Power Trip Read online

I disconnected after promising to upload before bed. Hey, I’d happily do it; there was no way I wanted to lose this data.

  The next morning, December 19th, I woke up to a text message from Fife. That guy LeMan from the LoGo offices in NV is here.

  Nice. All the rotten eggs were gathering in preparation for a leap into the same basket. I liked that. With any luck I’d do something to erase the smug look from LeMan’s face. I’d feel a lot better, though, if I knew the exact location of Rotten Richter and the twins. There was a chance they were already ensconced on the island. In fact, with every passing hour that became more likely.

  Fife met me for breakfast at 8:15 and I filled him in on the Ormonds’ startling family tree. His eyes grew wide, but to his credit he didn’t laugh like an adolescent the way I had. He and I might have a lot in common, but apparently Fife was a few steps ahead on the maturity line. He said this familial revelation might explain much of what we — meaning not just us but the whole country — were dealing with.

  I didn’t disagree. After sleeping on it I’d found myself in the odd position of sympathizing with Lucas and Gillian. I’d had a relatively-normal life growing up, at least until my late teens when things went to shit through no fault of my loved ones. I had a nice collection of memories from a happy childhood. Unless, of course, through the process of investing in new bodies multiple times those memories were fractured and unreliable.

  But what about Lucas and Gillian? When your aunt is your mother and she’s not allowed off the grounds except on rare occasions? And your father gets killed, presumably by his business enemies?

  No wonder they’d veered off track. I imagined their hearts were filled with a combination of shame and hate. Those ingredients create a very unpleasant cocktail, one that, it appeared, had turned explosive.

  I kept these thoughts from Fife. He didn’t need to know I felt even a pinch of sympathy for the psychopaths, and I sure as hell didn’t need a whisper of that reaching the ears of Quanta. I’d already found myself on shaky ground.

  “Time is running out,” Fife said when we stepped out of the restaurant into a humid, partly-cloudy day. “We need to get to that island before the end of the week.”

  “If things go the way I’d like, I’ll be on my way tomorrow morning.”

  “How?” he asked.

  “I think I’ll ride out there with LeMan.”

  “Oh? Just like that?”

  “Pretty much. Poole reported that LoGo’s preparing a huge cargo stash to be shipped to the island. Lots of supplies, food, water, other assorted things a compound would need to live on for a while. It’s like when people buy everything off the supermarket shelves when a blizzard’s rolling in. Quanta says they’ve already set up relationships with some South American countries for purchasing future goods, but for now they’ll stock their pantry.”

  “Makes sense,” Fife said.

  “So we’ve found details of their partnership with a shipping line. The ship has a crew of seven, and we think another four will be some of the hired mercenaries. I intend to be one of them.”

  Fife chuckled. “And they’ll just welcome a stranger into their midst?”

  “They’re all strangers, just meeting up here in Miami. Quanta’s been busy. Using a bug I placed on a computer in Telluride she tracked down one of the guys. He’s a hired thug from Germany, arriving today. One of our teams is meeting him at the airport. And he, um, won’t make it to the docks.”

  “And you can pass for German?”

  “Vee have vays of fooling LoGo dummkopfs,” I said in an outrageous imitation of Colonel Klink. “I’m kidding,” I added when he looked appalled. “I actually have no trouble speaking English with a slight German accent. My grandmother spoke that way. She was from Hamburg. The good news is that my new form works perfectly for this part. If I was still the pipsqueak I could never pass for hired brawn. Anyway, we’ve already got a dossier on this guy, and when he’s picked up at the airport our people will use some chemical encouragement. He’ll spill the details I’ll need to walk right onto the boat tomorrow.”

  Fife took a deep breath. “That means I won’t be coming with you. You’re sure going by yourself is the right play?”

  “It’s the only play we have at the moment. We can’t storm the island. However, you and a team of special forces types are supposed to assemble tomorrow and prepare to approach. You and I will be in contact the whole time. If things blow up you can ride in like a watery cavalry.”

