The Omega Device (The Ha-Shan Chronicles Book 1) (11 page)

Russell looked to his damp shoes, “Thanks man.”

He headed into the house, “Anytime Rus.”

For the next half hour the two sat in silence, considering their situation. Maggie knew they needed to leave town, but the possibility of never returning weighted her chest. To leave everything behind, be driven solely on survival, was beyond foreign to her.

But trying to hold onto anything in Oakton could be a liability. She was now living out of her pack, evaluating her every action. She needed to take stock.

She wasn't physically strong but she was more than capable of delicate finesse and subtlety. Moreover, she was good with people, and had a little money that might go a long way if careful. Otherwise, she'd have to rely invaluably on Russell. She could use her pistol, but there was no doubt he was better with it.

She chanced a look at him to see his eyes locked on a fixed point, his mind elsewhere. The angled lines of his face uttered a depth of urgency contained by calm breaths. For a moment she admired the will it took for two, such contrasting states to coexist.

Russell broke his stare to stand and check the fridge, derailing her train of thought. She followed him with her eyes, “What are the chances we'll survive this?”

He untwisted a loaf of bread, spoke as he slapped meat on to a few pieces, “Well, if we aren't hit the second we get off the plane, or going to see Chen-Lee, we'll have to load up. There's no way we're getting out there with these weapons. We'll have to grab something there, and hope we've got enough time to figure out the rest before the next attack.”

“You really think they'd come after us in an airport?”

Russell hesitated in thought, then started a second sandwich. “No, judging by the hit in the alley, they probably need secrecy. But they're also probably capable of searching a plane on the tarmac. If they are, they'll pull us off and take us somewhere to be executed.”

Maggie's pulse spiked at the thought, “Could they
really
do that?”  

“Maybe. We're hoping a few greased palms will get
us
what we need, why would they be any different?” He finished the second sandwich, replaced the contents of the fridge, and handed her one. He sat beside her to eat, “The thing is, Chuck's got
some
resources to tap but if they're as well-connected as they seem, they've got infinitely more.”

“How d'you figure?” Maggie asked, biting her sandwich.

“The weapons,” he said, following suit. “Mil-spec hardware means mil-spec connections, or enough money for black-market deals. Either one's enough to make a few people look the other way when they need to…
interrogate
someone.”

“So, we're walking into a hornet's nest.”

She stilled a rising lump in her stomach long enough to swallow. They finished the meal in silence, neither of them daring to think too deeply until a question edged its way into Maggie's mind.

She tried her best to push it away, but it formed words that forced themselves out. “Russell?” She hesitated. He gave a nod to continue. “You asked me why I called you, but… why'd you agree to help? I mean, before you were attacked.”

He admitted a minor confusion, “It's what I do, I guess.”

She looked him over curiously, “Are you sure that's all?”

He met her eyes, hoping to impart more, but could only say, “I don't know, Maggie.” She nodded, looked away as he stood, “We need to be ready to leave as soon as possible. You can use the shower in this bathroom. I'm going to talk to Chuck.”

Maggie lifted her bag from the floor, headed inside. Once she'd showered and redressed, she returned to the garage. After a few minutes of rigid, upright sitting, her mind playing terrifying scenarios, she sank into the couch with exhaustion.

She closed her eyes, soaking in the silence around her and hoping it would last. Instead, the door opened to Russell and Chuck amid a conversation. Russell was freshly cleaned, wearing baggy clothing meant for a man Chuck's size. Their speech drifted off as they stepped down into the garage.

Maggie looked over, “How's it going?”

“Good,” Russell said with raised hopes.

“Got a buddy who's in with the FBI now—lucky bastard,” Chuck said, moving to the armchair. “Says he can get you out tonight, unmarked, on a plane to L-A-X non-stop. Says he's got you tagged as Federal Air Marshals. You'll have no problem carrying a handgun on the plane, but you gotta' keep it hidden, and that big cannon stays with me.”

“I thought you said—”

“Yeah, and I thought so too. Guess my friends are movin' up in the world.” He shrugged. “This ain't a time to be lookin' gift horses in the mouth, so load up. Plane leaves in three hours.”

