Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (13 page)

“FBI, Miss Weathers.”

Frowning, she replied, “Sure ya are, slick. You both better skedaddle because I’m calling security.”

“Miss Weathers, the guard at the gate will be happy to verify our credentials. I can call him if you wish.”

Maria examined the two men again, this time the one in front was holding up a badge. Cautiously opening the door a crack, she inspected his ID. Still unsure, she remarked, “Anyone can buy one of those off the internet, pal. I’m not convinced.”

Movement from behind the two men drew her attention, a uniformed Houston
constable approaching her door from the sidewalk. “Miss Weathers, you probably don’t remember, but you sold me and the missus our home two years ago.”

“Office
r Gibson, how is… Nancy?”

“You do remember,” he said with a smile. “She’s fine
, ma’am. You can rest assured that these two gentlemen are indeed federal officers, Miss Weathers.”

Opening the door, Maria
waved the two men inside, the appearance of her pistol causing them a slight discomfort. “You’ll pardon my caution, fellas, but I live alone. A girl can’t be too careful these days.”

After returning the handgun to her bag, Maria offered her two visitors something to drink. Both declined.

Monroe began, “Miss Weathers, when was the last time you saw your husband?”

“Dusty?” She replied, “Dusty is my ex-husband. I’ve not talked to him for at least six months. Why? Is he okay?”

“So you haven’t seen or heard from him… zero correspondence or contact in over six months?”

“That’s what I just said. Am I stuttering or something? So what’s going on with Dusty?”

“Ma’am, your ex-husband is a person of interest in an ongoing investigation. We know he’s in the Houston area, and thought he might have contacted you for help.”

Her attitude was dismissive.
“Dusty’s in Houston? Are you sure?” she smirked. “Doesn’t sound much like him. He hates big cities.”

The two FBI agents ignored her comment. Shultz continued, “Ma’am, are you aware of any anti-government organizations your ex-husband
is associated with, or is a member of?”

Maria snorted, “Dusty? Anti-government? Look here, I don’t know who you’re looking fo
r, but the man I was married to was as patriotic as anyone I know.”

Monroe took his turn at the questioni
ng. “Are you aware of any event or change in his life that would have turned him against the United States of America?”

Realizing the two men standing in her house were actually serious, Maria starting getting angry. “No. As a matter of fact, my ex was a political agnostic – he didn’t vote for any specific party, but rather always judged the man.
I’ve never seen even the smallest hint of rebellion in him. He’s an honorable man.”

Monroe handed over his card, “If he attempts to contact you via any method, please call us immediately. I must warn you, ma’am, he’s to be considered armed and dangerous. Don’t meet him – call us.”

Maria’s tone became indignant, “Armed and dangerous? Dusty? Are you sure you’re looking for the same Durham Weathers? He’s one of the white hats, Agent Monroe.”

“Yes, Miss. Weathers, we’re sure.”

Dusty wanted fresh fruit and a higher quality of sustenance. The mobility and compact storage of the camping fare had been attractive to a nervous man on the run. Now that he’d
calmed down, the realization that he was effectively a shut-in began to play on his mind.
If I’m going to be holed up in this little room,
he reasoned,
I might as well sample a bit of the local cuisine.

Determined to find a grocery store, he left the suite and made for the bus stop. Waiting on the elevator, it occurred to him that he didn’t have a clue which direction to take the bus. The
lobby-clerk had been so helpful before, her knowledge of the area saving him a lot of time. He’d stop and ask, sure that she could point him in the right direction.

Dusty found
the woman on the telephone, so he idled around the small lobby, waiting his turn. There was a lounge area next to the front desk – two vinyl covered chairs, a couch and television, a courtesy for weary travelers. He wandered over, not wanting to appear as though he was eavesdropping on the clerk’s call.

Browsing a display of pamphlets advertising tourist destinations in the area, the image on the television screen drew his
eye. What he saw made him inhale sharply, his body freezing stiff.

The local news
station was displaying his picture – an image he recognized from his driver’s license. The caption beneath his photo read, “FBI SEEKS FUGITIVE, THOUGHT TO BE IN THE HOUSTON AREA.”

They had found the Thrush.

His first reaction was to turn and look at the clerk – to see if she was watching the broadcast. It was a mistake, as his proximity to the television gave her a side-by-side comparison of the photo and his face. His chest tightened as her smile faded, eyes darting between him and the screen.

There was no question
that she recognized him. The clerk turned away, the tone of her voice making it apparent she was trying to end the call as quickly as possible. Dusty couldn’t think of any alternative but to casually stroll from her sight and then bolt for the elevator.

