Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (31 page)

Th
e building… his target… was now a pile of rubble partially hidden by a column of smoke and dust. It was just gone.

Dusty looked at the rail gun as if to say, “You did that?” The power setting read 20%.

They’ll be coming
, he knew.
They’ll really be pissed now.

He jumped up and began throwing anything in sight into the pack. Af
ter it was stuffed full, he grabbed the messenger bag and began filling it. He started to leave his hat – the only thing he had left besides the gun from his previous life, but decided the cat was out of the bag and perched it on his head.

The rail gun was reloaded, the power lowered, and then he was out the door. Bounding down the steps two at a time, he expected to meet armed men at every turn, but the stairwell was empty. He ran out the back door and into the garage, the uneven load of his packs and weapon slowing the pace.

He unlocked the old truck, threw in his luggage and started the trusty V8.

He really didn’t have a destination, no specific place in mind to run. His actions were born of desperation – a burning desire to just get away, as far away as he could. Again, distance equaled life.

Sergei and his men had been watching the law enforcement proceedings from the parking lot of the warehouse when the shooting had begun. When the FBI agent’s voice had come through the scanner’s speaker, ordering the snipers to shoot, the director had given the captain a glance showing respect for Monroe’s tactic. He would have done the same.

They had been looking at the bank building when Dusty returned fire. At first, Sergei
visualized a meteor slashing in from space and striking the area, but he quickly settled on the true reason. Despite their distance, the Russians’ cars had been badly shaken by the blast wave. Again, a look of respect crossed Sergei’s face – the weapon was truly a marvel, and he wanted to hold it in his hands.

It was clear that the American authorities had underestimated the backlash from the farmer. From his vantage, Sergei watched a line of HRT assaulters blown over by the shockwave, two nearby police cars now
in flames, resting on their sides.

He couldn’t blame the
US commanders. After all, who knew this situation was a possibility? Who could have planned for such destruction delivered by a single man with a handheld weapon? He wanted to hold the device; he had plans for its proper utilization.

“We had better deplo
y,” commented the always-stoic captain. “The Americans will recover and storm the farmer’s building. We should be ready.”

“Agreed. Make it so.”

The director watched as his team deployed, their uniforms and equipment identical to the FBI HRT squads. It had been easy to equip them so, the patches and identification papers recreated from hours of news video on file at the agency, the weapons purchased from local gun stores in Houston. Helmets hid their face, fancy sunglasses covering their eyes. Even their own superiors would struggle to tell the difference.

Lighting a cigarette, Sergei leaned against the door of the rental, watching and listening as his men moved toward the farmer’s build
ing. He would have the gun soon, and then the world would change.

Dusty exited the parking garage and turned onto an empty street. He could hear sirens now… what seemed like thousands of sirens from every direction.

A block later, it dawned on him that the police had most likely closed the roads surrounding his condo. It made sense that they would evacuate people from the immediate area. With the vision of the destruction caused by his shot still fresh in his mind, the realization that the crushed buildings had most likely been devoid of people, helped him relax – a little.

The combination of random driving and the pattern of the streets pushed him south. He
turned a corner and noted a roadblock up ahead, two police cars blocking the intersection, uniformed officers trying to control the flow of confused traffic.

Dusty started to turn away from the checkpoint at the first
crossroad, but didn’t. He had already spied another intersection controlled by the cops was just a short distance away. Again, it made sense that they would have cordoned off the entire area.

Glancing at the rail gun sitting in the seat beside him, a sick feeling began to creep into his stomach as he rolled slowly toward the cops. On the far side of their roadblock, a solid line of traffic was backed up as far as he could see.
If he had to use the rail again, a lot of people were going to get hurt.

Two fire trucks and an ambulance were trying to make their way through
snarl, desperate to reach the destruction behind him – their presence making the gridlock even more difficult for the cops to manage.

