Boulder Blockbuster Press
Skydive to the Table of Contents ↓
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A pee-shy pizza guy teams up with a drone hacker and a disbarred activist to rescue their drowning families, destroy the Shutyergorge Dam, and let America once again flow free.
. . .
When Leo Pascal’s dad tries to sneak out of their family pizzeria on
a late-night delivery, Leo insists on driving. Mom already drowned in
the dammed-up Delaware River, can’t let Dad sink too.
Dad’s directions lead them to a secret tunnel into the Shutyergorge Dam.
Turns out Mom’s death wasn’t an accident—she was killed by the dam’s
fascist feds and Dad wants a dynamite revenge. But Dad is captured
during the drop-off, while Leo snags the tip of a bullet, metal-pedals
the Subaru, and escapes.
Dam breakout, coming up…
Leo teams up with two loyal customers also trying to rescue their
families: drone hacker Beryl and her disbarred attorney Rock. Now it’s
time to skydive, climb, carjack, paddle, swim, and tunnel to the dam. If
Leo can steer through his shyness, the team can save their families,
smash the dam, and let America once again flow free.
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Paperback ISBN: 9798224834020
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Autumn Leaves in Ithaca digs the cover!
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Genres: Technothriller, Disability Fiction, Anti-fascism, Psychological Thriller
Cover | Map (spoiler) | Photo (front cover) | Photo (back cover) | Soundtrack (Spotify)
Buy me a coffee? at https://buymeacoffee.com/vinniehoose (Nothing fancy, I sip Café Caribe.)
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For my grandpa, an American artist with an 11-letter Italian surname who destroyed Nazi tanks as a colorblind scout.
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Send comments, reviews, bribeworthy blurbs, typo alerts, etc. to vinnie_hoose[at]proton.me
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22
Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59
Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 Chapter 79 Chapter 80 Chapter 81 Chapter 82 Chapter 83 Chapter 84
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The President went to high school in Easton, Pennsylvania. Where he was pissed on by a bully. Where he swore to gain power over Easton, over Pennsylvania, over America. And with that power, to build a dam across the Delaware River. A dam to piss on the bully who pissed on him. And after buying power, and despite the bully’s years-ago death from mesothelioma, the President built the Shutyergorge Dam. With the dam, the President pissed on Easton, Pennsylvania. And soon after, America.
* * *
Done with delivery for the night. Leo floored his Impreza in reverse, whipped the steering wheel halfway, applied power. The headlights brushed the back door of his family’s shop: Tony’s “Toe-Tip of Italy” Calabrian Pizzeria. Inside, Dad was filling a delivery bag—but he’d just said the night was over. Leo went to neutral, pulled the e-brake. Mom had died in August when a road collapsed into the rising Delaware River, and these soaked November roads are even greedier, and Dad’s not tempting it too.
Back inside. Dad spun in surprise, blocked with his round yet muscled belly. “You said to head home, grease the foosball table,” Leo said.
Dad relaxed, put salads atop the delivery bag. “Picky customers. I have to take it in person.”
“A payoff?”
“I’ll be back fast.”
“I saw three new flood-creeps tonight. Don’t test the Chrysler, ride shotgun with me.”
“I got it.”
“It’s late. Too many drunks. Plus deer. Plus the checkpoints.” No need to mention Mom. Leo reached for the delivery again, but his hands only got above the bags. “They want it cold?”
Dad stared, doing some sort of math, then picked up the bags. “Fine. You drive. It’s for charity—just a little request for unsold leftovers.”
Easy enough. Outside, Leo pulled open the passenger door, then circled and dropped behind the wheel.
Dad got in, held the bags on his lap. “Heading south. So cross the Lehigh in Bethlehem, then over South Mountain. We’ll eventually cut back toward the Delaware.”
“Spot any checkpoints?”
“We’ll be OK,” Dad said. “But I can’t guarantee. Nice and easy.”
Easier if Dad’s prescription pick-up had been moved from the glovebox to the spare tire in back. Left in too much of a rush. Now silently over the bridge next to the old steel mill, only its chimneys above water. The Lehigh River up to the base of the bridge, flowing east to the Delaware. Now up the mountain through rowhouses and old Slovakian duplexes, into the woods behind the college, winding higher to the pass, then rolling downhill. “It’s got to be flooded down there,” Leo said.
“But shielded by mountain.”
“They live uphill or low?”
Two bright lamps ahead. Not driveway beacons, but cop car searchlights pointed into the southern traffic.
Leo dropped to fifteen in second gear, said, “Open the—”
But Dad had already popped the glovebox, grabbed the bag of buds, and zipped it into his jacket’s right-side pocket. “Rock’s again?”
Leo nodded.
“Thanks for the refill.” Dad pulled the registration and paired it with the license Leo passed from his wallet.
Brakes, then clutch just before the stall. Leo lowered his window to the cop. No partner in the cruiser blocking the other lane. Did they double the checkpoints? The paint said Town of Salisbury—a miniature mini-mall on the other side of the mountain. So who sent him here?
“License and registration.” Leo handed his over, but the cop only stared through midnight Oakleys. “That guy too.”
Dad passed it over. The cop checked both, then ducked back to Leo’s window with a pocket camera and snapped a shot of each. “11:53 p.m. What’s your destination?”
“Pizza delivery,” Leo said. He pointed at the bags on Dad’s lap. Dad slid the plastic bag off the top of the pizza bag revealing the logo of Super Sicilian. That nasty national chain in the mob of powdered cheese and limp crust? Leo sucked in a breath, caught eyes with Dad, scrunched his eyebrows.
“Union Boulevard,” the cop said. “I just called you for an order. You’re closed for the night.”
“Last run,” Leo said.
“What’s in the bag?”
Dad jumped in. “Three pies. All plain.”
“Open that bag and prove it.” The cop unclipped his holster.
“Bada-bing, bada-boring,” Dad said. He dropped the bag’s flap, showing three cardboard boxes with Super Sicilian’s logo. Leo swallowed rough.
The cop let go of his gun, rubbed his hands. “Excessive quantity. Pass one here and move on.”
Dad velcroed the bag closed and put the plastic back on top. “Sorry, but we really can’t tonight. It’s for a federal team in the area.”
The cop laughed. “You know we’re all on the same team.”
Dad’s grin flattened. “It’s for the commanding officer of Shutyergorge Dam. At his horse farm, twelve miles west of the river. And yes, he needs all three pies.”
Now the cop got shaky, he looked left and right, down at his uniform, surely cursing the paused delivery being tracked by satellite at the destination. “Move on, don’t let me slow you down.” He handed back their IDs and registration. Leo rolled up the window and drove on.
About a mile in silence, then, “Super Sicilian? Are you paying them off? You know, keep our corner on the hill—”
“I don’t want our shop on any checkpoint record.”
Makes sense. “Horse farm—should we have turned right by now?”
“Stay straight. We’re headed to the dam.” Dad knocked knuckles against the windshield and pointed. “Turn east on the next dirt driveway.”
Leo turned left into a gap in the woods, left side. Stopped on the gravel and cut the lights. “We’re not giving this to the dam.”
“You wanted to know. If it makes it any better, they ordered this delivery.”
“We’re paying them off.” Leo searched, tried to spot lights in the woods. He had delivered to them before anything was clear, during construction, the start of the punishing floods. And this isn’t the way to the gate. Need to take the new Washington’s Crossing Bridge into Jersey, then south—
“You won’t see any soldiers on the driveway if that’s what you’re worried about,” Dad said. “We’ll be in and out. Dead end ahead. Just spin around and park.”
Leo put on the fog lights and crept in first gear.
Now, through the trees, the new reservoir pushed against the dam. Hungry. Restless. Leo cut the lights and engine, U-turned in neutral, pulled the e-brake.
Dad reached overhead and clicked off the automatic dome light, then popped the door. He hopped out and put the delivery bags on the roof, and a second later peed on the driveway’s gravel. “Good spot to take a leak. Personally, I could go for another coffee.”
Leo lifted his own coffee from the cup holder, still half left. “I’m alright.” The first half already asking to leave, but home’s less than an hour away. Hold it.
“Your call,” Dad said. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Wait here.” He grabbed the bags and headed south into the woods without a flashlight. As soon as he disappeared, Leo hopped out, darted into the woods on the far side of the drive, got behind the thickest tree, and peed. A lucky break, finally. A pulsing urge since the checkpoint. Thought there wouldn’t be a moment alone.
He let out a deep breath and went back to the Impreza. How often do you get this view, so close to the dam? No need to get in and sit just yet. Here for some sort of reason. It’ll all make sense back at the foosball table with a cold pour. How can Dad be OK with the flooding of every mile all the way up to the Delaware Water Gap? Or farther even, to Upstate New York? Dad’s camping spot up there was in woods almost like these. Quote-unquote camping. Hiked from the car to the cabin, then maybe as far as the edge of the dirt lawn. Carried Dad’s red wine and pepperoni and cheese. No need to go on a mission of tents and maps and mini-stoves. Fixed that cabin’s water tank, kerosene heater, wood stove—that led to stereos, Subaru engines, 800-degree ovens, and delivery racing while other kids stuck with the Boy Scouts. How is Dad OK with Mom’s accident?
A yell from the woods—
Leo dropped and peeked over the car. Another—not a cry, but a high-pitched wha-waa, wha-waa. A little motor won’t start. Wha-waa, wha-waa, wha-waa.
Must be making the delivery by drone. Leo lit his phone’s flashlight, grabbed the 6-in-1 jump starter from the milk crate in his hatchback trunk. He crept toward the sound over foot-high angled rocks, thin downed trees, leaf piles with loose rocks hidden underneath. Slow, quiet. Officially shaking. And please no checkpoint ahead.
“Save your battery,” Dad said low from ahead, then flicked on a red light. Leo stumbled the last fifty yards. Easier skydiving with him last year on his birthday than walking to find him in the woods. Finally, Dad flipped on a decent flashlight. A two-seater maintenance cart, aimed down a dirt tunnel. The pizza bag riding shotgun and a mess of tools under a tarp in the bed. All light trapped in the tunnel, none leaking out.
“The jumper, hallelujah,” Dad said.
Nope. “They’re making us deliver down this? Screw it, leave it here, call them, let’s go. This cart is their responsibility.”
“We just got to drive it.”
Leo pressed a hand against the wall. Mud tunnel. “They can get out here, pick it up. Time to head back.”
“We don’t drive it, we’re in trouble.”
“Negative.”
Dad grabbed the jumper. “Then I’ll have to figure it out.” He searched the label for instructions.
“Leave it, no shame. I’ve left deliveries on doorsteps, even at the end of a driveway. The customer isn’t always right.” Leo went to the cart’s shotgun seat and grabbed the bag. Heavier than three pizzas. Raw dough?
“Step away,” Dad said. “Back up.”
Instead, Leo opened the bag, grabbed the top box, but it wasn’t a box at all. Only a cardboard cover imitating three box-ends. It fell out, revealing electronics, blinking lights, a number pad. A tracker, a drone, customer data delivered fresh to the feds—
“Do not touch that.” Dad circled toward him, hands wide, open, flat. Leo stepped back.
“You’re working with them.” Leo spun with his phone light, searched the tunnel wall for cameras, mics, wires. “Our hilltop spot, get protection, get a monopoly over Easton.”
“Shh—” Dad said, sealing the bag.
“We’re teaming up with the feds? Take out the city, own the city.”
“Leo, we have no customers. We have no city. We have a few uphill folks who pay what they can.” Dad connected the wires and now turned the cart’s key. It started up. He unhooked the jumper in reverse and put it in the bed on a tarp. “Roads collapse under flooding but Mom’s road didn’t collapse. They blew it out from under her. They thought the reservoir swallowed proof of their kill.”
“No—” Leo fell back against the tunnel wall.
“Their murder.”
Leo slid down to a crouch, muddy hands now rubbing through his hair.
“Tonight we deliver payback. Get in.”
Leo only stared at the shotgun seat. She was working up on Fountain Hill. Working against the feds from Fountain Hill. Makes sense? Everyone thought the dam was for hydropower. But all it’s done is— Flood. Threaten. Punish. Why would Dad hold this in until now? Mom’s Tahoe had that fight-the-feds smell to it. “Fascist feds,” she would say. Then she’d explain things better than any textbook. Leo rose, wobbled to the Super Sicilian delivery bag.
“Don’t touch it,” Dad said, reaching, but Leo didn’t open it. He leaned and took a deep sniff.
Mom’s Tahoe smelled like this delivery bag. Not garlic, not cheese. More dangerous than cash. The aroma of rebellion. Of take back. “What is this?” Leo said. “The truth.”
“T-4 Plastico.”
Mom must have baked it up. But— “What about Philly? If this thing works…”
“Van Sciver’s our sponge and beyond is plenty wide.”
“Switch sides, I’m driving.”
Dad slid over and held the bag on his lap. “Down to the end, drop off, in and out.”
“Fast?”
“As fast as you can roll without bumps.”
“Hold it tight.”
Dad threw an arm over the bag and Leo hit the gas, into the dark ahead.
Mudwall, the tunnel’s dead end. Leo slowed the cart.
“Turn it around, be ready to bounce,” Dad said.
The tunnel’s end had been shaped into enough of an L to allow a three-point turn. Leo cut the engine. Jumpstart if needed, it’s better than trusting the gas gauge.
Dad hopped out without the delivery bag.
“Drop it,” Leo called over his shoulder while Dad searched under the tarp.
“One minute.” Dad pulled out a converted, hand-held dough mixer, started it up. Somehow almost silent. The most dangerous tool in the shop, the arm slicer. Before Leo could yell to put it down, Dad drilled into the ceiling of the tapered end of the tunnel. Chunks of porcelain tile fell. Dad spun around, enlarging the hole, then climbed up. Without the bag.
Twenty seconds, each second ten minutes. Leo crept from the cart and peeked where Dad had disappeared.
A movie’s hotel penthouse bathroom, all glass, stainless steel, and puffy towels. Ten feet away, Dad locked the bathroom’s door, then spun and rushed back, pushed Leo’s shoulder from above, and without a word they both slid down to the tunnel.
Dad grabbed the pizza bag and sat it on the cart’s bed. “Bathroom of all places.” He pulled a blueprint of the dam from the bed’s mesh bag and flung it open. “But maybe the bathroom’s a good cover story if this works.” He measured the distance from their approximate location to the front wall of the dam. “Just needs a little more sauce.” He punched new numbers into the bomb’s control screen, twisted dials.
If there’s a bathroom, there’s always someone nearby. Leo shook with familiar worry. Don’t have much time. Someone’s about to knock. Get in and get out. “I’m sure it’s fine, put it up there and let’s go.”
A yell passed under the bathroom door, into the tunnel. “Tension! Tension! You need to bring more tension to your work!”
Loud boss. Hopefully his voice had hid their crack through the tiles. But who does an employee assessment after midnight? Or do they have a serious problem, an unhooked front dock, an outage of the dozens of lamps across the top of the dam? Then a shake of the silver doorknob. “Dad—the boss is trying to get in.”
Above, the boss scolded again. “Did you fail to ensure the lock button was popped? Imbecile. I should never have let you use it. Call the maintenance worker on duty. Four one four.”
Dad pulled him back from the hole with one hand. Hadn’t meant to creep this far forward, but something had drawn him. And not the toilet.
“Get ready to sprint,” Dad said.
Dazed, Leo stepped to the side as Dad lugged the pizza bag past.
Leo sat in the cart, started it up. He turned around—Dad was still only halfway through the hole. How long to get it stowed out of sight? Then a gunshot—Dad spun, blood pumped down over his belly. A second later, whoosh, Dad was dragged up through the hole, sneakers catching, looking for purchase. Still alive.
And silent. Dad hadn’t yelled. Can still run, get out of here. Already one gunshot, he must be bleeding out. Don’t want to take one too. How to even fight a gun with a—
Leo’s hand patted the seat, turned and flipped the tarp from the cart bed. The dough mixer? He was far from trained. No karate, no wrestling, no National Guard, no barroom brawls. He’d marched against the fascist grab, but only in the back half of the crowd. He’d graffitied on occasion, but this was far from a moonless night spray can. There—garden trowel, foot-long, metal.
Leo was pulled to the hole. He threw the trowel across the bathroom to where the uniformed dam boss stood over bleeding Dad and the pizza bag; it dinged the back of the boss’ left arm. The boss turned, laughing, and snapped Leo’s picture with the same camera he was using on Dad. Leo ducked down, confusing the camera with a gun, and scrambled back to the cart. But before he pounded the gas, he checked the hole for Dad.
The boss peeked through from above and laughed. “Two more fools, exactly what I ordered.” Golden oak leaves on his shirt. More than the boss—the Major—who lowered a pistol down the hole and fired.
The low shot bounced off the cart’s bumper. A second shot burned Leo’s shoulder. His hand flew to it, the shirt was ripped, but his fingertips didn’t feel blood. He clenched his teeth and searched the hole for Dad. The pistol and the Major’s arm lifted out of sight, towed in by Dad. Smacks, clangs, gutbashes. A bloody paring knife slid through the hole and Leo snagged it by the handle. Dad got him now—but then a gunshot.
The Major lowered his pistol through the hole again, now with both hands. Didn’t get him—Leo ducked behind the cart’s seat and fled alone, away from the gun and the capture and the bullets and Dad and maybe death, all in a bathroom. The cart swerved in the tunnel mud, bounced forward from wall to wall, driven by gunshots that somehow didn’t find him.
Leo left the cart in the tunnel, slammed the wind-creaking gate closed. He rushed through the forest’s rocks, nearly twisting his ankles. The now-jumperless Subaru started, and Leo made it back to the main road with no lights, following the slit of open sky above the driveway. Dad dead? He could be alive— He could get out— He could be captured— He could be talking— Forced to talk— Soldiers will be waiting back at the house—
At the first stoplight, Leo checked the glovebox. Toss Dad’s buds before the next checkpoint. But no, Dad had pocketed them. Instead atop the fake leather portfolio, something new. Dad’s wallet, phone, and keys. He went in clean. Leo threw these in the front console, next to his own wallet. And now, twisted to fit, Dad’s wallet raised a Post-It note flag.
The light turned green. Leo took off, but against his usual no-text piloting, pulled out the note. If not back, call this number. An Allentown ground line. Mention me.
Please, please, please be alive. Killing him would be pointless. An automatic deletion of names. Assume for now he’s alive. Get someone to haul him out.
Leo parked in the alleyway garage behind their house and threw a tarp over the car. Thankfully, no windows on the garage’s overhead door. A minute later, the two small windows facing the house were covered with shovels and drop cloths. Is the checkpoint cop spreading his info? Nobody’s here, so not yet. But if word is seeping down about the tunnel, hopefully the cop is afraid to admit he thought actual pizza was headed for the Major’s house. No need to wait and find out. Still in the garage, Leo called the number.
“Hello?” Not a voice that ever called in with orders.
“Tony Pascal.”
A muffled, unknown fast-talk in the background. “Who’s this?”
“He gave me this number.”
“Name.”
“You already have it”
“Name.”
Fine, no time. “Leo.”
“Mother’s last name?”
Before or after her father changed it at the suggestion of a friend named Smith? Mom had always preferred the original. Leo said the six-syllable Italian surname.
Two knocks of knuckles on a table. “24-hour 24-Karat Gym. The next steps are in locker 513. Read them exactly one hour from now.” Click, the line went dead.
Next steps—toward what? They need to get Dad now. Leo dialed back. But the number only rang until on the third dial a recording said the line had been disconnected.
Now: 2:37 a.m. Buzzing far beyond the night’s chain of coffee. The gym’s straight down the hill, barely above the Easton flood, an easy walk on the alleys. Better than hanging out here. Leo leaned against the workbench. Mom gone. Dad—gone? And now the house is sunk. Not like the rest, but by the drive and the drop-off and the fight and the shots and the search that’s already searching— 24-Karat Gym. Hide from any approaching headlights in miniature yards and behind garages. Don’t go empty-handed.
Leo sped into the house through the back door, down the deep carpet to his basement crash-pad. Grabbed a backpack. Just an overnight, find a new place. He tossed in the Dopp kit, socks. What else? He checked under the sink, added the plastic-wrapped first aid kit Mom had given him to keep in the car. Back upstairs to the kitchen. Dad had a knife in the tunnel. Leo checked the holder. Bread? Almost flimsy. Chef’s? A beast, too much. He pulled open a drawer. The pizza cutter—a rolling round blade for quick work, a thumb-guard to grip. He wrapped it in a hand towel and and packed it. Last, he slid a fridge magnet to the bottom of the bag. Mom and Dad on the diving Splash Mountain log, Leo the only child ahead of them, alone in the front seat, half-screaming at the fall, half-safe with their hands on his shoulders. Maybe too on-point for right now. Maybe not—switched seats.
Before Leo left for the gym, he hit the bathroom. Who knows how long this meeting will go?
At this hour, the gym used to be full of third-shift workers on their day off. Not anymore. The one employee left wasn’t even at the check-in desk. Leo slipped into the locker room.
Locker 513 had a hanging-open combo lock and paint marker tags. Eventually decipherable: Maintenance door, back of room. Ok—talk to the guy. Leo wove past the lockers, the empty urinals, the shower spot, to a push-bar door with a sign. Maintenance. Still nobody. He checked behind him, nothing. He pushed the door. No alley—just a fluorescent light and bags of laundry. Then a fat hand grabbed him by the backpack, pulled him in, dropped him onto a clothes pile. Above, two men in winter masks. Leo pushed back, but the door was already closed. An engine fired up. One watched him, hand ready on the gun, while the other locked the back doors. The truck rolled away from the gym.
The cutter—still in the bag on Leo’s back. But no need, the two sat on the laundry beside him, not fighting, not worried, watching his hands, now grabbing his upper arms, one on each side, seat belts as much as captors.
“Breathe,” one said, holding the wall with his other hand. “You’re the delivery.”
As planned? Or did they already bag up whoever was on that phone call? Leo didn’t say anything back. Instead he tracked the turns and up and down of the road.
They drove west, thirty minutes, toward the warehouses that grew after the steel factory closed. Then the truck stopped, backed up, and its doors opened. Another loading dock. Leo was led through an empty warehouse, out through the front office, and into an Escalade. Two new musclenecks pushed him to the floor but didn’t force a face-down.
“In case a fugitive scanner penetrates our bulletproof glass,” one said.
Feds wouldn’t say that—
The Escalade turned back east but didn’t go far. It rolled under the neon gate of Air Gadget Pneumatics. Now Leo was pulled up to the middle seat. The Escalade rolled past concrete and glass buildings, each with a nearly empty lot, all the way back to Building 8. It towered over its own lot filled only with fallen leaves.
In through the middle of five double doors with security gripping his arms. And despite the empty lot, a full security crew inside. At a metal detector, the guards took off his bag and pushed him through.
Someone pulled his wallet, inspected the licenses. “Leo Pascal. And Anthony Pascal.” They shoved the wallet back in his pocket. “Face scan.” And then, “We’re good.” His gym bag was scanned, checked, and locked in a lobby locker. Security hiked Leo up to floor six, then down right-angle hallways lit by a quarter of their bulbs to a conference room. Five office workers awake and caffeinating at the table—three twenty-somethings, at most two or three years older than Leo, but dressed as if fresh from a fancy college. An older, button-vested squinter at the head of the table, already taking notes.
“We’re sorry for your loss,” Vest said. “He was a tremendous asset.”
Air Gadget. Everyone says it’s the best place to work. Probably was, until the story went around that the dam was their best customer, then their only customer, then the customer that dropped them.
“He’s still here,” Leo said.
“In time,” Vest said. “Please.”
Security pulled out the chair behind a pint glass of water. Leo sat.
“We’re seeking confirmation of a few details.” Vest nodded and released the analysts.
