Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (4 page)

The agent th
en brightened for a moment, glancing over at the department head. “But he couldn’t have survived the tsunami? There’s no way anyone got out of that alive!”

Hesitant and shaking his head, the tech didn’t answer verbally, instead typing a new command and then nodding toward the screen. “We isolated this image, ten minutes after the tanker was washed up on shore.”

The monitor presented what appeared to be a small raft traveling down a waterway. The picture didn’t offer enough detail to enable identification of the occupants, but the outline of a large green duffle bag was clear against the white outline of the inflatable.

“That bag matches the dimensions of this bag perfectly,” the tech said, the display changing to show a side-by-side picture. On the left was the
raft; on the right was a shot of the pier, immediately before the black line appeared. “Whoever was standing there had an identical piece of luggage, and it appears as though they escaped.”

Shultz’s hand slammed into the
tabletop, startling everyone in the room. “Fuck!” he grimaced, not caring about professionalism or offending the attendees. Then in a low, grumbling voice he added, “You lucky son of a bitch…. You got away…. I know you did.”

Exhausted, angry and frustrated, Shultz made his way back to his office. Within minutes, he was preparing orders for every law enforcement agency along the Texas coast to be on the lookout for one Durham Weathers.

But then a thought occurred to the federal agent. Rising from his desk, he turned to the window with a southeast view from the federal building. The plumes of smoke and ash still rising over the ship channel were clearly visible. He then glanced down at the parking garage where Mr. Weathers’ super-weapon had destroyed several vehicles in a fraction of a second.

“We’ve got to be smarter,” he mumbled to the scene below. “We need to
wise up and get a step ahead.”

Returning to his desk, he added one last sentence to the FBI’s alert. “Notify immediately – DO NOT APPROACH under any circumstances.”

Shultz tapped the keyboard, distributing the message throughout the region. He returned his gaze to the distant horizon, content for the first time in days. “If we corner you again, you might do just about anything with that gun of yours, Mr. Weathers,” he whispered. “This time, you’re not going to know we’re coming. You won’t know we’re there. One shot, one kill… Mr. Weathers.”

First thing the next morning, Dusty exited the hotel lobby and jumped in a waiting cab. The driver seemed disappointed to be called out for such a short fare, but cheered up when Dusty announced he was going shopping and wanted the man to wait, with the meter running, for his return.

“Might be a while,” Dusty replied as he handed the
hack a $100 bill. “This is a deposit. Is there a problem?”

The cabbie checked the currency and smiled. “No sir, take as much time as you want. I haven’t had a chance to read the paper yet this morning.”

He grabbed a cart, stopping first at a display of no-contract cell phones. He threw four of the base models into his buggy. Next came clothing, hygiene products, and finally a backpack. This was the third pack he’d purchased since that fateful day when he’d blown out the back of his workshop with the rail gun. When the gunsmith finally made it to the register, the checkout lady was impressed by the girth and variety of his selection. “My luggage was lost on the plane,” Dusty explained. “You know the airlines; it might take them a week to find my bags.”

She was sympathetic, having a sister who had recently suffered the same misfortune. When she’d
finished scanning his purchase, she nodded toward his duffle bag and commented, “That looks like you brought it in with you – right?”

“Yes, ma’am. I didn’t want to leave it outside.”

He paid with cash, and then proceeded for the exit. A rather large man stepped in front of Dusty, forcing him to pull hard and stop the cart.

“Sir, I am with store security, and I need to look inside of that bag you’ve been carrying around.”

Dusty was initially surprised by the guy’s appearance. “There’s nothing in there that I didn’t bring with me,” was the only response he could think of.

“Then y
ou won’t mind my checking inside,” the fellow countered, clearly intent in performing his duty.

“I’m
not an attorney, but I don’t think you’re allowed to do that unless you have reasonable suspicion. I just purchased several hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise in your store. And now you think I am a crook? That doesn’t seem to fit with any shoplifting profile I’ve ever heard of.”

The security man shrugged,
“No doubt, your behavior is atypical of most retail thieves. However, you arrived in a cab and paid cash for your purchases – not something we see every day. While you did spend some money here, you may have your big score in that duffle. Some of our smaller items carry hefty price tags. So, yes, sir. Those abnormalities fail my sniff test.”

