Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (7 page)

The sequence continued down the barrel, each magnet pushing and pulling, the steel bullet accelerating so quickly that heat friction turned it into a molten stream of slag before it ever exited the muzzle.

Despite the change of state from a solid to a liquid, the velocity continued to increase, approaching critical mass just a few feet beyond where Dusty sat on the bike. The universe couldn’t allow any object to exceed the speed of light and reacted to protect itself.

A portal opened, creating a channel into
a parallel plane of existence – an alternative reality where the speed of light was faster… where the rail gun’s projectile wouldn’t do any harm.

The portal was small, only a
few inches wide. But where there had been the matter, gravity, mass and time of Dusty’s reality, suddenly there was a new existence. Two objects couldn’t occupy the same space at the same time, and an expansion occurred, the matter of this universe violently pushed aside. The displacement was more rapid and powerful than even a nuclear detonation.

The pavement in front of the two blocking patrol cars erupted skyward, the asphalt and earth below shoved out of the way by an irresistible force. The surrounding soil was compressed, making room for the portal as it absorbed Dusty’s shot.

As quickly as it appeared, the pipeline into the alternative universe closed, leaving a vacuum in its wake. Just as rapidly as they had been pushed aside, matter and energy rushed to fill the void, and that reaction exponentially amplified the violence.

All along the path of Dusty’s projectile, molecules slammed into each other at hypersonic speeds. The blast wave was devastating.

In the blink of an eye, the front halves of the two patrol cars were lifted into the air as if they were toys. By the time gravity recovered and sucked them back down, a ten-foot deep trench had been cut through the street. Both machines landed hard and then slid into the new ditch. The nearby officers were tossed aside, thrown over 30 feet through the air as if they were merely rag dolls.

The newly created canyon e
xtended past the roadblock, vehicles passing in the street beyond, falling into what most drivers initially believed was a sinkhole.

With the rail
gun folded and stashed between his legs, Dusty maneuvered the bike through the smoldering heaps of crumbled soil and pavement, barely squeezing through the instantly snarled gridlock of traffic before accelerating away.

“Dear God in heaven,” he whispered
as he passed through the destruction, “Please, please, please. I pray I didn’t just take any more innocent life.”

No one was sure what had happened. Some of the radio traffic indicated a g
as main had erupted while others claimed a bomb had detonated. The FBI man knew exactly what it was; Weathers had shot his way out of the dragnet.

Ambulances were already on the scene by the time the FBI caravan arrived. The two dazed officers
were being shuttled into the back of the emergency vehicles, paramedics bustling around the injured men.

Shultz flashed his ID and asked, “Can either of them talk?”

“They were both out cold when we arrived,” answered the paramedic. “We’ve stabilized them, but neither is very responsive.”

“I have to talk to them,” Shultz insisted. “Can you do anything at all? A lot of lives are depending on it.”

Another emergency responder appeared, “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, sir. I’m pretty sure both of them suffered severe blows to the head. Probably have concussions. I could barely get them to tell me their names before we loaded them on the backboards.”

“I have to talk to them,” he repeated. “It’s
that
important.”

The two
-man ambulance crew exchanged puzzled glances, the senior shrugging his shoulders. “If you insist.” He returned a moment later and broke a small tube under the patient’s nose.

The patrolman’s eyes fluttered
, and he tried to pull away, the restraints and neck brace restricting his movements. “It’s okay…. It’s okay…. You’re alright,” soothed the paramedic.

“Officer Kendall, my name is Tom Shultz from the FBI. What happened?”

“Motorcycle,” whispered the patrolman. “He was on a motorcycle… a rifle... and… and… I don’t know after that.”

Shultz nodded at the
EMT, indicating that’s all he needed. Before Officer Kendall was wheeled to the back of the waiting rescue unit, the law enforcement networks were busy spreading the word that the suspect was now riding on a motorcycle.

Trying to keep his speed low and blend in, Dusty was having trouble focusing as he steered the bike through traffic. The helter-skelter pace and relentless stress were taking a toll, his brain slowly sinking into a fog of confusion.

Through it all, he could see Kemah Channel bridge in the distance, the high-rise structure a beacon of familiarity. Having no other place to go, he kept steering the motorcycle back toward the familiar landmark.

He finally arrived at the boardwalk, his destination unplanned. There just really wasn’t anywhere else he could think of to go.

