Exit 9 (3 page)

Later
, he thought as he closed his eyes. For now, perhaps a little nap wouldn’t be a bad idea. Just a few minutes.

A…few…

An air horn blared.

Ernesto’s eyes shot open as he sat up, dazed. He’d been so deep in a dream that for a second, he couldn’t figure out where he was.

The air horn sounded again.

He jumped up, realizing what it was this time, and circled out into the main part of the garage. Just beyond the single large door stood two men. Parked behind them was a cargo truck with a third man sitting at the wheel. One of the men outside was dressed like a typical truck driver in jeans and dusty button-up shirt. The other man, though, was wearing a suit, and looked like the businessmen Ernesto would sometimes see on TV. The man’s skin was fair, his light-colored hair neat and trim. A foreigner, Ernesto guessed.

“
Hola
,
señor
,” the trucker said.

“
Hola
,” Ernesto replied. “What can I do for you?”

“We’ve got a leak in our water hose. Need to get it fixed. Can you do that?”

“Sure. I can fix anything.”

The trucker glanced at the man in the suit, then back at Ernesto. “Need to do it quick, though. We have to keep on schedule.”

Ernesto shrugged. A busted hose wasn’t that big of a deal. He could do it blindfolded. “Let me take a look.”

As he stepped out of the garage, he saw that there were three more identical trucks pulled alongside the road, their engines idling. “You all together?”

“Just fix the leak,” the suited man said in perfect Spanish.

This surprised Ernesto. Since the suited guy had seemed disinterested, he had assumed the man didn’t speak his language. That was obviously not the case, so the garage owner would have to be careful what he said.

The man who’d been behind the wheel climbed out and had the hood open by the time Ernesto and the other two arrived. Ernesto stuck his head inside and checked around. Sure enough, one of the hoses was cracked near one end and no longer able to hold a tight seal. He didn’t know if he had the exact same size, but he was sure there’d be something in back that would work.

As he stood up, he smiled and said, “Fifteen minutes.”

“Do it in ten, and I’ll pay you fifty dollars US,” the foreigner said.

That was more than double what Ernesto would have charged. He walked quickly back to the garage, grabbed the tools he would need, and went in search of a replacement pipe. He found three in his supply room that were about the right size. One of them would work for sure.

He replaced the hose with a minute to spare, and pocketed the fifty-dollar bill the suited man gave him. Standing in front of his garage, Ernesto watched as the four trucks pulled out in unison and continued their eastward journey.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered what they were hauling, but then a drop of sweat ran down the side of his face and all thoughts of the trucks were replaced by images of the fan and the chair in his office.

Half a minute later, he was again perfecting the art of not moving.

__________

THE PORT OF FREMANTLE

WESTERN AUSTRALIA

T
HE MARY RAE
arrived just before dawn, and was guided to the dock of the small harbor at the mouth of the Swan River. There, at exactly 8:30 a.m., the process of removing shipping containers full of food and clothing and other items commenced.

John Palmer’s interest was only in the group of twenty-five containers his company had been hired to pick up. They’d first be taken to his warehouse in Perth, then, at a date yet unknown to him, trucked to specific locations throughout Western Australia. His understanding was that this was part of an expansion plan by a Dutch retailer. Apparently, an American competitor was planning a similar expansion, so the Dutch were hoping to get in first and gain a foothold prior to the other company’s arrival.

The details didn’t really matter. For Palmer, it was getting the business that was important. The years of global stagnation had been hard on his company. He’d had to release some good people, and even sell one of his distribution centers. But this was a big job. Not only were there the twenty-five containers today, but at least another hundred were on their way over in the next two weeks. Beyond that, his new client had indicated that similar shipments would continue on a monthly basis if everything went according to their business plan.

He sure as hell hoped it did. Palmer Transport & Shipping wouldn’t be totally out of the woods, but the steady business would help. With any luck, other companies would also be expanding into the west.

By two p.m., all twenty-five containers had arrived at his warehouse and were being offloaded by his men.

As instructed, he called his contact at Hidde-Kel Holdings, the parent company of the retail chain.

“Mr. Vanduffel, John Palmer in Perth.”

“John, good to hear from you. How are you?” Mr. Vanduffel spoke English well enough to almost but not quite hide his Dutch accent.

“I’m well, thanks. You?”

“Very good. Thank you.”

Without even thinking about it, Palmer began doodling on the pad of paper next to his phone. It was an old habit, an outlet for the frustrated teenage artist still buried deep inside him. “Just wanted to let you know that your first shipment’s arrived, and at this very moment is being safely stored away in my warehouse.”

“Excellent news. How does everything look? Any sign of damage?”

“Checked the containers myself and they all look fine on the outside. Do you want us to open them up and do an inspection?”

Mr. Vanduffel paused as if considering the idea. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. But thank you for offering.”

“Not a problem. If you change your mind, happy to do it.”

“Thank you. I should have the distribution plan worked out in the next day or so, and will send it to you then. My hope is to have the containers that arrived today already on their way to the different sites before the next shipment comes in.”

“That would be great but no worries. I have the room if that doesn’t work out.”

“Good to know. Thank you again. We appreciate your efficiency. Have a good day.”

“You, too.”

Palmer snickered at the drawing he created, a rendering of what he thought Mr. Vanduffel looked like. Not half bad, either, though the mustache he’d given him was a little cartoony for his taste. He tossed the drawing in the trash, and walked back out to the warehouse floor. He was happy to see that over half the containers were already stacked in place.

Yes
, he thought. Things
were
getting better. He could feel it. The worst was behind them.

Next year would be great.

