Reversion (The Narrows of Time Series Book 3) (16 page)

“Security breach? How?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s above your pay grade. Are you going to make the call, or do I need to get President Lathrop involved?”

“No, no, no. That won’t be necessary. Wait here,” Bruno said before he turned and walked to the security station. He picked up the phone and spent a solid minute talking on it before returning to Randol.

“I spoke to Dr. Kleezebee. He’s cleared you for access, but asked that you return in one hour.”

“Why?”

“Neither Dr. Davies nor Dr. Ramsay are currently here.”

“When will they be?”

“In an hour, when their shifts are scheduled to begin.”

“So, you’re seriously not going to let me pass?”

“Sorry, Counselor, but I have my orders. We all answer to someone.”

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Randol said, checking the time on his watch. He turned and stormed for the entrance, banging his shoulders on the revolving glass doors as they carried him outside.

Masago tore through one curve after another, pushing the front suspension of the Tumbler to its limits as she flew across the washboard terrain of the open desert on her way to her brother’s secluded compound. The thick layers of sand and gravel should have been making the vehicle skid from side to side with each nudge of the steering wheel, but the virgin off-road tread on the jumbo tires was gripping the surface as if it were dry pavement.

“Let’s take it up a notch,” she said, stomping on the accelerator, hoping to force-feed her chest with more adrenaline. It worked. The back end of the Tumbler was now fishtailing wildly as she navigated a series of switchback bends in the trail. If Lucas had been along for the ride, she imagined he’d be screaming by now.

“Roads? Who needs roads?” she said, pushing a smile through her clenched lips and stiff jaw. She aimed the front tires at a four-foot-tall swell of dirt, sending her and the vehicle airborne.

“Oh yeah!” she screamed, waiting for the back end of the Tumbler to make contact with Mother Earth. It did, clearing a swimming-pool-size spread of river rock in the process.

Then she saw it—the teetering, double-stacked, red-colored mailbox. It was about a hundred feet away, marking the last mile of dust to nowhere. Well, not nowhere exactly; it was the home stretch that would take her to the razor wire fence protecting Rocket’s prepper camp.

She turned the wheel ten degrees to the right, scanning the area ahead for changes to the landscape since she’d last traveled this route. She didn’t notice any, but then again, it had been ten months since she’d made this trek. Plus the previous visit was made on foot, not while four-wheeling at high speed.

She heard a whistle of static and then a man’s voice crackle with electronic tones and sequels.

“—a leak before I have to head to the shop for my shift. This is Jesse, by the way . . . ugh, over.”

Masago scanned the interior of the vehicle for the source but didn’t see it. She felt the Tumbler drift wide on its own, refocusing her attention. She corrected the car’s path, keeping it from heading for a boulder or cactus. Her eyes checked the rearview mirror, more so out of habit than need. A massive dust cloud was forming behind her, billowing out and up to mark where she’d been. She decided to slow down to reduce the dust. Someone could easily spot it from a distance—like the armed guards stationed at Rocket’s front gate. They wouldn’t know it was her. Not in the Tumbler. It looked military. A threat. If they opened fire . . .

Then it hit her. She knew the source of the voice. The Tumbler was equipped with a proximity sensor and it must have been activated by the car’s built-in communication system—one of her brother’s inventions. It meant she was getting close to her destination. She felt around the dash for the microphone while keeping her eyes on the road, but it wasn’t there. Crap, she’d left it in the rear cargo area, stuffed inside one of the bug-out bags she and Lucas had thrown in earlier.

“Jesse who?” another man answered across the radio. She recognized the voice. It was her brother’s.

“Jesse Donnor, sir. Over.”

“I was kidding, dumb-ass. This is an open channel. Use proper radio procedure or pack your shit and leave.”

“Sorry, Rocket, sorry—ugh, this is Cannibal at station one. Hold on. Something is hap—”

A few seconds of radio silence passed before her brother responded.

“Nighthawk to Cannibal. Repeat your last. And stop using my name. This is your last warning. Over.”