“What did you see when you exited the tunnel?”
Be specific. “At the dam?” Leo said. The analyst nodded. “Saw a bathroom.”
“Big? Small?”
“Big—but small. One person, private. Fancy. It was probably the dam’s big boss.”
“Why didn’t you trigger the bomb?”
No trigger. It was a drop-off, guessing a timer. “We were making the delivery, but things went—messy. We were in cleanup mode and—”
Vest raised a finger. “You did not trigger the bomb because self-explosion is against our principles. Free Agency is not as dirty as those who try to sink us.”
Not as dirty. But still dirty? That can’t be the pitch Dad signed up for. “My dad never mentioned you once.”
“And you work with him?” an analyst said. “At the pizza parlor?”
“At our shop. His shop.”
“Tony’s Pizzeria.” Another said. Leo nodded. “Did you hear the bomb explode on your way out?”
“Only gunshots.” Leo pointed at the heavy bandage he’d put over the bullet-scratch in the house’s upstairs bathroom.
“An attractive diploma,” Vest said. “What’s your plan now that he’s—let’s assume—captured?”
The question that’s been tumbling. What to do next? Where to go? The car stashed. The house ditched. The road back to pies and delivery goes through Dad’s rescue. These four are stuffed in suits, but they must have a hands-on team. That transport crew. The dam has Dad. Only here because of Dad’s fight in the bathroom. Here—Vest called it Free Agency. The best place to work. They still have enough to cover the rescue? Or is sending another bomb bag their only concern? There must be dozens of laid-off machinists ready to spin up. But rescuing Dad is a driver-grab, on the move, the opposite of a shop job.
“I’ll do the pickup,” Leo said. “I’ll get him.” Silence. They need more. “And on the way out, I’ll push whatever button you want.”
The analysts laughed. “Push a button.” “Push it real good.”
They wiped their eyes, hand-combed hair off their foreheads, but Vest—he got it. “We can explore a partnership.”
Over the next eight hours, Leo took tests and interviews and physical exams. Halfway through, a five-minute break in a tiny room without a toilet. Maybe he could have asked to go. Or maybe they wanted to fill him up for this last part of the evaluation—a drug test.
Leo now sat on the edge of a chair in a carpeted medical waiting room, toes tapping. Dad must have passed it, so medical marijuana should be fine. No prescription, but no need to worry. They look for things that would make you change sides for a quick hit.
As for Leo, he occasionally filled a cup at the doctor’s office. Maybe at every other annual physical. The nurse would give him the plastic, and he’d lock himself in the bathroom. Alone. That was a routine collection, not a test. Never been officially tested. Not for a job, not by police, not as a tryout. Why were these intrusions allowed? He always told himself to avoid these tests on principal. But there was also a wave of fear. Occasional late-night browsing had led Leo to descriptions of federal testing—for the Army, the CIA, even the Forest Service. They followed an identical pattern. Somebody actually stands there and—
“Pascal? Leo?” a guy called from the door beside the desk.
Leo was the only one in the waiting room.
The nurse led him down a grid of curtained exam areas to a pair of bathrooms, then stopped in the hall for paperwork. Both doors open, waiting. One toilet in each. They look about the same. Finally. Eight hours might be a record.
“They said drug test,” Leo said. “So—number one?”
The nurse didn’t look up from his labeling of a plastic cup. “We’ll go over the procedure in a minute.”
Leo surveyed the hall again. Eight curtained rooms, four per side, two toilets at the end. One seat in each. An emergency pull-string next to each seat. Is that the I’m done signal?
Snap, snap—the nurse put the clipboard in his armpit and pulled on latex gloves. “This is a simple yet comprehensive drug test based on immediate observation. Follow me.”
Wait, what? But the goosebumps didn’t lock his feet, and Leo followed into Room 1. The nurse shut the door. “Please drop your pants below your knees, raise your shirt above your belly button.” The nurse uncapped the cup, placed it on the top of the toilet, then stood beside it, a referee, waiting, judging. “Fill it to the black line and then place it on the back of the toilet. I’ll take it and cap it. You can finish your bathroom needs then or after I leave the room.”
Now? Far from Dad’s non-existent pizza shop interview. Far from the other jobs he’d held for a few weeks each—valet parking, car parts delivery, grocery stocker. And not just far from, but opposite the annual physical.
“Please drop your pants and raise your shirt.”
OK—Leo opened his clothes. Cold. He began to pivot.
“Face forward, please.”
He was full, ready to go, but numb, cemented to the core. He waited—what else to do?
“In the cup, please,” the nurse said.
Leo pushed now, straining his pulled muscles, and thought of waterfalls, beer taps, the Delaware—the old flowing Delaware. He squeaked out a squirt, a spray of drops, five or six. And then, a long breath out—nothing doing. “Can we do a hair test? What about saliva?”
The nurse was already writing on the clipboard. “Protocol requires you to provide a urine sample.”
“How about a blood test?” His urge flowed backwards, pushing his guts, feeling like a hangover stomach. “I guess I don’t have to go right now.”
The nurse paused on his way out with the empty cup. “Finish on your own in here, if you want. We’ll be waiting for you up front.” He closed the door behind him.
Leo locked it shut, thankfully, and flipped open both of the sink’s taps. He raised his hand to smack the wall, but instead palmed it, leaned forward, exhausted, pressed his forehead against his knuckles. Only then did he release everything, shaking in disbelief.
The close-out meeting was Vest and his guards, waiting in a room off the lobby. “Unfortunately, due to the failure of the drug test, we will have no need for your services.”
“But my dad—I’m the one to—”
“It’s difficult for both of us.”
“I asked him not to watch.”
“It can be very, very difficult—”
“You’re sending bombs. What bomb group has ever tested?”
“We’re a resistance group, a well-organized, well-funded, procedurally governed group committed to peace and—”
“You’re writing off my dad.”
“We may reach out for occasional freelance help, but until then, we suggest you keep our presence a secret.” The two security guards patted their under-jacket guns. “We’ll give you a ride home now.”
“He did your work. Who’s getting him out?”
Vest rose and turned for the room’s back door.
“You’re no different than the feds.”
The security guards took Leo by the arms. One picked up his bag in the lobby. The other pulled him into the Escalade waiting out front. “Back on the floor,” the bagholder said, climbing in behind him.
“Allentown, Turner and 14th,” Leo said.
“Closer than Easton,” the driver said. “I can do that.”
Leo slid out at the corner and waited until the Escalade disappeared. Nearly noon. He walked north and turned right into the first alley, then up to the lot of the rowhouse he used to rent from Dad. Some months a couple hundred, some months free. Now back on the market at almost that cheap. High enough on a cemetery hill that it’s obvious it won’t flood, but avoided all the same. It’s already cleared out inside, nothing to grab. Just need to stop at the garage.
Inside, Leo threw a few more not-sure-how-long items in his pack. He spent a timer-tracked sixty minutes inspecting engine, brakes, fluids, chain, and tires. Then he rolled Dad’s old dirtbike outside, locked the garage, and fired it up.
From urban Allentown north to dark and empty roads as fast as possible. North before wading across the Lehigh River on Catasauqua’s bridge, new but already a foot underwater. Then around the curves until the high woods north of Easton, and through six inches of reservoir at the turn to Rock’s cabin. Rock the longtime customer and, since every dispensary became illegal a month ago, the new cannabis pharmacy for Dad.
Leo was halfway down the driveway’s woods when Rock stepped out from behind the cabin, rifle aimed.
Leo stopped the bike and raised his hands. “It’s me—Leo—”
Rock kept the rifle steady. “I didn’t order anything.”
“Need to talk.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“My new house.”
“Toss it over.” What else to do? Leo underhanded it toward Rock, who advanced and took a peek inside.
“No guarantee I’ll do the same, but I can listen,” Rock said. “Come on.”
Keep it to business, in and out. Don’t say too much, don’t give him something to worry over. Don’t force a decision on him. In the quick walk to Rock’s back deck, into the cabin, and onto one of the La-Z-Boys surrounded by mounted guns, Leo found his boundary. “I’m looking for something to stay safe. Maybe one of these toys you have.” He pointed to the wall.
“Ah—” Rock rubbed his hands, seemingly not surprised. He took the pistol from the holster under his armpit and laid it on the coffee table. “A gun isn’t safe. Isn’t danger. Not a friend, not an enemy. A tool. It’s up to you how things play out.”
Leo nodded.
“That’s what fools say, at least. A dramatic percentage is up to you—not a hundred, of course, but more than zero. I’d say well more than fifty. A plump, heaping percentage is up to you.”
Leo scrunched. Keep up with Rock—the usual for a late-night conversation by the living room’s crackling wood stove. Guns watched from every wall, only ceding space for the flatscreen and surround speakers. And two diplomas: Lafayette College, Bachelor of Science. Twenty years ago a few miles south. Then four years later, University of Pennsylvania, Juris Doctor. Lawyer. But a duct tape X spanned the frame—former lawyer.
“Any gun transaction between us will be illegal, we know this, nothing to discuss.” Rock swigged his wine. “Moving on, should I sell it to you? Are you knowledgeable? Trained? Are you a worthy adversary? Boy Scouts—for a few months, at least? A decent foundation but plenty of other routes. Any trips to the range? Hunting—dad, mom, aunt, uncle? Video games. Doom? Duke Nukem? Duck Hunter?”
“I’m good with machines,” Leo said.
“The ones that use explosive energy to launch a projectile?”
Much, much more—the tunnel. “I’ve messed with firecrackers. Cherry bombs. You know.”
“Good, good, crossover learning. If we do this, you need to start online video training ASAP. Scratch that, they’ll see you, put you on a list. I’ll dig up a manual. But now, tell me—why do you need a gun? What will it do for you?”
“We—we don’t know where things are headed—”
“That, I’m afraid, is always true. Here, I’ll guess. The dam is putting Tony’s Toe-Tip of Italy out of business. This loss of business either, one, sends you into cash-hungry neighborhoods due to, a, delivery area expansion, or, b, price reduction. Or both. Or, two, this is due to a group situation, let’s say the Easton metro area, in which upstream businesses are failing, and people don’t have enough money to order pizza. They might even suspect you of holding cash dollar dough and want to drop by for nine-millimeter pickup. To which I would say”—Rock lifted his revolver from the coffee table—“Ruger Blackhawk.”
Sure. “You explained it better than I can.”
“But there’s more. What else.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“Leo—I might be in the woods here, but it doesn’t mean I don’t talk to anyone. Attorney-client privilege. I won’t disseminate.”
“I’m good.”
“Good indeed. No privilege since disbarment. The motorbike—why? Where’s the wagon?”
True, where is it? Did they find it already, search it, fingerprint it? “Subaru’s at home, it’s all good. I’m keeping the bike in shape. You know. In case we lose more roads.”
“You need to be able to move. Wheels beneath you, pistol up top to clear the route. You don’t need a truck or a big trunk. One extra seat is all you need to carry the delivery.” Rock paused, sat up. “But you said we—your dad—his prescription. How is he?”
“He’s fine. Fine. Tired. So what are the options here?”
Rock leaned back, drank the wine. “My cabin, my questions, thank you very much. An intelligent guest provides intelligence.” Rock took a second swig, double-size. “All the new dam police in this town.” He jumped up, crossed to the wall above Leo, inspected guns from nose-length away. “First the force at the farmers’ market. Then they replaced the parking patrol. Then in the grocery stores, the hardware store, the copy shop, then at the Polish deli, in the goddamn jazz club. Always chase the root. Why are dam police deep into jazz? Watching the finger-snappers. Why? Snappers are open to equality and therefore oppose the dam. Why? The dam is here to snuff our threatening urban core. Pre-emptively assassinate every last Easton Assassin. Nota bene: the Larry Holmes statue is gone. No more E. Pluribus Unum. Just a flood, up, up, up—” Rock collapsed back on his La-Z-Boy. “I can barely afford bullets, let alone whatever will take out the dam.”
Now Leo grabbed his chair’s black leather armrests and leaned in. “Rock, you sell.”
“You saw the big orange bucket last time. And it’s only the bucket. No soil, no garden, no plants, no buds, no cash—”
“But plenty of space. Grow up here.”
“And move my bed where? Not sharing the land, no thank you.”
“Maybe inside. Through the winter, then—”
“My point exactly. Indoors is a no-go, and that means the earliest possible revenue is next summer.” Now Rock crossed the room to the photograph framed above his kitchen window. Fishing with his toddler daughter. “Hello, little owl. We’ll think of something.”
Leo stayed silent, waited until Rock came back and sat down. Think of something—or order something? Who can offer something? Not Free Agency. And if Dad paired up with them despite their corporate snooping, they’re the only option for a partner. Have to go rogue. “She lives with her mom?”
Rock refilled his glass. “No plants, no sales, no cash, no health insurance, no doctor visits, no care—and maybe soon, who knows? Her hospital is my mother the nurse, her mom is in Reno, Seattle, who knows, and I’m still here without an answer. But what can I do? A gun won’t take out the dam.” He aimed outside, Leo scrambled to the corner for cover, and Rock shot through the open patio door, shattering a beer bottle on the picnic table.
“Rock,” Leo said, shaking. “You want that thing gone? My dad has connections.”
“Hold on, now.” Rock shook his head. “You said cherry. Define, please.”
“Three-pizza bomb. Fills the delivery bag.”
“Tasty,” Rock said, “but I dare say far too small for the job.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. “
“Big, it needs to be big. Too big for a motorcycle or car. And the Ryder truck is too obvious.”
“It can be small if there’s precision,” Leo said. “Think of the spark plug. Just the right spot. An end-zone pass, a mini-submarine…”
“So your dad has it, but how do I get it? Get it to be used, that is. Trade him seeds, soil, the entire kit?”
Rock’s going there. Shit. Leo got up and paced.
“How late is he sleeping?” Rock said. “Put your bike in the back, I’ll drive us down.”
Leo stopped in front of the picture of Rock’s daughter. “You told me yours, so here’s mine: The feds killed my mom.”
Rock jerked his recliner’s lever, shot to his bare feet. “Holy what now? You have a case?”
Give him the old version for now. “The dam’s flood. It took out her Tahoe in totally normal rain.”
“Obvious responsibility.” Rock drank. “So Tony’s bringing them the big bag. He’s already got a bag of red-haired sticky stress-protection. Now he needs a pistol. Or you do, maybe you’re along for the ride. Fair enough. Let’s find the right tools.” From the kitchen cabinet, Rock pulled out a drone crammed in a five-gallon bucket that usually held buds. “Haven’t seen aerial delivery on your menu like the big shops.” Leo shook his head—true. “I crashed mine two weeks after I bought it. It’s not as easy as you think. But the one who sent this last night, she might meet our delivery request.”
Leo spotted a bullet hole through the propeller. “That was you?”
“We’ll call it a trade. Trust me, she’s vital—when she’s willing to talk. She’s all computer. How we talk changes every day. A text, then no text, only calls, then a new number, then smoke signals, then little fortune notes under a rock. Just to supply her with a pound of flowers from time to time. She said she sells it online—”
“Nobody sells it online anymore.”
“I suspect a pound is her bait. She hates this dam as much as the next, and it’s ten-to-one odds she’s at least half-flooded. But I doubt whatever she’s planning is as straightforward as our delivery.”
“Our—?”
“Think honeypot. Digital, not romantic. This is all a guess—she refuses to talk about whatever she’s up to. But let’s see what happens when we ask her to become the supplier of transportation—” Rock grabbed his phone and dialed.
“Hold on—”
He waved Leo off. “Yes, me—I know—I know—it was me—I know—they’re not here—I got it, I got it! Let me bring it back. Are you up here now? You can tell me—Well, now that you ask, it’s me and a client of mine with a dam complaint of his own—No, he prefers to stay anonymous—OK, OK, fine, one second—” Rock put his phone on speaker.
“Excuse me,” the voice on the line said. “Who else is in the room?”
“I’m here,” Leo said.
“This is my private network,” she said. “Can you please share your name?”
“Leo…”
“I see. Mr. Leo, are you a pizza delivery driver?”
“I am.”
“And can you please confirm he shot down my drone.? Yes or no only, please.”
“Yes?”
“Not that simple—” Rock said.
“I already have audio-video, and you already know this.”
“We’re looking for a drone of our own,” Rock said. “Purchase, not rental.”
“You already have one in need of repair.”
“This would be something new. Fresh. Functional.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “Leo requested it.”
Sounds about right. Leo shrugged his shoulders to Rock. Maybe she knows what they really mean.
“Indeed,” Rock said. “For pizza delivery. I’ll make a small profit if he can get it. I need somewhere new to invest, as you know—”
Now Leo raised his hands. Hold up, keep it basic—
“I will be extremely surprised if that’s true,” she said. “Though he makes terrific pizza.”
“No, really,” Rock said. “His dad is—”
“Hush up, now, everyone. We’ll talk when you return the remains of the drone you shot. Both of you. Ready for the address?”
She knows routes. Leo grabbed a pen and napkin on the table. “Ready.”
“Drive up to Thorpe tomorrow at eight a.m. Park on Spruce Avenue. Wear big hats when you cross the Lehigh Gorge trail bridge into the state park. Cameras. North to the trailhead, then northwest at 315 degrees into the State Game Lands. You’ll know where to stop.” She hung up.
Leo jutted awake to Rock’s knuckles on a glass window.
“7:35,” Rock said. “Already guaranteed lateness.”
Leo sat up on the couch, surrounded by the stink of Rock’s coffee table, but otherwise without issues. Though he could have used another eight hours of sleep to make up for the time at Free Agency. He rolled into the bathroom, turned on the sink, splashed his face awake, and left the water running for cover as he peed. He washed his hands and brushed with the mini-brush he’d packed. Rock hadn’t set him up with a gun yet. Maybe that’s better. Rock already wore a pistol under one arm, ammo under the other. A pearl and silver blaster.
Heading up to the Game Lands. Away from the dam, but closer to getting Dad out. The woman on the phone sounded like she might have more to offer than drones. But what’s the cost? Ride up with Rock, get the introduction, see where it goes. See how Rock lectures when he’s away from his cabin. See if she picks up on Dad’s capture.
Out to the driveway. Rock loaded the black-bagged drone into the bed of his pickup and turned to Leo. “Pizza delivery professional, do you pledge to ride shotgun without any comments?”
“I do not.” Leo climbed into the bed of the truck. “Have some blankets to wrap up in?”
“Relax,” Rock said. “There won’t be any checkpoints, especially at this hour.”
“Makes me feel better, keeps us low-key. Too many cameras.”
“Whatever works.” Rock tossed Leo a wool pair, then tucked the drone bag into the footwell of the passenger seat. “But when we get up there, I expect you to explain why you need to hide your face. Now grip the hooks at the base of the cab wall.”
Half an hour later, Leo felt the engine cut, the e-brake set, and Rock hop out.
“There you go, no checkpoints. Hop up before any of these neighbors catch a peek.”
True—they’d parked in the hilltop residential grid of Thorpe, an otherwise mountain-basecamp city. Leo grabbed his bag and set off for the Glen Onoko trailhead. Rock grabbed the drone’s trash bag and caught up a few seconds later.
They hiked forty-five minutes up the towpath beside the Lehigh River’s canal. Finally, Leo said, “315 degrees?” No response. He turned around. Rock was a couple hundred yards behind. Should have slowed down—best to follow and not lose him. Leo waited. “Just aim northwest?”
“Easy, easy.” Rock dropped his bag next to Leo’s and stretched his shoulders. “Precision waits for those who seek it.” He pulled out a compass with a gold Silva logo, twisted the housing, then turned and put the needle in north. He pointed. “Thataway.”
Leo started walking. “Boy Scouts for you?”
Rock glanced back down the Glen Onoko parking area. “This is courtesy of the glovebox of the white Accord. Did you see its bumper sticker? Payne Creek. Not long ago three men associated with Payne Creek came to my cabin, looking to buy firearms from my collection. All hats and shirts and patches, praising the dam, saying they’re ready to scoop cement to make it double the Hoover. Which obviously wouldn’t work without building higher summits east and west of the Delaware. I told them I’m out of business.”
“So whoever’s here with that car probably has a gun?” Leo checked the lot, the trailhead. Nobody there except a bus driver in a chrome-sleek rock band hauler. The driver blew a cloud of smoke to hide his face, then shut the window beside his seat.
“Not one of mine, at least. Payne Creek is a bunch of stained-beak dictator-butt-kissing suckers.”
“Cameras, Rock. Did you break a window? There’s probably a camera on every streetlight.”
“Nothing caught your attention. They’re likely up here taking a hike, painting their support on the dividing walls of the pit toilet. Now keep your hat down. Here we go.” Rock followed the directional arrow straight into the woods, away from the other trails leaving the trailhead. Soon it was an uphill route, roughly parallel to the angry waterfalls descending not far to the east.
“Finally high enough for no reservoir,” Leo said. “Everyone’s racing uphill.”
“There—” Rock said, pointing to a Post-it tied to the base of a tree ahead. “Documentation.”
Leo grabbed it and pocketed its brown strings. “275. I’m watching.”
Rock twisted the compass housing again, spun a tad left, and led the way. Behind him, Leo searched the brown but not yet leafless trees for cameras. None found. They hiked another twenty minutes up-mountain.
And then from behind them— “Drop the bags, hands up, step away.”
Leo did as told. The same voice as last night’s call. She repeated her command, and now Rock followed it. The big tree—she must have pivoted smoothly around the trunk and sprang from behind. And she could be armed as heavily as Rock under her button-up sweater.
“A formality,” she said, scanning them with a detector. “The pearl, Rock?” She searched Leo’s bag, then inspected the drone in Rock’s trash sack. “Beyond repair.”
Rock dropped his hands, so Leo followed. “But the camera’s perfectly fine,” Rock said. “And we transported it back, so we’re even.”
“I have plenty of cameras,” she said. “Fewer drones.”
“We didn’t have a pickup scheduled.”
“You did what you did.” She turned to Leo. “And you must be Leo. Any word from Tony today?”
Dad’s name wasn’t on last night’s call. “Who’s Tony?” Leo said.
“I’m more than a pizza customer, Leo. How’s your dad?”
Maybe, but a new face. No in-person pickup, no dine-in. Not even a familiar voice from the delivery line. Best to give the same story Rock got. “He’s waking up now.”
“I know he’s in great shape. He built an entire tunnel. But sleepy? I don’t know.”
Built it? Rolled down it, yes, and then it all went to— But built it?
“One moment please,” Rock said. “May I ask who’s asking this question?”
She continued. “I’m not surprised Free Agency struggles.”
“Hold up now,” Rock said. “Please define free agency. Free from—?”
That mention matches up with being more than a customer. “They wasted my day yesterday,” Leo said to her.
“But—” Rock continued to try to filter his confusion. “Go back—”
“They aim to do well,” she said, “and they certainly have good funding, but they can’t shake off corporate rigidity.” Leo nodded—damn the drug test. She snapped the camera from the drone and rolled it in her hands. “The tunnel mess.”
Rock stepped in again. “Have you been observing my client? Who are you sharing this with?”
“Rock, please,” she said. “Everyone’s everyone’s client. Leo was out for a late delivery and entered my sphere of observation. Things would have been much worse without him. So as I asked—Leo, have you heard from your dad?”
Deep inhale. “No.”
“Leo—” Rock said, clicking it together, “I respect last night’s edited story. But what is this—you already rigged the pizza bomb? Or you tried to, but didn’t, some old mining tunnel caved in? Or maybe not—so where’s Tony? In hiding? Alive?”
Leo looked at her wrapped in dark wool, no name yet but already trustworthy. Silently with eyebrows Leo asked OK to explain?
She spoke first. “Tony will be out of the dam soon.”
Despite her solid nod, Leo felt his gut pull away from her promise. Best to be the driver. Even if it means an improvised route, with Rock or—better—alone.
