents didn't have much, just an old, beat-up car."

  "Sorry, man, I didn't know."

  "No problem, it's not your fault. Anyway, I applied for some jobs as a reporter but with newspaper circulation dropping like a rock, there weren't any to be had. So, I moved just outside Des Moines and got a job at a gas station and convenience store. Not really my dream position but it paid the rent on an old farmhouse that I called home. I thought I might be able to write freelance or something. I sent out a lot of manuscripts. Got a lot of rejection letters back. There I was, 26, and going nowhere until one weekend I got the idea of going down to Des Moines and blowing my savings, about thirty dollars, on some bars. My big night in the big city. Living out in the sticks doesn't present much in the way of social opportunities. So, into Des Moines go I in my old car for a night of serious bar hoping, up to a thirty dollar limit."

  Mike lights another cigarette and then continues, "But that was where my problems began, more or less. You see, there was this news crew in town from one of the cable news networks, ANN, to cover the run up to the Iowa Caucuses. I got to talking with one of their producers, a guy named Jim Monroe. He remembered a piece I'd sent them earlier in the year. He said he liked it a lot but they couldn't buy it due to budget limits. Then he said he had something, though, if I wanted it, but was potentially dangerous. I said that pumping gas in a small town in Iowa is dangerous too, to your career. He laughed and then told me what he was up to."

  "It seems they wanted to do an undercover investigative report on drug dealing nationwide and, in particular, in St. Louis, a king pin in the Midwest drug trade, smuggling, distribution, the whole thing. They especially wanted a segment on methamphetamine production and traffic in the U.S., with a concentration on the meth labs in rural America. They wanted angles on the corrupting effect it was having and the impact of smuggled Mexican crystal meth after the crack down on OTC pseudophed and the overall distribution system from the top down to the street dealer. Meth certainly had been a problem in Iowa. He said he wanted me to try to infiltrate the St. Louis based organization since I looked the small town Iowa guy part, street-wise, that is. I wasn't sure I appreciated that part. Anyway, I agreed and met him again secretly for the next week as he filled me in on what they had so far."

  "So, long story, short, I made some contacts. One thing led to another and soon I found myself very much on the inside and feeding stories and details to Joe at ANN. At first, I was mainly doing small time errands around Des Moines but it wasn't long before I was working closely with the boss of the whole show for Iowa, Missouri and Nebraska!"

  "Once on the inside, I and my computer geek girl friend, who has a singular talent for hacking computer networks, systematically infiltrated all levels of the Midwest cartel. For the past year we've collected data on every facet of their production, distribution, and money laundering. We have the data that will, when published, wreck havoc on the organization, especially its management, so to speak."

  "So what happened? How did the early retirement program cut in?" says David.

  "We'll see, a few days ago, my cover got blown. They found out about my connection with ANN. It seems they had their own investigative program and they were particularly interested in ANN since it seemed to have too many inside details. One of their people who worked inside ANN found my name on some internal email and put two and two together. This morning I got a call on my cell phone from a guy in St. Louis whose ass I saved last year. He told me about the email and suggested that it might be best if I got the hell out of town, real soon."

  "When I got his call, I was at a farm east of Des Moines where we still cooked some local product. I jumped into the car and headed for my house figuring to grab a few things then split. I didn't need to be told twice. As it turns out, being at that farm on the east side of town probably saved my life, since it meant that my route home was from the east rather than th
e west as would be the case normally."

  "When I got to my house, it had been ransacked and torched. I guess they were looking for any files I might have had, any evidence I might have had on them. They didn't find anything, of course, everything is on my laptop and backed up on a file server out west and other places."

  "Ah! Good thinking," says Todd nodding.

  "You mean there's something of mine you haven't hacked?"

  "We're working on it. It'll take a few more hours."

  "So, as I said, when they didn't find anything, they torched the place anyway, just to be sure, I guess. All I salvaged was the stuff in my trunk, my laptop, a few notes and a gym bag of old clothes."

  "Not good," says David. "I've seen your wardrobe on a good day."

  "I'll ignore that. But, basically, I lost everything and it's not going to be easy replacing all those cheap Chinese made shirts and pants from DisountMart or my eclectic collection of farm foreclosure auction furniture," quips Mike, wryly. "Bottom line, however, I do have my laptop and some other secure copies."

  "Why don't you just dump what you have to the police?" asks Todd.

  "Well, a couple of reasons, actually. First, I work for ANN and my obligation is to see that they get the story. Kind of a professional thing. Secondly, I want credit for this. It's been a lot of risky work and I'd kind'a like to see my by-line on the result. And, anyway, the police have their own issues. There's a lot of mob protection money out there. There's no guarantee there'd be any action as a result and it might give the bad guys time to cover their tracks."

  "Then, why not just let ANN have a copy of your data? Then you won't be as much of a target," says Todd.

  "I don't want to contact ANN right now because I don't know who might read my stuff there, you know what I mean? It's too risky. There's at least one mole there. Who knows how many? If they get hold of my raw files, there are people who might pay a price because they talked to me, like that guy in St. Louis who gave me the tip that they were on to me. If I tell ANN where I am or what I've got, that might tip off the mob and let them start covering their trail. You see, this is just the first of a series and I don't want them to know what might come in the next installment. No, I just need a little time to get this data organized, then begin the release in a way that will do the most damage."

  "Yeah, I guess you're right. So, what have you got, actually?" says David.

  "I have all their computer files. Every last one of them. I scanned every bit of paper that came my way, made notes on every phone call, every name, telephone number. Copied every computer file I had access to and I had access to lots. I scanned everything since I figured from the beginning that I had better not leave physical evidence of what I was doing for anyone to find and, like I said, I don't want the data to fall into the wrong hands."

  "Yeah, but wouldn't you be just as screwed if they got your laptop?" says Mary.

  "Every thing's in a hidden password encrypted volume, so even if they got the laptop, they wouldn't be able to read them."

