Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (30 page)

“You know we couldn’t do that… that was never in the cards.”
Shultz took another sip of the drink and then nodded at the rail gun slung across his adversary’s shoulder. “You’re holding a weapon of mass destruction. We can’t let people walk around controlling that sort of power. Look around if you need proof. Durham Weathers may be the nicest guy in the world, but that’s not going to stop every power-hungry megalomaniac on the planet from trying to get his hands on your damned invention. That dead man over my shoulder… the one with the broken neck… he’s one of the most ruthless men in the world. That’s Tio, the leader of the Gulf Cartel. He’s no doubt the guy who wanted your invention bad enough to invade a country. That’s why we’ve been trying to arrest you and seize that fucked-up piece of technology you’ve got hanging from your neck.”

Dusty glanced up a
t the corpse, his eyes taking in the now-dead criminal. “What’s your name?”

Shultz didn’t answer for a moment, the question taking him by surprise. The lack of response didn’t deter the man beside him. Dusty reached down and flipped the agent’s ID badge over so he could read the name.

“Thomas Shultz. Well, Tom, it’s the power-hungry megalomaniacs in Washington that I’m most worried about. Think about it for a minute. Every invention, creation, and device that can be used as a weapon
has
been used as a weapon. Chemical, biological, nuclear… you name it. When my brother informed me of the potential power within my little discovery, the last people on earth I wanted controlling it were politicians. Handing over something like this is, has been, and always will be a receipt for human suffering. The difference with this little baby is that there’s no second chance. It can end it all if a mistake is made, and that scares the shit out of me.”

“How’s that
high and mighty philosophy working out for you?” Shultz asked, his good hand motioning toward the battlefield. “Sure looks like it’s already being used as a weapon to me.”

“I’m not going to debate you on this. This isn’t the place or the time. What I do want is for you to take a message back to your superiors. Tell them to set up something… anything that keeps this technology from being used in warfare. I don’t care if it’s a collation of universities, a specially created
commission, or a remote Pacific island that is guarded by aircraft carriers. Convince my brother that my rail gun will never be weaponized, and I’ll gladly hand it over in a heartbeat. Oh, throw in a presidential pardon for yours truly as well. I want to go back to my ranch and enjoy the company of a pretty girl I know back home.”

“That’s never going to happen, Weathers, and you know it.”

Dusty frowned, his eyes moving off to the pile of smoldering rubble that had just a few minutes ago been a huge industrial complex. “Then perhaps I should visit Washington with my little invention. Maybe our illustrious elected officials will give my proposal serious consideration after I demonstrate a money shot into the Potomac. The tsunami shouldn’t wipe out too much of DC.”

Down the Tri-Materials lane, one of the burning police cruisers picked that moment to explode. The event caused Weathers to stand quickly and scan the area f
or a potential threat. After observing nothing that concerned him, Dusty glanced down at Shultz and continued, “You can stop this madness. It’s all so pointless. Deliver my message, Mister FBI Tom. Let them know I’m growing tired of playing cat and mouse. If they don’t come to their senses soon, I’ll be forced to get mean, and we all know where that will end up.”

And with that, Dusty turned and began walking away. After two steps, he paused and looked over his shoulder, “Oh, and by the way, you’re welcome.”

“Welcome for what?”

“For my
saving your life, Mister Tom. I could have let those thugs roll over your position and then toasted their asses. Think about that.”

As Weather
s continued on his way, Shultz reached inside his jacket and pulled his pistol. He flicked off the safety and managed to steady his shaking hand long enough to center the sights on Dusty’s back. His finger slowly put pressure on the trigger - but then he stopped.

He couldn’t do it, and he didn’t know why. Did he feel a debt? Was it something the man had said?

The effort drained the last of his energy, and he let the weapon slip to the ground and lowered his head. He watched Weathers trek away until the Texan had disappeared from his view. Shultz closed his eyes, wondering why he couldn’t put a bullet in the most wanted man on earth.

An idea came to Dusty as he walked toward the road. His instinct to get away from the battlefield was overridden by the FBI agent’s words. He was a target, first for the Russians and now a drug cartel. Anger and frustration began to override the commonsense of escape. Maybe the elected leaders of his own country weren’t the only ones who needed a clear message.

He changed course and returned to Tio’s dead body. Fueled by an
ever-increasing rage, Dusty bent and lifted the drug lord’s body, hefting the lifeless form over his shoulder.

He proceeded to one of the police SUVs, a large Suburban that appeared unharmed. He unceremoniously dumped Tio’s corpse onto the hood and then rummaged inside until he found a roll of
duct tape in the back. A few moments later, Tio was secured to the front of the vehicle like a trophy deer being taken down from the mountains.

Dusty hopped inside his newly requisitioned ride and headed from Laredo.

Colonel Zeta examined the roadblock with a critical eye. It was the third such formation he’d inspected in the last 15 minutes.