Maggie nodded and zipped up her bag, slung it over her shoulder. Russell stood beside her as Chuck pressed a button on the wall. The garage door opened with a rush of cold air and a mechanical grinding.

“You ready for this?” Russell asked.

“You mean flying across country with a loaded handgun to avoid murderers and find a needle in a haystack?” Maggie asked, unusually long-winded. She shrugged, “Russell, a few days ago all I was worried about was paying rent. Either I'll live or I'll die. I'm just tired of waiting around to find out which.”

He grimaced. Chucked stepped past for his large pick-up, “C'mon.”

The trio climbed in. The truck rolled backward, then started forward for the high-way. The next hour consisted of Chuck and Russell discussing their plans. Maggie listened, adding comments here and there, but feeling largely ineffectual. Eventually they rounded full circle on the conversation and drifted into other things.

Maggie fell into a restless sleep, later awakened by Russell jostling her outside terminal-4's entrance at CVG Airport in Northern Kentucky. A syrupy stream of people flowed along the sidewalk with a heavy murmur. Distant jet turbines roared and whirred.

Maggie was still deciding whether the crowd was a good thing or bad when Chuck looked back at her. His eyes darted between them, “Remember, head straight for the front of the line. Air Marshals get special treatments like that. Give 'em your names, and show your IDs. They'll pull 'em up on the computers and see the designation. Tell 'em you're late for your flight and they'll let you into the terminal, no questions asked—But don't walk through the metal detectors or you'll set 'em off and blow everything! If you do that, they'll automatically have to search you so no one thinks you're a Marshal. If they see you don't have badges, you're fucked. Clear?”

Russell nodded but agitation flashed over his face.

Chuck slapped him on the chest, “Good. It's game time now, brother. Get your ass out there.”

Russell slipped into the night, Maggie after him. He gave a last look at Chuck, “Thanks for everything. I'll make it up to you somehow.”

“Just bring
both
your asses back here. That'll be enough.”

Russell smiled. Maggie readied to shut the door, “Thanks, Chuck, I owe you.”

“Take care of 'im for me.”

She shut the door with a nod. He waved and pulled away. Russell turned to steer Maggie through the crowd and into the terminal. They passed disgruntled passengers, weaved to the front desk.

Russell ignored them, maneuvering into place in front of a check-in clerk, “We're late for our flight; Russell Williams and Maggie Doherty.”

“Excuse me sir, you'll have to head to the back of the line,” the woman said.

“Check the file first,” Maggie bit urgently.

The woman growled, typed in their names. Her face went white, and the sound of a printer went off. “Here. S-sorry. Your flight leaves soon. Good luck.”

She glanced at a security guard. He broke from the front of a line at a bank of metal detectors and motioned the pair over. He led them past the checkpoint with his hands on his utility belt, “Have a safe flight.”

Russell passed with a nod, checked their tickets to push through the sea of people toward their gate. Overhead calls of flights rang  barely audible over the din, their steps swallowed whole by the deafening surge of bodies and voices crawling past in all manner of states.

“This is it,” Russell said, hurrying to a boarding hallway.

He handed the tickets to a woman there. She seemed confused before looking them over and ushering them past. They entered an empty plane, eerily silent when devoid of its passengers. Russell caught Maggie's confusion.

He checked his ticket, “Air Marshals are allowed on before-hand to check the plane. We're the only two on this flight so we're separated between classes. I'm business, you're economy. We'll be separated for the flight, but it's best anyhow.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Maggie asked, wondering how much trouble a poorly placed remark might cause.

“Sleep, or fake it,” Russell instructed. “The last thing you want's someone recognizing you.”

“And if they do?”

He frowned, “Pray they don't say anything.”

He helped find her seat near the plane's rear, gave her a hopeful look. She gazed back with exhaustion and helplessness.

“We'll get through this, Maggie, I promise. Until then—” He hesitated, looking around at the empty plane. “Just hope no one wants to blow up this plane.”

Maggie was alarmed at what a relief that might actually be. She relaxed into her seat and watched him disappear through the plane.

10.

L.A.X.