  "Yeah, but they'd see the encrypted files and get the password out of you, one way or another," says Mary.

  "No, I said it was a hidden volume. Yeah, the main volume is encrypted but there's a hidden volume within it that's at a second level of encryption. Totally invisible. So, if get a password from me and still find nothing except some decoy files with nothing that would interest them. And, it's all protected with 256 bit AES encryption. I'm pretty secure."

  "That'll work," says Todd. "Just don't forget the password."

  "I've got a failsafe procedure. There's a second server out west which, if it doesn't get a signal from me in more than a month, will mail the password and the location of the first server to some key people. And, anyway, I'm not the only one who knows about it."

  "So, tell us more about what happened back in Iowa," says Mary.

  "While picking through the remains of my house, I spotted a car rushing towards me down the county road. That's when I realized they had been waiting for me at the other end of the where I would normally have passed when going home."

  "How did they know you came back the other way?"

  "Oh, when you drive those gravel roads you kick up a lot of dust. In those flat fields, it's visible for a long way off. They must have seen my dust cloud and, when no car came their way, figured I'd come back from the east side. When I saw them coming, I decided that it was probably time to get out of Polk County."

  "Sensible move," offers Todd.

  "They chased me towards the main highway but I managed to slip ahead of a freight train at a grade crossing. They weren't so lucky. The bastards are buried under a few thousand tons of smoldering freight at the moment. I expect the wreck probably made the national news tonight. Train wrecks interest people. Probably interested some people in St. Louis too."

  "So, I figured it was time to visit Omaha. You're one of the few people this side of the Mississippi I could trust. I got here a few hours ago, just as the snow was beginning to come down heavy. Got a room at that motel down the street. I sort'a figured, seeing as I'm temporarily without accommodations, I'd ask if you'd help me find a place to hide out for a while until I can sort things out a bit. But if you can't, I'll understand. Seems I'm a bit of a hot commodity at the moment. Basically, I'm scared shitless. Never had too many shots taken at me before today."

  "Don't worry about it, you get used to it, believe me," says Mary.

  "Yeah, some people have more experience in that category. But, no problem, you can stay right here. I got plenty of room," said David.

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah, it's no problem. What's one more homeless person around here, anyway?" says Mary as she hands David the glass yet again.

  "One more tiny, detail. My girl friend who was working with me on all this. She is, or was, in Columbia, Missouri attending some computer conference. She did all the computer work for me. We were living together at that farmhouse."

  "Where is she now?" asks David.

  "I'm not sure. After the train wreck I called her and told her what happened. I was gonna drive down there and pick her up but she insisted that I come here instead. She said she didn't want to wait five hours to find out if the head drug lord would send someone from St. Louis to get her too. She said she'd get here on her own. So, basically, I have no idea where she is."

  "Can't you phone her?"

  "Not really. She made me shut down my phone and she did the same with hers. I guess she's on the road."

  "Must be. When do you expect her here?"

  "She said tomorrow night, late, she said she'd meet me here."

  "Okay, we'll have the people downstairs keep a look out for her."

  "Her name's Jessica Gannon. Here, I've got a picture of her," as he pulls out his wallet and hands David a small snapshot.

  "Wait a sec, I'll scan it," says David as he goes over to a scanner on top of the cabinet beneath the big screen and scans the image. The snapshot appears in a window on the screen. "Todd, see that everybody sees this?"

  "You bet."

  "Any idea why she said she won't be here until late tomorrow night?" asks Mary.

  "She didn't have a car with her. I guess she has some plan to try catching a ride with someone headed this way, I don't know. I hope she's all right. You don't think she actually tells me anything, do you?"

  "Join the club," says David looking crossly at Mary.

  "The less you know, the better," Mary shoots back.

  "See what I mean?"

  "Anyway, before these two start throwing things, tell me, where's your laptop now?" asks Todd, changing the topic.

  "I locked it in the trunk of my car which is buried under a snow drift by now, I expect," says Mike. "I can get it in the morning but I think it's safe right now."

  "Laptop abuse! We'll need to warm it up slowly. The poor thing will be frozen solid," says Todd.

  "But, one more question, how the hell did you find me? I keep a pretty low profile," says David. r />
  "Oh geez, that wasn't hard. I am a reporter you know. Finding things out is what I would like to do for a living. I knew you always posted to that science fiction Internet newsgroup under the name of aliendave. So, I went through the group archives online and found some recent posts of yours. Jessica pulled the IP number from the headers and traced it. She said it was a fixed IP address in Omaha. From there it wasn't much of a problem to look up the domain registration which had a company name and this address, your company, we assumed. We even looked at this place on a satellite map."

  David laughs and says, "Wow, clever dude, I didn't think those posts would point back here. I'll have to use proxies in the future. I guess you really are into investigative reporting. And, you've learned something about computers since I last saw you. All you did with a computer back in college was play video games."

  "I still play video games."

  "Mike, sorry about the security thing. We just need to be careful. I'll explain later. But, right now, there's an empty apartment just like this one down the hall. You and Jessica can have it as long as you want it. You can work on your story all day if you don't mind the couple of hundred drunks downstairs every night."

  "So, does anyone at ANN know you're in Omaha?" asks Todd.

  "I called Joe Monroe on my way over here from a pay phone to tell him that my cover had been blown and that it was an inside job. But I didn't say where I was going. I told him I was heading west at the time and to keep quiet. I said I'd contact him when I felt it was safe to do so."

  "Do you have any idea who at ANN might have found you out?" asks David.

  "Nope, no idea. I really don't know anyone there. Malone was my contact. Everything was hush-hush, supposedly. I don't know how they found out."

  "On your way over, did you use any credit cards besides at the motel?" asks Todd.

  "Yeah, sure, I didn't have much cash."

  "Did you make any cell phone calls?"

  "Yeah, as I was leaving Des Moines, like I said, I called Jessica, why?"

  "Those things can be traced," says David.

  "Oh-oh. But she told me to shut the phone down and I did. She said that would help."

