The Olympus Device: Book Three (2 page)

With more violence than the expansion, the planet’s entire gravitational field surged to fill the impossible void, pushing the sea of surrounding air inward from all directions at once, and at incredible velocities.

Dusty didn’t notice the exploding glass doors next to him on the balcony, the heavy units pulverized by the shock wave tearing through the air. His gaze remained intent on the twister, the prayer on his lips soliciting a higher power to grant success to his desperate action… to persuade the storm to rage elsewhere.

The twister seemed to pause, like a giant staggered by a thunderbolt. It became disoriented, the outline of the funnel collapsing, struggling to form again, and then vanishing almost as quickly as it had appeared.

The wall of wind and debris still contained momentum however; and Dusty was pushed back into his room as the gale’s leading edge struck the hotel’s balcony. Swirling foliage, splinters of wood, and stinging rain chased him inside, and for a moment, he was sure he’d failed.

Shingles were ripped from some rooftops. A few trees toppled over. Glass windows, impacted by wind-driven missiles, shattered in blizzards of snow-like shards. But the tornado’s assault was weak and disorganized, its punch-drunk blows flaying like the fists of a dazed and beaten prizefighter.      

And then there was silence.

For a moment, Dusty thought his ear protection was responsible for the lack of noise. After removing the cover, the only sound that reached his ears was the gentle runoff of rainwater.

He managed the balcony again, ignoring the glass crunching under his boots. His eyes sought one image – the school.

The relief that surged through his core was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. The brick building was still standing, surrounded by blown limbs, a scattering of uprooted vegetation, and melting hail. The structure was undamaged.

One of the school buses hadn’t fared as well, flipped on its side like a large, yellow animal in the later throes of death. People were already rushing to help the driver, hopping over downed limbs while moving with the purpose of rescue.

A voice broke the calm, “Hey! Hey! You at the hotel… I saw that. What the hell….”

Dusty peered down to see a police car, the uniformed officer half out of the door. The fugitive recognized the man immediately, the sheriff’s face adorning every storefront in town with campaign posters asking for a vote in the upcoming election.

The most wanted man in the world froze, unsure of what to do. The sheriff was apparently suffering the same dilemma.

The officer hesitated, his head pivoting among the scenes at the school, overturned bus, and Dusty standing above him. He struggled to make up his mind.

Finally clarity came, the lawman staring up at Dusty and commanding, “Stay right there. Don’t move.” Then he reentered the cruiser, speeding off for the school.

Dusty wasn’t about to follow the cop’s orders.

Cursing his discovery, he turned and hustled back inside. A few seconds later, his meager belongings were flying into his backpack, along with as much food from the tiny hotel refrigerator as would fit.

The rail gun was next, quickly folded and packed inside its case.

Dusty paused at the door, taking one last look around as what he’d come to know as home. Glancing at the school’s roofline in the distance, his mood improved. He’d done a good deed. Saving those kids was worth having to bug out.

Down the hall he rushed, already trying to determine the next move in an outlaw’s game of chess. His planning, however, was quickly interrupted at the stairwell. A tree had crashed into the side of the hotel’s outer wall, blocking his exit.

He knew there was another staircase at the far end of the long, narrow building. Inhaling deeply in frustration, he began jogging across the carpet, improvising his newly hatched escape route.

He bounded down the stairs two at a time, pushing open the emergency door at the bottom. He stepped into the parking lot, glancing both ways, unsure of where to go or what direction to begin walking.

The click of a gun’s safety froze him cold.

“That’s far enough,” a voice over Dusty’s shoulder barked. “I know who you are.
And
I know what you’ve got in that case, mister.”

Dusty was furious with himself. After all, when you’re on top of the FBI’s Most Wanted List, you can’t afford to get sloppy, and that’s just what he’d done.

The sheriff circled slowly around to face the immobilized Texan, his glare icy, his pistol unwavering. “You don’t look so dangerous to me,” the cop finally stated.

Dusty snorted, the statement somehow striking him as funny. “Opinions vary on that,” the escapee responded, the officer’s comment catching him unaware.

“I saw what you did,” the lawman said, now face to face with his prisoner. As if he were trying to sort out a mystery, he continued his adrenaline induced rant, never pausing for a response. “Why would you fire into that storm? Why expose yourself like that? You’re supposed to be some evil, terrorist thug, intent on overthrowing the U.S. government. Yet you saved that school, and probably most of the town.”

“I couldn’t chance those kids getting hurt or killed,” Dusty replied honestly, his hands still in the air. “I knew I’d have to go on the run again, but that damned funnel was going to obliterate that building, and I had to try and stop it.”

The lawman seemed to be pondering Dusty’s words, almost as if attempting to resolve some weighty, internal quandary. Finally, he lowered and then holstered his weapon. “My kids were in that school. I’ve got two daughters, eight and eleven. By the time I saw the tornado forming, I was too far away to warn the staff. That one came out of nowhere.”

Stunned by the cop’s reaction, Dusty didn’t know whether or not to lower his hands. Half expecting the sheriff to reach for his handcuffs, he asked, “So what happens now?”