Masago didn’t know Jesse “Cannibal” Donnor. He was obviously new and inexperienced. She’d met some of the other members of Rocket’s team, but not this clown. Rocket must have been busy expanding his ranks, taking in supplies, labor, and muscle in exchange for advanced weapons and tactical training. New members had to be vetted and pass extensive training to prove their worth before they were granted right-of-entry and protection when the time came.

Her brother was a freak when it came to security and preparedness, training his team for every contingency, including government meltdowns and coronal mass ejections. Rocket was a bit intense, especially when it came to his beliefs. However, they weren’t half as intense as his short fuse. His temper was legendary for all the wrong reasons, but she couldn’t blame him. Those were family traits passed down from their eccentric, missing father.

Her foot found the brake pedal, slowing the Tumbler to one mile per hour. The trailing dust storm caught up and drifted past, dissipating into a wandering memory. She’d expected to see two guards at the fortified, iron gate with razor wire across the top, but there was only one.

He was a tall behemoth, with stringy black hair that had been slicked back across his head and down the back of his neck. A ball cap was in one hand and a pair of triangular-shaped binoculars in the other. She assumed the muscular beast was Jesse Donnor, the rookie her brother had just scolded across the radio. The guard put his cap on, then put the binoculars to his eyes, aiming them at her.

“About time,” she said, wondering how the man hadn’t seen her earlier. The dust cloud should’ve been visible for at least the past five minutes.

She recognized the unique shape of the binoculars Jesse was holding in his hands. Their father had invented them long ago, but an earlier version. Rocket had taken the old man’s design and increased the range tenfold and added a heads-up display for range and direction. Masago had meant to borrow the pair during her next visit, but not today, she decided. She needed to talk Rocket out of his truck. One thing at a time, she reminded herself. Don’t ask for too much all at once.

The radio in the car woke up from its short slumber.

“Nighthawk to Cannibal. Respond. Over.”

She caught a glimpse of the AK-47 on Jesse’s back when he turned slightly. It hadn’t moved from its stored position, but she figured it would, soon.

“Station one? Report!” Rocket said.

Jesse let the binoculars drop from his hands, dangling down the front of his chest by a leather strap wrapped around his neck. He put his chin down, angling it toward the radio stuck to the left side of his vest.

The vehicle’s comm unit crackled again, opening the frequency for another transmission. She heard a man clear his throat, then take a deep breath. The sounds matched what she was seeing with Jesse. She stopped the car and put the transmission into park.

“We have . . . a visitor. Over,” Jesse said, unshouldering his AK-47, pointing it at Masago.

She got out of the car, slowly, with her hands up, not wanting to make any sudden moves. She took a deep breath, allowing her to shout across the clearing.

“Don’t shoot! My name is Masago. I’m Rocket’s sister!”

The radio ignited once again. “Cannibal, describe what you’re seeing. Over.”

“Rocket, uh, Nighthawk. There’s a girl. Beautiful and Asian. No offense, I’m just saying. She’s an Asian chick. In a military assault vehicle or something. She’s at the gate and says she knows you. What should I do?”

Masago wondered where Rocket had met this slug, and why was he stationed at the main entrance—alone?

“Did she identify herself?” the voice on the radio asked.

“Melody or something, sir. Not sure. Says she’s family. Orders?”

A moment later, a mosquito buzzed Masago’s face, which was odd, since it was December. Mosquitoes are rare in the arid southwest and even more rare in the dead of winter. Then she saw a glint of light reflect off the bug’s metallic wings. She tried to follow its path as it changed direction every half second, finally zipping above her head and into the cover of the burning sun.

“Adjusting buzzer-cam,” Rocket said over the radio.

The buzzing device circled around in front of her, this time taking a hovering position three feet from her nose.

“That’s my sister, asshole. Stand down. Let her through.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

Masago jumped into the Tumbler, pulled forward and approached the gate, then waited as Cannibal rolled it aside. She drove past him, maneuvering the vehicle across ditches and ruts that formed a trail past an array of dormant garden boxes.

She recognized the group of four mobile home trailers stationed to the right. One was used for reloading ammo while the others were tasked as squad quarters and storage. Construction framework was in progress for several permanent structures across the west side of the property, not far from the homemade shooting range and tactical training courses that covered much of the remaining acreage.