  "Yeah, good. Keep it off. Let's hope they haven't hacked your bank account like I have," says Todd.

  "It's probably not a good idea for you to be out on the streets, just in case. Todd will have some of the guys go over to the motel in the morning and check you out, get your stuff and bring your car here."

  "I didn't think about the credit cards. If they can infiltrate ANN, I guess they can buy their way into just about any organization."

  "Exactly right, that's how they do it, and they use a pretty potent currency," says Todd.

  "So, how long were you doing this?" asks David.

  "Pretty close to a year. That's why I've got so much on them. Gigs of data. I kinda purloined the family jewels, as it were. Not just the St. Louis mob, but I've got something on just about every crime family in the country, you name it, from the El Salvadoran drug gangs in East Boston to the Mexican cartels that import the stuff. I know where most of the distribution points are, how it's handled, who handles it, everything. I even discovered a deal between the Mexican drug gangs and Al Qaeda to smuggle in terrorists and weapons. After all, who better to handle shipping than the people who regularly import thousands of tons of contraband right under the noses of ICE. The DEA already knows about this and so does Homeland Security but they've kept it secret from the public."

  "Oh, I bet a lot of people want you!" says Todd.

  "How much do you think your drug lord friend knows? Does he know how much you've got?" says David.

  "Well, I don't know, of course but I'll bet they're thinking real careful-like right now about what work I did and for whom. I'm assuming there's a lot of soul searching going on in St. Louis right now."

  "Yeah, I'll bet there is. Question is, who else knows? Just your bosses in St. Louis or others," says David.

  "Hard to tell, really."

  "Because, if it's just the St. Louis operation, there'll be just one desperate drug lord after you. My guess is that he won't want his colleagues to know what happened. He'll pull out the stops. On the other hand, if the whole damned drug network knows, they're all gonna be coming after you from every freaking direction," says Todd.

  "Either way, you're gonna be sought after," says David.

  "Can't argue with that," says Mike.

  "Good! Now come on and I'll show you the spare apartment. There's some clothes in there that might fit you for the time being. Seems we end up with a lot of abandoned clothing around here. It's a regular charitable depository some weekends. Todd, you start sniffing around and see if there are any signs that they've traced Mike here. I'll be back in a minute."

  "You got it. Mike, you got your cell phone with you?" asks Todd

  "Yeah, why?"

  "Do you use it to call people in the drug organization?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  "Let me dump its memory then you can tell me which numbers are drug related. Then I can tower track the ones that are cell phones and see if any are headed this way."

  "Sure, here it is," says Mike as he reaches in his pocket and pulls out his phone.

  "Okay, people, I need to go downstairs and check on the arrangements for tonight. Don't get rowdy or anything, at least not until I get back," says Mary as she places her glass on the table, gets up and heads for the door.

  David says to Mike, "You ready?" They get up and follow Mary out of the apartment. At the elevator, Mary pulls down the gate and waves to them as she hits the button for the ground floor.

  Mike and David continue down the west side corridor as the band and crowd roar on the floor far below. At the first door David says, "This is it." He opens the door and they enter another large apartment same as David's but with a westerly facing view.

  Mike takes one look at it and says, "Geez, this is nice! It looks pretty much the same as yours?"

  "Yep, they all are. It's all yours. Check the closets in the bedroom, I think that's where they've been storing the better droppings, after they've washed them, that is. When we get enough, we send them over to the Salvation Army along with a cash donation. Not exactly sure what they do with a lot of club clothes but I guess there's a lot of homeless dressed to party in Omaha."

  "I think some of them party too much as it is."

  "Ahh, I think that may be so. If you want to wash up, go ahead. Sorry I don't have a key, we don't much need them up here. Not a lot of public access. The elevator has closed circuit cameras and no one gets up here without being observed and allowed to. When you're ready, come back over to my place."

  "Okay, but first, so I told you my story, what's yours? Why are you in Omaha running a bar with a lot of spy cams and wireless mics?"

  "Okay, sit down and I'll explain. So, yeah, I was in med school down in St. Louis. Did pretty well, nearly finished."

  "So what happened?"

  "Change in priorities."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I met this grad student my first year in a class I was taking on medical records. His name was Stan Jones. He was doing a doctorate in computer science and wanted to get into medical records software with a built-in artificial intelligence backbone so that it could be used to spot diseases, run treatment protocols, that sort of thing. I got interested too. I took a few courses in computer science and got more and more interested in data mining, artificial intelligence, Internet applications, all that sort of thing. After a while I realized that I was less interested in practicing medicine than in computer based medicine."

  "So then what?"

  "We started our own company. Internet based medical records with billing, insurance claim adjustments and a really insane AI engine. It made big improvements in patient outcomes. The insurance companies loved it. It cut costs for basic care by as much as forty per cent. I took a leave of absence from med school and worked on it full time."

  "Ya'know, I ne
ver thought of you as being very technical."

  "Yeah, but this stuff I got. So, things went well, I mean seriously well. After a couple of years we sold out to a consortium of insurance companies. So, by the age of 25, I quit med school and was seriously rich."

  "Explain rich."

  "Dude, you don't wanna know."

  "So how does all that explain Omaha? Weren't you in St. Louis? Where does this place come in?" says Mike gesturing at the apartment.

  "I stayed on in St. Louis after the buyout, had a big penthouse on Lindell Boulevard. Got involved in some civic things, the zoo, Shaw's Gardens, that sort of thing."

  "Anyway, Stan decided to get into local politics. Whatever they say, the remnants of the old Prendergast machine are still very much entrenched in both the city and the state. He started a crusade to crack down on organized crime, especially the big drug trade in the inner city which was spreading to the suburbs as well. That was gonna be his give-back. Politics wasn't my thing, but I agreed to help him out."

  "And problems ensued, as they say?"

  "Right. It wasn't long before he and I were on the wrong side of a lot of influential people, especially some people over in East St. Louis."

