Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (2 page)

After two trips to the chan
ging room, Grace had selected a seaside outfit, complete with floppy hat and leather sandals. Dusty was having more difficulty, unaccustomed to anything but blue jeans and boots.

Grace finally helped him select
a pair of khaki slacks and a polo shirt that wouldn’t look out of place with his otherwise-western attire. A Panama style beach hat was, in his opinion, a poor substitute for his familiar western hat - traded to the now-dead Russian just a few hours ago.

“Let’s eat
,” Dusty suggested as they paid for their purchases and headed out of the store. “I could swallow a buffalo whole, and more importantly, I need coffee... bad.”

Grace shook her head. “How about we check into the hotel first, take a quick shower
, and then go put on the feed bag?”

With a reluctant nod, he agreed
.

They changed cloth
es in the public restroom, Grace having to remove a price tag from Dusty’s new shirt to insure he fit in with the locals. Soon they were entering the hotel’s lobby.

“I’m sorry, but
we don’t have any vacancies for the next few days,” informed the pleasant clerk. “I’d be happy to check other nearby facilities.”

“That would be great,” Grace replied, the disappointment clear in her voice.

The young man working the desk tapped on the keyboard, and then looked up with a smile. “One of our sister properties, Southside Harbor has several rooms available. Their nightly rate is a little pricier than ours, but they offer a very nice environment.”

“How far away is it?” Dusty inquired, and then added, “Do
es their ‘nice environment’ include fresh coffee?”

“Just over two miles up the lake. Less than five minutes by car, and I’m sure they’ll have coffee.”

Grace flashed him a troubled look, but he ignored it, instead continuing his conversation with the clerk, “Well, now that’s the problem. Our car broke down on the road a few hours ago and was towed to the shop. For the rest of today, we’re without transportation.”

The kid considered the travelers’
predicament for a minute before brightening. “How about a taxi?”

The cab arrived a short time later.
While riding to the more ritzy accommodations, Dusty spied one of the huge box retailers. Nudging Grace, he observed, “I think a shopping trip is in our near future. Our supply list is going to contain more than just a change of clothes.”

So
uthside Harbor was an impressive complex, the high-rise hotel surrounded by a large marina and numerous offices. Dusty paid for the cab, and the couple anxiously strolled into the lobby.

“We’d like a suite,” he announced, reaching for his new ID and wad of cash.

The clerk shoved the registration form across the counter and said, “May I see the credit card you’ll be using to secure the room?”

“I was going to pay cash,” Dusty replied as he scratched in the information from his Canadian persona.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we require a credit card on file. You are welcome to pay cash at checkout, but I’m not allowed to reserve a room without it.”

Dusty didn’t miss a beat, “Son, with all of the credit card fraud, stolen identities and other shenanigans going on, I cut up all my plastic. Are you sure there isn’t another option?”
Dusty flashed the young man his roll of bills to emphasize his point.

“
I’m very sorry, but the hotel is very strict where this policy is concerned, sir.”

Both
Grace and Dusty protested the requirement until the manager was summoned to the front desk. She was a middle-aged, attractive lady who obviously understood customer service and the needs of weary travelers.

After listening to the
couple’s tale of woe concerning lost luggage, rude airline employees, and a black cloud that seemed to be following them around, the manager’s face brightened with an idea. “Have you considered a pre-loaded credit card? It takes only minutes to acquire one. It has to be safer than carrying around all of that cash anyway. You can easily purchase one right up the street.”

Dusty
thought about the new identity delivered by the Russian. “But I’m Canadian; I don’t think I qualify for a U.S. credit card.”

“Oh, there’
s no qualification,” she assured him. “I buy them for gifts all the time. The credit card company won’t even know your name or what country you’re from.”

Dusty turned to Grace and shrugged, “Can’t hurt to try. Might come in handy.”

She glanced toward the front door and frowned, “Our cab is already gone.”

“No problem,” chimed in the manager. “We have a shuttle service. I can have Danny run you down to the store right away. You’ll be back in 15 minutes.”

Grace stared longingly at the plush lounge chairs scattered around the lobby. “I’ll stay here with our shopping bags and your duffle. Don’t be too long.”

Danny drove the courtesy car to the
same retail giant Dusty had recognized during the cab ride. The gunsmith entered the massive space and was soon directed to the pre-paid card display. What he saw amazed him.

There were hundreds of options
covering everything from coffeehouses to national fast food chains. He finally found the generic MasterCard and Visa section, quickly focusing on the brand recommended by the hotel’s manager.

As he stood in line at the register, Dusty realized it was the first time the rail gun had been out of his possession since he’d left home to visit his brother in College Station. It was an odd feeling, almost as if he wasn’t fully dressed. He didn’t like the sensation.

When it was his turn, he handed the clerk three of the cards. As the small packages were scanned, the clerk inquired, “Do you want to load any funds onto these?”

“Sure. Is there any limit
how much?”

“I can load
a maximum of $500 per card, but you can go online and set them up just like a checking account and add more money whenever you choose.”

