Dreams Unleashed (2 page)

I tried to consider my options. I could call the clandestine switchboard, but they might already have me flagged. That wouldn't work.

I'm a fugitive now. They're hunting me. They think of me as a weapon. Plus, I just Tasered crew-cut boy. I'm gonna have to go underground now
, I thought grimly.

Reaching into the bag, I pulled out the Ziploc bag containing the last secure cell phone I had. I quickly assembled it, then pressed the timer of my watch.

I called the local phone number I had memorized.

"B40 for extraction, code red," I said urgently upon hearing the beep.

I hung up and watched my timer. I had four minutes before I had to destroy the phone. I looked up and noticed one of the wall plaques, "May the bearer of the news be safe."

No kidding
, I thought ironically.

Thirty seconds later, the call came.

"Yes," I answered.

"Code?" he asked.

"Cherry blossoms," I replied, using the memorized code.

"D.C." he confirmed. We've got your location. Seven minutes---we're en route---back alley. Injuries?"

"No."

"Stay safe," he said, crisp but cautious.

Hanging up, I looked at my watch to see how long the phone had been traceable.

Three minutes---maybe they didn't locate me
.

After pulling the phone apart, I stomped on it, then threw all the pieces in the sink, turning on the faucet. The soft sound of the running water would have been calming in any other situation.

I restarted my stopwatch.
They'll be here in seven minutes
. Grabbing the pieces of the cell phone from the sink, I tossed them back into the Ziploc and threw the bag in the empty trashcan, covering it with some clean paper towels.

I have to stay here...they won't be able to find me if I leave, since that was my last safe phone.

Three minutes.

Pounding on the front door of the restaurant sent a buzz of adrenaline through me.
They found me
.

I quickly grabbed the recharging Taser from the wall and tossed it into my messenger bag, which I draped across my body, freeing my hands. Slowly opening the bathroom door, I slipped into the dark back hall. I could hear Brian's deep, full voice from the next room.

"Can I help you?" he asked coldly.

"FBI," said a male voice. "We're looking for a woman that's in this area, about 5'9", Caucasian, mid-forties. Seen her?"

Brian didn't hesitate. "We're closed, haven't opened for dinner yet."

Silently thanking Brian, I moved down the narrow hall toward the battered, brown service door. Touching the button for light on my watch, I checked the time. Less than two minutes. I tried not to panic, though adrenaline was tingling through me in rushing bolts.

The conversation between them was so distant that I couldn't hear it. Preparing myself to open the door, I pulled the second Taser from my pocket, looped the strap around my wrist, and instinctively pushed the button to turn it on. If anyone tried to grab it from me, the loop would pull out the arming pin, disabling it.

Turning the dented brass knob, I pushed open the back door slightly, peering out into the alley. My eyes fell upon an overflowing dumpster for a brief second, then the door was yanked open from the outside. I turned to run, but a crew-cut clone grabbed me by the hair. I twisted around and was able to jam the Taser into his exposed armpit, and he fell to the ground, convulsing with a heavy thud. As my hair was released, the SUV rounded the corner of the alley, and I ran for it, hoping I was running toward friends.

Chapter 2

BELLINGHAM, WASHINGTON

The Year 2015

I sat up in bed, drenched in sweat.

"Oh man, that was a bad one," I said out loud to no one. The details of my dream lingered with me as though they were real. I wiped the sweat from my face with my sheet. My heart was doing double-time, as the adrenaline still coursed through my body.

What was that about
?

My mind raced to try to make sense of the disturbing dream. I'd had numerous others like it; chase dreams seemed to be the specialty of my sleeping mind lately.

I needed to get ready for work. AlterHydro was waiting.

Driving to work the dream marinated in my mind.

* * *

I'd been working at my desk for about an hour when my phone rang. After one ring, I answered.

"Hi, Bennett, what can I do for you?" I said, voice imitating an enthusiastic employee.

I already knew his reason for calling, and I nodded to no one in particular as I tried to convince him that everything was on track for the first draft of the new turbine manual. The project seemed to be his pet project, and I tried to hide the exasperation in my voice, steeling myself for his generous critique.

"No problem, Bennett, I can be there in ten minutes. Will that work for you?" I asked with a cheerfulness that made my jaw ache.

You would think that after three years working for him that he'd have some degree of faith in my ability to write a good technical manual
.

"What a control freak." I muttered angrily, then looked around to see if my co-workers had heard me.

I should have known that he'd be a nightmare when I interviewed for this job.

It was the fourth interview---this time with Bennett's younger brother---that nearly made me ditch the idea of working at AlterHydro.

* * *

"Ann Torgeson," he said, shaking my hand. "I'm Brock Pressentin, have a seat," he said with authority. He sat down, leaned back in his chair, put his feet on the long conference room table, and smugly started with, "So, Ann, tell me about yourself."

I blinked in surprise. This was his interview ritual, I knew, but his casual cockiness bothered me. I was a professional technical writer and was certainly a good hire for any Fortune 100 company; I expected to be treated with respect by potential employers. The only reason I wanted to work for AlterHydro, which was
not
a Fortune 100 company, was because of their unique innovation in alternative energy. To say that I was annoyed by Brock's freshman interview style was an understatement.

As I prepared to answer him, Bennett barged into the room, taking a seat next to his little brother, while pushing his sibling's feet off the table.