  "Oh, yeah, I know about East St. Louis. Been through there on the interstate. Drive quickly and do not stop."

  "Exactly. Did you know that the school committee there once hired a hit man to kill the superintendent of schools?"

  "Yeah, I've heard that story. Problem is, it's true."

  "Believe me, I know. Anyway, we started this campaign to clean up the city. The local powers that be, however, decided to do a little campaign of their own. They didn't want any interference in the local political scene and they didn't like what we were up to."

  "This was a surprise?"

  "Sorta. We were naive. So, long story, short, one night some of their thugs ambushed Stan in a parking garage downtown after a meeting he'd been at. I was supposed to be there too, but something came up at the last minute. He was the last to leave. In the empty garage, out of sight of any witnesses, he was attacked from behind. They stuffed the body into the back of an SUV."

  "How did you find this out?"

  "It turned out that there was a surveillance camera there. The garage owner didn't want to get involved so he concealed it at first. But the picture wasn't good enough to do a make on the attackers and the SUV was stolen."

  "Not good."

  "No. They took his body out to a secluded wooded area near Portage des Sioux along the Missouri River before it joins the Mississippi. They hacked the body to pieces, arms, legs, head, pretty grim stuff. Then dug a shallow grave, buried him and piled rocks to keep the spring floods from uncovering the corpse."

  "Holy shit!"

  "When Stan didn't show up for a few days, I tried calling his cell phone but it rolled over to voice mail, which was unusual. His maid said he hadn't come home for several nights. He hadn't said anything about going out of town. Finally, the police got involved but they were useless, mainly on the take themselves. Whenever I inquired, it was always, some tale, some new pretense, they daily coined."

  "Then one day, an old Mexican farm laborer appeared like a ghost on KMOX-TV. In broken English he said that he had seen some guys bury a body out near the Alton Dam. They had a camera crew on the site as the coroner's office dug up the body. They ID'd the corpse a few days later. It was Stan."

  "Geez, what did you do then?"

  "I guess I panicked. I figured, since I worked pretty close with him on his projects, I might be next. I didn't put much trust in the St. Louis legal system, a bit too marsupial for my tastes. Eagles may soar, but weasels don't get sucked into jet engines, ya'know?"

  "Got it, you got out'a Dodge."

  "Right, I put out some bullshit story that I was going on an around the world cruise. Instead, I loaded up the Jag and headed west, to seek a refuge in remote abodes, so to speak. A few manipulations of some bank records and some fake credit card transactions and as far as anyone could tell, I was on the high and surly seas."

  "Why Omaha?"

  "I knew a few people out here from my former computer company. Ya'know, Veni, vidi, velcro, I came, I saw, I stuck around. Seemed as good a place as any, at the time. Now I'm sort'a attached to the place."

  "Did they every catch who murdered Stan?"

  "Nope, the police never got anywhere. I don't think they were really too interested, anyway. A lot of people get killed in St. Louis in any given year. Mob hits are hard to trace, ya'know."

  "Yeah, I do, actually. So, you decided to stay here?"

  "Yeah, actually, path of least resistance. I kind'a like it though. I bought this old warehouse. Someone had renovated it into an office building with the big central atrium a few years back. They went belly up and I bought it and converted it to what you see. I always wanted to own a bar, you know. Must be the Irish in me. But it's a cop out. I should'a stayed in St. Louis and fought back. I wish I did but I didn't."

  "So, besides living upstairs from a saloon, now explain what's all this security stuff?"

  "This place is a bit more than meets the eye. You saw the dance club downstairs but on the upper floors, it's an office building. I have my own computer operation here. We do a lot of non-public research and development. The bar is sort of a hobby and a cover."

  "How's that?"

  "Mikey, you walked into a cyber-warfare ops center and started asking questions."

  "Huh? Cyber-warfare? Like what?"

  "Like terrorist group monitoring, tracing hidden sites and assets, data mining, industrial and sovereign espionage, propaganda, homeland security, infrastructure attacks, intrusion detection, DOS, that's Denial of Service, and associated counter measures, that sort of thing. Just the basics," says David with a mischievous grin.

  "This is getting complicated. Explain."

  "I got started mainly out of curiosity to see what could be done. There are a lot of naughty people out there and, with the way things are interconnected, the drug war, economic war, or the next world war will probably be fought in cyber space. We build weapons and defenses for that war."

  "You and who else?"

  "Two of my main partners live up here on the top floor in apartments like this one. The offices and some of the computer and communication equipment are on the middle floors. From here, we can access and monitor just about any system, network or database in the world. You already met one of my partners, Todd."

  "So, what exactly does this involve? Who do you work for?"

  "Mainly, we have contracts with governments, multi-national corporations and large utilities. This is the main office but I have other sites around the world. We also have our own dedicated fiber optic network across the Pacific to Japan, China, Australia and India and the Atlantic to Europe, Israel and South Africa. I was able to buy these for next to nothing thanks to the dot-com bust. We also have a small private satellite network with optical and multi-band electromagnetic surveillance capabilities."

  "Huh? You own a satellite? A satellite? And I thought this was a bar. What are you, the NSA of Omaha?"

  "Actually, in a word, yes."

  "Anyone know about this place?"

  "We try to keep a low profile but it's not a well kept secret in the intelligence community."

  "Is it legal?"

  "Sure, why not? If some aerospace company can make missiles to take out the enemy, why can't we make software to do the same? Do you have any idea how dependent society is on technology right now?"

  "Well, sorta, I guess?"

  "I doubt it. In the United States alone there are over 14,000 airports, 20,000 airline flights a day, more than 12,000 miles of coastline, 300 seaports and 7,600 miles of land borders. Two million people a day and over two million rail cars, eleven million trucks, and six million shipping containers a year cross the borders. Do you know there are more than 9,000 miles of high voltage electrical transmission lines in New York and New England alone? All computer controlled. Man, ther
e are over 3 million URLs to drive-by malware download Internet sites alone. One zero pixel iFrame and you're on the way to bot-ville. Any idea what would happen if the wrong people got access to the wrong computers?"