“Out?” Rock said. “Of the dam? Of course, the delivery. You—”
“Got away,” Leo said. “For now.”
“Tony—” Rock leaned back against a tree and swiped his hair with both hands. “I’m fine with a drop off. A quick shot. But the planning alone for a rescue from a government lockup could take six months, at best.”
“I’ll handle the planning,” she said.
“To be determined. Before we discuss this further—”
Cutting off Rock, she reached out and shook Leo’s hand. “Beryl.”
“Leo.”
“We’re in this together,” Beryl said.
Rock stepped back. “Simply saying something doesn’t make it true. Now Beryl, my wholesale customer who’s said more in ten minutes than over our entire year of buying and selling, please tell me. Why—why are we in this together?”
Beryl nodded. “That’s fair. My ranch house next to the river. Leo, you’ve delivered to the front porch’s metal box. Video camera in the eye of the thunderbird sculpture—”
“I know the spot.”
“Gone. Everything I had in there. Gone.”
“What constitutes everything?” Rock said, reheating his cross-examination. “Even if you lost the walls and the roof, the photos, old journals, and art, you’re still here, none the worse for wear. You keep going, you reset, you carry on. A riverside house isn’t enough. So again please—the true reason.”
Leo stepped in. “I’ll go first. I haven’t said it yet. My dad is locked in the dam.” And that’s enough to say for now, best not flashback to Mom.
“Thank you, Leo,” Rock said. “Significant. His father is locked in the dam. Now a slightly more detailed repetition of what I told Leo last night—my daughter Sasha has been assailed by healthcare. She can’t continue treatment for her neuroblastoma—her cancer—without my income and assets. Both of which the dam sank. And it’s a race to make sure she doesn’t sink now too.” A neuroblasting cancer—Leo flinched.
Beryl twisted her boots in the fallen leaves. She had something to hide and a reason to hide it. Respect. Sometimes you can’t get it out even if you want to. Especially under an unexpected stare-down. Beryl breathed, calculating. “I’ll try. Rock, you know I’m not in the persuasion industry. Right now I can say this. And this is a lot, so before I say it, tell me again if you want to hear it. Because knowing it makes you a target. And my target, if you ever share it.”
Leo and Rock locked eyes, braced their jaws. No nod yes, no nod no.
“I think we both know how to hide things,” Leo said to Rock.
“Agree,” Rock said.
“Four years ago, the feds kicked me out. Everything I did—decades—is upended. Programs I wrote are being used for the opposite.”
“So why not—” but then Rock caught himself, held the advice.
“I’m—I can only say so much. For now. When things change, you’ll know more. And this is critical—I can only help if I’m leading. Which means you won’t know every reason I’m here. But I’m here—for you the same as for me.”
Leo nodded. Something else she needs to know. “They have my face already.”
“They have all of us. There are ways around.”
“Let’s try this.” Rock patted his pearl handgun. “Does your reason match my reason?”
Beryl turned to him, her face saying it wished it could say more. “Of course, Rock. I need to get someone, too.”
That’s it—get. Kill or rescue, family or foe, who knows. Leo and Rock checked in. Probably better not to know.
“When’s the meetup?” Leo said.
“Already done.” Beryl picked up the drone trash and headed northwest, higher up the mountain.
They reached a steep two-story drop-off with a thin mountain road below.
“Hold up here,” Beryl said.
Leo and Rock sat on the surrounding almost-boulders and inspected the road. Empty. Beryl went out of earshot, called someone, and hung up fast.
Leo walked in an expanding circle, exploring. Still no traffic. The mountain’s peak probably just north. No foot trails, no markers, no litter, no hunting stands. He saw Rock duck southeast and unzip for a tree. No need to go yet—probably almost at somewhere with a bathroom.
Leo went back to the rocks and sat with Beryl while Rock started his own exploratory loop. Beryl offered a handful of GORP, but Leo shook his head. “All set, thanks.”
“Fair enough. So while we have a second—everyone has a specialty. Driving?”
On the road below, an exhaust system rose, getting louder out of sight. “Somebody’s driving. Diesel.”
“Rock,” Beryl called, but Rock was out of sight. “Rock, get down.” She ducked behind a stone. “You too. Watch and wait. I’ll go find him.” She ran low, back into the woods.
The diesel got louder but smoother, a well-toned engine pushing something up the mountain. The flat front of a sparkly blue bus turned the road’s last bend. It rolled to a stop below. The same rock-star bus sitting in Glen Onoko’s lot a couple hours earlier—except for two new gold words on the passenger side. PAYNE CREEK. Busjacked? No pistol from Rock yet. Leo scooped up a fist-sized rock. He stared down at the waiting bus until Beryl passed him from behind.
“Once again,” she said, sliding down ten feet of dirt with the drone bag. She knocked on the passenger door. It sesamed open with a smooth release. She leaned in. “Cyro, good timing. But have you seen this yet?” The driver hopped down the stairs, turned, and cursed the paint job. Beryl waved our ride, and Leo and Rock followed her down to the bus.
“My fault,” Cyro said. “I was trying to rest, you know, a quick sleep before rolling back to—”
“It happens.” Beryl pulled on the bus’s luggage door.
Cyro unlocked it, put the drone bag inside, took out a box. A good selection of gear for a bus. Leo nodded.
“So what’s this?” Rock said. “Blend in at a rest stop? Roll through the checkpoint?”
“Graffiti,” Cyro said.
“Maybe, but entirely lacking artistic expression.”
Leo stepped in for a peek at the box’s maintenance and detailing gear.
“I’ll paint it over real fast,” Cyro said.
“You stay ready behind the wheel,” Beryl said. “Double-check our route. Leo, you’ve painted scratches?”
Cyro handed him the can and hopped in.
“Only this side?”
Rock checked around the bus. “Luckily.”
“Cover it quick,” Beryl said. “Rock, let’s get in. Leo, join us inside if you hear any traffic coming.”
Leo had covered the towering P-A-Y when a voice called to him from the street side of the bus.
“Hey, Payne Creek!”
He froze. Weren’t they watching up there?
A state park ranger rolled his mountain bike around the back of the bus. “Spotted you parked down in the lot earlier. How’s your mission going? What are you up to?”
Chatty. And with his vest camera, guaranteed to be sending every face back to headquarters.
“Working away,” Leo said, keeping turned toward the front tires. “Repainting on this nice day we’ve got.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” the ranger said. “Much respect. Come on, let’s do the handshake.”
Still nothing coming from inside, no noise, no knocks on the glass. “I’m a little—” Leo turned and faked a bumble of his brush, blindfolding the ranger’s camera with dark blue paint.
“Hey now!” With a thumb the ranger cleaned the lens.
“You got to forgive me. Been working so much—”
“Payne Creek, I’ll let you get back at it. Won’t distract, I’ll keep on rolling the roads.” He grabbed his water bottle and pointed at the bus’s door. “Mind topping me off?”
Finally an excuse for backup. “One sec.” Leo tapped the door. It cracked open, but instead of the team, only Rock’s hand emerged with a plastic water bottle. Leo gave both bottles to the ranger. “Now if you don’t mind—” Leo went back to painting, fast while the ranger watched, tracing over the letters as best he could, leaving a blue NE CREEK.
“Undercover mission.” The ranger swigged, scowling at the water bottle’s label. “So which headquarters are you out of?”
Um— “We’re Steel City. A corner of Bethlehem. I know, it’s pretty small.”
“But still I should see it in the newsletters.” He unclipped his pistol in the holster.
“Oh, we’re in there,” Leo said. “The clam cakes fundraiser—”
“Put your hands on the bus till I can straighten this out. There’s no faking membership in a militia.”
Leo spun in silence, did as told.
Beryl’s voice above, inside the bus. “Now!” The ranger looked up. An escape window popped out, dropped, and pinned the ranger to the ground, face-down. Leo jittered toward the door but froze, watching. Rock slid down the opening, sprawled on the plexiglass, and held the ranger down.
Cyro rushed out the door, pulled the ranger’s pistol from its holster, slid it away. He looked up to Beryl. She spun her fist into a thumbs-down.
“Keep tight,” Cyro said to Rock. “I got this.” He popped the bus’s middle luggage trunk and pulled out a crate. He slapped his hands into two dried bear paws and with Rock slid the plexiglass to the ranger’s shoulders. He opened the ranger’s windpipe with a four-claw sweep. Blood ran into the airway. There was no more need to press him down.
“Wipe the window, put it back up,” Cyro said.
Rock lifted it vertical, inspecting. How to get out of here— Shaking, Leo finally moved, found the clip-in points, and together they raised it. Beryl clipped it in. Leo swept the dirt with a towel and turned around—Cyro had slashed down the body like a bear attack. Now he cleaned the ranger’s pistol of prints and put it next to the shredded hand.
Beryl stepped out of the bus and patted Cyro on the back. She pulled the electronics and camera from the ranger’s body and put it in a black box. “Everyone in.” As Leo passed, she took his towel. Then she swiped away their footprints back to the door. She climbed in, Cyro hit the gas, and they blasted north over the summit.
Cyro merged the bus onto the nearest northbound interstate, reclining up front like a comfy passenger. After the slashing? And Rock and Beryl had gone along with it. And same here? Leo pressed his forehead against the bus window. He’d been there in the tunnel with gunshots, capture, and now the ranger, all before Beryl had explained it on their bus ride out of the woods. Not a murder, she said. A speedbump on the way to the dam.
After the first downhill turn, Cyro moved to the left lane and stayed there, gas pedal punished, up and down mountains. I-476 north to I-81 north above Scranton. They stayed on I-81 past Binghamton’s Route 12 exit where Leo’s dad would break slightly northeast into Central New York for camping trips. Stayed on I-81 north to Cortland, then rolled onto State Route 13 East. Into Central New York from 9 o’clock rather than 6.
“Lucky thirteen,” Beryl announced.
Cyro wove on Route 13, turning the heads of Holstein cows in Truxton, Cuyler, and DeRuyter, and then slowed to a four-way stop in Sheds. Turned right on State Route 80, curved downhill and south. “Zigzag time,” Cyro said. Left on State Route 26 North in Georgetown, right on Madison County’s Route 62 East, left on County Road 71 North, and finally right on potholed Geert Road, no number. Left into the Geert Road Quarry. Thirty-nine miles, but almost twice as many minutes for up-and-down, up-and-down between oncoming pickups and dairy farm drainage. Cyro parked, hiding the roughly painted passenger side from the quarry’s office.
“Leo, this is you and me,” Beryl said. “Professor and graduate student.” A minute of overview, and then they headed through the office’s bell-ringing door.
The man at the desk sat up from his microscope, his smile decades younger than his eyes. “Hello, hello! Almost late afternoon, but still time. Are you interested in the tour?” He pulled out two pamphlets and slid them across the counter.
“We can’t get enough of the perfect stone,” Beryl said, “but sorry, not today. I’m Dr. Venchant and this is my lead Paleobiology student Travis Triskitau. Hauling in from Pittsburgh’s Low Plateau Section here. Eban University. Got a grant to search for trace fossils in the Five Ponds Wilderness. Seems like the entire peer review board recommended stopping here on the way. To see you. For the explosives.”
The man laughed, blew up the air between his hands. “I would, I would—if I could. It’s all on the fritz. Sounds like it’s same at all the quarries. You might pop over to Canada, stock up at Carrière Dolostone Boileau, then bring it back in. But don’t get caught!” He popped eyebrows, rubbed his palms.
“Did you have to blow yours up?” Leo said.
“No, no, god forbid. We would have been cratered down to Norwich. No, instead a how-do-you-say, a federal government representative came by and hauled it out.”
Beryl drew a sharp breath. “They hauled out academic insights?”
“To them, every use is too close. They’ve got Niagara up here, the Rome Air Base, the Snowplow Camp—”
Beryl shook her head. “So who was this ‘representative?’”
“Something in between officers and militia, I’d say. The Girl Scouts from Bouckville.”
“Just north,” Leo said, map memorized on the way up.
“Precisely.”
“I’m happy to elevate this request to them,” Beryl said. “Where did you say?”
“I didn’t yet, but it’s easy. Right off the intersection of 12B and 20. By right I mean right there, left, not even a mile. Where the Volkswagen junkyard used to be. Maybe still is. Me, I’m Honda Civic all winter.”
“We can’t thank you enough,” Beryl said. “Our research will not be banned. Our actions might even help restore your property. Thank you again.” Bells rang again as Beryl pushed out the door. Leo grabbed the pamphlets, said thanks, and followed her to the bus.
Leo pointed out a side route. Cyro rolled through Eaton, up Route 26, and right on U.S. Highway 20, an ancient, east-west trail.
Cyro cranked a hard right into the car sales lot for Konstanz Garage and Scrap Yard across the road. He parked behind a full-size RV, nearly hidden. The garage’s signs were in place, its baby blue paint flaked deep from dozens of winters, and its door said closed. The folded patch-vest at the bottom of the office’s front window was the only sign of the Girl Scouts.
Beryl had explained their quarry conversation to Rock on the way up. Now she said, “I’ll go to the front and play new-in-town. I’ll discuss having my granddaughter join. You two get in the scrapyard, find where they’re hiding explosives, fill this bag, and meet back here. Our goal is ten minutes.”
“Hold on,” Rock said. “How did we go from buy-and-sell to burglary?”
“Same goal,” Beryl said. “It’s likely stockpiled out back in a trunk.”
“And if I had to guess, it’s underground in a drained tank, maybe an old well. Theft is not my area of expertise.”
“Me neither,” Leo said.
“You know cars. You can pick the trunk locks, right? If it were in a simple hideaway, they wouldn’t need such a big yard. They’re probably all full. Here we go—” Beryl crossed the street to the office, into its door unlocked despite the sign.
Leo and Rock walked west on Route 20 about a hundred yards, out of the office’s view. They crossed and came back, cut through a lawn to the scrapyard’s fence, and followed it away from the office, looking for a good spot. Finally, an apple tree peeked over the fence. They step-climbed up it, slid out the limb, and dropped into the back corner of the yard. Ten rows of Volkswagens and Audis at least, long parked and rolling with the hillside climbing to the three garage doors behind the office.
“Put the drain tanks aside,” Rock said. “Where are you stashing aftermarket bombs? Keeping each package subwoofer size?” He peeked into a Jetta’s trunk, empty, and the next four were locked.
“The bigger the better?” Leo said. He slid open the side door of a Westfalia van but found it empty too, no seats, no carpet. Rock lifted the hood of a Rabbit, and Leo peeked in. “Seventy-four horsepower at best.”
Rock silently let it down. “We have no way to search this property. What’s your estimate, a thousand cars?”
“One thousand, three hundred, and twenty-four,” a girl’s voice said. “Now hands up and don’t move.”
Four Girl Scouts stepped out from the rows on either side and trapped Leo and Rock in the sights of their semi-automatic rifles. “OK, slowly, we’re marching now.”
It was fast for the ranger, and now it’s fast here. Leo replayed the fence, the drop in the yard. Too obvious, too early. Not even a chance to find something, plan, negotiate. Up the scrapyard and through the center garage door and inside. No view to any front office, but a good chance Beryl got the same treatment.
“Sit here.”
Tied to office chairs with elaborate knots, backed up against a cinder block wall. Rock’s pearl pistol taken, checked, and stowed. Two scouts pressed from ten feet away with aimed barrels. The other two disappeared to the basement. Leo didn’t talk because Rock didn’t talk. Instead, he kept scanning the garage. No blood yet.
Three bays, each with a lift. Built with concrete, even the ceiling. Tools stocked on a bench along the wall opposite the garage doors. The right-side wall had a long horizontal window and then a door, probably both for the office, though the window was blocked with a set of dark brown blinds. Another door on the last bit of the wall, closest to the garage doors, maybe a mop bucket, maybe a toilet, probably both. The right-side garage door opened and a Ford E-350 rolled in. Its van bulge blocked the office window. The most federal vehicle seen on this property yet. All getting sent somewhere else. Out west. The Utah camps. The driver slid across, got out the passenger side, and with a steel clack disappeared.
A new scout with a braided halo came up the basement stairs. Stood arms crossed and waited for someone to speak.
Rock tried first. “We’re here for some cookies.”
Leo nodded. “Restocking the Thin Mints.”
“Do you smell any cookies?” they said.
“Cookies,” Rock said, “are what’s best for the country.”
“You think so? You should have come in the front and asked for me by name. Miss Mira. But instead, you snuck around the back. Are you federal?”
“Of course,” Leo jumped in. “Same as you.”
“—for my granddaughter, what is this?” Beryl’s voice from the office door behind the van. Another scout pushed her into the garage under the aim of a Walther pistol. Beryl saw the tie-ups and straightened.
“If you’re federal,” Mira said to Rock, “what do you have to say about this visitor, whose arrival was so conveniently timed.”
Beryl cut in. “We were instructed to use the word granddaughter.”
“Show us your badges on three,” Mira said. “You better have something.”
“OK, OK,” Beryl said. “You too. On three. But untie their hands, would you?”
Mira nodded. One gunner aimed through both Leo and Rock while the other gunner frisked them again. Leo and Rock’s feet stayed bound to their chairs.
“On three,” Beryl said again.
“One, two, three.” Mira said, and pulled from inside her vest a Federal Marshall badge. Beryl offered a shopper loyalty card, while Leo and Rock showed open palms. Leo spun his glance from Beryl to Rock to Beryl. What now? Their lie had been so obvious, they froze—until Mira shoved her federal badge in her back pocket. “A fake ID,” she said. “Glad you’re not here to take our cookies for the feds.”
“Because then we’d have to—” The Walther scout kissed the back of the barrel.
Beryl waved her hand. “Wait, wait a second now.” She seemed to expect a late-game arrest in response to a faked fake badge—a real one all along. “The owner of Geert Road Quarry said you’re fed. And he’s not faking the data.”
“Who?” Mira said.
“Southwest, under ten miles,” Leo said, pointing. Mira and her two gunners squinted toward the front office as if they could spot him through cinderblocks. Beryl rushed a sleek dropdown step and passed them, dipping into the gunners’ trench coat pockets, grabbing Rock’s pistol and another. She passed Silver Pearl to Rock, who locked Mira under the barrel, and pointed the other at the Walther. “Geert Road said fed. Are you feds or are you not?”
Mira raised her arms in surrender. “He’s no liar—he says what we tell him to. Whatever it takes to keep feds from stealing his own cookies.”
“Stealing them again,” Beryl said.
“No feds here,” Mira said. “And with the scanners they use, there’s no need to verify a fed with trick questions.” She slipped the badge in her vest.
“So you are and you aren’t—” Rock said.
“Sometimes our work requires multitasking. For the greater good.”
Beryl seemed to accept it. She lowered her gun, checked her watch. “On to price.”
“And our feet?” Rock said.
Finally. The two gunners dropped and released the cuffs.
“Follow me,” Mira said. She led them down the basement stairs.
“So are you looking for cookies, cookies, or cookies?” Mira said. Three wings of the basement opened left, right, and in front. To the left, floor to ceiling, ovens churned out Do-si-dos, Tagalongs, and Trefoils.
“Beats the big box cooking,” Leo said. Artistry in circles.
Ahead, a clear tarp hung for moisture. Beyond it, rows of hydroponic cannabis stretched out of sight. Maybe as far as the end of the scrap yard. On the walls beside the plants, teams clipped buds, weighed them, and filled glass jars.
“Top-dollar sales in tinted-window Brooklyn Buicks,” Rock said and licked the skunky air.
And to the right, behind a clear and foot-thick wall, two masked technicians filled clay-like explosives into plastic sheets of eight. Cheese blocks. Each eight-pack was rolled into a cylinder, slid into a tight carrying bag, and stowed in a single hole in the wall.
“Door number three,” Beryl said. The team followed Mira for an up-close view.
Mira turned and named the price. More than the Subaru would have cost new. Had Free Agency paid this much for Dad’s pizza bag? Or was it only a junky substitute? No, it must have been top-notch. Which is now analyzed and on the Pascal database profiles, along with the checkpoint photos and the tunnel delivery.
“It’s low four-digit for us, at best,” Beryl said.
“Please—that could be a sofa. One afternoon of selling normal cookies door-to-door.”
“Five-k. Our best offer. And we’ll need plenty of treats.”
“We’re fundraising. We can’t give it out.”
Beryl pulled a brick of cash from a hidden pocket in her sweater. “Five. You still have plenty to spike the price on.”
Mira scrunched her nose. “Convince me.”
“Urgent delivery. In both our interests.”
“What else did you bring on the bus?”
“Fine. One toy.” Beryl pulled the ranger’s connected camera and radio from her bag. “Plenty of value left.”
Mira pocketed it. “This is scrap, a penny a pound.”
“The Ford van,” Leo said. “Up in the garage. What does it need?”
Mira sighed and faced the bombproof glass, turned her radio to a new channel. “E-350 still?”
One of the two technicians faced the window and gave a thumbs up. Everyone needs to move something. “Fair enough.”
“Innovative offering,” Rock whispered to Leo.
Beryl patted his shoulder. “Might as well get on it.”
Leo went up to the garage with two scouts. He wrenched and greased until long after the November darkness. He was last to the bus where Beryl and Rock waited with six black cylinders packed in a cardboard box, tied down in the least-bumpy center of the cabin. Cyro fired up the engine. Beryl cracked a ginger ale and said, “Utica, finally.”
Bomb on board. Correction, the tunnel—second bomb on board. Is this the destiny of a driver? Leo had no fear, no worry. It’s going where it’s going. Has no more chance of explosion than a dozen atomic wings inside a knotted double-plastic bag.
Would he carry anything, is that the destination of a driver? No—here by choice. Would never deliver a dinner with MSG and would never help the feds. The fascist feds, at least. How did the country go against its own Liberty Bell and send a dictator to the White House, burnt and filled with a single ooze to punish anyone who doesn’t fall in line?
Along the dark road to Utica cows clumped for the night. It could snow any time in November. Leo had never camped this late in the year, but he’d shivered up here in June. Go out of the cabin, far from the fire, and pee—
Luckily Dad had kept the cabin hot. One room with a wood stove in the back middle. An attic keeping the ceiling low and the heat in. An outhouse a hundred yards away. Which would be welcome right now after three hours of wrenchwork, plus the scrapyard plus the quarry.
The Girl Scout garage’s bathroom hadn’t worked. It was all concrete blocks, with a missing square big as a foosball table over the door. Went in alone and locked it, but the lack of separation—they were drumming on the van’s panels, waiting right outside. They would have heard the piss hit the bowlwater. Or even the porcelain. But almost in Utica now. Topped out and dropping north toward the Mohawk River.
Leo squinted through the bus window. Utica below, with arguably a single skyscraper. But neon lights every now and then up here. Breakaway Inn. That’s the truth. In-Away-Break. In-Break-Away. Break-In-Away. Dad, hang in there a few more days. Maybe one day—details soon. But you’re getting picked up. Even got your cutter. We’ll give the dam boss a slice.
Halfway down the hill, Cyro turned right into a driveway. The city’s lights spun from the right-side window to the left, still far below. No neighbors, no cows, just a two and a half-story farmhouse as old as the houses in Easton. Leo spotted a couple barns farther back, shadows between the bus’s parking lights and the stars of the moonless night.
“From the cabin to the mansion,” Rock said. “Not bad.”
“We’re guests,” Beryl said.
Cyro let them out by the front door, each with their gear and a bag of bombs, and then rolled farther and slipped the bus in a barn. Beryl punched a door code and led them into the farmhouse.