  He didn’t like it at all, and it’s not like I was crazy about the idea of being alone in a pit of scorpions. But this would have me in the middle of Shithead Central in a little over two days. Once there I could make things up as I went along. I just needed to get there.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  His name was Mirco Mayer, the same pronunciation as the hot dog, not the singer John. He was slightly shorter than my current height, but close enough, and had basically the same build. I spent an hour lightening my hair with some product that reminded me of my mother — a weird, abstract thought, but one of those things that pops into our conscious mind to surprise us and, in this case, make me sad.

  I’d been texted a photo, so I bought a suit of clothes that looked similar to what Mirco wore when he was grabbed. By late that evening I was basically ready. All I needed were the particular details to get aboard. Poole told me the process was underway, and they’d be ready hopefully by the time I woke up on departure day. Which was cutting it close.

  But, sure enough, it all arrived on my phone around six a.m. I was already up, just back from a quick run, blowing on a scalding-hot cup of coffee. Our friend from Deutschland was to report at the dock at 8:45 and ask for LeMan, the lackey from Vegas. I was to tell him I’d been sent by Roger.

  Simple enough.

  Apparently under the influence of his special cocktail, Mirco mentioned he’d be one of two Germans on the boat. Now that could be a problem. If the other Teutonic twit engaged me in conversation in their mother tongue I’d be screwed. Grandma had used a lot of colorful German words when irritated, but I’d never bothered to learn the language. There was nothing to do but just deal with the issue in the moment. The good news is that Mirco didn’t know the other guy.

  I checked out of the hotel and jumped into a ride with my small bag, the Glock nestled under my jacket. I made sure to get dropped off a few blocks from the dock at eight o’clock. After a short walk I found a spot nearby and watched the action.

  A stream of workers hauled crates up a plank to the cargo boat. A crane was busy with a larger container, lowering it through an opening in the deck to the hold below. These were usual last-minute activities, a lot of bustle before casting off.

  LeMan popped out of the cockpit of the ship, talking with a man who had to be the captain. They looked at a clipboard, some sort of manifest, agreeing on details and nodding. Everything seemed to be in order.

  Just then another man arrived near the gangplank, looked around, asked someone a question, then strode up to the deck. He was obviously hired meat, not even bothering to disguise his reason for being there. Both the captain and LeMan met him, there were handshakes, and LeMan pointed. The man, carrying a duffel bag, disappeared through a door. That was easy. I checked the time on my phone, picked up my bag, and made my way to the ship.

  Without hesitating I walked up the plank, acting like I belonged there and challenging anyone to stop me. LeMan, the weasel, looked up through his Elton John glasses and greeted me at the top.

  “Name?”

  “Mayer,” I said. “Roger sent me.”

  He stuck out his hand. “I’m LeMan. How did everything go in Amsterdam?”

  Well now, this was new. I’d had no briefing about Amsterdam, and for a moment I had an icy fear that this answer was important. Was there a job in Amsterdam connected to this operation? Or, and this was a distinct possibility: What if there was never any trip to the Netherlands and this was a trick question?

  After just a brief pa
use, while I stared cooly into LeMan’s face, I said, “I’ve never been to Amsterdam.” I punctuated this with a half smile. In my mind this did two things. If it was a trick, I’d said the right thing. If it was a real operation, I’d just told LeMan to mind his own goddamned business because I didn’t discuss my work with employees. For a brief second the animal side of me surged, and I hoped I’d have the chance at some point to punch this creep right in the nose. Unprofessional? Yes. Immature? Hell yes. A real desire? You have no idea. I can’t stand assholes like this, slinking around with their smarmy smiles while they help other assholes ruin peoples’ lives. What if I threw him overboard?

  I scuttled the thought and continued to stare at him.