All of the main roadways into Laredo were now home to such obstacles. The nationalist inside of the
colonel was proud that his men had fought so well. The military man within him knew their glory would be short lived if Tio didn’t return soon with the promised super-weapon.

“You have too many men huddled to
o closely to this barricade,” he chided the inexperienced officer in charge. “The Americans will put a Hellfire missile up your ass if they catch you bunching up like this. Spread your men out and keep them out of sight.”

The
nervous leader seemed confused, looking around as if trying to identify suitable cover for his squad.

Frustrated, Zeta pointed at a corner gas station. “Use that structure over there. Keep two men here and shelter the rest inside of that building. They’ll have plenty of time to react if there is a counterattack.”

Without waiting for any response, the colonel leapt back into the idling Land Rover and sped off.

As he drove to the next roadblock, Zeta couldn’t help but gaze up at the sky. He knew it was a worthles
s use of time as the odds of spotting any American aircraft or drones were low. Still, his eyes drifted skyward.

They had lost over 350 men taking the city. After recovering from the initial shock of the assault, the American la
w enforcement officers had fought bravely, vicious pockets of resistance that took time, ammunition, and casualties to overcome. While this stubbornness had been somewhat anticipated, the reaction of the local population had not.

The response from the c
itizens of Laredo reminded the colonel of the quote,
You can never invade the American Mainland – there will be a rifle behind every blade of grass.

Zeta grunted, now having had firsthand experience with those rifles. The Mexican officer didn’t know who had coined that little bit of wisdom. Many believed it had been Admiral Yamamoto of Japan, but that was inco
rrect. No matter the source, the adage had been proven accurate in Laredo that afternoon.

While 350 causalities
were still considered acceptable losses, Zeta’s forces had been surprised by the ferocity of the common civilians. It seemed that every shopkeeper, bartender, and housewife possessed a weapon of some sort. Once word began to spread of the invasion, the police were often joined by everyday men and women, firing everything from deer rifles to old revolvers at his men.

The entire situation had hurt the moral
e of his troops. Killing uniformed, armed government servants was one thing. Taking down older men barricaded inside the local VFW was another. Worse yet, his men considered themselves liberators of a sort. The commander had overheard more than a few rumblings from his men – his troops amazed by the hostile reception they had received from the local Mexican Americans.

Some of his men
had been motivated by what they saw as a long history of abuse and discrimination against their countrymen. While no one had envisioned joyful parades celebrating the liberators, they definitely hadn’t anticipated having to kill so many members of their own race.

Zeta was
himself shocked by the reaction of the local Latinos. They had resisted his efforts with as much grit and determination as the Anglos. He recalled coming across one injured man, lying in the street and bleeding out. A rusty relic of a shotgun was lying nearby, evidence that his men had taken fire from the old man.

At least sixty years old, the leathery hands and wrinkled face were those of someone who labored outdoors. For some reason, Zeta had paused, bending down next to the old fellow and asking in Spanish, “Why did you fight us? We are your countrymen.”

“You are from the old world,” the man sputtered, anger resonating in his voice. “I came here twenty years ago to find a new life. You bring the rotting decay of the old world with you. This is a better place, and you shouldn’t be here.”

Zeta shook his head, wondering why his thinking was so far off from the reality on the streets around him. It was troubling.
   

And now Tio was late.

Zeta had estimated it would take four to six hours for the Americans to respond. It would be growing dark in another two, and he wanted to be either back across the border or on the offensive before the light faded. It all depended on Tio and the actual power of the super-weapon. If it were even half as effective as some claimed, they would expand their beachhead on U.S. soil and rally the rest of the Mexican army to join their cause.

But now he was beginning to have doubts. It had been two hours since the syndicate boss had taken his
handpicked soldiers and charged forward to capture the prize. With his typical overconfidence, Tio had commented, “I’ll be right back,” before pulling out of Laredo.

Parking the SUV at the next cluster of his men, Zeta found this group was better pr
epared. He was met by a serious-looking young officer who saluted smartly.

“Sir, how long before the Americans start dropping bombs on our heads?” the
skittish man asked.

Zeta managed to keep the grin
off his face, happy that the young soldier was thinking ahead. “They won’t use bombers. As long as we are integrated tightly with the civilian population, they won’t risk killing their own people. When they come, they’ll use conventional ground forces.”

“Armor?”

The colonel shook his head, “Unlikely. It takes longer to arm, fuel and transport heavy armor. The worst thing we’ll see in the next 10 hours will be helicopter gunships. We have a ready supply of ground-to-air missiles if that’s the case.”

The kid didn’t seem convinced. “Are we here on a suicide mission, sir? We caught the Americans off guard, but that element won’t last long. My men are becoming concerned. We feel like sitting targets just mulling around
, waiting to be attacked.”