He’d
taken along the essentials in his new pack, the gun and a few bottles of water. Some inner-voice told him to get his clothing and other items and get the hell out of Dodge.

Fumbling with the room key, he rushed inside the suite and began throwing what he could inside the pack. The damp clothes were left behind, food and extra water stuffed inside along with his new duds. His departure was delayed by a few quick glances out the window, his imagination conjuring up visions of every policeman in Houston swarming into the hotel’s parking lot. Finally he was ready and out the door.

He took the stairs, hopping down the fire escape steps two at a time. The emergency exit led to a rear door, and when he pushed it open, an alarm sounded. Already peaking with adrenaline, the loud klaxon spiked both his energy and anger.

Stepping out into the back parking lot, Dusty glanced right and left in order to determine his
most likely path of escape. The left was eliminated immediately – a large, unclimbable privacy fence separating the hotel from its neighbors on that side.

To the right was a fast
food restaurant, and for a moment, he was tempted to casually walk over and order a hamburger. He could sit and watch the police waste their time swarming over the now empty hotel. In his mind, distance equaled freedom, so he decided against that option.

Briskly moving along the back of th
e building, Dusty wanted to glance around the corner and see what was across the street. Perhaps he could make it that far before the police arrived… perhaps that side would provide a better alternative.

As he poked around the corner to scout, the first vision that met his eye was the flashing blue strobe of a police car, slowing to enter the hotel property. Too late.

Desperate, Dusty again scanned right and left, his only option an empty field directly behind the hotel. He ran for the open spaces.

The
knee-high weeds weren’t dense enough to drop and hide, but thick enough to make running difficult. The weight of his pack, uneven terrain, and boots that had never been intended for a track meet hindered his speed over ground.

The area he was crossing was undeveloped for a reason. High voltage electrical line
s sagged above his head, supported by huge steel towers stretching off into the distance. Slowing to a brisk walk, Dusty made for what looked like an industrial park across the empty spaces. He could see warehouse-like loading docks sprinkled with stacks of pallets and large green dumpsters in the distance. The complex looked to be quite large – a thousand places to hide.

Chancing a gla
nce over his shoulder, Dusty noticed the first police car roll to a stop in the back lot. The officer was soon joined by three other cars, their flashing strobes reflecting off the back of the hotel making it appear as though it belonged on the Las Vegas strip.

Dusty again tried to run, but the effort was clumsy. If he fell, or twisted an ankle, it would be one of the shortest pursuits in history. The police officers, on the other hand, didn’t hesitate. Shouting
orders for him to halt, they began running at full speed.

He wasn’t going to outrun them. That became clear less than 20 steps later. He also wasn’t going to out shoot them. The rail gun required some time to recharge its capacitors between shots. In another few moments, the
faster officer would be within the range of his sidearm, and that would be the end – arrest or death.

One last desperate glance – an effort to figure another way out – brought an idea into his head. Without breaking stride, he pulled off the backpack and removed the rail gun.

Three steps later, it was assembled. Two more, and the green LED glowed in the morning sun. He almost dropped the ball bearing, but caught it mid-air and managed to load the weapon.

Dusty’s thoughts centered on warning the cops. He knew they would start shooting if he pointed the weapon directly at them, but if they realized the power of the rail gun, they might not continue the chase. He looked around for something or someplace to fire the warning sh
ot, the biggest target in the area drawing his attention.

With the laser,
aiming was easy. He centered the red dot on the leg of nearest tower and pulled the trigger.

In a carefully timed sequence, t
he Taser-scavenged ultra-capacitors dumped 50,000 volts of electricity into the rings of spinning magnets. One by one, the vortex of magnetic fields pulled and then pushed the ball bearing.

A thunderclap rolled across north Houston, the sound seemingly out of place given the cloudless sky. The black line flashed, more of a shadow in the bright light than a clear vision, its path slicing through the green-painted steel of the tower
’s thick leg. A large section of the support simply vanished.

Nothing happened for a moment. Gravity took its time, appearing to be surprised by the sudden availability of a new victim.

A loud groan filled the air – the tortured metal of the remaining supports protesting like a great, wounded beast. Popping noises louder than gunshots followed, rivets and welds exploding under the strain. The 150-foot behemoth of structural steel began to topple.

Dusty and the police officers
wisely ran for their lives, but in opposite directions.

The ground vibrated as several hundred tons slammed into the field.
Sparks flew and high-tension cables the size of a man’s wrist snapped like twine. A cloud of dust rose into the air, soon joined by puffs of black smoke from the burning grass. Blue arks of electrical discharge sliced the air, miniature bolts of lightning dancing across the ground.