“Wait here.” Beryl took the bomb bags down the central stairs to the basement, leaving Leo and Rock in the foyer. Unlike the hillside farmhouses Leo had delivered to, this one’s theme was aviation. Models hung from the ceiling in every corner. Antiques lined the walls—wooden propellers, vintage gauges—next to design drafts, manual schematics, framed certificates. Leo stepped back to study the black-and-white shining steel of a biplane. The artist was a pilot or a fashion photographer, maybe both. Rubber boots on the basement stairwell—
A man in grease-dirty clothes with safety goggles on his forehead stepped into the lobby, Beryl behind him. “Just you three?” he said. “Easy.”
Beryl stepped forward. “Dr. Owen, this is Rock Zawisza and Leo Pascal. Rock and Leo, this is my long-ago advisor Dr. Owen. Doctor, all of us say thank you for the bus.” Leo and Rock echoed Beryl’s thank you. She turned to them. “He’s letting us stay here a couple nights.”
“Nice crash pad,” Rock said.
“No crashes,” Dr. Owen said. “And no sweat. Why don’t you all take the first room upstairs on the left and rest some? Tomorrow morning, farmhouse time, we’ll go through what’s next. And call me Drony.”
“Thank you again, Drony,” Beryl said. “You two, follow me.” She headed up the central stairs.
“Thanks,” Leo said, passing Drony.
“Thank you, doctor,” Rock said. “I’ll more carefully choose my words. Your assistance is much appreciated.”
The next morning, Leo woke to the smell of scrambled eggs, onion, sausage, coffee, and a spiced concoction of vegetables rising from the kitchen. Beryl and Rock were both still asleep on their cots, but the nearness would wake them up any second. Leo slipped out of bed. Rather than go to the room’s built-in bathroom, he went to the large bathroom in the hall. He told himself he didn’t want to wake them up. But really, it allowed him to avoid one of them pulling on the barely locked door as he started his morning go, and stopping the pee inside him until his second visit after breakfast, an hour or more from now. All went well. He thanked the hall bath’s cornice molding. Back in the room, now without risk of intrusion, he said, “They’re serving breakfast.”
“It’s officially a farmhouse,” Rock said, stretching in his cot. Beryl rolled out and went straight to the room’s bathroom. Rock leaned and grabbed the TV remote, clicked it on without a look at the channel. “Get a little cover noise in here,” he said. Maybe the spot’s not so bad after all.
“Table boarding time,” Drony yelled up the stairs with a pan clang.
“Race you down there,” Leo said to Rock.
In the kitchen, Drony sat nearest the stove and ate from a greasy miniature mountain. Cyro sat beside him. Three spots waited with not only main and side plates, but notepads, pens, pencils, and highlighters. Enough space to deal with it all, too—must be an eight-person round. Leo held back his feast mode until Beryl and Rock came down, and then ate through two heaps built from each serving bowl on the table. Not just eggs and sausage, but waakye and haggis slabs and wursts. Leo rested after finishing the single fill of his coffee mug.
Drony rolled an empty, four-shelf cart to the table and filled it with their plates and bowls and pounds of silverware. Leo pushed his coffee toward the table’s center and picked up a pen.
Drony lowered a screen behind his seat and turned on an overhead projector. “Beryl, Rock, Leo—thank you for choosing to come to Utica, a center for actual learning. Any questions, raise your hand along the way. OK, yes, already—Rock?”
“Is the Mafia still a major presence here, their second headquarters as some say?”
“Of course not. Did your breakfast remind you of the Mafia?” No comment from Rock. “Precisely. So as you picked up from the courteous driving of Cyro here—thank you, Cyro—this is a go-north-to-go-south operation. You are now at the most northern point. Next, you will climb aboard a drone and fly south to the dam on the Delaware River. Yes, Rock—”
“How can a drone fit a person inside? My understanding is”—he stretched his arms out as far as they went—“and that’s it.”
“Let’s just say any aircraft can fly by remote control. We’re not the first to use drone piloting to reach the intended site. We can sacrifice the craft, or put it down somewhere hidden, or fly it to a small boat in the ocean. Any of that is much easier without a pilot on board. I know it sounds backward, but go with it. You’ll have plenty of space. No stacking one atop the other like bullets in a magazine, the way drone passengers used to be. So the drone gets you to the dam.” Drony clicked the slide to an up-close map. “Beryl?”
“Thank you, Drony,” she said. “We’ll fly in on a J-hook, south over Bethlehem and on track for Philadelphia, under the cover of delivery to the Ivy League hospital.”
“Deliver the sick,” Leo said. “Supreme.”
“Not the case,” Beryl said. “Our cover is delivery of weaponry, explosives, and tracking devices to fend off attacks on patients. Unfortunately, their largest department right now.”
“We’ll muddle the dam’s air observation—though there’s a good chance of satellite,” Drony said. “Best case, we send nearby feds rushing to Philly.”
Beryl continued. “But then, past the dam, we cut back north and approach it from the back.”
“We make a staged crash,” Drony said. “The only type of crash we make.”
“Leo, you and Rock hop out first and make a low opening here, on the southeast side of the dam. A few seconds later, I’ll jump for this entry on top. We’re going to practice all the details here. But simply put, you enter the dam’s on-site jail, open the doors, collect Leo’s dad, then proceed north internally through the dam’s gym, and rendezvous with me upstairs in a location to be confirmed on the flight. On the way up, plant your bombs in two separate, hidden spots, here and here, against the north upriver side of the dam. I’ll be roughly here, northeast, with mine already placed.”
“Are those offices in there?” Rock squinted at the map.
“A control section, correct. I’ll have a thumb drive and a satellite-connected camera—”
“And that’s all the tech we need to detail, right now,” Drony said.
Makes sense—get their info before you blow it up, send the command in when you’re ready to go.
“From there,” Beryl said, “below the riverbank, there’s a tunnel waiting for our escape.” Slide click. “Into this field in New Jersey and picked up by Cyro—”
“Concrete truck spinning—only on the outside,” Cyro said. “Plenty of room for five.”
“Four,” Beryl said.
“Four,” Drony confirmed. “With dozens of mixer trucks on the Jersey highway at any time, you’ll be good to go.”
Leo raised a hand. “So—when’s it blow up?”
“Of course,” Beryl said. “As soon as we’re out. We’ll have at least three buttons to finish it off. Us, Drony, and Tom Cavallo’s here in Utica as the ultimate backup.”
“The chicken riggies capital,” Leo said. “Are we going there?”
“No contact, understandably,” Drony said, “though maybe we’ll set up a feast afterward.”
“What exactly does our timeline look like?” Rock said. “I’ll need to memorize the map, and it’s been twenty years since my only jump in Queensland.”
“Two, maybe three days right now,” Drony said. “As always, depending on the weather. The craft will come in tonight, then it’s a day or two of inspection, maintenance, loading up. Best to head out just before midnight.”
Jump out of a plane for Dad. Jump number eight. The last seven were perfect adrenaline at Dirty Thousand in northern New Jersey. The best way to deal with any worries sloshing in the brain. Maybe got addicted after the first jump with Dad on his birthday—two years ago, senior year of high school, not the current mess. No more skydiving, fascist feds shut it down last June. Jump pilot, another level of delivery driver. Much respect, wailing a corkscrew spiral back to the airfield, faster than the parachutes floating down. Low opening will be new, but it’s needed for the drop-off.
That afternoon, Leo rested in a gazebo beside the barns. Drony and Beryl crossed the farm field, and Beryl knocked on the post. “What do you think about riding with Cyro tonight for a pickup?” Leo sat up from his headphone nap on the wooden bench. “With the bus? Or something else?”
“Flatbed,” Drony said.
“It’s a quick one,” Beryl said. “North of Utica.”
“Through downtown? Past Cavallo’s?”
“West of the city. Outside Rome Air Force Base.”
“But past a gate, or is this a—”
“I know it sounds fancy,” Drony said, “but trust me—I do it almost every month. It’s straightforward. We have a road you cruise down at twenty miles per hour, and whatever you’re picking up lands on the flatbed, and voila, you’re already on your way back.”
“I drive stick, but I’m not trained in a ten-gear full-size truck.”
“You don’t have to be. This is an old Penske loaner. Seven gears, no different than a five-speed.”
“It’s good to have a backup,” Beryl said.
Leo raised his hands. “I agree, but I don’t know every upstate road. With all due respect, Dr. Drony, it sounds like this is your rally leg.”
“Completely understandable,” Drony said. “Hell, I like driving the big wheel myself. It’s a schedule change, tonight won’t work. We’re lucky you’re here to go with him. Got to go north to go south, remember?”
Leo nodded, closed his eyes a flash longer than a blink. “Going north.” But where to hide? A cab like that only has two seats up front. “Nuts and bolts—how do I cover up, avoid the camera scan?”
“Your face?” Drony said. “Nothing to worry about. This isn’t Pennsylvania. Local cops aren’t doing checkpoints, let alone the state police.”
“There’s got to be something. What are we dodging out there?”
“Utica, Rome? Hell, I’d say fighter pilots in training are the only concern. And that’s taken care of plenty by our routine. You’re good, Leo. Ride up, get it, ride back. Done.”
No point hanging out in the gazebo. Leo went back to their shared room and prepped from the backpack Drony had helped him pack this morning. He swapped into the all-black gym suit, key for a low profile if you’re out and working on the truck. Speaking of which—headlight, Leatherman, mini first aid kid—best it can do is slow down bleeding—and, screw that park ranger, the polished pizza cutter. All of the gear fit into his black vest, not the type with army loops all over, but the travel type that strolls through any neighborhood. Big zip pockets hidden behind flaps.
Rock walked into the bedroom as Leo finished packing. “Has our departure time been bumped earlier?” He checked his watch.
“I got a drive to do first, with Cyro.”
“That escalates risk for all of us, but you especially.”
“I said the same thing.”
“Beryl?”
“Beryl and Drony.”
“What went wrong? All of these barn planes are in perfect condition.”
“Sure, for something else.”
“I figured they were all remote control. Drony drones.”
“Might be. But ours isn’t here yet.”
“Wait—what?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“You’re going out and flying it in? You can fly?”
“Nobody’s flying it—straightforward tow truck procedure.”
“And when’s the last time you saw a plane on a tow truck?”
He had a point. “Must be helicopter drone. Something not taking up both lanes, at least.”
“Both lanes and the trees on either side.”
“I’m riding shotgun. Backup driver.”
“Whatever you need to do. I appreciate it. Only advice? Memorize the map.”
The flatbed truck idled smooth and low outside the farmhouse’s front door. Leo popped out of the room when Beryl was halfway up the stairs to get him.
“Right on time.” Beryl turned and led the way down. They paused for Drony at the passenger side door.
“Cyro will give you the details. Up and back. Good luck.” They shook hands and Leo climbed into the cab.
“Party time!” Cyro said as they turned right out of their farm driveway onto Route 8 North. He turned up the radio, all synthetic keyboards and fretless bass. He sang, he danced, he lit his Dunhill cigarette. No lecture.
Leo wouldn’t touch the driver’s volume, so instead he yelled over the music. “Cyro! What’s our plan here? What do you need from me?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. We get up to the Air Force place, that secret runway road five miles out, and we hit it from the north and cruise down—”
“Twenty miles per hour?”
“Yeah, you’ve got it, cruise down, and the craft lands on our battleship bed, we click-lock it in, nice and low key, and ride back. No worries.” Lighter to the second cigarette.
“So I know—what’s the name of the ‘runway road’ you’re talking about?”
“I don’t know, nobody knows. I don’t think anyone put a sign on it. We’re coming up north, then left at the Stewart’s—”
There are dozens of those—
“—then ride till we get a couple peeks at the base ahead—”
“—heading west?”
“Yeah, up west through the trees, then take the left where the trees open up and they got pipes on either side.”
No drifting side to side, confirmed. “So no swerving onto the shoulder.”
“The sides? Hell no. No, no thank you.” Cyro checked the dashboard. “Already got enough gas.”
“You’ve done this a lot?”
“Two or three times. When Drony is out on some other thing, you know.”
“Just you?”
“Alone? Hell no, it’s a buddy system. But God—I pray God’s taking care of Edwin right now. Too damn early. In the federal hospital—with a death sentence? Seems like an oxymoron to me.” He blew a bucket of smoke. “But what do I know.”
They drove in silence up the north approach road. Ahead, Stewart’s Shop on the corner.
“You need something to eat?” Cyro turned left into the gas station’s entrance before the convenience store and pumps, and slow-rolled behind the back.
“I’m good,” Leo said. He leaned on his right palm to put a hand between his face and the uniformed crowds going in and out.
“Very well.” Cyro kept rolling, turned ninety degrees right at the back of the lot, around the store, and then made a left onto the westbound road leading to their improvised runway.
Leo looked back and studied the station. “It’s got a massive camera on top.”
“I know,” Cyro said. “That’s why we got to roll around back, stay off the radar as we make our little left.”
“It—but—it’s pointed backward.”
“Let’s hope wind didn’t get it.”
Let’s hope. “Where’s the next thing to dodge?”
Cyro lifted his hands from the wheel, the air base flashed through trees ahead. “Nothing. Lock and load.” He turned left on an unmarked road lined with gray pipes on grass on either side. Not straight pipes, but spaghetti with a twist and a flow meter and a hand wheel every ten yards. Behind the pipes on the left, oil tanks towered. Beyond, the forest they had looped around.
Cyro reached between the front seats and handed Leo a radar map, clicked on and blinking green. The truck’s speed was twenty, needle nailed between the digits. “See anything approaching on there?”
“I see five, six, seven—” Even more flights appearing every second. “What’s the number?”
“Don’t check the number,” Cyro said. “Look for a craft flying SSE toward the center.”
Cars. They’re just cars. “Here, got it, MBZ491D.”
Cyro grabbed the radar map. “Perfect, take the wheel—” He threw on the radar as a necklace and hopped out his driver’s door, hung onto handles, and swung around the cab to the flatbed.
Leo slid over and took the wheel, still at twenty miles per hour. “Cyro!” he yelled and pulled shut the driver’s door. Cyro knuckled the window behind the cab, and Leo reached back and slid it open.
“All good,” Cyro said, loosening chains. “Keep us nice and steady.” Cyro clipped the radar machine to the top of the cab’s back window and held tight on the two chains. A tunnel darkened over the truck. The belly of a four-rotor drone fell and whomped the bed.
Leo checked the mirrors—it stretched a couple of feet off either side. Cyro threw chains around its landing skids while the blades slowed. Next, he grouped the stopped blades of each rotor into a single knife, four into one. Then, from where the flatbed met the cab, he unrolled a thick gray tarp over the drone, pulling it loop by loop over the top, climbing in the wind until with loud steel snaps he secured it to the back bumper.
Leo tweaked the rearview, followed Cyro’s walk back over the drone. Then BAM!, the rearview turned white, then empty, and a metal smack kicked his eardrums. To the left, the drone stabbed halfway through an oil tank’s wall, already under a shower of fuel. Duck— The tower exploded, and there in front of it—oh god—Cyro burning too. Cyro reached toward the truck, then fell backward into tall grass and disappeared in flames.
Leo hit the gas, panicking and gut-guilty for Cyro’s death at the tip of a missile. He fled despite his respect for Cyro, driven only to evade the air base’s next shot.
Headlights or no? If the feds are tracking him, they’re using more than headlights. Leo cranked the truck’s lights to max power. Ahead, another light, a tiny red brake light, vertical, blink, blink—stop? The truck rolled toward a stopped sportbike. Must be a soldier with a pistol to inspect him. Leo punched the gas. But no checkpoint—the biker had stepped across the road to piss while he watched the fire.
“Dumbass rookie!” he yelled to Leo and pointed with his middle fingernail, a pistol on his waist. Leo pounded the gas again and slapped the dashboard. Spotted now, with a permanent stop waiting at the end of the road.
Lucky pass. Didn’t hit the sportbike, but didn’t get hit by the pistol. This truck’s not going any farther. Leo shut off the lights and pulled to the shoulder. He reached back fast through the cab window and unhooked the radar device. Don’t want them chasing it. Down, he wedged it under the front left tire. He rolled and crushed it, one tire, two tires, three. Now he cut the engine. A quick check of the front seat—no wallet, laptop, nothing of Cyro’s to grab. Leo jumped out and dashed east across the road, over the twisting pipes, into the woods.
Luckily woods are off the road here. Oil tanks stopped a quarter-mile back. Three northbound trucks sped past, then two firetrucks and an ambulance. The biker followed them from his piss spot, leaving Leo alone in the trees. Nothing much to do but follow the compass. He could still see his truck on the road-runway. Backtrack north, turn east, go another mile. Stewart’s gas station has running cars. He set the compass for a direct line to the station. Watch for the backward-facing camera. Must be what gave them the heads up. The hypotenuse of the drive to here, two and a half miles through the woods. But Stewart’s has to be the coffee and maple donut stop for every responder. The front lot must be under a few cameras, half in vehicles. No calling Beryl for an emergency pickup—what else is out here?
Leo searched for the closest pizza place. Nothing much—all of the shops were back in Utica. Would Cavallo’s drive up here? Wait—this one might be popular among the football cheeseburger crowd—big-brand frozen-roasted Lego food from the name on Dad’s bag, the favorite of that checkpoint inspector who tried to take a third of the dam delivery. Super Sicilian—as if—founded by the billionaire Oscar Dalström, the latest in a line of Swedes who never swam in Sicilia. Can anyone trust those drivers? Or are they failed-out pilots from the base, looking for any chance to crawl back into a Colonel’s favor?
Northwest, dogs barked at the crash site. They’ll be at the truck soon, then hunting through the woods. Not enough time to wait for a downtown Utica shop. Leo dialed.
“Super Sicilian, tonight offering four-for-one specials in super salsa pizza pie, cinnamon sugar sweet sensations, and triple beef-built breadstick dips. Would you like to order our special with a two-liter soda or explore other fantastic menu options?”
Nineteen seconds. Could just say, “Super Sicilian, what would you like?” What’d you like even better. But no comments tonight, play the part. “Hi, I’m looking for one large pizza and a two-liter Coke, that’s it.” Keep it easy, get it on the road fast.
“Any double dance dessert?”
“All set, thanks.”
“Any big Budweiser alcohol-infused soda waters, or even a regular beer?”
“Nope—all good.”
“Any—”
“That’s it if you don’t mind, thanks. I’m looking for delivery, got the address here if you’re ready.”
“Name, please?”
Monochrome computer screen and they need to fill every last field. “Arthur.”
“Last name?”
“Zapponozo.”
“How do you spell—”
“Z-a-p-p-o-n-o-z-o.”
“Phone?’
Can’t give it, take this random number. The driver better not have to call for directions.
“OK, that will be—one plain slice and one Pepsi for—”
“One pie, one soda, two liters,”
“Yep, let me—OK, updated—twenty-three dollars and thirteen cents.” Both the order time and the price are more than double.
“Pickup or delivery?”
“This is delivery, please. I’m hiking, actually, Georgia to Maine. I’ll be waiting on the west side of Camroden Road, two miles south of the Stewart’s Shop. I went through there but didn’t find any pizza I’d really like, you know, so here I am on my way back to the trail. Who’s driving it? What’s the car to look for?”
“It’ll be the next driver available. The computer decides.”
“What are your possible cars, how many drivers tonight? This is a former driver asking…”
“One moment,”—on-hold music—“that’ll be a Mitsubishi Eclipse or a Mercury Grand Marquis.”
“Thanks. I’ve got a fifty-percent cash tip if whoever wants to deliver can step on it. So, are we good?”
“Thank you for your Super Sicilian order, your delivery will arrive in—forty-seven minutes.” And counter clerk hung up.
Almost an hour? The only route now is to trust the driver is faster than Super’s green screen computer system. Leo pushed farther through the woods, guessed at two miles down from the Stewart’s, and looked for a place to wait. Nothing but trees and drainage. Best option was to pile a cairn of rocks on the shoulder and make it look hikey.
He ran out to stack it when there weren’t any cars. After ten minutes, the delivery car pulled a U-turn and stopped in front of the rocks. But before Leo jumped to greet the Grand Marquis, the driver hopped out and stomp-kicked the pile, rolling the rocks off the shoulder, into the drain. Leo looked closer—the front grill said Ford, not Mercury. An undercover cop returning the road to unimpeded paths. Leo stayed low and still, and the cop hopped back in, U-turned, and continued north.
Fifteen minutes later, a second-generation Scirocco crept past with Priestess’s Maria Antonietta trapping from its windows, its right-side tires just over the shoulder line, searching. Leo took a chance and jumped out, waved. A quick tap on the gas spun the car to Leo’s southbound lane. The driver raised his nighttime sunglasses to the scalp-start of his gray ponytail, checked the ticket of a pizza box bagged on his front seat.
“Zapponozo!”
“Right here.” Leo leaned in the passenger door’s window. “Last run of the night?”
“Last run, I wish. We’re twenty-four-seven now, never a rest, never a break. Twenty-three bucks.”
Leo lifted three twenties. “My hike got a bit messed. Can you take me to the trail across town, up off Route 8?”
“South of Utica?” the driver said.
Leo nodded.
“I don’t know, guy, I’m the only one driving tonight. Driving for my son, actually, his Marquis is back in the shop. For a paint job, mind you, the machine’s rock solid.”
“Sixty bucks,” Leo said.
“It’s the south side.”
“It’s up, not far, basically across the street from the Breakaway Lounge.”
“Breakaway? Get in, get in—I’ve got a late-night delivery to their back-deck bartender, but no problem with a shot of pre-love between now and three a.m.”
“Here you go.” Leo put the bills in the ashtray. Tried to, at least—it was filled with ice-green buds. Instead, Leo folded the bills and snugged them in the open cupholder.
“Too kind,” the driver said. “You’re too kind. You should teach these big box pizza wannabes. Tell my son, too, tell him to move to O’Scugnizzo down in Utica proper.”
They rolled south, into the night, as more siren-flashing trios sped the other way.
Leo ran with the Super Sicilian delivery and knocked on Drony’s locked front door. Rock opened it, pistol in hand, then lowered it and let him in. Only Beryl was there, waiting at the table.
“Just you?” she said. Leo nodded, hearing the explosion again, seeing Cyro roll back waving in the fire.
“Somebody shot us,” Leo said. “Cyro burned.” Rock helped him to a chair, and Beryl said Come on back into her radio.
Drony showed up ten minutes later with an observation drone under his arm. “We saw it,” he said. “Not the shot, but the aftermath. Thought you were captured or burned—or maybe both.”
What to say? Maybe he should have been. He came back with a large pizza and a two-liter, while Cyro died on a pipeline from a missile.
“You’re lucky,” Beryl said. “We’re all lucky. Some spy hiding in the woods, some new camera, someone spotted you, and the rest is push-button history from a control room.”
“Gas station,” Leo said. “Stewart’s. They turned it one-eighty, one-eighty onto our back lot sneak.”
Beryl drew a sharp breath, Rock pounded the table, Drony stroked his beard. “I’ll be goatdamned,” Drony said. “And you can be sure that video goes all the way up.” He stood, grabbed a leather briefcase from the cabinet, pulled a fist-sized set of keys from the rack below. “Launch window’s closing. Get your gear. Get it now!” He pounded out the front door.
Leo rushed upstairs, double-step. He’d been living out of his bag, and it was a quick grab of bedside table bits to be ready to go. Rock filled Beryl’s bag for her, and in a minute they met her on the ground floor. She handed out their bomb bags from the basement. Outside, they jogged down the field to the open barn where Drony was prepping a Twin Otter turboprop. Same type of jump plane as Jersey.
Drony finished pressure testing the fuel tank and led them to an arm rack of ready parachutes. “One at a time, step right up. Beryl, weight?” He picked her chute from a lower arm and helped her tighten it down. “Gear here”—he clamped it to her chest strap—”and bomb below.” Tightened over her stomach.
Leo went next, familiar enough with the ram-air chute—but only half the weight of the earlier ones?
