Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (22 page)

Like a television drama’s chase scene, the team raced through the streets, badges in the a
ir and screaming for pedestrians to get out of the way. Dozens of sirens began wailing in the distance, all apparently heading in the same direction.

As Monroe rounded a corner one block away from the address, he paused for just a moment t
o look back at the now flame-engulfed roof of the garage. He realized that there wasn’t a clear shot from this direction – no way could a weapon have been aimed from here. He began to get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

As the agents converged, they
realized the address where Dusty’s call had originated was the Houston Public Library. The fact that a spacious public building was their destination slowed the team’s pace – frustration filling their faces.

The first police cruisers began arriving at the same time. Monroe with his gold shield exposed, began shouting orders at the first officers on the scene. He wanted a perimeter surrounding the library, and he didn’t want anyone exiting the building.

A police captain soon appeared, taking over for Monroe, the FBI man’s plain clothes and shouted orders confusing to the first wave of cops. It wasn’t five minutes before the first SWAT van screeched to a halt directly in front of the structure, the eight-member team flowing out the back in full combat regalia. That vehicle was soon joined by two of its siblings, rapidly discharging its cargo of specially trained officers.

After a signific
ant number of uniformed lawmen had arrived, Monroe pulled his people back and let HPD do its job. With his team gathered on the front steps, he watched with anticipation, hoping to see Durham Weathers led from the building in handcuffs.

Dusty stood with all of the other coffee shop patrons, staring out the window at the spectacle of excitement. Like everyone else, he pointed, oohed and awed, comment
ing on the seemingly endless waves of flashing lights and sirens converging on the area.

Waiting for what seemed like an eternity, he finally decided enough time had passed, calmly reaching down for his pack and exiting the shop.

The sidewalk was ringed with businessmen, shoppers, and office workers who stood gawking, their attention focused on the library. Gently probing his way through the thick crowd, he entered an older office building and climbed the mosaic-patterned marble stairs to the men’s room directly off the second floor landing.

He pushed open the ancient maple door and searched the interior, relieved
to find the three stalls and urinals all unoccupied. He pulled a cardboard sign from his pack, the bold letters declaring the facility “Out of Order – Overflowing,” and hung it on the door. He threw the lock, just to be sure.

A small, high window adorned the outer wall of the room, the natural sunlight passing through the smoked glass
that was a clear indicator of the building’s age. Dusty slowly cranked the glass open, the effort exposing a view of the street below, leading to the library four short blocks away.

He assembled the rail gun, quickly snapping the stock to the primary body of the weapon. Again, the green LED glowed bright and steady.
The ball bearing filled the chamber, soon followed by foam plugs filling his ears.

He turned down the power, still shaken by
visions of imploding windows – the glass possibly blinding innocent office workers who happened to be in the wrong place. His anger was at the government, his desire to issue punishment limited strictly to that entity… that symbol of authority that had taken away his friend’s freedom. The small red letters read 5%.

Keeping the muzzle end well back from the edge, he began to scout the scene below,
considering a suitable target. The SWAT vans, all lined up at the curb in front of the library, caught his attention. He couldn’t detect anyone nearby, the closest policeman across the street, trying to keep the crowd at a safe distance.

He switched
on the laser, aimed the dot at the back of the nearest van, and pulled the trigger.            

Even at the reduced power, thunder rolled through the crowded streets. The nearest van shook for a microsecond, the steel of its frame expanding and then contracting. Like dominos falling down a line, the next three vehicles performed the same dance – and then all four
exploded with tremendous force. The rear van was launched into the air, flipping end over end and landing on one of its twins. Tires, glass and sheet metal rose into the air while boiling yellow flames of ignited gasoline spread from the destruction.

Police officers up and down the line ducked for cover, many of them taking a few
seconds to realize they were under attack. Some stood stunned, momentarily mesmerized by the burning mass on the street – the concept that anyone would attack them while they were deployed in such force completely foreign to their reasoning.

The roaring discharge
echoed through the streets, hurting Dusty’s ears despite the protection of the plugs. The carnage of screaming, tortured metal was soon replaced by the shouts and despair of terrified humans as the mass surrounding the library scattered in panic.

All of it was lost on Dusty
. He had ducked immediately after the shot, rapidly breaking down the rail gun and stuffing it in his pack. He moved with purpose toward the door, plucking the sign from the exterior and walking briskly to the rear exit of the complex.

Less than a minute after his second
shot of the day, Dusty was stepping through a back alley, quickly putting distance between himself and the bedlam he’d left behind.

Monroe’s team was less than 100 yards away from
the impact point of Dusty’s shot. A few of the FBI agents were knocked to the ground, the others going prone as a reaction. It was actually several minutes before everyone began to accept that the attack was over. Slowly, cautiously, heads began to appear around cover – tentatively exposing themselves as if expecting another shot. Many officers had their weapons drawn, scanning the surrounding facades for any sign of the shooter.