The effect was as if someone had built a
n electrified wall between Dusty and the pursuing lawmen. The crumpled steel, downed power lines, and burning foliage created a barrier that the stunned officers refused to cross.

Dusty ran as fast as he could ever remember. Faster than when he was chased by
an angered swarm of hornets after bumbling upon their nest - faster than when he sought the end zone for a game-winning touchdown, a string of pursuing defensive backs desperately trying to deny the quest. His legs, pumping with all determination, carried him across the field and onto pavement.

He spied the op
en door of a loading bay, his momentum allowing an easy scale of the waist-high threshold. Pausing for just a moment to gather his wits and air, he found himself in an empty warehouse – scraps of cardboard and nylon packing ribbon scattered around an unmanned forklift.

The sound of
what seemed like a hundred sirens converging on the area was overridden – a nearby diesel engine revving with a throaty rumble. On the other side of the facility, a delivery truck was pulling away from the dock, its roll-up back door open and inviting. Again, he was running.

Every fiber of his legs screamed with exertion as he leaped for the back of the truck
, the distance between the dock and the departing vehicle increasing rapidly. He felt weightlessness, forward momentum… and then his foot made contact with the lip, his overstretched body losing its balance and slamming into a pile of wooden pallets stacked inside the cargo hold.

Dusty didn’t notice
the pain at first. Scrambling to hide, his attention was focused out the back of the truck, fully expecting to see an ocean of blue lights swarming behind his ride, chasing him in hot pursuit. None appeared. The rig left the industrial complex, accelerating away from the scene of Dusty’s crime, the steady drone of its diesel engine interrupted only by the shifting of gears.

Just as he was beginning to feel a sense of relief over having escaped, waves of nausea
-inducing pain began raking his torso. A warm, sticky sensation prompted him to pull up his shirt and examine his abdomen. The splintered edge of a pallet had sliced a gash across his mid-section almost three inches in length, gouging out a trench of flesh as thick and deep as his thumb. While the pain was becoming intense, it was the blood loss that posed the most immediate danger.

He found his pack and dug out a spare, then struggled to remove the torn, bloody shirt from his shoulders. Rolling up the now ruined
flannel, he covered the wound and pressed as best he could while pulling on a clean tee.

The truck shifted gears, slowing down to exit the freeway and then a short time later turning into what Dusty could tell was a gas station. Listening intently from his hid
e, the smell and noise indicated his chauffer was topping off the limousine’s diesel.

I hope he’s not filling this thing up because he’s going on a long trip
, Dusty prayed. Looking down at his wound, he whispered, “Shit, I could bleed to death back here before he stops again.”

The sound of the truck’s
restarted engine added to his dismay, a view of the gas pumps appearing out the rear as the vehicle pulled away. Instead of turning back for the road beyond, the driver soon braked again, slowly backing in between two over-the-road semis.
It must be time for breakfast
, Dusty realized. The engine went silent, and then the cab door opened and slammed shut.

He waited for the driver’s head to appear around the corner, worried the man wouldn’t leave his cargo door open while at the truck stop. Evidently
, he wasn’t worried about the old pallets and packing blankets.

Dusty waited, the burning in his torso growing more intense now that he had nothing else to focus on.
It’s now or never
, he realized, summoning up the strength to stand and move to the rear of the hold. He folded the gun’s stock and stuffed it into his pack. Gingerly climbing down, he pretended to study the tires for a moment – hoping any prying eyes would think he was the driver or co-pilot.

He held the
backpack in front of the wound, hiding the blood that was already soaking through his bandage-roll and staining his fresh shirt. Walking was pure torture, staying upright to avoid attention requiring every ounce of grit he could muster.

At the entrance to
the busy truck stop, he noticed a small newspaper box stuffed with flyers for local real estate brokers. A familiar face smiled up at the injured man. There on the front page was his ex-wife, Maria.

After snatching up a paper, he
made for the restroom, finally exhaling as he locked the stall door.
Refuge with a throne and the image of his ex-wife
, he mused.
What more could a man ask for?

Hanging the ever-heavier pack on the door’s hook, he set abou
t working on his wound. The red-soaked bandage-shirt was disposed of in the trash container, a wad of paper towels selected as a substitute. He was incredibly thirsty, downing an entire bottle of water in just a few swallows.

He couldn’t think of a way out. Walking was out of the question, hitch
hiking posed the risk that someone would recognize him from the news reports. He could try and make it back to the truck that had delivered him here, but there was no way to know where it was going or how long it would take to get there. The arrival of a headache, followed shortly thereafter by a cold sweat made the situation even more dire.