Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (33 page)

“Our shortest agreement is 30 days,” she replied coldly.

“How much
does 30 days cost?”

“That depends. Do you need it climate controlled? Do you need electricity inside the unit?”

Dusty had no idea such features existed for a storage area. “Climate-controlled might be good. Can I work on the truck while it’s stored here?”

“You can do anything you want as long as it’s not illegal
, and you don’t harm our building. You can sleep inside for all I care.”

Little did she know
, mused Dusty. “Okay, I’ll take climate-controlled with electricity. How much?”

The woman nodded, and began punching numbers into a calculator.
“That will be $180 dollars.”

“Let’s do it,” he replied, peeling off two
$100 bills.

The paperwork required the usual name and address, phone number
, and other such details. He was ready for it this time, using the name of a high school teacher and a fictitious address in Houston. He was then assigned a number and given a gate code so he could enter at all hours. “You’re responsible for your own padlock,” she warned. “We’ve never had an issue here, but I advise all of our customers to lock their access door.”

And just like that,
the old Chevy was rolling through the electronic gate, heading for unit #905.

He parked in front of what appeared to be a common garage door. Turning and lifting the handle, he was greeted with a rush of cool air, a clean concret
e floor and a single florescent light hanging from the ceiling.
Home sweet home
, he declared.
You’re really moving up in the world, cowboy.

A few minutes
later, the truck was backed in and the door closed. Relief flowed through his body, the reprieve eventually allowing his stomach to settle enough to forage through his pack for something to eat. A package of jerky and a bottle of water would hold him for a while.

He had taken the battery out of the Russian’s phone, a bit of paranoia making him wonder if the device didn’t contain some sort of tracking mechanism or locater. It dawned on him that the unit might have more than
one power cell, so he dumped it into the jerky’s empty foil wrapper, content with his defeat of the sneaky foreign spies.

Next, he lowered the tailgate and began spreading out his
few remaining earthy possessions, the hasty grab before exiting the condo now a blur. There really wasn’t much to inventory.

He opened the door again, checking around the area more from habit than any perceived threat. It would be a while before the sun went down, the thought of darkness being more secure than broad daylight. Satisfied that the police weren’t getting ready to storm his storage
bin, he closed the door and trekked back to the tailgate.

Exhaustion began to take hold. He caught himself yawning, his eyes tired from the stress. He
eyed the pickup’s bed, remembering long days on the ranch and sleeping underneath a shade tree after lunch. He spread out the empty packs and made a cot.

Ten minutes later, #905 was filled with
the gentle rustle of snoring.

“We’ve filtered the Predator drone’s image database, sir,” the tech reported to Monroe. There were 116 cars and trucks that were videotaped leaving the exclusion zone between the time when the HRT entered Weathers apartment and his attack on the bank building. We only have license plates on about one quarter of these vehicles due to the angle; another 26 had toll road passes with broadcast chips – the rest we are analyzing at this time.”

Monroe nodded his acceptance of the report, otherwise offering no comment.

The next agent to address the meeting passed around a one-page report, summarizing the information uncovered about the condo where the suspect had been holed up. “You’ll notice who the real estate agent was on that unit,” he pointed out. “We already have teams searching all of her other listings. I assume you want to interview Ms. Weathers personally, sir?”

“We have no evidence
that his ex-wife knew of his habitation, or that she assisted him in any way. She’s only going to claim that her ex knew her key code and could have found the listing on the internet. It’s on my to-do list, but not a priority. My gut says she knew, but right now we’ve got more important leads to follow up,” Monroe offered.

The low-key tone and outlook displayed by the boss worried several members of
his team. Conjecture varied about the cause for his odd mood, none of the speculation positive. Some people believed he had been beaten by the case – a broken man limping through the motions.

Othe
rs decided he was getting ready to break down and go rogue – most likely shooting Weathers on sight, regardless of the circumstances.

A few felt sorry for the
boss, sure he was being harassed by every elected official from the president on down to the city hall mail clerk.

