Activate The Ravagers Ep1v2 (3 page)

He looked down at the materials extracted from the trunk. Tiny video cameras. Microphones so small they’d be impossible to see if you didn’t know where to look. Surveillance equipment capable of transmitting audio and video the short distance to his computer for later retrieval and review—or to the app hidden deep inside his mobile.

He could spy on his wife.

But where?

Realistically, if she’d engaged in an affair, she’d do so at her office, where she could control access to every room. Or she’d find a hotel. He frowned. He’d never get the surveillance gear installed in her office without her consenting to his admission to the room… and she’d wonder why he wanted that access. No lame excuse would suffice. Her birthday wasn’t for another four months. And picking the right hotel—and the right hotel
room
—would prove nearly impossible. He growled, feeling the rumble deep in his throat. He couldn’t get the surveillance cameras where she was most likely to commit the deed.

Unless…

He turned his head to the wall nearest his bedroom.
Their
bedroom. She wouldn’t… she couldn’t… there was no chance she’d defile their bed with her lover. Would she?

If she’d cheat on him…

There was no turning back now. He couldn’t trust his wife unless he could prove her fidelity. If he saw it, the memories would never leave him, just like his memories of war.

But he needed proof, needed to know, if he was to ever know peace again.

He grabbed the box of gear and headed to his bedroom.

…factories, farms, and residential areas inside city walls to ensure the greatest protection from the elements for society’s most critical resources… major corporate facilities, professional services firms, and government agencies sprouted in lesser-protected areas outside primary city limits…

F
ew roads led
away
from
the cityplex.

Humanity’s instinct demanded huddling in packs even now, two centuries after the discovery of the Time Capsule ushered in the rebirth of civilization. Cityplexes boasted residential space, agriculture, and factories, and few felt the desire to leave the safety of the walls. Roads existed solely to connect the cities for intercity travel. Truck drivers commanded mammoth salaries, braving the untamed wilderness known only as the Hinterlands, that space between cities without covered roads or walled cities.

The major corporations moved their office facilities outside city walls, and office space for professional firms serving the largest industries lined the roads leading away from the city. None of the firms left space exposed to the elements, though. Foolish though it might be, the fear of attack from the wilderness just beyond the roads was paramount in the minds of all escaping the walls for work.

Sheila Clarke stood on the steps leading to the entry for Jamison & Associates, a mid-sized accounting firm that served the varied holdings of Diasteel, one of the primary corporate conglomerates dominating commerce in the West. She glanced down at the professional business attire and scowled at the dirt on her shoes. No one would notice, because few people looked at shoes. They’d pay less notice to her shoes when the box arrived.

She’d never seen Jamison so obviously terrified. She and the others had seen what looked like a clean, rapid demolition of a building the enemy feared compromised. He’d seen something else, something far more sinister, in the gaping crater with the smooth walls and lack of debris.

She’d thought him about to faint at the sight of the large box with the strange markings.

His terse commands made clear the danger of the box, or more accurately, whatever existed inside. He’d wanted the box brought here for safekeeping. She’d asked why they’d bring the box here if it posed a grave danger. “It’s not a danger until it’s activated,” he’d replied. His voice was quiet, nearly a whisper, his eyes distant as some horrific memory replayed in his mind. He’d snapped out of it long enough to tell her that they needed to get it into storage in their secure space before that activation occurred.

The storage space couldn’t be accessed without letting everyone working at the accounting firm realize that the building wasn’t there to house an accounting firm.

Sheila decided they’d leave the box in plain sight until they were better prepared to store the contents.

The delivery truck pulled off the main road into the small parking lot. Most workers and client visitors parked in the underground parking garage, and the arrival of a delivery truck—or any vehicle—in the parking lot sent ripples of curious whispers through the building. Sheila could feel dozens of pairs of eyes on her, the owners ready to send text messages to friends on other floors describing the delivery event.