__________

S. B. KELLER MEMORIAL LIBRARY

HAWKINS UNIVERSITY

ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI

J
EANNIE SAUNDERS SHUT
her book. “Okay, I’m done.”

Corey Wilson smiled, but kept his eyes on his laptop’s screen. “You finished all five chapters?”

“Four.”

“Thought you had to do five.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see her scowl. “I’ve read enough for today. Come on. Let’s go get something to eat.”

This time he did look up. “Don’t know if you noticed, but, unlike you, I haven’t finished yet.”

“That paper’s not even due until the end of the semester,” she argued.

“Because it’s a
research
paper. Meaning I’ve gotta do a lot of research first before I write it.”

“Ugh!” She leaned back in her chair. “What am I supposed to do? Just sit here and wait?”

“Go get something to eat.”

“How much longer are you going to be here?”

“At least another couple of hours.”

“Come on, Corey. I’m hungry.”

“Go. I’m not stopping you.

The scowl reappeared. “Fine.” She stood up. “Want me to bring you back something?”

“Banana?”

She came around the table, leaned down, and gave him a kiss. “You’d better still be working when I come back.”

As she walked away, he returned his attention to his computer. The research paper he was working on was for a class called Business of Agriculture 523. Ag business also happened to be the emphasis of the MBA he was working on. The assignment was to pick out a particular agriculture-associated company and do a detailed analysis of their business model, strengths, and weaknesses. Corey had chosen Varni Gen-Sym, a seed company specializing in genetically enhanced produce. The reason he went with Varni was because it was the same company that had been providing seeds to his uncle’s farm for the last several years.

What he hadn’t expected was to find that the company was basically boring. There was no real meat to sink his teeth into. Not only was it a family-run business that only sold seeds, but it didn’t even develop its own product. Instead, it licensed its seed designs from others, and had no research arm of its own. Even its profit was steady but unremarkable.

He’d decided that morning he was going to look around and see if he could find something more interesting. The big problem was, the obvious companies had already been snatched up by his classmates. He needed to find something different, perhaps a little unusual, a company no one else would have even thought to claim.

So far he’d come up with a couple of different possibilities. Top on that list was Komai Produce. It was a regional company in the Pacific Northwest, so not well known to the students of Hawkins University. What Corey liked about Komai was that it was considerably more diverse than Varni. It had started off as a produce distributor, but had since entered several other areas including produce display, where it had a division that created consumer-friendly bins and storage units that kept produce fresh by means of micro-temperature control and automated misters.

Corey particularly liked the fact Komai was expanding while a lot of other organizations were holding pat. That afternoon he was working his way through articles about the company, starting with the earliest he could find and moving forward.

The story he’d been reading when Jeannie interrupted him was from six months earlier. He finished that, then moved on to the next one, but after only a few paragraphs he looked up, frustrated. Turned out Komai had been purchased outright five months earlier by a company called Hidde-Kel Holdings.

That was a bummer. He’d really liked the small-guy-against-the-world aspect, and was far less interested in recounting the successes of a larger conglomerate.

Having already spent so much time on Komai, he read some more, wanting to understand the original owners’ motivation for selling. Though the details were kept private, it appeared as though the three friends who started Komai had come out of the deal considerably wealthier than they had ever expected. They had created a good company so Corey wasn’t particularly surprised. He noted one odd thing, though. None of the three founders was asked to stay on beyond the date of final purchase. Wasn’t that pretty standard practice, to ensure stability and continuity for an organization as it moved forward? Apparently Hidde-Kel had decided it was unnecessary in this case.

Maybe there was something here of interest after all—what happens to a regional food business after it’s purchased by a larger company.

Yeah, that might work.

In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He could even get a little bit into the parent company and show why the two were a good fit—or not. This could be a huge paper if he wasn’t careful, but that thought didn’t scare him at all. It was more like a challenge.

The Effects of Hidde-Kel Holdings on Komai Produce
. A no-brainer title.

He didn’t need to look any further. This was it. This was what he wanted to do. Sure, it was a slight spin on the assignment, but it wouldn’t take much to talk Professor Nesbitt into okaying it.

With renewed enthusiasm, he hit the Web. First up, find out more about Hidde-Kel and see what else they might be into.

4

I.D. MINUS 20 DAYS

M
ATT HAMILTON RAISED
the Taurus OSS, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger—once, twice, three times. The first shot nearly ripped the target in half. The following two finished it off.

If not for the ear protection he was wearing, the roar of the pistol in the enclosed firing range would have temporarily deafened him. As it was, the muffled pop was still enough to cause his aging ears to ring.

He took aim again, this time imagining where the target had been, and sent off three more shots in rapid succession. It wasn’t quite as satisfying when there was nothing there to hit.

He pushed the retrieval button and the remnants of the target rushed toward him. So far, he’d already gone through fifteen of them and an entire box of ammo. It was the only thing he could think of doing to keep himself from going crazy. The concentration down the sight, the power of the gun, the smell of the powder—each took his mind away, and kept him from wondering what was going on.

He clipped in a new target and hit the button again, sending the paper flying back toward the other end of the range. He raised the .45, and imagined the flight his bullet would take.

“Matt!” a distant voice called out.

He pulled the trigger, and watched unmoving as his shot hit the imaginary foe in the bridge of his nose. He held his position for a moment longer, then lowered his gun and turned. Standing just outside his shooting stall was Rich Paxton.

Matt raised a hopeful eyebrow. “They check in?”

Pax shook his head. “No.”

That made it seventy-two hours since their missing scout team had last made contact. Matt had been trying not to assume the worst, but he couldn’t avoid it now. The irony, of course, was that this could very well mean the team had discovered what it had been sent out to find.