Evidently, not everyone had managed to get out before the battle
. Dusty found himself in a short line of cars trying to exit the area but slowed by the manual control of the traffic by the officers ahead. One by one, the police were letting the cars in front of him pass – the officer leaning down and looking inside of each vehicle. A clash seemed inevitable.

With three cars in front of him, Dusty looked desperately for a way out. There was none – he was hemmed in.
Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, his heart pounding in his ears.

Two cars now, a strong temptation
to put the truck in park, jump out and run. It wouldn’t work. They would converge on him from every direction and kill him. His arms were tingling, the back of his legs felt wet with fear.

One car left
, his hand reaching for the gun. He didn’t want to. He’d had enough for one day. A gross vision filling his head - what would the weapon do to a human being if fired point blank?

As Dusty rolled forward, he pulled the rail from the seat, bringing it across his lap. A figure appeared, out of nowhere
, yelling something at the cop. Clad in black and carrying a battle rifle, the new arrival wore yellow patches declaring him FBI, smaller red swaths of cloth spelling the letters “HRT.”

Before Dusty came to a complete stop, the FBI shooter was motioning for the cop, trying to get his attention, pointing at an approaching fire truck that was being blocked by a small sedan. The body language was clear, and Dusty could hear the voice shouting at the confused officer, “Fuck this – get those damn firemen into the zone – we’ve got
shit burning out of control and people trapped.”

Nodding
his understanding, the cop turned away from Dusty’s truck, moving with purpose toward the blocking sedan. Dusty hit the gas, accelerating past the police. He finally exhaled, as the checkpoint grew smaller in the review mirror.

Sergei flicked
away the butt of his smoke, and then stopped – listening intently as an excited voice sounded in his ear. Something must have gone badly wrong because his captain was ordering an emergency recall back to the rental cars.

Looking up, the director could see his SPETZ team running
at full speed back to the waiting vehicles. In front of the pack was their commander, shouting verbal orders for everyone to get in the cars – now!

Having confidence in the man, Sergei did as his captain wished. A moment later, the driver’s side door flew open and then an assault rifle was flung inside. Reaching for the key and starting the engine, the SPETZ officer looked at the director and breathlessly managed, “The farmer is on the run,” he gasped. “I helped him get out through a roadblock because the damn fool was getting ready to shoot it out with the American
police. We have to hurry to catch him.”

The captain spun the tires, without
waiting on the rest of his team to arrive. Again Sergei approved of the decision, every second giving the farmer better odds of escaping.

As their
lone car sped through the streets, Sergei listened to the captain’s full report, finally nodding his agreement, impressed with the man’s clear thinking. They could deal with the farmer on their own terms if they caught him away from the hundreds of policemen in the area. It would be better.

Six blocks later, they caught up with Dusty’s truck
, the American driving as if he were out for a casual day of shopping. A few minutes after spotting the old green truck, they were following close behind.

Dusty was ill, his stomach churning and head pounding badly. He was driving slowly, convinced he was going to vomit at any moment. His body’s protest
s at the recent turn of events demanded a quieter, more contemplative pace, that, or risk causing a fender bender.

He decided a drink of water
might help. Reaching for the pack on the passenger floorboard, he ran a stop sign, a flash of blue paint appearing in his peripheral vision.

Slamming on the brakes and cutting the wheel, he watched in horror as a minivan barely missed his front bumper, the
offended driver blaring on the horn.

Dusty straightened the truck and then glanced in his rear
view mirror, hoping to see the van continuing on its way. The car immediately behind him had barely braked in time, almost adding a rear-end collision to his troubles. His glance revealed two men visible in the front seat, the bright yellow letters spelling out “FBI” clearly visible across the driver’s chest.

Calm down
, he ordered.
You don’t know that they are after you. They might just be heading the same direction.

Dusty started randomly turning, varying his speed and keeping a constant visual on the trailing
car. After five minutes, he verified they were intentionally following him.