DEAD BEEF (Our Cyber World Book 1) (11 page)

They could get him, but they weren’t going to snatch his code the easy way.

The hovercraft sped east. Julian followed it, tracing a line from it to the horizon, where he made out the glint of a white vessel. He watched it grow in size. It was coming straight for him.

Julian unfurled the sails and aimed the boat north.

Chapter 16

Cynthia left InfoStream headquarters in Milpitas, California in tears. Stan Beloski comforted her as best he could, but wouldn’t tell her what had happened. From the flurry of tense activity around the facility, she knew it couldn’t be good. Cynthia walked into the parking lot and wiped off her tears, not entirely sure herself how many of them were real.

“The best acting always has a lot of your truth in it,” she recalled a drama teacher saying once, a long time ago, when life was pure and tears few.

She checked her watch before she climbed into Martin’s Lexus convertible, which she’d always liked, had hardly driven, and would now take for a spin one last time. On the radio, news about a massive L.A. blackout confirmed the few hushed exchanges she’d overhead back at InfoStream. According to the reporter, this was a serious problem “with no immediate resolution in sight.”

Upon leaving InfoStream shortly before noon, she drove around the area leisurely, going around the block a couple of times, hanging U-turns twice and in the end convincing herself no one was following.

Just to make sure, Cynthia entered the drive-thru lane of a burger place that had been a favorite lunch spot of Martin’s back in the day. It remained popular as ever, and the long drive-thru line of cars inched forward slowly.

When her car was out of view from the street, concealed by the eating establishment’s building, Cynthia got out of the car and checked her trunk. The two identical backpacks she’d packed that morning remained as she had left them, each zip-tied to the right and left sides of the car’s trunk. With a pocket knife she had stowed inside a pair of hiking shoes, she ripped off the four zip-ties, the two tying the bags to the frame of the car, and the two wrapped through each of the bag’s zippers. No one had rummaged through the contents of her backpacks.

That of course, didn’t mean the car didn’t have a homing beacon on it, installed that morning by Collections personnel. This she had to assume as a worst-case possibility.

For peace of mind, Cynthia re-checked the contents of each bag. The lighter one still contained a few items of clothing, while the other contained some toiletries tossed in with a Smith & Wesson 22 Long Rifle competition pistol and an Uzi sub-machine gun, along with several loaded clips and boxes of ammunition.

She closed the trunk and returned to her role of hungry lunch patron in search of a greasy burger. After placing her order she waited a few more minutes before trading $15.37 for a burger, onion rings and an orange soda, capped with a chocolate and peanut butter milk shake. On her way to the airport she ate a couple of onion rings but none of the burger, sipped a bit of the soda, and drank all of the milk shake.

At San Jose International Airport, Cynthia parked in one of the hourly visitor lots. After double-checking no one was watching her, she walked to a pay phone and made a call.

“Hello,” a man answered. “Chris speaking.”

“Oh, hi, Chris. I’m calling about your ad on Craigslist,” she said. “Do you still have it for sale?”

“Which one?” Chris asked.

“Both of them.”

“Oh, sure. You want both? Yeah, it’s a nice rig. You’ll pay cash, right?”

“Yeah, that’s no problem. Can you meet me at the Courtyard Marriott, the one by San Jose airport in say, one hour?”

Chris hesitated. “I don’t know. I’d need a ride back home.”

“I’ll give you a couple of hundred extra,” Cynthia replied. “That should cover a taxi.”

That sealed the deal. Chris would be there in an hour, no problem.

Walking at a leisurely pace and scanning her surroundings as she went, Cynthia took her belongings with her and made her way to the parking lot’s stairwell. There she climbed three flights to reach the top of the structure. As she anticipated, she found it mostly empty. Back inside the stairwell, she stripped off her blouse, skirt and sensible sandals.

From the clothing backpack, she extracted a spray bottle. She took a deep breath, held it and closed her eyes tightly before she sprayed her hair, dabbing at it to ensure she had gotten all or most of it wet. After counting to 45 seconds, Cynthia allowed herself a couple of shallow breaths and breathed normally once she could tell the fumes were mostly gone.

Next she put on a pair of jeans, followed by socks and her hiking boots. She allowed her hair to dry then put on a dark blue navy t-shirt.

This was it, she told herself. It was time to move.

Cynthia strapped the heavier bag to her back and hand-carried the other as she walked down to the bottom level. Using a car’s side mirror, she checked her appearance and verified her brunette-auburn hair had indeed turned the intended dirty blond and that it had gained additional volume. She played with her hair to calm it down a bit, and she pulled her bangs over her forehead. Happy with the results, she put on a pair of sunglasses and checked her appearance again.

Cynthia smiled at herself and decided that this was one look she would try again when all this was over.

Exiting the parking lot, she walked across to the terminal where a few minutes later she boarded the Courtyard Marriott courtesy shuttle. She checked her watch. She would arrive in plenty of time to enjoy a drink or two at the hotel’s bar before meeting her newest friend Chris.