October 1
st
 

1:00 AM

Boarding Hallway, LAX Terminal 6

Russell departed the plane first. He moved through the boarding hallway in a crowd of faceless people that ambled into LAX at 1 AM local time. He held his breath, secretly wishing to be somewhere less exposed, but trudged along all the same.

His single-file shuffle followed an obese woman as she drug her delirious, jet-lagged spawn along. It only heightened his desperation. The people's exhaustion was contagious. It weighted his chest, depressed his mind, and fueled his own ambling gait. He allowed it for the sake of remaining incognito.

The group dissipated out the doorway like water molecules in diverging currents. He made his way to a chair in the terminal beyond, un-slung his duffel bag and backpack, and sat to await Maggie.

He surveyed the area; equally bored and tired security guards with disposable coffee cups, and looking more important than they were, passed through sparse groups with superficial authority. A lone attendant slumped over a computer ahead, awaiting the processions end to finish her shift. She looked just as exhausted as the travelers, only perking up when more footsteps sounded behind her.

Maggie emerged just as Russell had, casually made her way to his side to sit with her pack between her legs. They waited for the last of the passengers to exit, hypnotized by the bodies emerging in their sleep-deprived states.

Maggie's eyes glazed over until she felt someone deposit themselves in the seat behind her. She snapped back to reality, glanced at Russell through her peripheral vision. He sensed her agitation, moved to stand, but a voice stopped him.

“Wait until the attendant leaves, then we may speak,” a woman said. “Trust me.”

Russell gave Maggie an inconspicuous look. Her eyes darted to his hip and the gun hidden there. He half-shook his head, eyes wide in denial. The attendant clacked at her keyboard. She adjusted some things on the desk, then shut off the monitor to leave.

“Start talking,” Maggie commanded.

“You're heading in the wrong direction, but I may be capable of aiding you.” Maggie shot Russell a look; his head pivoted slightly to listen. She explained with a casual abrasion, “Lu-Yen knows nothing. You are chasing phantom hope—looking in the wrong place and wasting valuable time.”

Russell shook his head at Maggie, “Who is Lu-Yen?”

“We have little time, and even less for games, Detective.”

“Who are you?” Maggie asked, transfixed ahead.

“I will be brief,” the woman explained. “Before revealing my identity, I must inform you that what I tell you cannot be relayed to anyone else uninformed.”

Maggie felt annoyance flare up, “What are you talking about?”

“If you divulge these secrets, you will place your life, and those to whom you speak, in great peril.”

“Is that a threat?” Maggie asked, casually relaxing her hands into her coat for her gun.

“
Maggie,
” Russell said with a hard stare. She sighed, sat upright. “Tell us who you are.”
 

“Very well.” The woman stood, “We are no longer being watched.”

They eased up together. Maggie turned and her eyes enlarged, “What the
hell?
”

“I am She-La Chen-Lee,” she said with a slight bow. “We must walk.”

Russell eyed her suspiciously, “I can't allow that.”

“Your friend's doctored records will not protect you here,” She cautioned. “But I can.”

She motioned to follow with a sweeping hand. It made her body angle toward light that glinted in micro-dermal piercings along her collar-bone. They peered out from beneath a leather trench-coat, tailored to her form with its arms removed.

A graphic T-shirt of an intricate, white dragon in battle against a warrior, clung loosely to her small breasts and flat abdomen. Its low-cut collar and vivid coloring matched colorful ink in her arms and chest. Skin-tight jeans clung to long legs and small hips, above heavy, calf-high, combat boots.

Her heavily pierced ears, nose, lips and eyebrows, and heavy black makeup drew attention to brown, almond-shaped eyes. Her black hair was short and thin, as if expertly inked onto her head.

Her appearance was vaguely eccentric, but Maggie suspected she'd blend easily with a crowd, L.A. or elsewhere. Maggie's fascination however, defied conventional celebrity attraction. While She-La was a world class artist, she was also everything Maggie professionally aspired to.

Despite her rather public business, surprisingly little was known about She-La personally. She was deeply private, but captivating enough that it was difficult for Maggie not to gape with some wonder.

They began to follow her through the massive airport, dotted here and there with franchised shops and sales kiosks charging exorbitant prices for mundane items. The overhead speakers blared boarding instructions over growing crowds deeper inside the airport.