  "Something bad?"

  "Bad indeed. Do you know that, a few years ago, the Slammer Worm got into the Davis-Besse nuclear plant and shut down all safety monitoring for five hours? That hackers got into the California ISO systems and nearly shut down all electricity for 50 million people?"

  "So, I should buy more batteries, and start wearing lead underpants?"

  "Dude, if some terrorist or script kiddie makes one of those nuke toasters go critical, a lead jock strap won't help."

  "It sounds like you know a lot of bad people too."

  "Only at a distance. Now get dressed and I'll see you later," says David as he gets up.

  "Well, let's hope all our bad guys keep their distance."

  "You got that right."

  "Let me take a shower. It's been a damned long day. I'll be down in a few minutes."

  "Check the linen closet over there. There'll be towels, soap, and all. I keep it stocked for out of town clients. The fridge should have some frozen dinners and the bar is well stocked. If you need anything else, dial 909 and Todd or who ever is at the console will have what you want sent up."

  David leaves and walks back to his apartment. Pausing at the door, he walks over to the balcony and looks down on the tumultuous scene on the dance floor below. More than a few in the crowd are on speed. He knows that crank, meth, crystal, ice, whatever you want to call it, in whatever form it's taken, snorted, smoked or injected, is now mostly cooked in Mexico’s methamphetamine production center in the former Tarascan lands of the state of Michoacan. From there, it's smuggled across innumerable border crossings into Arizona, Texas and California and then onwards through a vast distribution network run by Stan's killers.

  David easily spots the crystal freaks in the crowd below. Gaunt, wasted looks, sleepless frenetic activity, obsessions, fever, rapid heart rate, high blood pressure, hallucinations, paranoia, and bizarre, aggressive and psychotic behavior are the fruits of this plague.

  He realizes his world is a fantasy world. The real world is churning and writhing on the floor below. Stan believed in something. David believed in survival. Mike's plight is a second chance. David sees that it's time he rejoined the real world, not just look down at it from above. He knows he has the tools to be an unseen ghost in this crystal city of death and to destroy it from within.

  Startled from his thoughts, he hears a footstep from behind and sees a motion in the corner of his eye. It's Lance who says, "So, who's this friend of yours?"

  "I went to school with him. He's on the run, the drug cartel is after him. Seems he's been a mole in their organization for the past year, collecting a lot of incriminating data about them for a news network. His cover got blown. That train wreck in Iowa? That was them chasing him."

  "Really? Nice wreck!"

  "Yeah, and now he's here, scared and with nowhere to go."

  "So, what are you gonna do?"

  "No, what are we gonna do? We're gonna hide him and we're gonna help him. I think it's time I picked up where Stan left off."

  Lance gives him a thumbs up and says, "It's about freaking time, man. I was wondering how long you were gonna sit up here in this virtual reality and play stupid. There's a pretty mean real world down there, or hadn't you noticed?"

  "Yep, just did, actually. Maybe we can tidy up a little bit of it, what'ya think?"

  "Or we could just destroy parts of it, that works too, in many cases."

  "You, I worry about. Now go on in, Mike'll be back in a few minutes, he's taking a shower. Todd'll be coming back up in a minute too. The both of you should take his mind off his predicament," says David, gesturing to the apartment door.

  "Sure, But let me check on a few things first," says Lance as he scrutinizes the crowd below looking for any signs of trouble. Pulling out his cell phone, he pages several of his security people. They all report just a normal blizzard crowd, all planning to make an all-nighter of it, as usual. He tells them to be on the lookout for trouble makers and to be a little bit extra watchful tonight. There may be some extra people who might cause problems. Checking on the status of the cots, blankets and so forth, he has one of the guys double check the motor generator in case the power fails. At these temperatures, the place would very quickly drop below freezing if there were no power to run the heating system.

  Lance came from a small town near the South Dakota border. In high school, he was all-state in football and wrestling. But, it wasn't easy being the gay guy in a small Midwestern town. Life was tough. While Lance wasn't the kind of guy that got picked on, there wasn't much in the way of a social life. What few friends he had weren't very interested in being seen publicly with him. His parents more or less tolerated him. As a result of all this, he tended to be very loyal to his small circle of friends and developed a very scrupulous attention to detail.

  After high school, Lance went to U of N in Lincoln where he played football and majored in management. After college, he tried working briefly for an insurance company in Omaha but loathed the tedium of it. A year later, he went back to school at the U of N in Omaha. There, he received an MS degree in criminal justice and, subsequently, a Ph.D. in information technology. Following grad school, he started a successful information systems security consulting business. He met David at a bar late one night. David turned out to be straight but they kept running into one another and eventually became friends.

  At the time, David was up to nothing more challenging than hitting the clubs every night. He was filthy rich from the buyout of his startup company in St. Louis and had no specific goals beyond partying. Eventually, Lance convinced David to open his own club, it would be cheaper and easier than wandering around downtown Omaha at three in the morning trying to find his car. He also convinced David to get back into computer work which was the real purpose for the club, mainly a cover for their cyber warfare work. Todd, who had worked with David in St. Louis, quickly signed on. Lance and Todd are generally at each other's throats. Todd tends to win most of the verbal sparring. They actually like one another but neither would admit to the fact in public.

  Lance finishes his round of calls and says to David, "Things sound okay but given your new friend's appearance, I'm gonna make a quick walk around downstairs. I'll be back in a few minutes."

  As he says this, the elevator activates. A few seconds later, it lurches to a halt at the top floor. Lance pulls up the gate. Mary gets off and Lance gets on. He drops the gate and hits the ground floor button.

  Mary joins David at the balcony, looks down and says, "It's a busy night. So how's your friend?"

  "He's okay. He's taking a shower. He'll be back in a few minutes."

  "You and Lance got a plan?"

  "Nope, since when did I ever have a plan? We'll just play it by ear for the time being."