Dusty straightened to his full height, a rooster clearly readying for a
confrontation. “I have personal affects in that bag. No one is going to stick their nose in there.”

“Fine with me,” the store goon sighed. “We’ll call the local police
, and let them do it.”

“They can’t search private property without proper cause either,”
he replied. “As it stands right now, it’s my word against yours.”

“This is just my part-
time job,” the gent stated with confidence. “I’m also a patrolman on the local force. Believe me. They’ll take my word for it.” The store-cop then lowered his voice, “Look pal, I don’t care if you have dirty underwear, pornography, or pictures of yourself wearing women’s clothing in that bag. I just have to make sure there’s no store merchandise inside. Whatever else is in there is your business… as long as it’s not illegal.”

Dusty smiled at the guy,
and then acted as though he was looking around for eavesdroppers. Leaning in as if he was going to confess the bag contained nefarious contents, he whispered, “Go fuck yourself.”

T
he cop’s eyebrows went up for just a moment. “Have it your way, sir. Please come with me back to the office. I’ll call the officers from there.”

Dusty had thoughts about just going around the guy, but then noticed two more
muscular young men standing between him and the door. They looked to be praying he’d make a run for it.

Needing to b
uy time, Dusty shrugged. “Can I call my attorney while we’re waiting?”

“Not on my phone. This isn’t a police station, although I’m sure
you will be seeing one soon.”

Dusty, bookended by the store’s security men, was led to the back of the facility.
After leaving the retail space, they entered the warehouse. Continuing, they passed through an expanse populated with numerous rows of floor to ceiling metal racks, each stuffed with cardboard boxes and pallets of merchandise.

Dusty
was getting very worried, the sick feeling of fear building in his stomach. At least these guys hadn’t recognized him – yet.

There wasn’t any doubt what would happen if someone looked inside of his duffle. Even if the cops didn’t match his face to the bulletins and most wanted list, the rail gun and Glock .45 pistol would result in an inquiry. The weapons, combined with the wads of
cash and fake gold would definitely cause his fingerprints and mug shot to be run on every law enforcement computer in the country.

His mind scrambled to figure a way out. He might chance pulling either the pistol or the rail gun, but both would require a significant amount of time to draw,
load, and fire. All of these guys were armed, the outline of their sidearms now obvious under their shirts. Desperate to buy some time, he decided to try to stall. Pausing, he reached into his cart and pulled out a recently purchased pack of gum. As slow as possible, he fumbled with unwrapping a stick and popped it into his mouth.

The store-gumshoe frowned at the delay. “What are you doing?”

“My mouth is dry. Since you’re obviously intent on locking me away for an extended period of time, I thought I’d better take advantage now before you throw me in the dungeon and forget I’m there.”

“You can keep you
r possessions… at least the ones you paid for,” informed the head guard. “Sometimes it takes the local cops a while to get here, so I hope you have some food in there.”

They meandered through the bowels of the warehouse, eventually arriving at
a room that was slightly larger than the average closet. Inside was a single chair. “Please wait inside,” instructed Mr. Security Chief.

Peeking through the doorway
, Dusty hesitated. “I’m claustrophobic,” he protested.

“Not my problem,” responded the guard, moving closer to intimidate. Dusty positioned himself
as if he was thinking about running, the act complete with darting eyes and deep breaths. It was a distraction, giving him a moment to slip his wad of gum into the door lock’s receptacle as his hand brushed against the frame. He finally went inside with a look of terror on his face.

One of the guards rolled the
shopping cart full of packages inside the small room and then closed the door. Dusty heard the fellow check the knob, making sure the prisoner was secure.

Dropping immediately to the floor, Dusty listened to his captors
through the gap between the linoleum tile and the bottom of the door. He heard the head man bark, “You two go back out and watch the store. I’ll call the Kemah PD and get a car out here.”

Following their orders, he
listened as the two men stamped off. The boss hung around for a moment, and then his footsteps faded into the distance as well.

Dusty grabbed the door handle with both hands and
pushed hard. It opened without much effort. The gum had done its job, blocking the lock’s bolt from fully closing into the frame. He had learned the trick from an older boy in high school, sticking a mouthful of the sticky substance in the side door’s lock so they could sneak in on weekends and play basketball in the gym.