Chris arrived with his dull gray pickup truck and motorcycle rig a couple of minutes ahead of schedule. He turned out to be a very helpful and motivated seller. He showed her all the features of his tricked-up 1985 Toyota pickup, told her all about the brand new rebuilt engine and transmission, the racing Bilstein shock absorbers and the “pretty much” brand new off-roading tires. He even started the engine of the colorful yellow blue and red Yamaha dirt bike, and demonstrated how it strapped securely to the back of the truck. He also showed her how to roll out the bike on the custom ramp he had built, and how to store the ramp.

“I like to strap the bike backwards sometimes,” Chris explained. “So I can just jump off the back of the truck without the ramp.”

“Sounds kind of fun,” Cynthia said smiling. “We’ll have to try it sometimes.”

“Great. But for long trips on the highway it’s best to have the bike facing forward, in the direction of travel,” Chris added. “It’s more aero-dynamic that way. Trust me, it will save you on gas.”

“That makes sense,” she said. “Let’s leave it facing forward, then.”

Cynthia felt guilty for haggling, but she did it to keep appearances, getting him to drop $500 off the price, which she guessed Chris had padded on in case his buyer wanted the satisfaction of a better deal. In the end, she handed him 92 one hundred dollar bills, including the pre-agreed two hundred for cab fare.

Chris methodically counted the money, occasionally holding one of the bills up to the light to make sure it was legit, saying, “No offense, but you gotta check.”

When he was done counting, he asked, “So is this for you?”

“Not really. Well, maybe a little. It’s an anniversary present for my husband.”

“Cool! He’ll be stoked for sure. He’s one lucky dude.”

“I’ll make sure to remind him,” she said with a wink.

The truck’s suspension was stiff and the ride every bit as jumpy as Cynthia anticipated. On the plus side, Chris had retrofitted the truck with XM radio and a GPS unit. On the not so positive side, the air conditioning worked, but didn’t cool the truck’s cab very well. It would be a long, uncomfortable drive, she thought, wondering anew how Martin could love these long treks.

Cynthia plotted a course east which would eventually take her across Yosemite through Highway 120 and Tioga pass, connecting with Highway 395. After that, it would be a matter of sniffing around the Pacific Crest Trail and the eastern Sierras until she found Martin, hopefully before the pack of Collection coyotes did.

“The adventure and joie de vivre you always wanted, Martin,” Cynthia whispered. Her chest tightened, and she held back tears that threatened to burst open the dam of her resentment.

Chapter 17

Much to his chagrin, Martin arrived at the rendezvous point 15 minutes after he should have. By now, she was probably gone, he guessed, a major setback in completing step 7. If so, he’d have to try all this again the following morning. Based on the news reports he was hearing on the radio about Los Angeles, he’d prefer not to.

He parked the Toyota under the cover of trees to stay out of aerial view and waited. Around him, the High Sierras and the forest hissed with the sound of wind sifting through the foliage.

It smelled so good here. Breathing this air made him feel alive. Each breath felt as if he was purging all the gunk he’d inhaled in the city. If he could only do that with his mind, he thought, just dump it all and trade it for memories of dusty trails, hot afternoon hikes, putting his feet in cold snowmelt streams and nights under pure black skies with countless stars that no one could turn off.

The sharp roar of a motorcycle engine brought him back. Inside a cloud of trail dust she sped to him, breaking to an abrupt stop a few feet from him.

She raised her visor and regarded him with a frown. “I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up,” she said.

“Had to make sure I wasn’t being followed,” he replied. “For a while it looked like someone was tailing me. False alarm, though. Some kid with too much ride, lost after turning down the wrong road.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Turn off all electronics,” she said pointing at his GPS. “That XM radio, off, too. Does it pull out of the tray?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do it.” When he complied, she added, “We’re going to be on this trail for about 10 miles. It’s rough and slow going. Try to keep up.” With that, she ripped ahead, shredding another cloud of dust, most of which seemed to land inside the Toyota’s cabin.

Martin cursed under his breath, coughed, and started the engine.

He soon found the trail to be just as she described it, and much worse than he imagined. Even on her more nimble dirt bike, progress was slow. In the few spots where he slowed down more than her, she would stop up trail and wait for him to rejoin her. Martin watched the miles slowly tick by on his odometer in one tenth of a click increments. At first, his mind kept speeding ahead to when they would arrive at their destination and all the things he’d have to do there. Eventually, every muscle and brain cell was focused on the road, on the ruts, on the rocks he should avoid, on the bumps and rises he had to climb in a lower gear. There was nothing but dirt, rock, trail, steering wheel, brake pedal, clutch, stick-shift and accelerator; and difficult as it was, Martin found himself wishing it could remain this way. He wished this hard road and the forest around it were all he ever had to worry about.

They came to a stop when the odometer read 9.8 miles from where they had started. She parked the bike between two bushes and covered it with a camouflage tarp.

“We’re on foot from this point on,” she said as she readjusted a heavy backpack. “I got about 20 pounds of food in here. What do you have?”