  "Right. Sounds about typical."

  "Yeah, look who's talking?"

  "Whatever. You know this is gonna get messy."

  "Well? What do you want me to do?"

  "Just what you're doing, honey. But this time, let's be a bit more careful. I don't want any repeats of the last time."

  "You know what they say, history repeats, first as tragedy, then as farce."

  Switching into a high brogue she in turn replies, "Well dearie, if it's farce you want, just you count on me."

  "I never doubted it for a moment."

  She kicks him in the shins and walks off.

  Time: 11 PM

  Mike is somewhat dumbstruck as he looks around at what can only be described as one of the great luxury lofts anywhere. The layout is the same as David's apartment except the big window faces west. Otherwise, same couches, tables, HDTV, kitchen, two large bedrooms, each with private bath. He enters the larger bedroom and walks into the cavernous closet.

  There, hanging in rows, are a few
dozen shirts and pants. Stacks of socks and underwear are on a shelf above, shoes on the floor below. He wonders about the underwear but it all looks freshly cleaned. The clothes are mainly club clothes but he finds some that might fit.

  He sits down on the bed and lights a cigarette. His hand still has a small tremor to it as he recalls the day's events and broods over his situation. He worries about where Jessica is. He worries about bringing his problems to David and his people. He wonders if he shouldn't have just kept driving west, out to Idaho or somewhere and hidden in some small town. But he's here now and they seem real nice.

  He gets a towel and some soap from the linen closet, strips and walks into the spacious tiled bathroom outfitted with hot tub, walk-in shower with more plumbing fixtures than a plumbing supply store.

  In the shower he tries all the settings: steam, massage, water from all sides, water spiral, and random jets. Finally, he figures he's done having poured most of the Ogalla Aquifer down the drain.

  Squeaky clean, he shuts down the valves and takes the towel from the heated towel rack and dries off. A high capacity ventilation system quickly draws all the vapor from the air while a laminar air flow system has kept the wall-sized mirror fog free.

  After trying on a few of the clothes, he picks a shirt, one with a minimum of sequins, glitter and decorative patterns and a pair of jeans. In fact, he notes, looking in the mirror, these fit and look better than the old pair he had on. He finishes dressing, combs back his long, wet hair and walks back down the hall towards David's apartment.

  Before knocking, he stops to look over to the balcony. As David did a few minutes before, he easily spots the speed freaks in the swarming scene below. That explains the underwear, he thinks to himself. Speed freaks are lamentably casual about the when, where, and whether of sex, especially in public places. However, maybe in a little while, because of what he's doing, there won't be as much of the stuff to go around. Some of those below may actually go straight. So, it's been worth it, even the train wreck. Now, maybe, things will go smoothly and he can hide out for a few weeks and put together his report.

  He turns to David's door, knocks and hears, "It's open, com'on in," shouted from inside.

  David's ordered a couple more pizzas with lots of different toppings. The big screen HDTV display is switched on. David is sitting on the couch opposite the big screen typing on a keyboard, Lance and Todd are on the couch to his right watching the display.

  "Just exactly how big is that thing anyway?" asks Mike who, mesmerized at the sight of the display in action, walks over to the empty couch to David's left and takes a seat.

  "The screen itself is about eight feet wide and about four and a half feet tall. They're specially made for big German Hauptbahnhof's. I bought a bunch of them last year when the Bundesbahn decided to renovate Bahnhof Dresden-Neustadt. They put the sets they'd ordered up for sale on an online auction site. I bought them and had them installed in all the apartments along with the big PCs you can see in the cabinet beneath the screen. It's all wired into the slide out drawers under the top of the table including these wireless keyboards and mice." replies David.

  Mike asks, "Two questions, what's a Bahnhof and what's the resolution?"

  David laughs and says, "Train station. And the resolution? Oh it's big, about 20480 by 11520. Had to have special drivers written for it."

  "Oh yeah, I'll bet. Whatever a driver is. Don't they call them engineers on a train?"

  "It's software that interfaces between the operating system and the hardware."

  "Nothing to do with trains?"

  "Nope. Nothing at all. I want you to meet Lance, Todd you met before," he says gesturing to Lance and Todd successively.

  "Hi Lance, glad to meet you. You don't play with trains too, do you?" says Mike as he walks around the table and shakes hands with Lance then picks up a plate, pulls a piece of pizza onto it and sits on the couch to David's left.

  Lance laughs and says, "No, I got other toys."

  "What are all these windows on the display?" asks Mike.

  "We're watching the news coverage on your escape from Des Moines. Seems you've upset a few schedules on the railroad, just a bit," says Todd.

  "Actually, quite a bit, I suspect," says David.

  "Right. That's a very busy train line, actually," says Mike. "I know, I used to hear the damn things blowing their horns at the grade crossing all night long. One of those locomotive horns can carry for ten miles out in the country. By the way, is pizza all you ever eat?"

  "Duh? This is a bar. What'd you expect? Soy burgers?"

  "No, pizza's fine as long as there's some burgers, fries and beer to go with it. Just the basic staples of a well balanced diet."

  David has opened several windows on the big screen. Each displays a different cable news network video feed and channel 5 from Ames. Some windows have color bars with network logos. A couple of others have Internet news sites and online wire services. One window has an aerial surveillance picture of the disaster taken earlier in the day shortly after the wreck occurred.

  "How can you receive TV from Ames this far away?" asks Mike, seeing the channel 5 logo.

  "They're doing a continuous C-band uplink loop to the networks from their local coverage," answers David.

  "What's C-band and what are the windows with the color bars?"

  "C-band is a 4 gigaHertz satellite communication frequency. The other main service is Ku-band, in the 11 to 18 gigaHertz range," says Lance. "I prefer C-band, less weather related interference due to wavelength issues."

  "But the birds are lower power," says David. Turning back to Mike, "Those are the national network internal satellite feeds. When they start their coverage, it'll show up in those windows."

  "Isn't that stuff normally encoded?"