"Hi, Ann. Hi, Brock," he quickly offered with a smile.

Along with my greeting, I forced a pleasant smile.

Silence seethed from baby brother as he stared at his sibling.

"My last meeting finished early, so I thought I'd sit in on your interview," Bennett announced to me. It was an obvious preemptive strike to Brock's rejection of his unexpected presence.

"Like I was saying, why don't you tell me about yourself?" Brock continued, turning to me, this time with a louder voice, his eyebrows tensed.

Looking from brother to brother, I suddenly realized that this family dysfunction was something I didn't want to be a part of. Just as I was speed-formulating my "I don't think we're a good fit" speech, I received a friendly wink and smile from Bennett.

It took me only a moment to realize that I was a small piece in a family game of "appease the younger brother so I can hire you."

Okay, I'll bite
. I enjoyed banter and was curious to see how the dynamic between the two brothers played out. I plowed ahead.

"As I'm sure you've seen from my resume, I have significant experience as a technical writer with the government. I'm bound by confidentiality not to discuss those projects specifically, but I can tell you that I wrote about cutting-edge technologies, complicated in both design and scope. Writing for Black Projects was challenging because I had to understand the hardware and software well enough to write for both technical and non-technical readers. Before that, I---"

"How can you expect me to assess whether you're qualified for this position unless you tell me what you actually worked on?" Brock interrupted, smugness dripping from his voice.

"That's a good question," I answered patiently. "I'm sure you'll agree, though, that if I were to share that information with you, I would not only be breaking confidentiality with my previous employer, but I would also be betraying our country's secrets. My ability to keep confidences will be an asset to you, if I'm hired by AlterHydro."

Brock Pressentin opened his mouth to say something but apparently couldn't think of a rebuttal.

Game, set, match
.

Bennett saw that his brother had been aced in our verbal tennis game and seized the interview.

"Ann, tell us what you can bring to AlterHydro from your experience with the government and as a journalist," Bennett instructed.

Elder brother's redirection of the interview, and my witness to his intuition in doing so, influenced me to stay the course and complete the interview process. As long as I worked directly for Bennett, and not Brock, I could find satisfaction in writing about AlterHydro's energy solutions.

Their Bellingham location north of the Puget Sound, where the Strait of Georgia met the Strait of Juan de Fuca, was the Everest of tidal action, with energy perpetually being created. Channels and headlands further accelerated the energy. Because tidal turbines were anchored on the seabed far beneath the ocean surface, they were neither seen nor heard by man, which was a significant asset. AlterHydro was the first company in the Pacific Northwest to capture this supercharged energy. I was willing to move from the East Coast to the West be a part of it. The timing was good, too. I was looking forward to the move, which would bring me back to where my husband, Armond, was buried.

During that first interview with Bennett, his passion for the technology was palpable---and contagious.

"Do you realize," he asked me with excitement during the first interview, "that if less than zero point one percent of ocean energy could be turned into electricity, no one on the earth would need fossil fuel?"

I was interested in that. I wanted to know that my work would mean something.

* * *

When I was hired by AlterHydro, the entire company was a ball of energy. It held some of the most valuable patents in the world. It was my job to write the technical manuals for the turbine. I was also responsible for writing the content for sales materials on the benefits of tidal power. With fossil fuels continuing to climb, and gasoline selling for over eight dollars per gallon, it wasn't difficult to get caught up in the high morale present at the company.

Working for Bennett proved to be challenging, however. He was, as in the interview when I first met him, charming, personable, passionate, and intuitive. But he was also arrogant, and he frequently flaunted his Mensa-level intelligence to overpower others. His being a control freak was only icing on the cake.

I had to mentally prepare myself to meet with him this morning.

Come on, you'd better go see him
.

I took a long drink of my Mountain Dew to force sugar-induced over-enthusiasm, then stood from my desk, scooping up the latest version of the technical manual.

"Lulu, stay," I gently commanded my dog after she rose to follow me. "You wouldn't want to go with me anyway girl," I told her.

One of the fringe benefits of working at AlterHydro was that we could bring our dogs to work. Lulu was a Brittany Spaniel I had bought as a puppy from a private breeder I'd met in Washington three years before. Easily trained as a puppy, she now knew more than twenty commands. Lulu came to work with me every day, watching and smelling the goings-on with curiosity.

Pausing at my desk, I looked at the other basement dwellers of The 1910, the name we called our century-old building. I loved the old brick building; it was where the town's first newspaper had started. We shared common journalistic roots, and even though the 1910 had been renovated many years before, the old smells of ink and paper seemed to linger like its own earthy perfume.

My stream of consciousness shifted subtly from the smell of The 1910 to the smell of Bennett's Calvin Kline cologne.

Ugh
.

One of my lesser-known, more unfortunate abilities was my acute sense of smell. I couldn't explain it, really, but it was true; if it was there, I could smell it. My smelling abilities were more of a curse than a blessing; there are some things that no human should ever have to smell. It wasn't just the smells themselves that overpowered me. I also, for some inexplicable reason, had an over-developed smell memory.

By a smell, I could tell you the exact date and location of the smell's origin, which was occasionally useful, but mostly annoying. It was similar to a photographic memory, but sensory. Some smells triggered intense flashbacks to memories I'd worked to forget. But there was no help for it; it was sensory déjà vu.