Murphy, Crandall, and Porter climbed from the truck cabin, dressed in the hastily acquired uniforms of the fictitious delivery company. The curious might walk outside and touch the paint on the truck to find it still wet. Sheila doubted any would bother. Her true coworkers played their parts to perfection. Crandall and Porter slid around to the back of the truck, raised the door, and lowered the ramp before clambering inside the truck’s storage space. Murphy took the steps two at a time, asking Sheila to sign for the delivery. She signed—nothing more than an incongruous squiggle—and watched as the “delivery men” carried the coffin-sized box to the door.

“Where to?” Murphy asked.

Sheila spun on her heel. “Follow me.”

They walked across the tiled floor, Sheila’s dirt-covered shoes clopping in a staccato tone, the others slamming boots into the ground with heavy thud after heavy thud. They headed for the elevator that would take them to Jamison’s office, where they’d leave the box under Sheila’s personal guard until the office emptied that night.

They’d put the box in storage at that point.

Jocelyn Whitfield, the office receptionist, watched their progress with hawk-like eyes. She rose from her desk and moved to intercept them. “Mrs. Clarke? What’s going on?”

It’s none of your damn business
, Sheila thought. Voicing such sentiments out loud would blow a cover she suspected wasn’t nearly as tight as she’d like. “Mr. Jamison scheduled a delivery and asked me to personally ensure it arrived safely in his office.”

Jocelyn frowned. “Why wouldn’t he ask me to coordinate a delivery?”

Why indeed? Jocelyn handled most package deliveries, signing for the delivery companies and ensuring recipients received notification of package arrivals. The lie formed fully in her mind with an ease that disturbed her. “Mr. Jamison found a sculpture in the city by a local artist that moved him deeply. He wishes to place the piece personally in his office.”

Jocelyn’s eyes widened. “Ooh, it’s a piece of artwork?” She clapped her hands. Sheila fought the urge to roll her eyes.
Hand clapping
? “Did you know that Molly worked at the art museum in the city? You should have her set the piece up with the proper lighting and angle with the furniture and—”

“
No.
” Sheila didn’t mean to sound as if she were shouting. “Mr. Jamison made it clear: he is the only one who is to open the box and place the piece. If he needs assistance, he’ll ask for it.” She fixed the receptionist with a steady stare, ignoring for the moment the physical strain and additional sweat from the “delivery men” waiting for the conclusion of the dialogue. “Is that clear, Jocelyn?”

“Molly has a very practiced eye, and we can wow Mr. Jamison with—”

“I said, am I clear? Jocelyn?” Sheila folded her arms this time.

Jocelyn’s mouth hung open. She snapped it shut before opening it again to respond. “Okay. Sure.” The receptionist turned and slunk back to her desk. Sheila caught the quick glances back at the box and sighed. Jocelyn thought Sheila wanted to set the “artwork” up herself and get all the kudos from their managing partner, Mr. Jamison. No doubt she’d track down Molly, a woman who worked on the second floor, and figure out how to get in to Mr. Jamison’s office to properly stage the sculpture.

Sheila sighed inwardly. It was too late to change the story now. She’d stay with the box until the office cleared out and Jamison arrived. They’d move the box to storage, and Jocelyn and her friend Molly would never see the artwork. If pressed, Sheila decided, she’d just tell them that Mr. Jamison decided he preferred to display the work at his home.

The door to the elevator opened, and the men carted the box inside. Sheila followed and pressed the button for the fourth floor. She glanced at the three men.

“I thought she’d never leave,” Crandall muttered. Sweat glistened on his face and neck.

Sheila had tried to lift a corner of the box while they remained at the original site, but hadn’t managed to do more than move it a few inches. She couldn’t imagine carrying the box, even with help. She moved in to take a corner and relieve the burden. “Sorry about her,” she muttered. They didn’t need to hide anything in the elevator, but paranoia kept them quiet.

The elevator chime sounded, and the doors opened on the fourth floor. Jamison’s personal assistant rose from his desk at the strange sight. “Mrs. Clarke? What… what’s going on? He’s not here, you know.”