Drony strapped him in, turned and said, “Rock, extra check for you—” He patted Rock down from the shoulders. “I’ll squeeze over your holster, but I don’t trust these snaps. Put the gun in the bag.” Rock put his pistol on an empty shelf, and Beryl packed it in Rock’s gear bag.
“Reinstall at the dam,” she said.
Drony hooked on the gear bag, and below it the bomb. “Now boarding first class,” he said. The team climbed in through the plane’s roll-up door.
Drony wrapped up his rounds of the plane, jogged out of the barn then back in, and hopped aboard through the pilot door. The co-pilot was an emergency bag of his own, already strapped in. “No feds here yet,” he said. “It was a good spot while it lasted.”
Beryl slid the cabin door closed. “Buckle in.”
Drony bounced his voice off the windshield, through the narrow door, and into the cabin. “Beryl, heck, anyone, start thinking of suggestions for where I can land—discreetly—after your drop-off. We’ve got an hour of flying time till then. So relax, prep the plan one more time, and enjoy the view.”
As soon as the plane turned east, Drony maxed the engines. It bounced over barely mown grass, slightly downhill, on a runway with forest tightening toward it. Then it squat-jumped into the air and Drony turned left, north toward Utica, into the Mohawk Valley and away from the rising hill, and climbed as fast as possible, continuing the turn to the west, then another quarter turn to the south, by which time they were above two-thousand feet to clear the hill.
Leo pressed his forehead to the window and watched Utica’s single skyscraper, but a minute later jerked back. “A red laser ran over my face,” he said.
“Fish in a barrel through here,” Drony said. “Four thousand and climbing. Let’s hope it’s a kid with his cat toy.”
Rock checked his watch. He unzipped his gear bag, pulled out the pearl and silver pistol, and set to cleaning it on the floor in front of him.
“He said an hour,” Beryl said, “but I’m saying thirty minutes. Cleaned and stowed.” Rock nodded, grunted. Beryl went back to flipping maps. She noted GPS coordinates on an index card for Drony.
“Six thousand,” Drony said. “Any more lasers?”
“Nothing here,” Leo said.
Up front, Drony was almost all avionics, barely a gauge. Weather, charts, maps, radar, and checklists, all in finer detail than Leo’s phone screen. But the radar—what now? Drony poked it, punched buttons, and triple-checked. He whipped his head back and forth, searching down over his left shoulder, back to the screen, and again backward and down. Back toward Utica.
“Beryl, what’s your screen showing?” Drony said.
Beryl put the paper maps back in her bag and pulled out a new box of electronics with a map on the screen. “Some sort of twisting launcher spotted at 332 degrees, top of the ridge, north-northwest.”
Drony spun the yoke hard to the left. The plane corkscrewed down. “Heatseeker headed our way,” he said. “Forty seconds. Prepare to bail.” He spun out of the corkscrew and climbed. “Three-thousand feet if we’re lucky. Jump and pull it.”
Beryl plugged the box into a data line emerging from the floor. She keyed buttons furiously, attempting to take control of the missile’s brains.
Delivery— Leo raced up and unclipped their safety lines, then opened the cabin’s roll-up door. Rock rushed to load his bag with the pistol parts.
“Twenty seconds,” Drony said. “Prepare to bail.”
“Chaff out and cut the four frequency with the tail wave augmenter,” Beryl said, fluent in the plane’s missile defense system. “Let’s go, Drony!”
“You go,” he said and straightened the flight path. “Thirty-five hundred feet.”
Beryl looped a fist into Rock and Leo’s harnesses. “Bailing.” She dove out the open door with them, into the frozen fireball night.
Two seconds later, above and ahead, the Twin Otter confettied into shrapnel. The team tumbled on account of their front-side packs and parachutes.
“Deploy!” Beryl yelled, and pushed Leo and Rock in opposite directions. Now’s only choice to avoid smashing the ground plowing up from below. Yank—Leo pulled his parachute. It snapped tight but still dropped faster than any Jersey descent.
He clenched his teeth, squinted through the plastic goggles he’d pulled down the second before Beryl grabbed his arm. The rushing peace and silence that had hooked him to his Jersey jumps was gone. He was falling into a rusty watch-yourself upstate. Beautiful in its tourist guides, but rougher, tougher, grittier than New England—or New Jersey. Something from New York City was at work here. From the Utica mafia backing their mission, to the Girl Scouts trading in bombs, to the Breakaway Lounge, a farm island for anyone to do what they want to do. Drony’s gone—but dodged enough to make the drop. The mission continues. Got the bag, got the bomb, and it looks like good woods stretching south.
They landed in tall grass. Leo balled his chute in silence and checked his compass. It seemed to be a north-south valley, matching the two long strips of near-mountain he’d seen from the plane. A mile to the west, one car on a road that must run alongside the valley’s creek. A mile to the east, thick forest on the climbing ridge. Here, in between, probably the only old farmland and swamp. He reunited with Beryl and Rock a hundred yards away.
“We’ll climb the ridge and hike south about twenty feet below the peak,” Beryl said. “Once we get to the forest’s cover, let’s prep up. Rock, repair your pistol. Me, connect communications. Leo, keeping an eye out always helps.” She turned and headed east toward the ridge.
Almost at the forest line, a dark building appeared. Nothing around it, no bushes, no vehicles, not even a driveway. It must have been nearly invisible from above, too. Luckily it wasn’t picked as a soft landing spot. The windows matched the steel, black and non-reflective.
Protective plastic film adhered to every piece of glass. “Still building it,” Beryl said. “Let’s get around back and do the check here.” They circled to a square of concrete outside an emergency exit. No cameras on the roofline, above the door, or on the corners.
A single, cool-amber bulb atop the door’s badge swiper. In the bus north, they had driven interstate highway and state roads, county roads and no-name shots through the woods, and even Drony’s farm driveway. Nowhere had this type of building appeared. Not an escapee from New York City. Despite its steel, not the creation of nearby Pennsylvania. It was a transplant from D.C.—or more likely, federal secrecy in Virginia.
Rock punched the swiper but didn’t open the lock. “Rebuild your firearm,” Beryl said. She was already head-down in her radar gear. It blinked random reds and only offered half of its screen. Maybe bagged too fast on the plane. “I need to get our update out,” she said—update to who?— “but the postmaster didn’t like our jump. We’ll do a quick detour for replacement parts.” She popped off the swiper’s cover and fiddled with the wires.
Rock pieced his pistol back together, but then stopped and dug through his bag. “The barrel, Leo. You saw me stow the barrel. Right before the jump?”
“Saw you throw a bunch in there, but I was doing the safety clips—”
“Specifically—did you see the barrel?” Rock dumped his bag on the flat square outside the door, then repacked it piece by piece. “No barrel,” he whispered to Leo.
Beryl, working only a few feet away, said, “We’ll find one. But don’t worry, the idea is to get down there without taking a shot.”
Rock hmphed and turned to the door. “Should I get something for the glass? A foot-thick stone from the woods?”
Beryl raised her arm. “Almost got it.”
A minute later, the door swung open. They climbed the fire stairs to the top floor. Beryl had a pick set ready, but the double doors swung open with a twist of the knob. The team fanned out among drop cloths and unfinished cabinetry, checked all closets and corners, ensured the site was clear. They converged at floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Despite the office exterior, this was a penthouse, an apartment for someone to hide, or to rule from, or maybe both.
“Almost the same view as the plane,” Rock said. They froze—Drony’s certain death by missile, a missile that nearly stabbed them, too.
“To Drony,” Beryl said, raising her water bottle.
“To Drony,” Leo said.
“To Drony,” Rock said. They drank a swig. “Eventually we’ll do that again with something stronger.” Silent nods.
“I’m going to check around,” Beryl said. “Quietly. I’ll be back if someone’s in the building. For now, it’s best if you can set up a watch. Stick to the outdoor windows. I don’t know how long it’ll be.” She picked up her bag and headed out, into the stairwell.
“I’ll take the first lookout,” Rock said.
“Thanks,” Leo said. Thanks indeed—things had gone well. Beryl was out and Rock was busy. He needed an undetected trip of his own. He hadn’t emptied since before the ride with Cyro, and now he had to go—badly.
Leo stashed his gear in a corner. He turned down the hall to inspect the main bedroom’s bath that hadn’t been on his initial sweep. A bath built for one person at a time, luckily, but still in progress or maybe shut off. No water in the bowl, nothing flowing when he turned the faucet’s handle. Still, the innermost sanctum.
Leo locked the door. He hovered over the dry bowl, lit by his headlamp. Would his stream echo through the condo? Would Rock hear him in the living area? He lit his watch and estimated how long he’d been frozen. Forty-five seconds? Did Rock have any reason to creep in here and check on him? To yell for his help? No, Rock said he’s got it. A minute and a half now—tightening somewhere, sealing the stream, at least standing here. OK, mix it up.
Leo went to the sink, brand new, an acceptable urinal. Could be the team plan with no working water—number one in the sink, save the toilet for number two. Something in the sink’s porcelain relaxed him, something safe, and finally his stream appeared. It swirled around and down the drain. Silent, a true spy break. Nobody had seen his headlamp, no sniper had homed in on his outline in the windowless bath.
Leo returned to the living room, pounding in his forehead. Why did he treat that as a mission of its own? Prefer privacy—so what? Would he trade their safety for his privacy? Trading’s not an option, everyone’s sticking together close all the way to the dam. And on the way, he’ll have to go how many times? Enough to run a risk. Beryl won’t issue a plan to fix it, let alone Rock. So it’s up to him? Never fought it head-on before. Even the word fight is absurd. Fight your own bladder? No, not fight, fix. Never tried to fix it—never tried enough to fix it. Chose routes that wouldn’t bring pain. Delivery is convenient, a one-person bath in a loud pizza shop. A happy customer as much as an employee. But to think of the soldiers in whatever movie out there—forget movies, go back thousands of years. Every patrol stuck close. And not just soldiers, the insurgents. They cover each other while they put their guard down to go. Face your fears. This mission is pulsing the head, the chest, racing the lungs. Revenge has sparks and a power spike and a gambling-guess with worry it plays out wrong. But this—exposure?—what word to even describe it? This is fear and dodging, running away from a threat—self, something self—self-preservation at the cost of the teammates, at the cost of Dad.
Beryl had said there are steps. Get in the dam’s back jail, ride up, plant the bombs, get out. Leo hadn’t worried because he figured the entire war would fall between bathroom breaks. Absurd, but true. Fly down there, an hour at most. Get in, get out, another hour. Picked up, go, gone. Not anymore—this will be days. A winding path around federal capture. Not driving as fast as possible. No more delivery mode. What helps the team now? Something, something, pay attention, pay attention to the road.
Leo found the pizza cutter in his bag and clipped it to his belt with the sheath Drony had found. That’s something. He practiced taking it out silently, fast, one-handed. Unclip the leather strap, pull it out.
Beryl was out working in the hall’s electrical closet. Leo practiced each time Rock was in another room on the window circuit. Practiced until Rock said, “Weapon up to snuff?” Not joking, either, respecting the pizza cutter as much as his lost pistol.
“Caught me.” Leo clipped it back in the sheath.
“Quite the opposite,” Rock said. “You made it out of the air base. There were a million ways they could have served you up on their news as the nightly topping of rebellion bound for a chew-up and spit-out to Virgin Island Prison, or to Guam, or to live-broadcast death. But you—you delicately sliced around them and made it back. You rolled in, and Drony got us together—rest in peace—and now we’re implemented.” He turned to the window and stared south toward the dam. “Might be a tad more than thirty minutes but get your tip cash ready. Your delivery is on the way.”
Leo took over the watch an hour later, just after 2 a.m. Beryl came in soon after and called them together. “Still nothing. They have every fiber optic line, but not one transmitter of use. See anything out there?”
Rock shook his head. “No developments.”
Leo shrugged. “Still totally dark.”
“That’s what bothers me,” Beryl said. “This building’s coating makes it nearly disappear. I headed outside to scan the perimeter. Didn’t trust my view from the roof. The search revealed a small power station south of us. I didn’t approach. No windows. It’s built for a 24/7 team.”
Beryl went to the window, Leo and Rock followed. Now that she mentioned it, there it was, a tiny bricked-up building below the massive electric line running south along the base of the ridge’s woods. “It’s the best chance to get what we need,” she said. “Let’s head down, you cover and I’ll check it out. And it’s best if we pack our gear and strap up, in case we have to sprint.”
Leo and Rock set up behind trees in the forest, uphill and fifty yards directly west of the power station. The door was on the opposite side, and after the last door it didn’t seem to be a challenge. Beryl poked around the side of the station and gave a thumbs up, then disappeared.
“How long’s it been since they shot the plane?” Rock said, building up a pile of rocks to throw. “Two hours, at most? How are they not all over the place searching for us, the daring, daunting parachute trio?”
“Not enough people?” Leo said. “Up here’s not loaded with uniforms like back home.”
“It’s loaded with missiles, though. What are they even shooting? Sidewinder, Gopher, the Bristol Bloodhound? They could very well have ancient surface-to-air shooters, leftovers from the first Iraq, and use them against a propeller plane.”
Leo threw a pair of rocks on the pile. “So it’s best to assume they’re out here, searching the woods.”
Rock pointed west to the creek road, where a truck turned onto the dirt driveway to the building. “You predicted it, right on time.”
They dug in behind trees. Rock bounced one stone off the top of the power building—patrol out here, stay inside. Nearly five minutes for the bed-capped pickup to cross the swampland, following a spaghetti route to stay out of the mud. Finally, it pulled up and parked, keeping its headlights aimed at the front door.
“That’s a spot you’d want to back into,” Leo whispered to Rock.
A woman hopped out of the driver’s seat with a—spear?—and a man from shotgun joined her with a club. The logo on the side of the truck said Sherburne Animal Control.
Dog Driver pointed to the penthouse, then drew a flat circle in the air. She led their walk around the building, searching. A thick glass thump from the back of the building. The emergency exit door. But a minute later they circled around the north of the tower and went back to the pickup, took their seats, and radioed for backup.
Dog Driver smushed her radio back in its holder, hopped out, and slammed the truck door. She threw up her arms in frustration and jeered shhh to Shotgun getting out the other side. He gave her a thumbs-up, circled around to the bed of the truck, and opened the cage door. He looped his club to his belt, pulled and pulled on something, and now had a spear of his own. Together they went around back, thumped the door again, and likely went up the emergency staircase.
Rock ran down the hill to Beryl. They both came back to Leo’s spot a minute later. Rock had updated her.
“Still nothing for communication,” she said. “I checked a maintenance schedule, no threat there. Far from 24/7, more like a once-a-week check-in. They also had a map on the wall confirming our location. Top of Charles E. Baker State Forest. The map had all of the plumbing on it. It looks like there’s a creek running under a fire road a few miles south. Seven, eight miles. No point sticking around here with the dog catchers. Let’s head up, into the trees, and move south as fast as we can.”
Leo checked the building. Up in the penthouse, flashlights shone behind the dark glass. “Think they found our parachutes up there?” he said, pointing. As if they’d heard him, both flashlights came to the glass and rolled over the trees only twenty yards north.
“The wall’s no cover,” Beryl said. “But the glass won’t let out enough of their light to reach us.”
“Cheers to that,” Rock said.
“Who knows what their plan is for this power station. Here we go.” She grabbed her stuff and headed uphill. Rock threw ten stones in his bag, an attempt to make up for the pistol. Leo grabbed two more, one in each hand, and followed their no-light trail uphill and south.
Three hours later, Beryl clicked on her flashlight inside the culvert under a dirt road. “Six feet tall and bone-dry.”
“Think they’re investigating up this stretch?” Rock said, reaching above and grabbing a fistful of pebbles.
“There’s always a chance. But I’d bet they think we’re stealing a car. That means only checkpoints and cameras in the towns.”
“Animal control was sent to the tower,” Leo said. “I’d say we’re a low priority.”
Beryl nodded and led them inside.
The culvert was a ridged black polymer tube. Tall enough to stand in, dusty dry, clangy with echoes. An unrolled tarp from Beryl’s bag made an acceptable bed on the floor.
“Who’s not about to pass out?” Beryl said.
Rock shrugged. “I’ll take first watch.”
“Thanks. We’ll do ninety minutes for the first round, so we all get at least a quick bit of rest.”
Leo dozed off, facing south, and it felt closer to ninety seconds when Rock shook his shoulder and whispered tag team.
“Where’s best to set up?” Leo said. Rock guided him to another wide tree, ten feet uphill on the north side. Once again stocked with stone baseballs.
Leo lay on the leaves for an hour, scanning what he could of the forest without night vision goggles. Alongside the watch for adversaries was a look around for the best place to go. Just in case—no major urge, but who knows what’s ahead. The woods are good, though, the woods are heavy. You can claim you’re headed out to dig a hole and walk out of sight. When camping, at least. Tonight’s closer to duck-behind-the-closest-tree, or even a bucket in a foxhole. He judged the surrounding trees—which is the widest? Maybe he did have to go.
He crossed the dry streambed and stood behind a towering tree downhill. Alone, in dark woods, he didn’t have to wait, and tried to silence his stream by trunk-aiming as best he could. He zipped up—and the silence disappeared.
“Hands up, you stinky trespassers,” a voice said in the culvert. “You user-uppers of federal land without permits.”
Leo switched trees, peeked before charging. Inside the tunnel, a man in gray wool held a pistol in one hand, a video camera with a flashlight in the other. Beryl and Rock sat up but neither lifted their hands. The man pulled a square of parachute from his pocket and sniffed it. “Hands up, now. You’re the ones they’re looking for. They said you’d be back here, and sure enough by scent they’re right. And rat number three, where’s he?” The man squatted a snip, peeking left and right.
Leo stayed behind the wet tree, ducked, and without a flashlight found a rock to throw. Not a baseball, but more than golf. A squash ball. Squash, he thought as he stood and threw it, at first a random unrelated word, but when he heard the rock hit the ratcatcher’s cheek, Leo said it again. Squash. Ratcatcher shot three times—now Leo got out from behind the tree and ran for the culvert. Nobody hit so far—Rock had two hands around Ratcatcher’s wrist, and the pistol was pointed at the culvert’s roof. Beryl yanked away the video camera and pulled out the 8mm tape. With its plastic point snouting out of her fist, she smacked him two, three, four times in the eyes.
Leo was at the culvert now—he pulled the pizza cutter from his waist and sliced Ratcatcher’s neck. Though not horizontally through air and food tubes, but vertically, down from ear to shoulder blade.
Leo stepped back, stared at the blade, red, dripping. That’s something. Knifed a man. Did it kill him? No—Ratcatcher and Rock wrestled again over the gun. Leo went low and sliced deep across the Achilles. Now Ratcatcher fell, and now Rock had the gun. He shot Ratcatcher in his rolling chest, then finished him below the gray wool hat.
Finally. Quiet. “His car’s at the bottom of this fire road,” Beryl said. “Solo operator, a glorified bounty hunter. But someone’s guaranteed to follow up with him. They’ll send more next time.”
“Hide it?” Leo said.
“We don’t have time to dig. We’ll have to hope the culvert is a good choice.” Beryl put the videotape in a plastic bag. She smashed it against the nearest rock, over and over, then pocketed it. “Sun’s coming up, but we have to keep going. We’ll rest soon enough.”
Without a word, Rock put the new pistol in his harness and grabbed his gear. Leo followed, and then Beryl after a final check.
Beryl might have been planning a discussion, but Rock got to it first. “Leo—I saw you taking a piss in the woods behind the rat-man. How is that possible?” He gave him a second. “Not paying attention?”
And what to say now? He’d already thought it over. Constantly. This one and nearly all his other breaks. But which word to use? Words for in the head, and words acceptable to say to others. “I went downhill from the culvert,” Leo said. “Didn’t want it running down and maybe inside.” Which seemed true—
“No, no,” Rock said. “Uphill, nearby. You don’t have to disappear. You spray and rotate, back and forth, back and forth.” He swung an arm in front of him, side to side. “Spreads it out. No flooding.”
“It was bad luck,” Beryl said. “He’ll take this into consideration during the next watch.”
“This is basic,” Rock said to Beryl. “An element of risk we clearly need to resolve.”
“I’m sorry,” Leo said. “I can—I’ll do that.”
“Not everyone does things the exact same way,” Beryl said. “I know I won’t be going side to side like a lawn sprinkler. We’re here with the people we’ve got, the three of us. And we need to stick together.”
Rock now stopped and turned to her. “Maybe it’s not in my interest to ‘stick together’ right now. Two dead teammates. Two carcasses in our wake. Bear attack back at the park. Now undeniable first-degree in the culvert. It’s no problem for me to take out any govgoon who attacks me. But this, damn—here’s baseball—this is an unearned run. And I want to maintain the lowest possible ERA. It gets heavy real quick.”
“His gun,” Beryl said. “You still have it?”
“Of course.”
“We need to bury it. I forgot, quick now.”
Rock tapped his holster, recently refilled. “We’re out here, each of us with explosives clearly bound for Shutyergorge Dam. Our motives are obvious to anyone who knows our last names and mailing addresses. What’s a gun going to do? We keep this. It’s our ticket in.”
“There’s a difference, Rock. A big difference, a history-spanning difference. The difference is the bomb is a terrorist weapon only if we lose. This is your law class 101. If—no, when—when we win, the bomb is the dynamite annihilation of a dictator, the fuck you very much to the fascist regime. A few days of hiking, and then the dam domino starts a topple to free the country. But now, with hard-to-explain blood on our hands? Things get complicated. The rivers get some new block-ups. Rat-man, he was hired by federal militia, all the way. No question. Trying to haul us back to the nearest newly built upstate federal firing range. He didn’t know the mission but he took the job. He was a tip-to-tail enemy. But we really don’t want to have to explain it. To argue it. Or anything like it. So for that reason, I’ll say again—let’s bury the pistol. Now.”
Rock threw up his arms but didn’t concede. He said, “Leo, dig the hole.”
Beryl handed Leo a trowel, and soon the foot-deep hole was refilled with soil, the broken video, and a wiped-down pistol.
They hiked through the day. After sundown but before darkness, Leo jumped ahead and threw out his arms. Stop.
In a miniature valley ahead, a cabin sat beside a stream. A driveway disappeared west down the hill with nothing parked in it. But the cabin was far from empty. Even here, two hundred yards away, a party thundered. They yelled nicknames—ZONK and BANANA and HOISTY—and said cheers, and banged steins of sloshing beer. They circled the one-room interior, and stood with announcements, and each time flipped their chair backward and struggled to pick it up. The wood stove was going strong. Too strong—the cabin’s metal chimney was glowing orange above the roof.
Leo shook his head. “I know this cabin. It’s my dad’s spot. I mean, not actually his, but a friend of his. They loan it two or three times a year for getaway trips.” He added before he realized why, “There’s an outhouse on the south side, blocked by the roof right now.”
“Friends, allies, what do you think?” Beryl said.
“Not my dad’s type of party. But his friend? His friend’s son? Maybe.”
“Your dad has a connection here,” Rock said, “if only from routine observation. Your dad has also been captured at the dam, likely interrogated, tortured—I’m sorry. Likely found as Free Agency. Sounds to me like this is a fed team. Maybe not the suits, and not the no-fun cops, but once again militia. No surprise on the militia counts. They’re celebrating, they’re upbeat, they’ve found something in there to use against Free Agency. They called it in, and now they have time to relax.”
“We’ll stay right here,” Beryl said. “It’s almost dark. We’ll have an actual view soon enough.”
They backtracked and went farther uphill, then continued enough to see two sides, east and north, and waited. The west-side front door was the exit for bathroom breaks, none of which occurred in the outhouse, but rather out of the team’s sight near the southwest corner of the cabin.