“
Hmmmm,” he remarked while stroking his chin as if in deep thought. “Well, I have never actually bought one of these and am not sure what is best. Maybe you can give me a little advice. You see, I’m buying these as gifts. If I put funds onto these cards, will my nieces and nephews be able to access the money?”

“Anyone can use them. There’s no name or I
D required. They make great presents, and if they get lost, there’s a toll-free number you can call to cancel and get a new card reissued.”

“Spl
endid,” Dusty replied. “Please load the maximum on each card.”

The clerk’s eyebrows shot
up. “But sir, you do realize I can only do that with cash?” she questioned.

“No problem.”

The lady laughed, “Could you adopt me into your family? If you need any more nieces or nephews, that is.”

A short time later, Grace and Dusty
swiped a plastic keycard to enter the fifth floor room, the opulence of the accommodations immediately obvious, the space impressive and well designed for comfort. Plush carpeting, a huge master bed, expansive bathroom, and tasteful appointments made both of them smile and relax. The view of the marina added to the calming effect. Dusty noted the coffeemaker.

“I’ve got first dibs on the shower,” Grace
announced, balancing on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, and then hustling off to close the bathroom door.

Dusty, with credit card on file at the
front desk, wasted no time perusing the room service menu.

Agent Shultz checked his reflection, the mirrored interior of the elevator revealing a filthy, disheveled man.
It’s no wonder
, he mused.
One hell of a morning.
 

Were it not for
the golden shield and official-looking photograph on the FBI credentials hanging around his neck, he doubted they would have let him in the hospital’s front door. He’d originally tried to enter via the emergency room, but that entrance was inundated with incoming ambulances, emergency vehicles, and utter chaos.

The blue-
haired ladies at the reception desk had kindly taken their time locating Agent Monroe’s room number. They had shown mercy and manners, not commenting on his appearance. Given the bedlam back in the ER, he wasn’t the only haggard-looking fellow walking the halls.

Still, he straightened himself out as best he could, tucking in an errant shirttail and dislodging a streak of mud from his pants. He wanted to present the best possible image to the boss.

He identified Monroe’s room without any problem, entering quietly lest he disturb some procedure or consultation. There was only an aide present, a middle-aged Latino woman who appeared to be more involved in housekeeping than any medical task.

Hi
s boss was connected to a multitude of tubes, wires, machines and other associated life-preserving devices. The low background of beeping and hissing noises disturbed the otherwise quiet environment. The patient was perched in the middle of the bed, lying very still with his eyes closed.

Upon entering the room, Shultz stood and star
ed at his co-worker, mesmerized by the plethora of machinery attached to his body, wondering if the senior FBI man had any idea of how lucky he’d been. They had found him in a pile of debris at the edge of the parking lot, nearly drowned and suffering numerous injuries after being swept away by the tidal wave of water rushing onshore.

That entire sequence of events seemed like a lifetime ago. The pre-dawn assembly of the teams, the thrill of potentially apprehending the most wanted man in the world, the hope of finally being able to return home to College Station.

And then everything had gone wrong.

Strangers appeared in the midst of what was supposed to have been
a relatively simple operation. Right in the middle of their takedown, a gunfight with unknown persons wearing FBI clothing convoluted the mission. In retrospect, that complication seemed like a minor annoyance once the military gunship collided with the tanker, followed by a Hellfire Missile exploding on the pier. Shultz could remember the radio waves being filled with excited, confused voices. And then the tanker heading directly for the bridge… a bridge full of snarled, gridlocked traffic.

Something had happened. It was all so quick, shrouded like the fog of war. One second
, he thought Durham Weathers had been killed in the Apache’s attack. A few moments later, a wall of water was sweeping away the converging law enforcement teams … the mass of twisted, nautical wreckage eventually resting on their crime scene.

Shultz was beyond exhausted. He’d lost count of how many
ambulances he had filled with co-workers and innocent bystanders. A mad scramble had ensued, the survivors rushing about to uncover the wounded and render aid. For over an hour, he’d dug through piles of debris and sloshed through muddy water, frantically rushing here and there, desperately searching for survivors of the tsunami.

All the while, first responders were pouring in. Ex
hausted, filthy and on the downslope of the adrenaline rush, Shultz had decided to stand back and let the professionals perform any remaining rescue work. He’d been loading colleagues into rescue units for what seemed like a lifetime when he realized the source of his own pounding headache was a rather large gash in the back of his head. He found a functioning FBI vehicle and began driving to the hospital – a decision that no doubt saved his life.

He was just over a mile away when the SUV’s police radio carried voices of panic. The blast’s shockwave almost knocked his heavy transport off the road. There were going to be more injured – a lot more. The bureau’s crime scene was now a crater filling with ship channel water, any evidence not washed out to
sea was most likely reduced to carbon by the inferno. There was nothing more he could do back at pier #19, so he continued his trek to the hospital.

Glancing again at his boss, Shultz knew the man was going to be disappointed. Durham (Dusty) Weathers had been the Houston office’s primary focus for weeks. All of that work, all of the lost comrades, all of the man-hours, re
sources, and destruction – for naught. Nothing. Nada.