He cautiously stuck his head out of the opening, finding the area empty of any store employees. He returned to
the closet, rushing through his bags and packing his purchased items into the new backpack. Sticking the Glock and one of the new cell phones in his pocket, he exited the pseudo-cell and made for a far row of shelves.

The red light of an exit sign was visible up ahead
, and it was tempting. His initial reaction was to make a rush for the back door, but something else drew his attention. There was a camera mounted on the wall. Glancing around, he noted the place was thick with the electronic eyes. That was a problem.

Even if he made a clea
n escape, there was little doubt his image resided on the store’s security system – probably from multiple angles. That video, when analyzed, would confirm he was still alive, lead to the taxi, then the hotel, and finally an undeniable implication of Grace.

His hard-won new identit
y would be toast, the alias zipping through every law enforcement database in the country. Ducking between two large boxes, he hid in the shadows, trying to think things through.

He had to erase his tracks.
The phones, pre-loaded credit cards and everything else he’d just purchased would be on the receipts. It wouldn’t take the authorities long to tie it all together. That video tape had to go – it was the only solid proof that he was still among the living.

He pulled out one of the plastic-covered phones, making quick work of the packaging with his
pocketknife. The setup screens seemed to take forever, but eventually he had service. He had made a shopping list on the hotel’s stationery and found the phone number directly below the fancy letterhead.

“Southside Harbor, how may I direct your call?” A friendly voice answered.

“Room 515, please.”

Grace answered on the second ring.

“It’s me. You need to get out, and get out of there right now.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

In as few sentences as possible, he explained what had happened.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, but regardless, you have to get out of that room. Call a cab from the lobby or just start walking, but get out.”

He could hear her breathing thro
ugh the phone as her mind raced through the options. “Okay. Meet me by the fountains at the boardwalk as soon as you can. Our boat is probably still there – that might be the only way for us to skedaddle. That place will be busy this time of day, and I’ll pretend to shop and lose myself in the crowd.”

“Okay – I’ll see you there.”

Checking the aisle from both directions, Dusty crawled out of the nook and retraced his steps. Down the hall from his holding cell were a series of office windows, a few of them leaking light through the glass. Maybe he could find the recording equipment for the surveillance system.

The rumble of an approaching forklift caused a mad scramble for cover, the
dockworker zipping past without seeing him. That heart-stopping event was closely followed by voices. Two employees, each carrying a brown lunch bag, entered one of the doors.
The employee break room
, he decided.

He bent low, duck-
walking under the first window where several people were chowing down on their chosen meals. The next door was closed, the window dark. On the third door was a small sign, “Security Office.”

He slowly pee
ked around the edge of the window, spying the security boss typing on a computer keyboard. Behind him, on a rack, were half a dozen video recording machines.
How do I get him out of there?

New voices sounded behind him
, and there wasn’t anywhere to go. He spotted a large bulletin board nearby and moved quickly to stand as if he were reading the latest results from the company softball league. Two workers walked by, paying him no attention.

After they had passed, he
strolled by the offices and found himself in another warehouse area. The place was huge. Again, he found a cubbyhole, crates of garden hoses on one side, racks of shovels, rakes and hoes on the other.

How could he get the security man out of his office long enough to remove the tapes?

He shifted positions to get more comfortable and almost knocked one of the long-handled shovels from its hanger. He caught it mid-fall, cursing under his breath at his clumsiness.
That thing would have made one hell of a racket banging up against the wall
, he chided himself.
Someone would have come to see what all the fuss was about.

It was then that he noticed the
wall-mounted fire station. Directly across from the rows of hanging tools was an alarm, hose and extinguisher. It was equipped with one of those “Break the glass in case of fire” devices.

Examining
the shovel still in his hand, he whispered, “That is a stupid place to hang these tools… one of them could fall and set off the….” A mischievous smile crossing his lips, he suddenly had a plan.

Peeking out from his hide, he made sure there wasn’t anyone nearby. He hefted the
shovelhead and smashed the glass. Hooking the edge of the heavy tool on the handle, he pulled down the alarm and scurried behind a nearby soda machine.

Strobe lights flashed and claxons sounded throughout the area. He h
eard the security door fly open; the head guard’s voice rumbling, “What the hell is going on,” as footfalls raced away. Dusty popped his head around in time to spy the store cop rounding the far corner, being followed by the wide-eyed employees from the break room.