At last count, Rocket had seventeen people living on and working the compound with him. He earned money teaching survival skills and defensive tactics, and by offering firearms and explosives training to the public. His team also reloaded and sold ammo as well as made homemade knives and other unique weapons.

She passed a few more people, none she recognized, each one staring at the familiar movie vehicle rolling by.

The sunlight dimmed after she drove under the camouflage netting strung across the center of the property to foil satellite surveillance. Next, a rickety barn came into view as she pulled the Tumbler around and parked behind the trailers.

Her plan was to head to the barn, where she figured Rocket was busy at work. It was his playground—his sanctuary. The place where he spent most of his free time tinkering and inventing gadgets like the flying mosquito cam; another skill he learned from their father.

Gunfire erupted beyond the barn, and Masago gripped the wheel out of instinct. Her eyes darted to the left and found at least ten men, women, and children standing side by side, a few feet apart, wearing ear and eye protection as they fired automatic weapons at metal reactionary targets scattered along the shooting range. Many of the bullet-riddled targets were in the shape of people, but some were designed to resemble vehicles, including two painted like police cars.

Most of the shooters held AR-15s, but three of the men were holding Glock pistols—probably Model 30s—forty-five caliber short frames. Her brother’s handgun of choice. Reliable. Simple to operate. Virtually indestructible.

Masago scanned the group but didn’t see Rocket. She thought they might be members of one of his public shooting classes. A blur of motion next to a leafless tree on the right drew her attention. A man’s face appeared. It was Rocket. He raised one hand above his head and waved for her to join him.

She took the keys, crawled out of the hatch, closed it, and walked over to him.

He used two fingers in the corners of his mouth to whistle sharply at the shooters on the range. They turned their heads. He drew a finger across his neck. The trainees put their weapons down and huddled together to reload their magazines with more rounds.

Rocket Fuji was several inches taller than Masago and noticeably thin. Too thin. She was shocked by how much weight he’d lost. Obviously, he was too busy training to eat properly. His jeans and baggy tee shirt were marked with holes and smears of dirt. Apparently laundry was not on the top of his list, either.

His dark mullet had grown several inches in the back and stood bushier on top since the last time she’d seen him. He looked like a backwoods Asian redneck who doubled as an Elvis impersonator, though Rocket couldn’t carry a tune.

Rocket smiled and hugged her with a notebook-size device in one hand. She caught only a glimpse of it, but thought it was a hybrid device—a cross between a touch-screen iPad and an old-school control unit for a remote activated toy—complete with twin toggle switches and analog lights. He needed a bath, too. The smell of perspiration and chemical fertilizer was overpowering.

Rocket let go and took three abrupt steps back, staring at the Tumbler, then at her. “What’s wrong?”

Masago swallowed. “I need a favor, bro.”

Rocket narrowed his eyes. “Does this favor involve a body? Maybe two?”

She shrugged, thinking about the men she’d buried with the detonation of her home. “None you need to be concerned with.”

“That’s my sister,” he said, smiling. “Can I show you something first?”

“I’m kind of in a hurry. Can it wait?”

“It won’t take long.”

“If it’s the mosquito camera, I saw it at the gate.”

“That’s the smallest long-distance drone ever invented, if you can believe the propaganda coming out of Washington. Who knows what the government isn’t telling us, right?” Rocket asked, with a quick pace to his words. He nodded. “But, no, this one is live right now, so it really can’t wait.”

“Looks like your classes are getting bigger,” Masago said, pointing at the range. “One of those girls looks pretty young.”

“She’s five. Same age as when Dad started training us.”

“I barely remember that.”

“She’s Zed Bradshaw’s daughter. You met him once, I think.”

“Oh, yeah. The neat freak.”

“That’s not a class, though. It’s membership practice. Ever since the activity started.”

“Activity?”

“Haven’t you heard? The military lit up the Catalinas! Three Apaches, from what I’ve been able to gather.”

“Military training happens all the time in the desert. I don’t see what’s the big deal.”

“It wasn’t practice. It was a live op. I know the difference. Attack choppers opened fire, raining down hell across the terrain. It’s all a lie, I tell ya. A damn lie. Don’t believe anything they tell ya. Not a fucking thing.”