“I know,” Sheila replied. “He asked me to oversee this delivery and ensure no one but him opens the box.”

“But—” The man saw the determined look on Sheila’s face and threw up his hands. “Fine, fine.”

“Call him and check out my story, Marty,” Sheila said, grunting with the effort of marching slowly down the hall to Jamison’s open office.

She kicked the door open wider, groaned as it bounced off the wall and slammed into her shoulder, and wriggled through the doorway. They moved the box inside, then situated it against the outer wall.

Murphy exhaled. “Well, that was fun.” He glanced at Sheila and raised his voice. “Will that be all, ma’am?”

Sheila nodded. “That will be all, gentlemen. Have a good day.”

Murphy didn’t move. Sheila realized that tipping in this scenario would be expected. But… “My wallet is in my office. One moment.” She leaned in. “Don’t let Marty in here, okay? The less he sees, the better it will be for him.”

She ran to the opposite end of the building, streaking past a startled Marty at his desk, and returned a moment later with her portable office computer and her wallet. She handed each man an equal cash tip. All three nodded and murmured their thanks at her generosity before leaving. They’d return the truck, replace their temporary uniforms with their more permanent attire, and return with far less fanfare later.

Sheila’s glare made it clear she expected them to repay their tips at their earliest convenience.

She shut and locked the door to Jamison’s office before opening the computer. Though the accounting job was a mere cover, she still had to spend an hour a day doing enough work to maintain the illusion, and the down time before Jamison’s arrival would prove the perfect time to catch up and get ahead on that work. After an hour, she paused to send her husband a text, letting him know she’d be late and to not wait up. Stephen wouldn’t be happy, and he’d been stewing about something of late. Another late night at the office wouldn’t help his mood.

There was nothing she could do about that now.

She replayed the events and conversation of the early morning in her mind. Something had been gnawing at her, but she’d been unable to articulate the concern. The solitude, the silence save for the tapping of the keys on her keyboard, and the lack of anything to do as the early evening hours passed gave her mind the perfect chance to better identify and define her concern. She glanced at the coffin-sized box, remembered Jamison’s fear, and quickly surmised the obvious.

Whatever had destroyed the building was stored in that box.

Her eyes widened in terror. Now she knew the fear she’d been unable to articulate. She grabbed her phone and sent a text message to Jamison.

What if there are more weapons like this out there?

CORPORATE MAGNATES… Silver, Oswald… chairman of Diasteel… business interests and holdings in the fields of production, agriculture, and transportation… widower… one child… Silver features prominently in various conspiracy theories about human civilization’s origins and current control structures due to his overwhelming influence in six cityplexes…

T
he hand-carved wooden clock
featured a pendulum, an unusual sight in a civilization focused on digital technology. The pendulum moved back and forth in perfect rhythm, each pass taking precisely one second. A clicking sound emerged as the pendulum completed each movement.

The ticking sound of that pendulum pierced the otherwise silent room.

The man sat behind a massive mahogany desk, the surface cleared of everything but a tablet computer. The machine was pushed off to the side. He leaned forward, his chin resting in his left hand, fingers stroking the brown, graying beard. His right hand rested heavily upon the desk’s surface, largely useless after suffering a wound years earlier. His fierce brown eyes stared without blinking, a clear effort to intimidate the young woman seated across from him. He finally spoke, his anger unmuted by the whisper-like volume. “What did you say?”

She met his gaze briefly before pushing a golden lock behind her right ear, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight tremor in her arm. His presence never failed to unnerve her. “I said I’m having doubts. I’m no longer certain I believe in our plan.”

The brown eyes narrowed. “The time for doubt has long since passed, Deirdre.”

She swallowed. “Has the time for everything passed?”

He slammed his hand down on his desk. “Dismissed.” He broke his eye contact and turned his attention to the tablet computer.

He didn’t want to have this conversation and sought to scare her away. She knew better than to follow the order. Her blue eyes went on the offensive, burning into him, as he spent a full minute pretending to work.