“I’m going to let you go,” came the response. “We’re even now – all squared up. Don’t expect such good graces if we should meet again.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. You saved my girls, and besides, I’ve heard both sides of the argument over what you’ve been doing. You’re lucky I’m one of the people who believe the government is persecuting you for all the wrong reasons. Now take that damned doomsday weapon and get the fuck out of my town. All hell is about to rain down on our little berg.”

Dusty didn’t understand what the sheriff was trying to tell him. He peered at the now clearing sky, thinking the lawman was perhaps referring to another storm preparing to descend on the town. The cop read the Texan’s puzzled look perfectly.

“You don’t know, do you?” the sheriff questioned.

“No, I guess I don’t. What are you talking about?”

“They can detect when you fire that thing. The Air Force’s satellites can pinpoint your location.”

Frowning, Dusty said, “Oh. Shit. I’d forgotten about that. I suppose the phone lines are on fire about now.”

“Now you’re going to owe
me
one,” the lawman grinned. “Just to really put you in debt, there is a red pickup behind the jail. It belonged to a prisoner of mine, who was recently convicted of his third DUI and won’t be needing it for several years. Now I heard a rumor that the keys were above the visor. No one would probably miss it for several days if it were stolen right from under our noses… if you get my drift.”

Dusty smiled and nodded, “Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoy your dinner this evening, and give the girls a hug from this old terrorist, please.”

“Will do. You better get going; it’s only twenty minutes by helicopter from the FBI’s Kansas City office.”

Dusty extended his hand, the two men shaking with a firm, but friendly grip. And then the Texan pivoted and was running toward a building he’d always hoped to avoid – the county jail.

He discovered the truck just where the cop said it would be, an older model Ford that had seen better days but was still serviceable. The engine fired on the second turn.

After pulling out of the lot, he stopped a few blocks away, unsure of which direction he should travel. Texas was to the south, but they would expect that.

North was Canada, but they’d probably consider the possibility of any outlaw making a run for the border – north or south.

West were the Rockies and the Great Southwest. Barren, sparsely populated territory for sure, but that didn’t appeal to the Texan. He’d been on the run for long enough to know it was easier to hide in plain sight, just another face among the masses. He decided to head east, toward St. Louis.

The rambling, old Ford had just managed the speed limit when the flashing lights of an approaching police car appeared ahead. Dusty reached to unzip the rail gun, unsure if the sheriff had changed his mind.

The state trooper raced on past, ignoring the old Ford in his haste. The first helicopter appeared a few minutes later, quickly followed by two more. There was no way to tell if they were responding to the tornado or tracking a fugitive. Either way, Dusty was glad to be on the road and still free.

He drove for an hour, crossing the flat fields of eastern Kansas using two-lane highways while trying to generally point his nose east. It wasn’t the fastest way to put miles between the town and himself, but he felt it was the safest.

It was pure luck he glanced down at the gas gauge, it never having occurred to the fugitive that the tank might need refilling. The needle was on the bright orange E, and there wasn’t a gas station in sight.

The signs announcing the junction with Interstate I-35 appeared a few miles later, Dusty hopeful that the interchange would offer a gas station or truck stop. In addition to truck fuel, his own tank could use a bottle of water and a sandwich.

Sure enough, the bright beacon of a large refueling plaza soon appeared on the horizon, complete with signs advertising a restaurant, showers, and gift shop.

Dusty didn’t immediately signal to turn into the lot, thinking the cops might be monitoring the gasoline stations by now. But the area was clear of any police presence, and soon he was walking inside to pre-pay for a tankful of regular.

He had the wherewithal to keep his western hat low, sensing the place was thick with security cameras. The kid at the counter didn’t seem to notice, and that was just fine with the Texan.

After filling the Ford’s nearly parched reservoir, Dusty spied an out of the way parking spot and then reentered the building.

He placed a to-go order at the greasy spoon, opting for a fully loaded cheeseburger and large fries. His next stop was the restroom. After using the facilities, he found himself walking through a retail section displaying accessories for the over the road, truck driving crowd.

A package adorned with images of police cars drew his attention, the advertisement picturing a state trooper issuing the innocent looking trucker a citation. The product was a combination CB radio and police scanner. Scratching his chin, Dusty thought that might just come in handy during his road trip.

With his three bottles of water, candy bar, two bags of peanuts, sack of tasty cholesterol on a bun, and expensive electronic device, the Texan was soon back in the Ford’s cab. He decided to stay put, munching while he studied the directions for his new gadget.

Finally figuring out the key features, Dusty tuned the scanner to monitor the popular trucker CB channels, as well as all known police frequencies for eastern Kansas.

Chewing his last fry, he began pondering his route while listening to the occasional broadcast from the interstate just beyond. Within a few minutes, Dusty was convinced his impulse purchase, the scanner had just saved his life.

The truckers weren’t happy, complaining over the airwaves about the state police roadblocks that had traffic backed up for miles. And it wasn’t just the interstate, but some major state highways as well.

After listening to the vigorous bitching and moaning for five minutes, the Texan soon found himself returning to the travel store, this time exiting with a two-inch thick atlas. He needed to plot his way around the police barriers.

He’d just returned to the cab when he spotted the police car entering the lot.

Dusty dropped down just in the nick of time, twisting his lanky frame to hide behind the dash just as the deputy began rolling along the row of parked vehicles. The cop took his time, apparently inspecting each for several seconds before moving on.