  The guys laugh. Lance says, "Yeah, they think so. But we don't."

  "You mean you steal satellite signals?"

  "Hey, if it lands here, we own it," says Lance firmly.

  "Oh. How many dishes you got and where are they? I didn't see any when I came in but, then again, I could barely see the building itself in the snow."

  "You need to see my little roof top array. We got lots of dishes, C-band, Ku-band, big ones, little ones, uplinks, downlinks, most we camouflage so wandering photo satellites don't get too suspicious," brags Lance.

  "You got any missiles up there too?"

  "Not yet but he keeps saying he's gonna install some real soon," says Todd. "Personally, I think he already has. Don't really know what he's up to half the time."

  "I'm beginning to wonder about this place. Are you sure you're all on your meds?"

  "I take a bottle of them to bed with me every night," says David.

  "Right, no mixer?"

  "Spoils the effect."

  Mary rejoins them and resumes her position next to David on the central couch. He pours her another libation and lights her cigarette. She says, "So, that's your train wreck, honey? You really do know how to make a flamboyant exit, that much I'll say."

  "Yep, that was me, or, rather, Jack's guys chasing me. My old car beat the train, but theirs didn't. And, I would guess my friend in St. Louis is not too happy at the moment. I think he wanted a nice, tidy, quiet hit job, a little bit less on the national coverage and not quite so much rolling stock wreckage involved."

  The footage of the train wreck north of Des Moines from early that afternoon plays in several windows. A hundred freight cars on fire in a blizzard can be impressive. The wind has reached gale force and the snow is falling, if that's the term, horizontally. The wind fanned flames roar into the air and swirl in small tornadoes in the fog of white, brilliantly illuminated by large, truck mounted racks of highway construction floodlights. The emergency crews pull through the wreckage looking for bodies and attempt to staunch the fire. Bursts of flaming embers shoot skyward as small pockets of corn explode in the heat. Black sooty smoke pours from the ruptured tanks of the overturned diesel locomotives.

  "I
'm surprised the train derailed. It was just one SUV," says Mike.

  "Dude, it takes very little to pop a steel wheel off a track. I'm sure the cast iron engine block of that SUV was more than enough. The impact of it being hit would have mangled the rail. Once one carriage is off the line, the rest follow right along," says Lance.

  "Just how do you know that?" asks Todd.

  "Let's just say we did some experiments out in the country when I was a kid and leave it at that?" says Lance.

  David turns up the volume as an unseen announcer speaks over the videos of the wreck.

  "The engineer and the rest of the crew were unharmed," shouts the announcer above the buffeting wind. "They were in the forward locomotive when the derailment began and, as luck would have it, they were able to effect an emergency decoupling from the train behind. Not so for the occupants of the car that slid under the traction wheels of the huge diesel. At this time, there's no report on the occupants. The engineer said he saw four individuals but their car and bodies were buried under a massive mound of burning corn, coal and chemicals ignited by the explosion when their SUV's gasoline tank was ruptured by the south bound freight. It may be several days before the police and emergency services can identify the bodies. In the meantime, the blizzard now engulfing the upper Midwest is making recovery difficult. North-South railway operations through Iowa are seriously disrupted. Trains are being re-routed throughout the Midwest. The wreck came at a bad time for the railroad. This is the time of year when freight demand is highest as railways move grain to ports and coal is hauled east out of Wyoming and Montana. The effects of closing of this major north-south artery can be expected to soon cause serious disruptions throughout the central time-zone as coal shipments to utilities will be delayed just as a massive outbreak of arctic air descends upon the plains. Authorities are requesting industry and homes to conserve electricity as the railway networks attempt to recover."

  "I'm glad nothing happened to the engineers, I was wondering about that. Don't know how many people there normally are on a train like that. Not many I guess," says Mike over the sound.

  "Nope, pretty much all automated now. Those big diesels are all computer controlled," says Todd. "Nonetheless, they were lucky the derailment took place behind them. I wonder if those engines are set to automatically decouple when there's an emergency like that?"

  The scene changes to aerial footage shot earlier, before the storm began, in the gloom of the wasting winter day. It shows freight cars piled one on top of the other. The freight cars are spread across what seems like several acres and the fire rages fanned by the building gale of the impending storm.

  The announcer continues, "In the center of this smoldering scene, looking more like an Hawaiian volcano than a corn field north of Des Moines, are the now visible charred ruins of an SUV which the engineer says held four armed occupants, all dead from the crash. We can also report there was a recently burned farmhouse a few miles west of this scene and police suggest there is a connection between the two events. Interviews with the train crew confirm that there had been a car chase just prior to the crash. Shots were fired from the SUV at a car which made it across the grade crossing seconds before the SUV, according to the crew. The sheriff's department is speculating that it had something to do with a meth lab, perhaps at the burned farmhouse. Everything seems to point in that direction, they said. Federal officials have arrived from the NTSB because of the disruption to interstate traffic and they have since taken over the investigation. They speculate a possible terrorist connection."

  "Well, this news won't go down well in St. Louis. Like I said, they don't like messy hit jobs and that's one damned messy hit job," laughs Mike as he chomps on a dripping slice of pizza. "But, I don't suppose they'll be asking for a refund, under the circumstances."

  "No, I guess not. Dude, when you wreck'em, they stay wrecked. You made a lot of crows happy today. They'll be feeding on that mess for the rest of winter," says Todd.

  "Not to mention all that freshly cooked road kill. My pursuers looked well done. Crows, I have learned, are partial to cooked meat, ya'know."

  "No, I had no idea," David says sarcastically. "Any guess who your hit men were?"

  "Nope, just some hired guns, I think. Could'a been from any where. I never got a clear look at them and I didn't recognize their car. It's no big deal to put out a hit on someone, ya'know."

  "I'll have to make a note of that for future reference," says Mary.