From their spot, a square attic door appeared under the sharp-pitched roof. “Up there’s got potential,” Leo said. “My dad used to hide his pizza pan up there between visits. No connection to the downstairs room. That’s a solid wall between the two windows. We can get up in there and see what they tucked away.”
Rock shrugged. “I can boost.”
Half an hour later, right around five, the woods were dark. The cabin’s party had cranked further. Leo led the team forward, tree to tree, to only thirty yards away. Still uphill on the east. They passed Beryl’s binoculars around. Five inside, with long frizzy unwashed beards, and bacon in their teeth, and bags under their eyes, and knives tossed shakily from hand to hand. Their mugs were dimpled glass from a thrift store, maybe snags from an invaded house. Their table talk made no sense, they shouted words, names, mystery locations, no more than three at a time, and toasted them, and then sank to burps and howls and groans. Thieves, maybe, simple federal thieves, picking up supplies for someone in a black van, maybe paid in beer and toasting with no objection to the deal.
“Anybody recognize them?” Beryl said. “Leo?”
“Nah,” Leo whispered. “Far from it.”
“Free Agency?”
The office complex, the suits, the drug test? “Can’t be.”
“What if they’re not with either,” Rock said. “Just getting blasted—intoxicated—out in the woods. Hunters here to hunt.”
“Everyone’s on one side or the other,” Beryl said. She checked the binocular again. “Best to assume federal until we know otherwise. Nobody’s on watch, that’s a positive. We’ll check the attic and be on our way.” She took her pack off and set it behind a tree. “If we have to run, get safe first, and eventually we’ll loop back for the bags. Meet up a mile south, off the ridge, other side. OK?” Nods.
“Well if we’re sticking around, I’m going in for a look,” Rock said. “They’re fully liquored up. Nobody will notice a little peek in the window.” Beryl followed, and Leo brought up the rear. They serpentined from tree to tree until they huddled against the center of the cabin’s east side, opposite the front door, between two square windows opened to screens to vent the commotion. They peeked fast. The bearded outlaws tumbled in filth and bones. Each had a fork and a serrated baron’s knife, and a plate of thick-cut pork, and a sloppy pistol hanging from their belt or body.
“Nothing in there but trash,” Rock said.
Beryl pointed to the attic door’s padlock. “Always lock it up before you celebrate.” She pulled a lockpick from her pocket, but couldn’t confirm the fit and put it back. “Let’s get up there.”
“I’ll need a hand,” Rock said to Leo, moving into a wall-sit below the attic entrance.
Shoulder to shoulder, Leo leaned against the wall. “Come on, Beryl.”
Beryl stepped one foot on each of their flattened quads, and then with a boost stepped to their shoulders and reached the attic door. A twist and pry with the pick silently opened the padlock. She swung the door out and delicately wedged a stick near the hinge to hold it open.
“Get in there.” Rock hoisted Beryl’s sole. “Push, Leo.”
Leo helped, and Beryl wriggled into the cabin’s attic. She returned to the door a few seconds later. “The motherlode!” She dangled down a fist-sized sack of jewels. “We can bribe our way in with all this loot. Bucket brigade.”
Rock reached up and received the bags, and Leo stuffed them in his pockets. When Beryl said jewels, that’s it, Leo belly-crawled uphill to stuff them in his pack. He returned with his pockets empty, ready for whatever’s next.
“There’s a safe,” Beryl said. “Analog. Rock, do you crack these?”
“We’ve been here long enough,” Rock said. “They obviously don’t use it.”
“Come on, Rock. A few spins.”
“What brand?” Leo said.
Beryl checked. “Walrus.”
“All you.” Back home, Leo had seen Rock open his own Walrus with a joint in his mouth, a cabernet in his hand, and a guess at the game’s next pitch in his TV-locked eyes. “Just give it a look.”
Rock shook his head. “Brace yourself.” He stepped into Leo’s linked hands and gripped the open entrance. With Beryl’s help under his shoulders, Rock pulled himself in.
Now Leo waited alone with his back to the cabin. Search for noise. Catch the screen-door clap announcing an outdoor pisser. He checked his pizza cutter, unclipped it in its sheath. This could be a good time to go, right there, duck past the window, stand with the back to the cabin’s corner—but then Rock again. Catch this.
Above, a swinging ziplock bag with—badges?—Rock dropped it into Leo’s hands. “Free Agency,” Rock said. “All of them.”
“Unless they’re feds faking it,” Beryl whispered behind him. Leo pocketed the badges. “I’ll assess those soon enough. Now back to the safe.”
And then a great splintering crack ripped through the cabin, and lanterns popped and flashed, and the party plunged into darkness. Leo wheeled to the window, but all was black save a handful of wood stove sparks.
“Fed drone! Fed drone! Fed drone!” the outlaws yelled and scrambled over the tangle of Beryl, Rock, the safe, the feast, the bent and broken lanterns.
“Free Agency!” Rock called. “Same team! Same team!” Beryl and Leo repeated the yells, but nothing. The five outlaws rolled out of the cabin and fled in all directions. One ran by Leo only a few feet away, northeast, swimming uphill with spinning arms.
The crunching and cursing and twig-snapping outlaws faded to silence, and Leo jogged back to the cabin. “Anybody hurt?”
Rock and Beryl pulled themselves out of the ceiling’s rubble and stood. “I’m alright,” Beryl said, brushing off.
“A few scratches here, that’s all for me,” Rock said, headlamp back on. “Pure luck to evade the safe.”
“Let’s get it open,” Beryl said. “Leo, we’ll watch the perimeter. They’ll come back as soon as they regroup.” A quick scan found despite their rush, no knives or guns had been left behind.
Leo returned to the east side of the cabin by the attic door. Before posting up, he crept up the hill to grab his pack. He passed snapped branches and churned-up leaves, rips of nylon clinging to the broken limbs. Finally, the empty tree-root. Somebody had tripped on his gear, face-planted, and grabbed it as they left.
The jewels may have greased their travel south, but those were just a bonus. Leo had lost his third of the explosives. Maybe they could blow the dam with two bricks, even one, but all else would have to go perfectly. And judging by every turn so far, the chances were flimsy. Only one thing to do now to stay focused on the team—Leo squared up to a tree, leaned his exhausted forehead against it, and used his temporary privacy.
“Got it,” Rock called, and Leo and Beryl fell back to the cabin.
Leo brought their packs, which had been stashed within ten yards of his. He kept the bags clumped to cover his loss.
Rock let the door of the sideways-fallen safe drop open. “Now tell me,” he said, reaching inside, “was this worth it?” He hoisted a plastic shopping bag filled with Tastykake treats, sugary baked goods out of Philly, Swirly Cupcakes and Krimpets and Snowballs.
Beryl took the bag. “Good source of energy, never goes bad.” She opened one’s plastic packaging and sniffed the icing, squeezed to test the crème filling. “Equal shares.” She put out a hand for her pack. Leo handed it over, then Rock’s—and that was it. “Yours?”
“Gone,” Leo said. “Snagged in the clusterfuck.”
“No, no, no,” Beryl said. “Tell me you have the explosive. Tell me those jewels are stashed in one of these.” She and Rock undid zippers, searched their packs.
Leo shook his head. “They grabbed it on the way out.”
“With their IDs,” Beryl said.
Rock stomped on the safe’s horizontal open door with his boot. “I almost had my scrotum crushed under this falling Walrus for goddamn Tastykake, and meanwhile you lose our bribery assets and your bomb squad?” He zipped his pack. “I’m not carrying sugar cake, and I’m not eating it, either.”
“Your call.” Beryl shoved the entire bag in her pack. “It’s as simple as asking for the bomb back. But they’re gaining ground. Let’s move.”
They climbed out of the cabin and focused their flashlights on the woods. “Leo, lead the way you think they went.”
The sun rose without any outlaws found, and the team scrambled for a cover spot to spend the day. Rock leaned a pair of branches over a nearby fallen tree, starting a tent-like shelter. Leo spotted something better. A fat downed tree, hollow inside, and long enough for all. No snakes or spiders, only a family of ants.
“You going to clear it out?” Rock said.
“We’ve got our tarp,” Leo said, but still swept it as best he could with a broomy branch. Next, he rigged the tarp—promising. “Beryl, can I get a chocolate cupcake three-pack?” He opened the plastic and placed one outside the end of the log under light leaves, an attraction to the ants living inside. Sure enough, they filtered out—for now. Leo resealed the pack and gave it back to Beryl, then curled up closest to the sugar source to make up for the loss of his pack.
He wasn’t asleep for long. Midmorning brought sloppy crunching and thumping toward them, descending the ridge. Leo dared a peek out of the end of the log. Outlaws, all five of them, his pack swinging from the fist of one. Hangovers radiated from their heads in boozeburns as they stumbled through the woods, apparently lost on their way back to the cabin. Last night, the attempt to let them know everyone’s on the same team had failed, hard. This morning it could go worse.
“Another deuce coming on,” one of them said and wobbled toward the log.
Leo nudged Beryl and Rock awake with a shushing finger held to his lips. “Five,” Leo signed and pointed in the outlaw’s direction. “Last night,” he whispered, as the log shifted and a muddy beer fart rattled the bark.
“That’s no deuce,” another of the outlaws said. “Watchy here.” The log shifted again, and a gravy gushed down its outside. Following Beryl’s example, Leo and Rock plugged their noses with their knuckles. Rock reached up and took Leo’s pizza cutter from his harness, held it up, shrugged—do we try? But surely they were loaded with guns and anger and impatience, and Beryl pushed his wrist down to hand the cutter back to Leo.
Leo searched outside. Thankfully none had realized it’s a hollow log and come around to peek in. The ant traffic at the Tastykake continued. They tagged in and out of the crème at the center of the halved cupcake.
“Scoot over,” the next of the outlaws said, “I’m coming in,” and the log rolled farther, almost another foot from the Tastykake. Now or never. Leo reached out and smeared crumby-crème on his fingertip, and transferred it to a twig, and wiped the twig on the top of the log where the outlaws sat, hopefully not watching the edges for approaching threats.
“I can push,” the fourth said. “Pushtastic.”
The fifth joined in. “Goddamn froth deuces. Damn peanut butter smoothie.”
And now, with the entire outlaw band dealing with intestinal distress, the ants diverted their path to the top of the log, and found not only sugar but fresh meat and salt and sweat. The outlaws yelled Spider bite! Snakebite! Poison Toad! Devil worm! Scorpion got me low! The log shook, and took kicks from the shrieking outlaws, and rolled down a small slope in the hill with the team inside bouncing and gripping each other and pressing against the wood to stay in place, and then boom! the log smacked a tree and broke into thin cracked bits. Uphill, the five outlaws ran north toward a nearby brook to plunge their ant-bitten backsides—
All but one, who had been watching the log, and now yelled downhill at Leo, Beryl, and Rock. “Stand up, you fascist feds—easy now.”
The outlaw raised the pistol from his slack harness and aimed at them, one and then the other. Leo stood up, and Beryl and Rock beside him, luckily not dripped on by the shattered bark, but definitely standing in the mess alongside their bottom-soaked bags.
“Not feds,” Beryl said. “Friends of Free Agency here.”
The other four outlaws returned to join the pin-down. “Tried to get us last night,” the pistol aimer said.
“Spread out,” Beryl whispered, and Rock and Leo slowly slid in opposite directions.
“Tried to blow us right up. Took our jewels and tried to stuff our attic with bombs. Merco, get that bag I picked up from them.” Merco—Leo guessed—scrambled and brought it forward.
“My bag,” Leo said. “Cooked it up for the dam. Our treat.”
The tallest outlaw stepped forward. “Simple thing is, if you’re not with Free Agency, you’re against us.”
“How is that even possible?” Rock said. “How does it align with your mission? You are an agency in pursuit of freedom. We’re in pursuit of freedom. All protesters and marchers and fight-backers are in pursuit of freedom. If anything, as blue-chip rebels, your mission is to bring us together.”
The five football-huddled, the pistol stayed aimed at Beryl, and soon they returned to the faceoff. “You took our jewels. Not any shared anything there.”
“Before we knew which side you’re on,” Beryl said, almost telling a full truth. Saw the badges, true, but didn’t know how real they were. “We only knew your side when you fled. When the roof fell in.”
Now a thin and oily outlaw stepped forward. “You should have rolled out of the log when we sprayed it down. Why not? Why take it? Is that your hobby?”
Leo put up his hand again. “Look at the gun. All your guns. It could already have been a quick bullet for each of us. So why not? It’s better to lay low.”
“What would your headquarters think—” Beryl said. “What takes priority, our death or our mission? Mission. So let us work it. We’re heading south, like you’re heading north.”
“You don’t know—”
“Sure seemed like a celebration feast last night,” Rock said.
“You know who lays low?” Leo said. “My father. Tony Pascal. In the jail of Shutyergorge Dam. He’s Free Agency. If you hate us, fine, but help us for him. We need the bag back.”
The globe-shaped outlaw who had been watching from the back and smoking a clove now stepped forward. He took the bag from Merco. “Tell us about the tunnel,” he said. “How did he get it to open inside the dam.”
It was broken, it wasn’t a perfect tunnel at all, it had popped open in the Major’s bathroom, and then the capture and the shoulder shot. But Leo only said, “He’s a pizza chef. Applied his artistry.”
The globe-man unzipped Leo’s bag and tossed the jewels to the tallest outlaw. He kept the bombs but tossed the rest of the gear at Leo’s feet. “If that’s all you need for a good tunnel, how did he get captured?”
“What do I know?” Leo said. “I’ve already told Free Agency everything. If you need it, ask them.”
“Sounds like they should have informed you already,” Rock said.
“In the meantime, I have something for you.” Beryl slowly took out the bag of Tastykakes. Not soggy, protected by the plastic. “I don’t need to know why it was in your safe. Let’s trade.”
“My sweet tooth.” The globe-man licked his lips. “But some things are just as important.” He opened the bag of bombs, ripped its duct tape top, and passed two explosive rods back to the tallest outlaw. A third of Leo’s bomb.
“If you insist.” Beryl opened the bag, pulled out roughly a third of the Tastykakes, and dropped them into Rock’s waiting bag.
“Lower your gun,” globe-man said to the pistol aimer. He stepped forward, and so did Beryl, and they exchanged the bags. Beryl checked it—all good. She passed it back to Leo. “Hope it helps you finish whatever you started,” Beryl said to the globe-man. “And these snacks—what are they really for?”
“A tasty treat for the River Rebels. Let them float you down the Delaware.”
“Where,” Beryl said.
“Deposit.”
“Routes 8 and 17,” Leo said.
The globe-man nodded. “You can try there, at least. It’s where we got out on the way up.”
“So what happens if we snack on one or two ourselves?” Rock said.
“Unless your stomach’s a database—”
“Duly noted.”
They crossed trails more often as they approached the Susquehanna River. “Obstacles on the way to the Delaware,” Leo said. They stayed due south up and down the nubs of South Hill State Forest. Finally, backyards appeared below them, leading to houses, a road, more houses, more backyards, then a riverside railroad, the Susquehanna, and the reverse on the other side. County Road 39, then Interstate 88, the Senator Wally Q. Panderson Expressway. And beyond the interstate, another rise into forest.
“Anybody specialize in this brand of crossing?” Rock said.
Leo shrugged. “All depends on how our packs can handle water.”
“Rather not find out,” Beryl said.
“Any trail?” Rock said.
“The road bridges east and west, Bainbridge and Sidney, one per town,” Leo said. “Also looks like a railroad bridge between the two.”
“It’ll be dark soon enough,” Beryl said, “but we don’t have two hours to wait. Any bridge is on full display, even the rails. I don’t like these odds. You could have the Director of the FBI speed by on their way home from a trip to the Cooperstown Hall of Fame, spot us by luck, and it’s all over. No—it’s not about finding a clean location. We need a cover story.”
“Construction suits,” Leo said. “Every town has them.”
“And which town is bigger,” Rock said, peeking at the map.
“Both specks, but it looks like Sidney.” Leo pointed.
Beryl backed them up, into the woods, and they headed east, upriver, bound for Sidney.
After all the miles of hiking south through the forest, the tiny town of Sidney was thunderous. It wasn’t cars or trucks or pallets or lumber yards. It was people, laughing and burping, shouting names and clapping and toasting. Promising so far—an early surge at a carnival in a firehouse’s backyard, maybe. Sneak in and get construction suits to make their locations unquestioned. But Beryl held them back, above the crowd gathered below on the main street, still far enough away they had to pass the binocular.
“Too many special ranks pinned on their collars,” she said. “Above their pockets. Look, see the ones with straps over their shoulders? I barely recognize those. And I have databases.”
They circled the binoculars again, and Leo studied the crowd. Black and gold, red and blue, black and blue and gold. Everyone matching at least another. Booth after booth sold t-shirts with commands and predictions and sneers.
“There’s Latin on this one’s badge,” Rock said. “Incorrect conjugation, as usual.”
“Let’s check their Susquehanna bridge,” Beryl said. She pushed them another half-mile east. Sure enough, the bridge held the heart of the festival. It was the throne, the award stand, the dance floor, and the shame dunk. Below the bridge, a chunk of the crowd stood in the Susquehanna’s shallows, knee deep, waist deep, fishing.
“Bainbridge it is,” Beryl said. “And if they’re doing the same thing, it’s back uphill to reassess.”
Leo led the return hike west. Sidney’s roars of domination disappeared. Back to the original left-or-right T, then farther west to new ground.
Approaching Bainbridge from its northern woods wasn’t ideal for tourists, but perfect for a team with bombs in their bags. Downtown was a strip of business buildings. The parking lot behind the strip was three, four, five times bigger than expected. There used to be more here.
Only a few of the shoulder-to-shoulder buildings had lights on. At the far end of the lot stood a factory made of bricks. Silent. Something had moved to a cheaper part of the country, and then a cheaper part of the world, and probably still searched for a lower cost. It must have needed every spot in the sprawling lot. Now sheds and wheelless trucks and dump trailers sat where they wanted. Maybe the factory was preserved with hope Bainbridge would return to work. More likely, it was too expensive to get rid of. So for now it sat.
Most of the signs over the old retail shops weren’t for local customers. Instead, they only told the shipping and receiving trucks where to pull up. Redwood Uniforms seemed to have potential. “See that one?” Leo pointed.
Beryl checked it with binoculars and nodded. It had four cars out back, and a breaktime picnic table, and an ash bucket. “Let’s make a visit,” she said. “I’ll do the shopping.”
Rock put a few stones in his pockets. “I’ll be ready if things heat up.”
They crossed the lot to Redwood Uniforms’ glass door. Locked. Tiny stickers beneath its logo said To The Trade. Beryl knocked. Someone pushed it open, said hold on, and closed the door. A man with a wide striped collar arrived a few seconds later.
“Olympians!” he said. “Let me guess—curling?”
Beryl didn’t enter, likely not trusting the camera at the end of the back entrance’s hallway.
“Need something for our construction workers,” she said. “What do you have in neon orange?”
The man picked up a maple Louisville Slugger, rested it against his shoulder. Rock slid a hand in his stone-filled pocket.
“We’re Redwood Uniforms,” the man said. “Construction builds the stadium, but we only get involved with the teams on the field. Here we go—” He slid the bat along a rolling rack a pair of employees had delivered. “Who’s your favorite team?” Baseball uniforms swayed on hangers, all colors, home and away, white, gray, pinstripe.
“Phillies,” Rock said.
The man raised an eyebrow, found a jersey, held it up. “This is a kid’s size. My apologies. Three Phillies jerseys for pickup tomorrow at ten in the morning. Does that work?”
“We’ll think about it,” Beryl said. “We appreciate your time.”
“I’m the owner, and I appreciate your interest.” He turned to Leo. “And you, young competitor, what’s your area of expertise?”
“Working these days.”
“Brazilian jiu-jitsu?”
“There you go,” Rock said, and Leo shook his head.
“No…” The owner closed his eyes, seemingly tried to find a fortune. “Bicycling. No—motorcycling. No—driving. Rally racing.” He opened his eyes with a forehead scrunch. “I can tell. The back of your hair, that bit of a curl. Don’t think you can hide it—hold on.” He turned and yelled back to the tailors. “C79143!” In only a few seconds, a tailor brought a pair of gloves. “Try these on.”
Leo slipped into a pair of black leather gloves, tight but flexible, closed protectively at the fingertip, but dotted open on the back of the hand to keep the fingers cool. Four large extra holes over each finger’s base knuckle for bonus ventilation. And an opening over the back of the hand, above where the glove fastened on the upside of the wrist with a black steel button.
Beryl raised her eyebrows. “You ever turn a steering wheel with a pair of these?”
“They’re nice,” Leo said. Nice to hide the fingerprints.
“I’m learning to competitively race,” Rock said. “Maybe you stock a slightly larger pair?”
“Any size for any hand,” the owner said, then called back, “C791, the whole box.”
Rock took a black pair and Beryl took tan. “How much?” she said.
The owner started on numbers with his fingers, then flung them aside. “Twenty. Twenty will be fine.”
Beryl dug through her bag, but Leo pulled a bill from his wallet, cash-only since Dad’s garage.
“Appreciate it,” Beryl said.
“No—” The owner stared deeply now, two seconds at each of them. “Thank you. I hope these help you get where you’re going.” Beryl nodded, then turned and led them to the back door. She checked the oversized lot, then exited left and continued down the row of shops.
Leo put his gloves on, threw a fist into the opposite palm. Hopefully no stadium, but there’s an audience. Don’t be discouraged—this isn’t a solo mission.
They hiked down the row of shops. Half had chains on the doors. The opposite of Sidney, but that doesn’t make Bainbridge trustworthy. Already got lucky once. Penchant Jewelry was open. A connection to the outlaws? Through the back window it wasn’t jewels at all, only postcards and woven baskets. Farther down, the last shop had only an index card as its sign. Not even taped to the middle of the backdoor’s window, but slid into the window lining at the bottom corner by the doorknob. Tonya’s Prom Dress and Tuxedo. A product line Tonya must have decided had more demand than wedding attire.
“Maybe they’ve branched out from play to work,” Beryl said. “We need vests.” She peeked inside with Rock. As soon as they put their noses to the glass, the backdoor opened and nametagged Tonya swung a rolled newspaper at them.
“Go, get gone, now,” Tonya said. “You should be ashamed of yourselves.” She pulled the door shut and lowered the blinds, and clanked the deadbolt tight.
They backed away to the center of the lot, halfway between the buildings and the woods. “No Bond suit, no nothing,” Rock said.
“They must have more than rentals in town,” Beryl said. “Nothing in the old factory?”
They continued west, circled the faded brick tower. The only entrances were for squirrels and birds and groundhogs. The doors and truck ramps were sealed with concrete.
“Where’s the snowplows?” Leo said.
“Not on Main Street, I’ll give you that,” Beryl said.
“The bit of a driveway back there. Uphill, so they get a rolling start?”
They went to the back of the lot, and only then did Beryl and Rock see the driveway Leo had spotted on the way in. Headed straight up behind the trees and out of sight.
“On the map?” Beryl said. Leo shook his head. “Cover me. Birdwatching.”
Leo and Rock stood nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, and behind them, on the side of the driveway, Beryl checked the large lot with binoculars for observers, stalkers, investigators, anyone following. She swiped her view down the back window of every shop in sight. “Dust and cardboard,” she said. “No faces. No traffic, not even a smoke break at Redwood Uniforms.” She turned and aimed up through the woods. “Box building up there, red bricks, newer. Let’s get in and take a look.”
She started up the driveway, but only for a second. She led them off the right side, fifteen yards into the woods. They followed the driveway to a large brick cube, with two bumper-stickered pickup trucks parked on the left side. Above the front garage doors shined Town of Bainbridge Highway Association. Maybe the crew was inside watching cartoons, or maybe they had traded their pickups for city-owned trucks and left for the day. Was it an actual headquarters? Or just a club for workers and retired crews?