As the agents
recovered their wits, Monroe surveyed his team, checking on his people. After verifying everyone was unhurt, he immediately went to help the police officers who had been bowled over by the shockwave. It was a miracle that only a few broken bones and burst eardrums appeared to have been inflicted by the brutal ambush.

Monroe wanted revenge, but soon realized there wasn’t anyone or an
ything to receive his rage. Scanning the wreckage of police vans, he couldn’t even discern the direction of the shot, let alone give chase to a suspect.

Ambulances, fire trucks
, and additional officers soon began to arrive, some of the drivers hesitant to enter what appeared to be a combat zone. The more time that passed the more everyone began to accept that the fight was over. No one had any doubts over who had won.

It was also obvious that the suspect was no lon
ger in the library. Monroe observed his team standing around, helpless to do anything but watch the beehive of activity. He began shepherding his people back to their home building. It wasn’t good for morale to watch the wounded being evacuated from the battlefield.

Trekk
ing back to their headquarters, the FBI team was sullen and quiet. The police had cordoned off the area, the normally bustling street quiet with an eerie sense of abandonment. The silence was broken by the jingle of Agent Monroe’s cell phone.

Looking at the device as if he expected the devil himself to jump out, Monroe almost didn’t answer. He was expecting harsh words from Washington as soon as word of the fiasco reached the nation’s capital. His sense of duty forced him to answer.

“Monroe.”

“Agent Monroe, Dusty Weathers here. I
’m feeling optimistic, hopeful that you are in a better frame of mind to discuss my terms.”

“You son of a
bitch!” Monroe yelled at the phone. Catching himself, regrouping quickly, the lead FBI man glared at one of his team, mouthing the words, “Trace this call.”

“Now, now, sir. Calling
a man names isn’t wise, especially when he just issued your sorry ass one class-A butt whooping. Now be a good sport and reconsider my previous offer – before I get really pissed.”

Monroe’s face knotted into a scowl,
his imagination conjuring up images of Weathers in his gun sights, hot slugs of lead piercing his body. “I’m not reconsidering anything, you scum. You are a terrorist and a traitor. We’re going to hunt you down and kill you – of that you can be sure.”

“So I was correct, rule of law in our great country no longer exists. The government executes
citizens at will without benefit of juries of their peers. You’re convincing me I’m on the right track. Perhaps I should take even stronger action.”

The federal
agent reached to disconnect the call, but some fiber of his soul was touched by Dusty’s words. A quick look ahead at the fire trucks arching streams of water onto the still burning federal garage terminated his hotheaded, vigilante attitude.

“Okay, Weathers. I’ll give you my
word; we won’t shoot you where you stand. I’ll wait and watch them stick a needle in your arm after the trial is over.”

Again, the man on the other end laughed. “Bump my offer up the ladder, Agent Monroe. Do so quickly. I’m
detecting an attitude from you, an official representative of the US government, and it sounds like you’re declaring war. If you want war, Mr. Ambassador, I’ll give it to you. I might decide to use my little invention on the San Andres fault and accelerate the inevitable slide of California into the sea. How about I take aim at the Indian Point nuclear power plant just 38 miles north of New York City? I could stand in the center of the Washington Mall and fire one shot in both directions. Reconsider, sir. Let’s end this before someone gets killed, or I change my mind and decide I want to run the country. I’ll be in touch.”

Dusty tapped the disconnect button
, pulled the battery from the case and crushed the phone under his boot. The now-scrap electronic components were tossed into the back of the trash hauler parked nearby. He strode briskly around the corner and entered the lobby of a bank building, proceeding directly down an escalator into the Houston Tunnel System.

The nation’s
fourth largest city sat upon an extensive network of pedestrian tunnels, the massive complex stretching throughout most of the downtown area.

Air-conditioned
, wide walkways, many over 30 feet wide, connected most of the area’s larger skyscrapers. Shops, restaurants, newsstands and even clothing stores lined many of the subterranean passages. The system was popular, workers flowing down from the high-rise offices and cubicles en mass, using the cool venue to avoid walking the hot summer streets or the occasional downpour of rain.

Dusty didn’t take the time to brow
se the stores, nor did he intend to grab a bite. What he did want was distance, and the lack of traffic lights and intersection walk signals made the tunnels the fastest route.

He covered four blocks in little time, riding up an escalator to the marble floor of an oil company headquarters
, out through the revolving glass doors and into the street. He jaywalked after noting no law enforcement in the area and entered a parking garage.

In a dark, back corner, he located the
equipment stored a few hours earlier and began to change his shirt and shoes.