  They then go back to watching the news feeds on various web services of his escape from Des Moines. Video of the wreck soon makes its way to video sharing and other download services. The governor of Iowa makes an appearance but the snow storm building from the west makes coverage increasingly difficult as satellite trucks must pull down their big uplink dishes. The building wind is rocking their trailers and they're losing focus on their relays in space. The old prairie wind-borne empire of the air closes down the electronic one.

  Todd returns Mike's cell phone and, pointing to a window he's just opened, says, "Okay, see that window over there? Those are the numbers I got from your cell phone. Which of those numbers are drug related?"

  Mike identifies the numbers that belong to people in the drug organization and Todd electronically puts a check mark next to each.

  Finally, around one o'clock, Mike says, getting up and stretching, "I gotta get some sleep. Wrecking a freight train makes you tired."

  "Okay, we'll see you tomorrow. Maybe you can take on an airline, or something," says David as he walks Mike over to the door.

  "Nah, barge traffic."

  As David opens the door, a wall of rock music thunders from below. Mike walks over to the balcony and looks down. He turns back towards David and says, "Still party time in Omaha, I see?"

  "It's always party time in Omaha, they just don't want to go out and face the snow. I guess we'll end up letting most of them sleep here tonight. Most of them couldn't drive even if they could figure out which drift their cars were in," shouts David over the cacophony below.

  "Probably right. Listen, David, I really appreciate you taking me in like this. Jay and I really have nowhere else to go. You don't know how much this means. I just hope I'm not getting you and your people involved in something bad."

  "Don't worry about it, we're glad you're here. As for the bad guys, they should be the ones to worry."

  "Yeah, I hope you're right. Okay, I'll see'ya tomorrow," says Mike as he staggers towards his apartment. As he does and once out of David's sight, he nearly breaks down, overwhelmed by the events of the day and his sudden change of fortune.

  "Yo, tomorrow," says David.

  Mary comes out and joins him, takes a drag on her cigarette and recites, "With us, one common shelter thou shalt find, Or in one common fate with us be joined."

  "Yep, that's about it," he answers looking over the balcony. It's near closing time and the speed freaks are even more obvious as a chill, dark night descends upon the city. David and Mary retreat to the apartment and shut the door.

  Back in the apartment, as Mary gathers up the plates and trays, David drops on the couch, lights a cigarette and says to Todd and Lance, "Well, what do we do now?"

  "Depends what you want to do," says Lance.

  "You know what I want, dammit. I just didn't think it would happen this way."

  "Well, how did you think it would happen? You knew someday you'd have to come to grips with how you dealt with Stan's death," says Mary.

  "You're right, I've been living in a dream world. I guess that ended tonight."

  "So, you're ready to fight back?" asks Todd.

  "You know that."

  "Well, we've been waiting for you to finally say it."

  "Well, there it is. We're in it now. Agreed?"

  "Agreed," says Mary, Todd and Lance together.

  Todd and Lance get up to leave. Mary says she's going to make one last check of things downstairs. David sits starring at the monitor showing a burning field of wreck
age.

  The building shudders. A significant gust, maybe eighty miles an hour, buffets the roof. The rafters flex and torque. The walls shake and the floors rumble until the fury of the storm finally dies in the tinkling of small shuddering things. Must be a Bandersnatch on the roof being frumious, he muses. He takes his bottle and himself to the bedroom.

  A few minutes later his apartment door swings open then slams shut. Mary joins him and says the storm sounds like the bean sidhe. David says he hopes not as he staggers back to the kitchen in his underwear and bare feet, ordered to fetch a fresh bottle of cabernet sauvignon and a plate of cheese and crackers. She Who Must Be Obeyed instructed him to go peel a grape.

  Time: 8 PM

  About the same time as Mike visits the club, a battered cell phone chirps an unrecognizable ring tone in a cheap motel room on the outskirts of Omaha. Bob McCarthy picks it up while his friend and partner, Tom Schaffer, reaches over for the remote and cuts the sound on the TV.

  "Yeah, Pete, no problem. Can't get out tonight, there's a blizzard. First thing in the morning. Right. We can do that. Yep. No problem. I'll get back to you." and hits END.

  Bob quickly writes an address on a pad of paper and says, "That was Pete. He wants us to go check out something tomorrow."

  "Where is he? Omaha?"

  "No, he's in Des Moines."

  "What's up? Why did he call us? I thought Joe pretty much handled things in Omaha."

  "Seems Mike McAneas has a problem with the organization. And, since Mike worked for Pete, he's Pete's problem, I guess. He doesn't want Joe involved at the moment," says Bob.

  "Mike? So what happened to him?"

  "I don't know but I guess he's on the run or something and Pete's looking for him real bad. He sounded seriously angry. We're supposed to go check out a lead first thing tomorrow. Mike's credit card was used at a motel near here. We're to go see if he's there. That means we get up early, I guess. The news said the storm would be over by morning. Want another beer?" says Bob as he heads for the cooler in the corner of the room.

  "Ya, how many we got left?"

  "Not enough, not nearly enough," says Bob.

  Tom laughs and says, "Story of our lives, man. Stuck in a snow storm and no beer. We do have cigarettes, right?"

  "No, I have cigarettes. You borrow cigarettes," says Bob.

  "I'll pay you back, someday."

  "Next carton, you buy."

  "Hey, while you're up, turn the sound back on and see if there's anything else on. I've had enough cartoons for a while."

  Bob surfs through the channels. When a cable news channel appears Tom says, "Hey hold it. What's that?"

  Bob hands the beer to Tom and sits on the edge of one of the beds and they watch spellbound the aerial footage of the train wreck earlier that day north of Des Moines. Bob, seeing the location described in the creeper at the bottom of the screen, points at the TV and says, "Geez, look at that. You know where that is? That's just east of where Mike lives, right?"

  "Sure looks like it. I wonder if there's a connection?"

  They continue to watch in fascination and drink beer as the wind whistles outside their door. At the announcer's description of the car chase they look at each other and nod. Tom says, "I got a bad feeling about this, dude."