Martin opened the back of the truck to show her.

“Geez, did you think you were going on an Alaskan Cruise?” she asked, unzipping his bags. “You still don’t know how to pack light for a hike.” She got to the duffel bag with the money. “Oh, and what are we planning to do with this? Use it for bass bait at the nearest stream, or bribe the bears to share their berries?”

“I didn’t know what all we would need.”

“Well, I would have packed a few more clothes.” She pointed at the camera equipment. “This is not a photo tour, so I suggest you leave that. You should bury the money somewhere around here. Last thing we want is someone finding your classic ride and digging through to find a pirate's fortune. That won’t raise any red flags, will it?”

Martin unhooked a shovel from the back of his Toyota. “I’ll go dig.”

“God, Martin,” she said. “We really don’t have all day.” She unlatched her backpack and took it off. “The satellite phone stays for sure. As you’ll see, it’s quite superfluous up there.”

By the time Martin came back sweating from burying one million dollars minus change, she had removed all that she thought should go up the trail and had covered the Toyota with its camouflage cover plus a few branches she’d gathered.

“At least this you got right,” she said, pointing at the cover. “We might want to come back for some of the bottled water, maybe tomorrow. I stuffed most of the granola bars in my pack. They’re good to have.”

“I guess I got that one right, too,” he noted.

“Every stopped clock tells the right time twice a day.” She smiled. “I rearranged some of your clothing, too.” She shrugged. “I put a lens in your bag, and I’ll take the rest of your photo gear.”

“You sure? I can handle it.”

“I’m sure you can’t. It’s a one hour hike, straight up. Your local gym doesn’t get you in shape for this.” She handed him a bottle of water. “Drink up. Oh, and take off that thing. It’s hideous.” She was pointing at his head.

Martin had worn it so long, he’d forgotten about the wig. Embarrassed, he took it off, and along with the dingy cap, stuffed it under the Toyota’s cover, inside one of the wheel wells.

When he turned around, she was looking at him, differently this time. “Better,” she said. “I wouldn’t be a good ranger if I let you scare the squirrels.”

They strapped on their backpacks, grabbed the other bags, and headed up the trail.

She’d been right about his fitness, Martin admitted once they arrived at the cabin. Though she’d never allowed any stops, her pace had been kind enough to allow for one and half hours of hiking. Doing the math, it had taken him 50 percent longer to do the hike than it would have taken her.

“Stay here,” she said. “Under the trees, please.” She walked up wooden steps onto the cabin’s porch. Kneeling at one corner of the porch, she reached underneath the deck and brought out an antenna and a meter of some sort. A scanner, he realized. She flipped a switch and made a full circuit around the cabin, then headed inside.

She came out and said, “We’re clear. Come on, we don’t have all day.”

Martin picked up his stuff and said, “It’s good to see you, Sasha.”

She seemed to hesitate for a moment before she averted her gaze from him to pick up her bag. “Let me show you the place. It’s the best money can buy around these parts.”

“Hungry?” Sasha asked once they had brought all their stuff inside. “It’s almost 5, and you look like you need something in your belly.”

Martin took in the cabin’s interior. Simple and austere, the single floor and room layout packed a surprising set of amenities for such a small space: a small wood stove, next to an electric stove, next to a sink, next to a counter with cabinets, next to a twin bed, which was next to another, a metal pot underneath each one. Small closet doors stood on either side of the beds. Then his eyes came to rest on a desk where four stacked flat panel displays showed video of various parts of the forest.

“Or would you prefer a quick tour, first?” Sasha asked.

“Not much to tour.”

“Oh, but there is. First some rules. Each of us gets his and her own bed. This one is yours,” she said pointing to one of the twin beds, which unlike the other one, was neatly appointed with sheets and a tightly fitted bed cover. “It’s been waiting for you for quite some time,” she added with a coy smile.

Sasha opened one of the two small doors. “This is your closet.” Pulling out a uniform, she added, “And this is your ranger in-training uniform. You are here to observe and learn from an experienced ranger.” She paused, looked up at the ceiling and placed an index finger on her cheek. “Now, I’m a little rusty but, I believe they call that a cover story?”

Martin nodded with a faint smile.

“Starting tomorrow you wear this. There’s another one in there, and a creek down the trail that we passed on the way here where you can do your laundry.”

“You have running water and electricity?” he asked.

“I’ll get to the electricity part in a second,” she said. “The running water comes from a running spring just behind the house. It gurgles and pumps water to the house without any need for man-made pumping. Never gone dry, even during drought years, of which we’re in one right now. The water comes straight from the snowmelt, with no need for purification, though I check it periodically.”

“Sounds good.”

“But,” she said pulling out one of the pots from under the bed, “running water only helps us so much. We have an outhouse about 100 yards from the house, next to the trail leading up to the lookout. I don’t recommend going there in the middle of the night, which is why we have these. Which brings us to another rule. If you use it, you clean it the very next day. No exceptions.”