Beryl continued to loop around until they were uphill behind two towering storage pyramids, one for salt and one for sand.
“Looks like roadwork to me,” Rock said.
Leo nodded. “Feet of snow.”
Another peek showed no workers in the pyramids, so Beryl led the team toward the brick cube from the back. Four plow trucks were backed into the far edge of the lot, perpendicular to the end of the building. No smell of diesel, no knocks from combustion chambers. Nobody outside at the basketball hoop, none inside at the ground-floor lounge’s pool table.
“These official employees likely took their official responsibility up to Sidney’s official party,” Rock said.
“Or maybe doing their jobs,” Beryl said. She put on her new glove and tried the backdoor. Locked. They did have cameras, though, looking outside through the glass above the door, and as soon as she pulled, tires started rolling up the driveway.
How long had they known?
Beryl backed away, and Leo and Rock followed her onto the basketball court.
“Cover?” Leo said. But before Beryl could answer, a Dodge Van appeared at gravel-clouding speed, passed them, then spun a 180 on the lot. It parked with its passenger side promoting itself eight feet away: Limbo Lightning Battery.
The driver ignored the emergency brake, and the van bounced from front to back to front as he jumped out and rounded the hood with a hop and a skip, hand out, searching for a trio of handshakes. One pocket patch on his gray button-down shirt matched the artwork on his van. The other said Tex in embroidered script. “I swear, this is a great day, and it’s especially great to meet you. Say now, what’s your names?”
Beryl shook Tex’s hand first. “We’re not the local crew you’re looking for, we’re swinging through on a visit from—Yetiville—Pennsylvania, prepping our plan for this winter. Running it by the experts, you know.”
“I know you’re plenty expert yourselves,” Tex said. “What would your names be? Tex Minker right here.”
“Colin and Ronald,” Beryl said, nodding at Leo and Rock. “And I’m Vera.”
“My pleasure. You all must be aware northeast plows are one of the vehicles most in need of supportive batteries to make sure they don’t waste their own engine, fizz out early. Plows are needed not just to keep their streets clear, but to keep their towns moving, their kids in school, their supermarkets open, their doctors and nurses and ambulances saving lives. I’m sure these folks will say you’ll need a buildup of battery in each of your plows these winter.” Tex opened the van’s sliding door to a sales showroom.
“We’re not fancy in finance, but we can pass your name along,” Beryl said.
Tex handed each a color-printed product guide. Leo flipped through—batteries in trucks, of course, but batteries in rooms full of batteries, batteries under computers, and atop red and white cell towers, and in submarines, and in drones carrying cameras and unspecified—maybe even explosive—payloads. Leo discreetly pointed out a battery connected to a mystery device, an earthquake evaluator or maybe an oil well monitor.
“Here’s one we might do today,” Beryl said. “One of our truck radios, you know, the type you can unclip and take with you as you head out on foot.”
“All the time,” Tex said.
“We could use something like that—a small radio, hopefully basic, trying to get it working again. Our drive up yesterday, would you believe it? Poof.” Beryl leaned in and scanned for inventory.
“Wish I could say I’m a specialty shop,” Tex said, “but this van’s rather far from it. These little battery bibles are all I’ve got here. But let’s get your order down, and we’ll have it shipped to you in four to five days.”
“Nothing?” Rock said. “I’m sure radio’s an essential item your customers are willing to pay decent money for, any day of the week. Or night.”
“We’re a just-in-time factory,” Tex said. “Since our acquisition, at least. It’s really for the best—that’s what the training classes said—but here, sorry, got to say it’s this.” He fanned the catalog’s pages.
“Got a truck?” Leo said. “Following you, delivering the sales you’re racking up?”
“Now that’s something I wish we’d stuck to. In the past, yes, you are correct, we would deliver the products to the loyal customers with our own driver and our own delivery Mack Truck. Like you drive on your own, am I right?”
Sure. Leo nodded.
“But now, it’s all a delivery organization, at best. Technically independent folks who fill their station wagons so full of our gear they can’t see out the back window, or the side windows, or even a good chunk of the windshield for the first few stops. Four to five days, that’s it now—but for a small upcharge I highly, highly recommend, you could do a next-day delivery for $149.99.”
“We’ll review and call in anything we need,” Beryl said.
“Mention me,” Tex said, pointing to a sticker on the front corner of the catalog with his employee number.
Leo checked the van again. In the back, uncovered, was Tex’s gear for life on the road. A folding chair, a Coleman cooler, a dented cardboard box of beer, bags of onion rings, paper towels, three rolls of toilet paper, a backpack of his own, and a rope strung across the top of the van. Hangers on the rope: A down parka, a rain coat, a leather jacket, and six or seven uniform shirts, same as Tex was wearing.
“Hey Tex,” Leo said, “you know we really like this brand, Limbo Lightning, it’s an impressive, top-quality product—how about three shirts with your logo on them? I see you’ve got plenty back here.”
Tex peeked in where Leo pointed, seemed to struggle to let his eyes focus beyond the smoothly arranged sales material. “My very own uniform?” Tex laughed and shook his head. “Not for sale. I’m all the way up here with another two weeks on the road. I don’t trust laundromats and I’m no fan of washing clothes in a five-gallon bucket. But I can order you shirts—”
“These,” Rock said. “We’ll pay you phenomenally. If they fit.”
“But even if they do, each has my name on it. I can’t give that out and risk confusion over my role, my presentation—”
Beryl waved it off. “As much as we like your name, Mr. Tex, we’re individuals through and through. We’ll snip those off, no problem.” She fished out a tool. “I’ve changed out badges all the time in the past.”
“These—they’re not product I’ve been approved to sell. They’re not certified for distribution. This’ll upend my sales quota if I’m booked for a loss. No can do.”
Rock pulled three blueberry-sized jewels from his pocket, stolen at some point from the outlaws’ bag. He held them up, spun them in the air, added a flicker to the soggy blanket of almost-snow afternoon light. “As I was saying.”
“Well, I do have Christmas coming up…” Tex leaned in for a peek. “Heck, why not.” He slid the side door closed and opened the back. He handed a shirt to each of them.
“Let’s see.” Beryl tried it on over her shirt. Too big, but acceptable. The opposite for Rock. And for Leo, a decent fit, sleeves the slightest big long, but those could be held in place by the gloves.
Tex pocketed the jewels. Beryl already had her shirt off and seam-ripped the nametag. She put it back on, unbuttoned. “Leo, pass yours over.” He and Rock lost their Tex patches, too, and Tex dropped them in his laundry bag. “We’ll keep these on for now,” Beryl said. “Getting colder than we expected.”
“You’re telling me.” Tex put on his bright-blue hooded parka.
The van was headed somewhere next. Leo gambled Beryl would accept an idea. “Any chance you can get us to the power lines across the river? We don’t want this afternoon to be a total waste of training.” She didn’t intervene.
Tex checked his watch. “Maybe twenty minutes ago, but not now. I’ve got a goal-line meeting with the Mayor of Bainbridge at Earl’s Diner, four-thirty. The one with the most neon in a fifty-mile radius. It’s actually time for me to head over and park and comb my hair in the back lot. Professionalism—you know what it’s all about. Maybe next time though. And good meeting you. My cards are stapled in the back of your catalog.”
Leo checked the magazine, nodded.
Tex raced through goodbye handshakes like a freestyle swim—Beryl, second, got the left hand—and then hop-skipped back in the van and drove off, waving with a honk song.
“Some individuals need to honk in every situation,” Rock said, shaking his head.
“Might raise someone’s eyebrows,” Beryl said. She checked her watch. “For now, let’s set up in the woods until four-thirty, four forty-five. It’ll be almost dark, and that mayor will be tucked in the diner booth.” She led them into the woods straight north, then they continued west. They passed the edge of Bainbridge’s highway maintenance station and hunkered down. Beryl inspected her logo badge up close. “Limbo Lightning. So close to getting word to our contact, but still so far.”
There was a new ambition in Beryl’s voice. She’d been chasing this connection the whole time, but had kept it covered deep until now. “Our contact is at the dam?” Leo said. Maybe even the person she needs to get.
Beryl sat silent, likely cursing herself for revealing too much. Rock didn’t talk, likely afraid any weight added to Leo’s question would shut down Beryl’s fragile, temporary share.
Beryl eventually said, “Dam crew. It’s not uncommon. Let’s leave it at that.”
There’s always someone on the inside. They sat quietly again, checking watches, letting the sky go dark.
“We’ll help you fix the radio,” Leo said. “Not asking to get on the call. What are we looking for?”
“It’s not a branded product,” Beryl said. She flicked the patch on her shirt again. “Though I’m sure Limbo has the right ingredients. I’ll know it when I see it.”
“Six eyes,” Rock said. “We can have six eyes searching instead of two.”
“Think about those fed bigwigs back in Sidney,” Leo said. “What’s in their trunks? What’s under their hoods?”
Beryl squeezed her pack’s arm strap, shrugged her shoulders. “They might. They very well might.”
“Hold on,” Rock said. “I wasn’t referring specifically to the fascist festival.” He ran a hand through his dirty hair. “We need hats to blend in. It’ll be a giveaway without their overpriced forehead billboards.”
Leo shook his head. “We won’t have to go up in the mess. We all saw their parking spots. Two or three lots, plus parallel parking tight on every street. And this shirt, its logo. Not perfect, but it’s enough.”
“Some people believe anything,” Beryl said.
Leo pointed at Beryl’s pack. “I’ll tell you where on the car to check, which might be rolling with what you need. Guessing we check dashboards first, stereos, CBs, electronics. Watch for the right speakers, maybe draw on the amplifiers in the trunk.”
“Do you work with these sort of things? You said you deliver pizza.”
“I mean, I don’t get paid. More like my dad paid for a few classes in Easton. But afterward, you know, it was back to pizza. I’ve done projects here and there, upgrades, trucker stuff.”
“Are you reviewing his resume?” Rock said. “Where’s the broken rotary dialer you’re hiding? Show him what you need. Why is this so complicated?”
Beryl checked her watch, checked the horizon. The sun was down, but the dark blanket above was still approaching from the east. She took her bag and sat next to Leo, opened it so the insides faced north, away from any lens in the town. She pulled out the plastic bag of Tastykakes and set them in her lap. “Get ready.” She put the pack between herself and Leo. “I’m going to light it inside for only a few seconds. Lean in close, so your head blocks any light from escaping.”
“Headblock—” Rock said, but then went silent.
Leo leaned in, lined the edges of the pack around his face and Beryl’s wrist against his forehead. Something in there, something not for any tree-mounted camera or cloud-penetrating satellite or silent drone. “Alright,” he said.
Click. A normal looking CB radio—at first. The body was built with alternating panels of olive green metal, plastic, metal, plastic. Checking from left to right—good, cracked, good, good, good, cracked, good, cracked, good, good—the first, third, and fourth plastic sheets had thin, almost hidden cracks—an antenna? Up top, rubber with a metal base. The base, screwed down. The three screws didn’t fit perfectly, they were hard black, unscratched—probably from somewhere in the inside of the tower. Maybe the entire antenna had been replaced after the jump.
“Ready for the other side?” Beryl whispered.
“Alright,” Leo said, holding back a nod.
Beryl clicked off the light, Leo pulled his head out. Beryl reached in delicately and took fifteen seconds to do—who knows? “Ok, same thing,” she said.
Head in, click. Same panel pattern on the back, metal and plastic, but now each metal panel held a transparent glass cylinder implanted halfway, lying flat. Each exposed half-cylinder rose less than an inch above the panel. Five parallel, one-inch diameter cylinders. Clear glass, maybe plastic, maybe bulletproof. Hopefully nothing that cracks on impact. Inside each, spices. Yes, the five like bottles of spice baked into a deep-dish pizza. But nothing green—little collections from the woods—pebbles and dirt and maybe salt, another with crystals, another with sand. All so close, but maybe dug up thousands of miles apart. Cracks on the metal, on the plastic in between? No. And nothing electric, no plugs in or out, no signage, not even screws or clips.
“Show the sides?” Leo said.
Beryl slowly lifted the pack, allowing for some extra space, and with a hand outside gently tipped the device to the left and right. Standard-issue radio bits. Two round knobs, two push-buttons. An outlet for headphones, maybe a screen. A folded-down plug, duct-taped over but with its label exposed. 220 volts. Possibly dangerous to plug in at the moment, but more importantly risking easy detection. On the other side, the battery alternative—a star-shaped slide-in rechargeable?
“Base?” Leo said. Another gentle lean revealed it.
Underneath, a steel pan with four flat screws caught the bottoms of the alternating panels from the front and back. Probably more connectors and fasteners inside, hidden under the pan. Good for setting it on a rough spot though. Concrete, or sharp rocks, or even tossing it to the ground—or falling with it as the bumper between you and metal.
Beryl clicked off the light and Leo sat up. “Any ideas,” she said, repacking the Tastykake and tightening up.
“I didn’t see the inside—” Leo said.
“Focus on what you did see,” Rock said. Not scolding, but encouraging.
“220 volts, at least that’s common for appliances. I’m guessing, like you already said with the duct tape, we don’t want to plug it in and get picked up.”
Beryl nodded.
“So that leaves the battery, and I’ll be absolutely amazed if Limbo Lightning—if anybody—sells a star-shaped battery. Or carries one. Unless I never saw the thing, I’m guessing it’s not in any car down there. But luckily it’s not an empty star-shaped hole—so it could be a matter of filling it with the right juices, acid and base, alkaline—I’m guessing at this point. Radioactive stuff, or liquid mercury—if it’s a fill-up, let us know the ingredients. Speaking of which, that’s the part I have no idea on. The glass rods filled up with dirt and pebbles and sea salt. On another level. No cracks on the glass at least, looks like a good thing. Unlike the cracks on the front. Not sure if pressure is the problem, if those front plastic cracks are killing the psi you need to get it working. Let’s hope not. It could be something as simple as tweaking the battery.”
Rock leaned forward and shook Leo’s shoulder. “Hear, hear! Mr. Secret Professional, welcome to the mission. High-tension electronic power transmission, managed elegantly on demand. To Leo!”
“Keep it down,” Beryl said. “Good work. This adds some points I hadn’t thought of. And I agree—let’s hope it’s a minor modification of the battery. But it sounds like you doubt those people’s vehicles up in Sidney.”
Leo looked east. “I mean, if this device is going to connect to the dam, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone over there has their own connection. Officials and whatnot. It might even be easier—find who’s calling the dam and steal their calling card—gear-wise, you know what I mean.”
“We already walked it once,” Beryl said. “Not even two hours. Let’s get ready for a retrace.”
Hiking without flashlights barely slowed them down. The cheers and marching bands and target shooting and winner bells were a destination.
“No dam on the beer,” Rock said. “We can put a keg on the confiscation list.”
Leo and Beryl stayed silent. In a few minutes, tight parking appeared through the trees on the streets below. Beryl had memorized it correctly. The local houses were a streetlit grid of cars and trucks. Clearly visitors—it seemed most of the vehicles cost more than the homes around them. But the other side of the price curve was parked up here as well, old rides that would soon sell for three digits, or be traded for power tools, or drive trails and fields till they succumbed to a mudpit. Both types had promising antennas. Beryl led them closer, behind a house with no lights on, and they crept to the edge of the forest.
“Anything look promising to you?” she said.
Leo took the binoculars and scanned the streets from behind a tree. So many rides to consider. Who bought it, why, what do they do with it, and just as often, what do they wish they did with it daily. Essential to filter the wannabe rides from the government workhorses. No bumper stickers, no custom plates. Maybe a single-colored square with a number and a barcode, yellow or green or navy. Don’t be fooled by the tall white barcodes on the driver’s side rear quarter glass, most likely the gate of an upscale development. Someone not rich enough or poor enough to be inspired to fight.
Look for non-factory issue. Ignore basic radios. All too common for anyone who overspent at the dealer on tinted windows and mudflaps and sharp exhausts, and then cut back on what’s unseen by other drivers. Look for the hockey puck antennas, stuck to a roof for functionality over style, rarely centered or equally spaced. Look for tires chosen for speed, stability, toughness, and any-weather missions. Tires and dark hard wheels that get checked and sprayed down more often than the body panels around them—all clean, none waxed. And trunk space—big enough for a shotgun and a shovel and a body. Pickups and sedans fell out of the competition. A single Ford Explorer seemed the ride most likely to check in with the dam each night before shifting into gear.
“Ford Explorer, asphalt gray, third up on Seventh Street, between the black Fiat and the dented baby blue pickup.” Leo passed the binoculars around, and they nodded. The house nearest the Explorer had lamp post on at the end of the driveway, and an open garage door showing a fading Corolla, but no lights on in the windows. “What do you think?”
Beryl took few seconds to process. “We don’t all have to go in. We can’t work on it there anyway. I’ll follow along in the woods, back from the tree line, alongside on a straight line down from here to there. You two go together. Two guys in uniforms, nobody will question it. And if they do, it’s the usual Limbo Lightning, you’re showing up to the festival. Walk the sidewalk like you own the town. Because we do. Get up close, no fingerprints, pick it like the cabin safe. When you’re done, fake that you forgot something in your truck, and backtrack to the woods. This dark house two ahead looks like a good in and out. Pine trees lining each side of the property. Need anything else?”
“The front door key.” Rock put out his palm and Beryl gave him the lockpick.
“I guess I’ll use my flashlight,” Leo said.
Beryl nodded. “I’ll keep your packs.” She emptied the grocery bag of Tastykake into her own. “Take this to wrap whatever you bring back. I’ll watch. We’ll improvise if we have to.”
“Last thing,” Leo said. “What if you spot someone approaching. Do you have a whistle, a bird call, something?”
“Nothing I can trust here. Rock, the lookout job’s on you.”
“Disbarred attorneys fall fast, fall deep,” he said. “I got it.”
The team backed up ten yards into the forest, and then Leo and Rock forked off and crept downhill on an angle to the lights-out house between the pines. Onto the yard, casually, as if they had split a six-pack at the top of the hill. Leo slowed on the tight walkway between the side of the house and the pines and inspected their pile of tools. A six-foot shovel, a bow saw, a sledgehammer. All looking less than a year old but not kept out of the rain. Decent, but too big for this job. The lockpick it is.
They entered the front yard beyond the range of the porch light. Both glanced left. Two empty aluminum lawn chairs webbed into lumbery plaids, cans of Genesee Cream Ale at the foot of each. Leo checked the fixture and whispered motion light. This could be two minutes in the bedroom, or two hours, or all night, or a bathroom break and refill, or one in the toilet and the other standing and leaking into the east-side pines.
“Quick,” Leo said, and they stayed tight and reached the road. They crossed to the other side, turned left behind a maroon minivan, and looked back at the house through the van’s halfway-tinted windows. Still nobody out front, no lights inside.
“I’d assume they pre-intoxicated here then moseyed straight to the fair,” Rock said.
“We’ll keep an eye on this one, maybe go back up on a neighbor’s side of the pines.”
The Explorer was parked only a block ahead. Darker than the night around it, somehow swallowing street lamps rather than reflecting. They reached the back bumper, Leo closest on the sidewalk. A plain Pennsylvania license plate—but officers have personal rides, too. No peeking through the rear window, the rear door, the front door.
At the front bumper they stopped. Leo checked his watch and turned back, pretending he was looking for someone on the sidewalk. No cool-down sound from under the hood. They’re either still going strong or heading home soon. “Keep your eyes on the sidewalk,” he said. “Let me know who’s coming.”
Leo had only the slightest view through the windshield. Two seats, definitely not leather, looking more like a black-on-black weave of pizza bag-caliber nylon. Seats for messy work. On the top center of the dashboard, a miniature half-globe suggested an alarm system, but it didn’t blink. Either disengaged to lie low or turned off. Maybe it triggers too easily and he’s tired of hiking back to shut it up. Light mud on the front bumper, bordering the centered Pennsylvania-style decorative plate. A Bob Ross painting of Yosemite?
“They get outside,” Leo said. “They could be geared up good.” He walked back to the trunk door, putting on his gloves. Rock did the same. “Be ready now. This will either be an alarm, your picker, or an open trunk.” He thumb-pushed the lock, it clicked, and without a screaming siren the trunk door opened.
Now the streetlights lit the inside. The two back seats were folded down, explaining why they weren’t seen through the windshield. Atop them, sealed plastic buckets and metal boxes, a net, and on the far right side, sets of custom hooks holding a bunch of fishing poles. In front, the driver’s seat wore a camouflage vest with a reflective logo on back: Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission.
Rock grabbed a metal box and flipped it open. No different than the usual tackle box. Leo grabbed another, opened it, and then a third. The same type of gear in each one, but some old, some new, some cheap plastic, some finely carved woodwork. All likely confiscated because someone put a hook where they shouldn’t.
“Always stock up.” Rock dug from the boxes a pair of needle-nose pliers, a coil of unopened metal fishing line, and a pack of ten fat hooks.
Leo searched further through the boxes—there weren’t three, more like thirty. At the bottom of the bunch he found a Pelican protector case. The waterproof, shockproof, seal-in-place carrier that had introduced electronics to the wild. He and his fellow drivers had wanted one to deliver the perfect dish of Chicken Scarpariello. “Here we go.”
Leo flipped the case’s double-throw latches and raised the lid. Sure enough, devices were lodged in foam to prevent even a millimeter shake. Five green metal mangoes. Judging by the smell alone, they were far from electronics. Grenades for underwater. Likely another confiscation from someone fishing with no guarantee of what, or who, floats up.
“I genuinely approve,” Rock said. “But we can’t haul the box.”
“You’d put that in your pocket?”
“They don’t present an immediate threat of explosion.”
Leo shook his head—entirely untrue—but followed Rock’s lead and grabbed one for each pocket. Temporarily. Rock stuffed the last one in his back pocket. Leo shut the trunk fast but quietly, with a solid half-inch push once the door had been silently lowered. “Let’s find the next.”
They continued up the sidewalk alone, scanning porches, seeing no one, but raising the volume of the festival with every step. Ahead, the road ended at a blocked-off gate, where two drinking guards were checking ages. And probably skin cells and irises and phone data. Leo turned right onto a new block, also full of miniature houses. Only window-door-window below a sharp roof with two dormer windows poking out. A few had lights on, people watching screens behind white curtains.
The cars were less tight. Here, drivers were more aware of their vehicles. They had chosen the side street for a spot with more space to rest, even if they had to walk and burn their own energy to baby the ride.
“Crossing over.” Leo led Rock on a diagonal to a Grand Marquis parked ahead on the other side. No chance of an alarm on this beast. A New York plate in front said SCI0RD1E. It was a coupe, probably 1987, with a long, lean box-body, dropped two and half inches into creep mode. Slime green paint spit back the streetlights with brand new wax. The rear half of the roof was knockout black vinyl, a landau top with a tinted rhombus window leaning ahead like a Rottweiler ready to bite groin. Wheels—five point steel, standard issue, the best sold by Mercury that year. Windows tinted to the legal limit—enough to peek in.
On the passenger seat, a pizza delivery bag. Super Sicilian—as expected. The big-brand wouldn’t admit to this car, but Leo had heard the details on the way back from the woods in Rome, the dad driving because his son’s Marquis was out for work.
But the front seat had something much worse than the Super Sicilian brand. Atop the black fabric, glass was scattered like shredded cheese. Someone had broken the passenger side window. Not as a burglary—the new stereo was still clicked into the dashboard. Leo and Rock sped around to the sidewalk. There the swing of a hammer spread beyond the broken window, to dents from front light to tail along the entire electric-purple pinstripe. Three dent signatures, three angry men pissed at this car and why it came here not to deliver pizza but to protest. The plate—it didn’t even try to hide it.