Tom Shultz was the only one who had neither offered an opinion, nor believed the investigation was in trouble. While he never voiced his thoughts, the #2 man on the team believed that Monroe was upping his game, finally getting serious.

His boss’s next statement was about to shake Shultz’s commitment to the man.

“I’m going to
ask the president to allocate military assets to this office. The device Weathers is using against us is more powerful than anyone imagined. We’re still not sure of its capabilities. We may need more force than what the department is capable of fielding alone.”

Mouths dropped open around the table, a few people audibl
y inhaling. To a US law enforcement agency, calling in military assets was akin to declaring martial law. The implication was a loss of control – the inability to enforce rule of law. Failure.

Interdepartmental
squabbles over jurisdiction and authority were bad enough – bringing in the military was sure to invoke legal and procedural anarchy. It was already difficult enough to coordinate the ongoing manhunt across numerous departments; the military would make things worse.

To make matters worse, Monroe rose as if to leave the meeting, offering no further explanation or opportunity for questions. Seeing the look on everyone’s face, he paused and scanned the room.

“I’m only seeking a few hi-tech helicopters, perhaps an armored vehicle or two. Don’t worry, I’m not requesting troops.”

The explanation helped a little, but the precedent had been set. Almost as an afterthought, Monroe turned and dropped the second bombshell.

“My apologies… I forgot to mention that I’m requesting the DOJ release Grace Kennedy. I’m not convinced that she had prior knowledge, nor is she involved directly with the weapon.”

Before anyone could comment, Special Agent in Charge Monroe turned and left the room.

Shultz, stunned, rose up and followed his boss back to his office. Closing the door behind him, the junior agent said, “Sir, I’m sure you have your reasons, but I …”

Monroe cut him off, “Let me ask you something – do you think Grace Kennedy and Weathers had a romantic interest going on?”

Shaking his head at the boss’s change of direction, Shultz couldn’t answer right away. “I… I don’t know, sir. I guess it’s possible.”

“I think it
’s more than possible, Tom. I think it’s probable. That’s why I believe if Ms. Kennedy is released, Weathers will try and contact her. I’m letting her go to bait Weathers. We’ll be ready to set the hook.”

The nap made Dusty feel like a new man – sort of. While the few hours of rest were good for his mind and attitude, sleeping on the hard metal surface of the truck be
d wasn’t appreciated by his aching muscles and stiff vertebra.

Opening the garage door enough to bend and look outside, he found the sun had set. The cool air felt good, the lack of SWAT teams ready to shoot him down even better.

A short distance from the entrance to the storage facility, he’d seen a cluster of fast food restaurants. The slight breeze carried the smell of cooking hamburgers, so he decided to go for a walk. The exercise would help his back – eating some hot food would improve life in general.

On the
way out of the storage complex, he passed a couple unloading a hatchback’s small cargo area into their bin. The man was peeking inside a container, holding up an item, and yelling at his spouse, “Honey, I thought you didn’t want to keep this box?”

The
woman appeared at his side, peering at the contents. “Oh, damn it. I meant to throw those away. Carry them over to the dumpster, would ya?”

About then
, the man noticed Dusty and smiled. Tipping his hat, mostly to cover his face, Dusty continued past without incident.
Nowhere is safe
, he said to himself.

The burger joint was a national chain, complete with a playground for the little ones and a wide assortment on the menu. Uncomfortable with the well-lit dining area, he placed his order to go. Safely away from the bright lights and endless cars at the drive-up window, Dusty enjoyed the walk back. There was little traffic
on the route, his chosen path behind a strip mall and two empty lots kept him well away from the street.

The tailgate again acted as his dinner table, the paper food wrappers his plates.
With the lights out and door open, this is like dining at a sidewalk café
, he mused.

As he boiled it all down, there were only two problems he had to solve. First and foremost, he had to get Hank and Grace out of jail. Secondly, he had to find somewhere to live while Mitch worked his plan. Yes, the Russians were an issue, but he didn’t know the extent of their commitment or involvement. If he disappeared, wouldn’t they?