  His eyes narrowed before he relaxed. The shitty smile spread across his face and he gave a low laugh. “Right. Okay, Mayer.” He turned and pointed to the same doorway that had swallowed the last mercenary. “Right through there, down one level, turn right. You’re in berth four. You’ll be sharing space with Brandt. He’s from your homeland. You two should have lots in common.”

  I grunted, ready to make things clear right now. “I doubt it. I don’t associate with other people in this business. Brandt can just talk to himself. Or just play with himself. I don’t really care.”

  LeMan raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s your prerogative. But this is a two-day voyage, so let’s not have any trouble between you boys, okay?”

  I hefted my bag. “I don’t start trouble, Mr. LeMan. I finish it.” Corny as hell, but I thought it sounded like something a meathead killer might say.

  “It’s just LeMan,” he said. “All right. We’ll all meet at 1300 hours, after we’re underway.” Without another word he turned and walked away. I must’ve passed the first test.

  Once down the stairs, I lowered my head and stepped into the room assigned to Brandt and me. He wasn’t there, so I tossed my bag onto the open berth and looked around. There wasn’t much room. Good thing I wasn’t claustrophobic.

  I heard chatter outside and a moment later the man I’d seen board the ship earlier stepped in. He was on a phone and stopped short when he saw me. Ending his call, he slowly looked me up and down, then crossed his arms. He was of average height but obviously in great shape. His hair was short, but a tangled mass of black beard dangled over his chest. It was the kind of facial hair I never understood. To each his own, of course, but I hated finding lunch remnants hours later. He said something to me in German, and I actually understood most of it. I looked at him for a moment, then purposely ignored him while I set about unpacking my bag. He said something else, obviously irked.

  Keeping my back to him I said, “When I’m on a job I speak that language. If that doesn’t work for you, you can piss right off. Verstehen sie?”

  I knew at least that much. My grandmother often asked me if I understood. And with her, you damned well better have understood. I’d rather tangle with this guy than my grandmother. He didn’t respond, so I went about my business until he walked back out. Round one was over and I officially had an enemy. Fine. I wasn’t there to make friends, and the language issue was disposed of.

  I reclined on my bunk and pretended to nap for a while until I actually did nod off. It was good to grab shuteye whenever possible, and I wanted everyone to know I was chill with this assignment. Just another day at the office. If I wasn’t needed until 1300 hours, no one would see me until then.

  When I woke up we’d shoved off and were underway. The sway of the ship was a soothing sensation that had no doubt helped me sleep. I left the room and went exploring.

  Cargo vessels came in many shapes and sizes — not that I was a shipping expert — but this one struck me as efficient; not too big, but certainly not small. It didn’t take long to walk the perimeter, note the areas that were filled with cargo, and find the galley where I’d get my meals.

  I noticed my roommate at one point, talking to another man who must’ve been one of the other hired guns. They watched me and obviously had a few things to say about the new asshole roommate. I did a good job of acting like they weren’t even aboard. With 15 minutes to go until the meeting I went forward and stood at the rails, watching the bow cut through the swells. The salty smell and cool droplets invigorated me.

  Several years earlier I’d been on another ship, much farther north, carrying out a mission that wound up being one of the bloodiest Q2 had ever navigated. A lot of people went down on that one, including several innocent civilians. It was a case none of us would ever forget. It was also my first experience with a certain knave. You might guess who I’m talking about.

  At the time I knew him by another name, a pseudonym he’d used only briefly. I never actually saw him on that mission, not face to face; the plan, however, had his signature moves woven throughout the details. I’d swear he was on the helicopter that strafed us in the water. Even though I’d drowned before I could upload the latest news, I’d managed earlier to radio the Coast Guard and get help on the way.

  I found out later they saved 17 people, but another 19 didn’t make it. Including me. One of the survivors said there were shots sprayed into the water by the chopper, cutting down people clinging to life vests. Word was that I’d ditched the vest and dove to escape the machine gun fire, but then was never seen again. I had no idea. A week later I was invested into a new body.