The place was bustling, thousands of people milling about, shopping,
dining, and enjoying the now packed amusement park.

He pulled the motorcycle to the deliver
y area of one of the restaurants, identifying a narrow gap between a smelly dumpster and the back wall. He switched off the ignition, just sitting for a minute to gather his wits.

Movement at the edge of the parking lot drew his attention. He looked up to see th
ree police cars rolling into the place and traveling at a high rate of speed.

“Shit!” he hissed, looking around for
somewhere to run. There was water on three sides of his location, the only way out now filled with policemen.

Dusty started to panic, hopping off the
seat, and stuffing the rail gun back in its bag. The sound of a nearby engine caused him to pause.

The sign on the side of the delivery truck
read, “Rio Grande Valley Vegetables, Laredo, Texas.”

It was a typical-
looking farm truck, dual axle in the back with side rails surrounding the bed. Dusty could see what appeared to be crates of lettuce and carrots stacked in the back.

“He’s delivering to the restaurants,” he grasped. “There’s my ride.”

But the truck was already rolling, an elderly Latino man behind the wheel.

Dusty gazed about
, trying to think of anything to stop that truck. He realized the motorcycle helmet was still on his head, and then it occurred to him.

Pulling lo
ose the chinstrap, he yanked off his headgear, and then from behind the dumpster, he rolled it like a bowling ball directly at the truck.

The driver seemed quite surpri
sed to see the odd looking, spherically-shaped object bouncing across the parking lot and heading straight for his front wheels. He slammed on the brakes and stopped just as the wayward helmet came to rest directly in his path.

The old farmer looked around as if
he was waiting for someone to come and retrieve the missing property, but there wasn’t anyone in the area. Shrugging, he finally took the truck out of gear and opened the cab door.

As he walked to the front and picked up the helmet, Dusty was sliding into the back of the bed, scrambling under a tarp and behind crates stacked with cabbage.

Seeing no one was going to claim the valuable piece of safety gear, the farmer again shrugged and carried his new prize back to the cab.

A few minutes later, they were rolling across the parking area.

The police manning the freshly formed roadblock didn’t perform a thorough check of the vegetable truck, the newly arriving officers still chatting about the odd assignment and speculating on its true purpose. Dusty held his breath as he heard the quick conversation with the driver, who didn’t speak English. In a few moments, they were waved through and on their way south.

Southeastern Texas rolled by
as the old truck sped south. Dusty, noting the momentum and breeze, maneuvered to create a slight portal under the tarp which allowed him a nice vantage of the fleeting terrain. Flat, grassy and mundane, he’d spent little time in this part of his home state. “It’s better than the accommodations at the local jail… or a coffin,” he mused.

The journey
seemed to pass quickly, his chauffeur making steady time toward the border city and presumably home. Dusty tucked the Glock into his boot, finding the weapon’s presence gave him a sense of comfort.

A few miles outside Laredo,
the driver let off the gas, a clear signal he was going to make a stop. Given his morning coffee and the long ride, Dusty hoped it was some place that had a restroom.

Soon enough
, the turn signal began its rhythmic clicking, and then they were pulling into the nearly full parking lot of what was a combination convenience store and gas station. Dusty noted the congestion, but the fueling bays were mostly empty, the majority of the traffic centered just outside the retail unit. His limo evidently did need some gas, the appearance of a pump startling Dusty when he suddenly found himself staring at the dispensing handle right beside his peephole. Dusty hurriedly ducked back underneath the tarp and listened as the driver unhinged the hose. The distinctive odor of fuel soon filled the air.

The sound of footsteps indicated the driver was going inside. Dusty peeked out
again and watched as the farmer entered the station. He quickly scampered out of the bed, his stiff body sluggish from riding in such cramped quarters for so long.

Trying to a
ct as if he’d just hitchhiked in from the road, Dusty ambled into the convenience store and was surprised to find a long line of Latino men, most of whom were holding paper checks. His driver was one of them.

After using the restroom, he milled around, pretending to shop for snacks and drinks. In reality, he was watching the proceedings, fascinated by what appeared to be a significant banking operation. Why were all these guys cashing checks at a gas station?

He finally selected a cold bottle of water and a nutrition bar for substance. There was a separate line for those who weren’t in need of financial services.

Dusty was waiting on the driver outside.

“S
eño
r,” he greeted, holding up a $20 bill, “could I catch a ride in the back of your truck to Laredo?”