He still believed that the only way he was going to obtain his friends’ release was by eliciting public outcry at the injustice of it all. The destruction today, no doubt blamed on him, would hinder that effort for some period of time. He had to have faith that the hungry reporter, Crawford, would do the heavy lifting on that front.

Dipping the delicious F
rench fries into a small puddle of ketchup, he determined there wasn’t anything he could do about the reporter for a few days. While the vision of Grace and Hank being locked up even one more day was discouraging, he couldn’t figure out another method of securing their freedom.

His funds were limited. T
here was a considerable balance in his account back at Fort Davis, but he knew those monies were out of reach. Maria, at great risk, had helped, but he couldn’t see her taking the chance of being arrested. Such a disaster would destroy her name - everything she’d worked for. Anthony would be crushed.

The lack of
cash was everything - the fulcrum of the issue. Without resorting to a life of crime, he couldn’t figure out how to overcome his cash crunch. If he were well funded, then travel, temporary residence in a foreign land, or even a secluded spot in the USA might be within reach. Poverty was not only hell, it was a set of virtual handcuffs restraining his freedom.

Chewing another bite of his sandwich, Dusty considered how he could raise
money. With the rail gun, robbing a bank or business would be easy physically, difficult mentally. He could also pull a “Robin Hood,” hitting a drug dealer or thief for his loot and redistributing it to the needy – namely himself. The problem there was he didn’t know where such villains were located and didn’t think it would be wise to drive around Houston’s less affluent areas trying to obtain a target.

The Russians claimed to have money, but he had a sneaking suspicion they weren’t easy men to take advantage of.
Stop being egotistical
, he chided,
all of these men know more about violence and the dark side of human nature than you do.
You’re an amateur playing dangerous games with professionals.

He finished his meal, wa
dding up the paper wrappers and empty ketchup packets. He left the bin and headed for the dumpster with his garbage. As he approached, he noticed two boxes lying beside the large green trash receptacle. He was reminded of the couple he’d seen on the way to the burger joint. Curious more than anything else, he bent and opened the top of one. It was full of discarded clothing. The other, he soon discovered, contained old beach towels.

Dusty tossed his
garbage over the top and then decided to do a little trash picking. Scooping up one box under each arm, he headed back to his cubby to investigate his newfound treasures. “You’re really moving up in the world, Weathers. Dumpster diving is a sign of achievement in life,” he whispered to no one.

The clothing wasn’t even close to his size – no reward there. The beach towels, however, seemed clean and only slightly worn. They would make an excellent pad to sleep on
, softening the old Chevy’s sheet metal bunk. An old section of garden hose rounded out the treasure.

He
sat the unwanted clothing aside, rags that might come in handy later. A stroll and fresh air seemed like a good idea, so he began walking the facility. There really wasn’t much to see… three rows of low, single-story buildings – each looking like a wealthy car collector’s dream garage. Other than that, the place was about as featureless as one could imagine.

One thing did catch his eye. At the end of each building was a ladder, welded onto the side of the building and leading to the roof. Curiou
s, Dusty climbed to peer over the edge.

The first thing he noticed was the air movement. His building was sandwiched between two others, those structures blocking the
slight breeze. He continued onto the pea-gravel covered roof, enjoying the cool wind on his face. He could hear the distant rumble of a freight train’s passage, the sound a calming backdrop in the night. Car lights were visible on the horizon, so distant their pinpoint lights were as silent as the stars. 

It felt
better up here. He had a considerable vantage, all the way to the entrance of the facility and the road beyond. He’d have warning if anyone approached. There was something else though – some feeling of openness that resonated within him. He decided to sleep on the roof.

Before
long, he was climbing back up the ladder, his bedroll of old beach towels, a bottle of water and the rail gun stuffed in his pack. He made a bed, used the empty pack as a pillow and pulled off his boots.

Dusty settled in and relaxed – a plan beginning to form in his head. He tried to work every angle, play out every move in advance. Fatigue finally overwhelmed his scheming,
but not before he’d concluded it just might work. The comfort of a workable solution eased his stress and finally allowed him to drift off.