  And thus began my years-long obsession with the scum called Beadle. The details of that original operation aren’t important now. But I’d been there as he tried to cover his tracks by killing innocent men and women. One day I’ll make amends for failing to save everyone. I’ll look into those evil eyes and put an end to him. Count on it.

  First, though, was a little matter of the detestable twins trying to reverse centuries of progress. I’ll always have a job. There are plenty of demons running loose.

  At one o’clock I wandered down to the mess deck. LeMan was occupied with something on his phone, and half a dozen people sat around, waiting. Four men, including my roomie, and two women. I stood near the door, leaned against a bulkhead, and crossed my arms. A minute later LeMan set down his phone and looked at each one of us in turn. Then he cleared his throat.

  “We’ll be at sea for 51 hours. During that time we’ll have conversations about defensive arrangements on the island, and you’ll each be assigned specific tasks. Things have gone smoothly, and we don’t expect any visitors to interrupt our work. But there have been some incidents on the mainland in the last few days that have raised our awareness. It’s possible someone may try to breach the defenses on the island. We’ll be ready.”

  He gestured to one of the women who stood next to him. “This is Parnell. She’s in charge until we reach the island, and you’ll treat her with respect. Is that understood?”

  Nobody said anything or even nodded. I hid my surprise. So this was the fabled Parnell, whose name I’d seen in the attic office in Telluride, and who I’d incorrectly assumed to be Richter’s partner in Portland.

  I sized her up without being obvious about it. She was tall and muscular, and had chosen a shirt to accentuate that build. Her hair was not just short, but chopped, like she’d done it herself with a machete. Something about that made her even more intimidating. She wore a grim, no-nonsense look on her face.

  So Parnell wasn’t a muscleman; she was a musclewoman, with the kind of physique that only comes from long hours in a gym.

  She held up a phone and spoke. Her voice was higher than I’d expected from her appearance, and tinged with a British accent. “You’re each getting one of these. They’re preloaded with the only numbers you’ll need, and they have just the amount of utilities you’ll need, as well. Any phone or other electronic device you’ve brought will be confiscated on the island. That’s not open for discussion. If you disagree, you can get off the boat right now. Right over the side. That’s where all our problems on this boat go.”

  Tough talk. I made a point to yawn.

  “This is not a pleasure cruise,” she said. “Y
ou’ll have duties here just like you will when we arrive. Don’t act for one moment like they’re beneath you. We hired you to work, and we’ll decide what that work is. And you already know what you can do if you disagree.”

  What was with these people? It’s like they’d learned how to command hired guns by watching old 1960s television dramas. It must’ve showed in my face because Parnell was giving me the stink eye. “You’re Mirco?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You got a problem, Mirco?”

  “No. But I know if I do I can just take it over the side, right?”

  She gave me a long look, then walked right up and stood two inches away. “Don’t think for a moment that because I’m a woman I’ll take any shit from you.”

  I didn’t flinch, looking her straight in the eyes. “Not even a little?”

  This caused the other woman in the room to unsuccessfully stifle a giggle. For a split second I thought Parnell might, too. Instead, she stared hard for another few seconds, then went back to her original spot.

  “You’re all very tough,” she said, “and you’re not used to being ordered around. I get it. But things have officially changed for you as of this moment. You’re going to arrive in two days at a place that will either provide a hard-working but pleasant experience for you, or you’ll be buried there. There’s no boat going back, no exit door, not for at least a year. You either work out, or you check out. Permanently. It’s our show.” She looked back at me. “I’m not impressed by macho bullshit. We’ve got work to do.”

  LeMan said, “I won’t ask if you have questions, because there’s nothing you need to know except what we choose to tell you. Parnell will have a duty assignment sheet ready this evening.”

  So we were getting chores, what military officers often called make-work. It was designed to keep us busy for two reasons: Keep us from sticking our noses into something that wasn’t our business, and drive home the point that they were in charge. That seemed to be very important to them. Villainous types are often insecure that way.