Around to the back. The bumper stickers were out proud. They hadn’t seen any protests through the binoculars from above, and they didn’t hear any chants or songs amid the cheers and tubas and trumpets. Rock kept walking, looking for evidence.
“Same thing here, here, and here,” he said. Three metalhead cars with the same bumper sticker aggression, smashed together all the same. A minivan and crossover between the three and the Marquis had been skipped because they didn’t speak up.
What would happen to these cars at the end of the night? The drivers weren’t coming back, they’d probably been delivered to the county jail hours ago. They would have taken a break here to share something, food or smoke or water, and now it was long past snack time. Or maybe they had chained themselves to something. The bridge maybe—block off the walkers, block off the throne. Leo peeked inside the Grand Marquis again and shook his head. A broken window invites more breaks—tonight at least. Anyone who had heard the story, read the stickers, or compared this choice to their loan-paid upgrade would be ready to key a scratch of their own. This car couldn’t stay here.
Leo reached in and unlocked it, opened the side door, and dumped out the glass using the pizza bag beneath.
“Hey,” Rock called back. “What’s in there?”
Another couple swipes to be safe. “Get in over here.”
Leo went in the driver’s side and checked under the mat. No key, but before he sat up Rock had picked the no-chip ignition. Leo tested the gas, not too loud, but even 3,000 RPM was nasty.
“Everyone’s going to recognize this beast.”
“We’re fine,” Leo said. “This isn’t a road trip.” He wished the best to the three cars sacrificed, a Tercel, a Focus, and a CR-V. Then he pulled out with the lights off, three-point-turned in the nearest driveway, and headed the way they’d been walking, south. He went right at the next four-way, away from the festival.
“What does this monster have that we couldn’t have carried on our own?”
“Doing our job,” Leo said. And there it was, ahead, the elementary school he’d seen from the forest above. A miniature upstate school pulling in kids from miles away and still with less than a dozen per grade. He turned into the driveway, looped around the back of the building, and parked the Grand Marquis between a 500 kW Cummins diesel generator and the brick building.
Leo hopped out and Rock followed. Here the G-Marq will survive the night. Who knows if cops will let it live tomorrow. They ringed around the far side of the school, back to the sidewalk. A pack of thirty-somethings passed them on the other side of the street, laughing, aluminum in hand—beer cans and Little League bats.
“We’ll walk a loop,” Leo whispered. They turned right, west, aiming back toward Bainbridge, five miles ahead. A few blocks to their left, the Susquehanna rushed parallel toward far-off Philadelphia. The fishing crew had grown and stretched out on the banks, maybe even led by the Fish and Boat officer.
“Let’s not get too close to the hook swingers,” Rock said.
Leo nodded and turned right on the next residential block. Facing north to the hill now. The rides were driving-test perfectly parked, less than a foot from the curb, aligned with tires straightened. No broken glass. As if a valet was using the block, as if a crowd bidding on classics was watching. But nothing special, just entry-level compacts and crossovers. Except for that one.
At the center of the block, cuddling a fire hydrant with two tires up on the curb, was a silver Ford F250 XLT. Super Duty.
“Super doodie,” Rock said, “also known as shithead extraordinaire.” The tail and the sides had big blue signage: Gorgeous Gorge Dam. This wasn’t a bumper sticker to cheer on the flooding. This was a fed or two from the dam staff, up to six of them comfortably. No fancy antennas like the fishing officer, but they probably stayed in touch with handhelds.
“That’s our order,” Leo said. They scanned the porches, yards, and driveways. Nobody out, standard Sidney at this point. “Let’s do this fast.”
No tints on the windows and a metal cover over the bed. The dashboards blinking red would sound the alarm for either of them. Best to go for the front. They probably tucked whatever they’re using under the seat or tossed it on the back bench. Leo clicked on the flashlight through the passenger window. Sure enough, still clipped to the dash, a long-line grandchild of the CB radio. The curly-wired microphone was the same as way back, but the box was—pebbles, dirt, sand? An exact copy of what Beryl had in her bag. CB, Beryl, CB, Beryl—is this a connection? No matter, doesn’t change the plan. “Pure gold,” he said to Rock.
Rock peeked in. “Acapulco Gold. First-rate tasty to me.”
“This is a sprint,” Leo said. “The alarm’s definitely going to blast. The river’s crowded, the streets are a crap shoot. Let’s grab it, head straight north to the other end, cross our route in, and get to the woods. Beryl should be watching us from up there anyway—unless we lost her on the G-Marq move.” They scanned the woods for a clicked flashlight. Nothing.
“Rip it out?” Rock said. He pulled out the needle nose pliers, snapped them with a gloved hand.
“That’s it—but gently. Those five glass cylinders have to stay in one piece. Break them and it’s over.”
Rock nodded. “Got it. And it looks like they’re not admirers of the lockpick tradition, either.” Sure enough, there was no keyhole on the door. The truck had gone pure clicker.
“Shotgun window it is,” Leo said, nodding.
Rock swung with a precise stab. The glass spiderwebbed but didn’t shatter.
“A couple more,” Leo said. On the fifth swing, the glass folded and fell in the cab. The alarm sounded, high-pitched, upgraded.
“Go!” Rock said.
Leo tried—the door wouldn’t respond to the interior’s unlock button, still waiting for the driver’s remote, so Leo wiggled inside through the cleared-out window. He ran his gloved fingers around the radio. A simple metal mount bracket with two bolts securing the sides. He reached back, took the pliers, and tried to undo the bolts. Nothing. He pulled the glovebox—locked.
There wasn’t time for precise separation, nor for a cab search and a wrench-size try-out. He felt around the radio—does this one have it, too? On the bottom of the far side, there, a star-shaped slice. Miniature—damn impressive the gloves spotted it. Leo pushed on the star, and the battery popped out. Holding it delicately in one hand, he slid out the window.
“One more try.” Rock belly-flopped in.
Leo looked left, right, left. House lights were clicking on at the still-blaring alarm. “No,” he whispered fast. “Uphill!”
“Experiment commence!” Rock fell back outside through the window, body weight pulling on the metal line he’d taken from the fishing officer, and there was a double-pop inside the cab. Rock scrambled to his feet and reached in, pulled out the full radio with one of the stolen fishhooks twisted in half of a bolted arm, still attached. Metal that weak? A hook that strong? No time to figure out what Rock tried and how it worked, whether it was his plan or luck.
They both ran north up the sidewalk. The alarm chased, just as loud at the end of the block. The house across the street had a sealed white panel fence around its property—left or right, which side’s best? Leo checked both, and then glanced backward at a cry of there they are, they’re there. And there they are—the dad and infant and cop stood next to the truck’s broken window, the dad pointing at them.
The cop raised her Maglite and paired it with her gun. “Face down, on the ground!”
Rock sprinted left, back toward where they’d started, and was ten yards away before Leo ran too. Headlights flooded the road behind and they both curved right, onto a yard toward the forest, but before they’d crossed the yard, Beryl’s voice rang out.
“It’s me, get in!” A palm slapped a door panel.
They turned, and there she was, skidding to a stop, riding shotgun in Tex’s van. An electrical motor slid the side door open. Bang, bang-bang-bang—shots from the officer who’d yelled, who hadn’t reached the end of the block yet. The shots were either an intimidation into nearby grass or threaded deathmakers aimed diagonally through backyards and laundry.
The volume of the festival rose with the shots, and brought its own assault to the mix. Bullets of every size shot into the sky, a toast among the guests, hopefully arcing only into forest. Leo dove through the halfway-open door, and Rock through the open door a second later. Tex pounded the gas.
“Stay down,” Beryl said. Sure enough, three bullets found the van’s back windows. But nothing shattered into the van, and nothing cracked bigger than a poker chip.
“No penetration on that glass,” Tex said, swerving around people aiming pistols at the stars. “Need to protect the merchandise—or at least we used to before it went to catalogs.”
“We got it.” Leo held the star-shaped battery in his pocket from over the pants. “Are you ready?”
“Let me get back there.” Beryl slipped between the front seats and sat on the van’s back bench, next to Rock.
“The battery,” Leo said.
“The battery?” Rock turned around from his watch out the back and lifted his steal. “We got the whole thing.”
“Very nice, we’ll get to it.” Beryl opened her pack on her lap, again took out the Tastykakes, and twisted the radio in the bag. To keep some padding around it, most likely. And to avoid the need to pack fast, which stole Rock’s pistol on the flight. “I’ll hold it up,” she said. “You load it in.” All business, no joke.
No sirens were chasing yet. “Keep it easy now,” Rock called forward to Tex, “and watch for any potholes.” Tex peeked in the mirror and flashed a thumbs up.
Leo pulled the long battery star from his pocket, held it tight with two hands. He lined it up with the five-point hole, then asked, “Specific line-up?”
“Spin it slowly, let me see the sides.” Now Leo saw it too—one of the sides had a tiny silver grid. “That’s the outside of the left base,” Beryl said. “On the deep end of the hole.”
“Got it.” Leo flipped the battery, rotated it halfway, and lined it up again.
“Looks good.”
He lowered it to a natural stop point, with two inches still outside the slot. Beryl took over, pushed it, and it clicked in snug. She turned the radio again and started working its buttons.
“Got a new admirer back there,” Rock said.
Leo peeked over Beryl’s shoulder. A low Miata skidded left out of a residential road, a Chihuahua chasing the ankle of the van.
Tex checked his side mirror and swerved back and forth, daring the Miata to bite and be flicked into a front yard’s thick-trunk tree.
Two in the Miata—twins?—and now the shotgun rider placed an almost-shotgun rifle on the top of the windshield and aimed.
“Do your side windows have the same thickness as the rear?” Rock said.
“More or less.”
Bakkssh! The sound of the rifle at the same time the bullet shattered the left-side center pane of glass, diagonally, and exited through the shotgun window. If Beryl had still been up front— If the angle had been a few degrees to the right—
“Alright, get down, get down,” Tex said, swerving harder, taking advantage of the now-open river road between Sidney and Bainbridge.
Beryl and Leo had already ducked to the floor, into a sandbox of broken glass and battery catalogs. But not Rock. Rock had his eyes an inch from the still-intact rear window. “Hold straight for a second,” he said. And when Tex did, Rock pulled the plug on a river grenade and hook-shot it out the center, at the Miata. BAM! A blast from behind, and Leo raised up, took a peek. Nothing—the Miata was still tight on their tail and sniffing hard.
“Unbelievable.” Rock readied the next one. “Of all things, it arced perfectly onto the top of the windshield above the mirror, then bounced a second arc over the cabin, then exploded on the pavement behind them. Tex, let them get closer for this.”
“Bull,” Beryl said. “Step on it.”
“Already did,” Tex said—not true at all—and then the van slowed with a hard push on the brake. Rock leaned out up to his chest and tossed the second grenade diagonally back, a pitcher throw, follow-through and all.
“Get in!” Beryl pulled him by the back of his pants, the pockets luckily now unloaded, and Leo pulled too, and when Rock rolled back in the grenade blasted. This burst was pure thin metal and glass and dashboard and creamy leather. The Miata wobbled left-right-left-U-turn! and crashed into the corner of a roofer’s dumpster. The house’s lone street lamp said no passengers—no faces at least. Both pursuers stopped midway up the belly.
Far back, still in Sidney, a mass of headlights flickered and joined up. The party crowd had finally gotten in their cars and decided who would pull out of their spot first.
“Off the road,” Beryl said. “I don’t care where, but this van’s done.”
“The company knows windows break from time to time,” Tex said. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with the sales—but not to worry.” He turned off all of the van’s lights and continued down the relatively straight section. “I almost never use headlights in the Appalachians.”
“Still dead.” Beryl repacked her bag. “What else does it want?”
Tex turned left, onto a driveway, and Beryl relaxed her head against the bench where Rock was sitting, again watching out the back. “We’ll fix it,” Leo said. “Rock has the shipment of spare parts.”
“Whose parts?” Tex said. “Already?”
“You’re very welcome,” Rock said. Without any inspection, Beryl loaded the radio into Rock’s bag, then stole a couple of giveaway hand towels to pad the outsides of both packs. The van crackled over gravel, downhill, bouncing.
Leo checked the route. “A bridge down here?” Ahead, the Susquehanna.
“This is all part of my service to a customer,” Tex said. “The Mayor of Bainbridge. There he is now.”
A man stepped out of the open door of his three-car garage, but stayed waiting in the shadow, hands on his waist. “He’ll help you get wherever you need to go.” Tex rolled to a stop and clicked open the somehow-sliding door.
“Who now?” Rock pulled his last grenade from his pocket. Beryl hooked both bags with one hand and scanned the surrounding woods. Leo squinted and saw a driver’s glove raise from the shadow and wave. He reached out the door, gambling, and waved with his own. Nearly matching.
A voice came from the dark. “How are they holding up for you? Any quick alterations before continuing on your way?”
Leo hopped out, and now the man stepped from the shadow with a baggy cardigan sweater and a bottle of Vecchio Amaro del Capo—the owner of Redwood Uniforms.
Leo checked his palms, in shock at what these leather-wrapped hands had done. Were the gloves to blame? No—the road had been chosen long before the gloves went on. And why blame? None of that going around. We want more, more, more of this. Don’t hold it back. Let it out. Speaking of which—
“Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” Leo said to the owner. First thing, really? “I mean, sorry—thank you—for these, for your help, for this spot off the road.” And how’d he know? “I, you know, sometimes it’s on the top of your mind.” Not a good image—shut up now.
“Mr. Mayor.” Tex shook his hand.
“No trouble at all,” Mr. Mayor said to Leo. “Call me Garrett. Simple enough. Please, everyone—get your gear and follow me down to the guest house. And for you, Tex. Excellent work.” He pulled a garlic-bread thick stack of cash from the low pocket of his buttoned sweater. “Here’s the advance on our order. I won’t hold you up.”
Tex nodded. “Very well. Thank you, I appreciate it, and like I said, three to four days. And to each of you, good luck on those projects of yours. In the woods, whatever it is, I back you.” The van’s sliding door was still open, but Ted clicked it again to reset the auto-close timer. “Want to take a quick peek one more time, make sure you got everything?”
Absolutely—no more leaving gear behind after an unexpected ride. But this time Beryl’s under-seat flashlight didn’t find anything. Everyone’s starting to get it.
“All good,” Beryl said to Tex at the wheel, engine started and prepping to go who knows where through the heavy search patrol. “Thank you, Tex.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rock said. “Damn fine work.”
“Thanks,” Leo said. “You got us through some nasty curves. Watch for them out there.”
“Fixing to,” Tex said. “I look forward to helping you with any order.” He nodded and rolled up the driveway, lights off, listening in the dark, then turned left and headed west.
“Nothing to worry about on his route,” Mayor Garrett said. “It’s only a few hundred yards to my other cabin. We’ve had enough activity for one night.” He led them around the house, down gentle stone steps. “He has, at least. You three maybe have a bit farther to go. But here we are.” He led them onto the guest house’s wraparound porch and turned to Leo. “There in the back corner for you. Lights right here.” Click. Low-key, chill.
“Thanks,” Leo said. “Be right back.”
Leo turned on the bathroom light and closed the door. Light and fan connected—thank you, perfect, loud. OK, nobody’s listening, here we go. He kicked up the seat and lid of the one-piece elongated toilet, Kohler probably, and not the middle price range from Home Depot. This one probably wasn’t even sold there; the decorator had to order it special from Wisconsin for a four-digit price. Buy a beater or a Kohler. But ideal. Not overfilled with water forcing a loud splash. Instead, a gently angled bowl to silently smuggle the stream. And the smell in here—cedar, cedar walls, cedar roof, probably a steam room in this building. He called it the guest house, and technically it is, but guest house also seems like a name to justify luxuries you wouldn’t buy for yourself. The steam room, the elegant toilet, who knows what else. Leo hadn’t searched on the way in. It was a direct sprint to the door in the back corner, wondering if he would go or not, and if he didn’t, when would he have a chance to try again? How long would he have to carry it?
But here, in the masking noise of the fan—jet-worthy, marbled plastic, also in the Kohler market—he finished, and the worry was no longer needed. It would return soon enough, maybe even for the next one. OK, probably for the next one, but until then there were hours to keep moving, or to hunker down and hide.
Leo breathed deep. Lately he’d gone outdoors so often he’d forgotten the perfection of a single-person bathroom. Where you can take care of whatever needs care. Without anybody beside. Without the chance of anybody joining. Drony’s farmhouse had been a problem, the no-fan bathroom off the bedroom wasn’t even an option. The one in the hall was better, and had worked, but again, no fan, and a front door with too much open space above the floorboard, and a window only halfway curtained looking over the yard, so when standing in front of the toilet you could be waved at by someone mowing below. Or simply stared at by an undetected peeker at night. Neither of which had happened, but the possibility… For Drony’s hall bathroom, stood with the back to the window and went in the bowl. Not the usual stance, usually better to put the back to the door, which seems like it cuts down the sound but doesn’t really. But in any case, the hall bathroom had been a spot where you’re forced to make tradeoffs in order to be comfortable enough to go. Far from the ideal state.
Enjoy this moment alone, covered, guarded, every sense addressed. From the door’s smooth heat seal that slid between the wooden floor and the base, to the fan, the splurge bowl, the cone of reeds diffusing essential oil, to the curtain of embroidered Caribbean sea blocking the outdoor window from almost-ceiling to baseboard. Eyes, ears, smell, touch, taste. Taste—so clean there’s no worry about a drink from the silk stream the tapering faucet sends into a marble punchbowl sink.
Yes, Leo’s mouth was dry. From dodging and whispering and yells and those goddamn bullets and grenades. Explosions! How many more? There was a limit, guaranteed. How far ahead? The explosion would make him pack up, run, leave, or ball up and wrap his arms around his knees and shake, never wanting to hear an explosion again. That was how it worked, right? What was the condition they talked about on television, not so much now, but back during the war—the wars. PTMD? Part-time doctor, no. PTST? Pee test, please no. PTSD. Part-time something disorder. That’s what it was, something like that, an extra enemy. Did Beryl and Rock already try to help? Would they cut slack with privacy? At this point, they have to. Shared bodies. Bodies. Nobody’s going to care about asking for a little more space.
Knock-knock-it-now-knock. “Everything alright?”
Rock’s voice, he must be in line. How long has the sink been running? Leo turned it off and dried his hands on a super-plush towel.
“All good, coming out.”
Rock hopped in, shut the door without a lock, and went directly in the bowl water, splashing heard over the fan. But no matter, it’s just him.
Leo went back out to the porch, where Garrett and Beryl talked. She had a pint glass of water poured from the Brita on the sun loungers’ low table.
Mayor G turned over a new glass, filled it for Leo, and passed it over. “No need to run down your stock here. I heard you’ve been hiking. Impressive.”
Beryl nodded, nothing to hide. He probably heard it all from Beryl already, maybe with an elongated detail from Rock. Leo nodded back. “Yeah, hiking up here. These woods are great.”
Rock joined them on the porch and picked up his near-empty glass, chugged it, and filled another. “Hits the spot. I mean, your liquor probably perfectly hits the spot—I’ve never tried it—but I respect this water.” He lifted it in a cheers to Beryl. “We’ll get it eventually. See, I’m not chasing it, I’m not manacled.”
Mayor G stepped to the deck railing and leaned against it, studying the dark water beyond. The Susquehanna River, with a still-narrow flow but what seemed like a muscular depth. Leo, Beryl, and Rock followed his lead and leaned too, and in a silent row they watched the river. Leo went back to the roads, the evasion, worried there would be a boat any second with a searching spotlight. Run back inside if someone shows—but there were no boats, no fishers, nothing but a moon slice and a thick Philly-bound current and a temporary rapid where the flow hit a fallen tree.
“What if they had dammed this,” Beryl eventually said. “Would you be flooded out too?”
“Always a question,” Mayor G said, “though I’m nearly certain Bainbridge would be fine. Which doesn’t make it fine, of course, not for anyone worse off.” They nodded, made sense. “That’s over here, though,” he said. “But what about over there? The Delaware.” He nodded at the river, but more likely at the Delaware beyond. “My first company in Milford, New Jersey, a hundred and fifty people making hospital scrubs in a warehouse. Nice attire, right? And always in demand. I should have kept my shares, but my co-founder—impossible. Cut this corner, cut that corner. Clothing! You can only cut so many corners.
“I thought our disagreement meant I only had one way to leave if I wanted something different. He owned a tiny bit more of the business. I thought he had it locked down, I didn’t for a second realize what I could do with a hundred and fifty pairs of fists surrounding him, making demands.
“So I sold it back, no problem, and he bought it at a decent price, at least I got that right. I came up here where I thought I could relax. But then up here it was like I saw sports for the first time, in the bars, in fancy restaurants even, and I had time to read the papers, watch the news, sports, sports, sports, and I said This sports is more important than doctors? And here I am, still at it. Not a hundred and fifty, of course, but things are fine.
“And down there, after I left? A hundred and fifty went to three hundred, and then to four hundred, but the building didn’t get bigger. What did he say? Pack the tables, double-up on the machines, run more power if you have to. And then the dam.
“The water came up the riverbank. Some called it a reservoir. But not the art of those New York suburbs, no. What’s this water in reserve for? Why would you rise the Delaware into every town and house and factory except to drown someone? For not following the vile requests? For making their own decisions? And call it Gorgeous Gorge? Gelastic.
“I kept in touch with a few workers, friends, immaculate designers. They had to stand in six inches of river water and pile everything up on the tables. ‘Keep working!’ he said. ‘It’s safe, we got cutoffs in case your machine falls. Keep going!’
“But 400 machines—would he really test each one, make sure the system worked? It only took three weeks before someone was bitten by a turtle under their table, someone barefoot in a bathing suit, very common, and they kicked and grabbed a nearby broom, flipped it over, and swung around and tried to find it, and they took out a table, dropped the machine, and probably swept loose half of the wiring system in the process. A hairdryer in a bathtub. One hundred and thirty-one barefoot co-workers died. Two-hundred and twenty-four in rubber galoshes survived. I’d sent 500 pairs to my friend for distribution, but nobody wants to wear them for eight hours straight. Not like the owner was checking. Eventually the local firefighters shut off the main circuit. Maybe you saw the news.”
Leo hadn’t. He didn’t watch a lot of news, but this? Only fifteen miles south in Jersey? This should have been everywhere, it should have been workers in every shop asking what they’re going to do when the water rolls in. What they’re doing about the water that already flooded. Delivery runs—driving through a few inches here and there, easy. But at this point, for almost half of the trips downtown you park uphill and trudge into the pavement-based swamp. Have a pair of galoshes, but never really wear them, can’t shift well, better to wear the old shoes and dry them each night with—Mom’s hairdryer. Jesus.
“I’m so sorry,” Beryl said. “But I’m not surprised. That’s the fed’s goal. Sink us. But trust me, it’ll be over soon.”
“Thank you,” Mayor G said.
“I was horribly flooded,” Rock said. “Not compared to Milford, excuse me, that event was entirely unacceptable. But I’m only saying I can relate. Mass murder in a factory—it shows us the clear intent of the dam builders. And I am deeply sorry for those losses. My family is facing the same thing. Slowly, but death is straight ahead. I’m not sure if you’ve seen anything like this as well. No need for details, but trust me, I relate—and I am on your side one-hundred percent.”
“Thank you,” Mayor G said.
Silence now. What to say? Talk about Mom and Dad? Can’t describe it all fancy. Don’t even want to try, don’t want to watch it again. But don’t hide it. Same mission. Leo took a deep eye-closed breath, then straightened up from the deck’s railing. “My mom drowned last August. My dad is—trapped underwater.”
“Thank you,” Mayor G said.
Leo sighed, relieved. First the bathroom inside and now this—we can trust him.
“I won’t hold you up,” Mayor G said. “But I also might have a suggestion for how you can get where you need to go. Top off your water bottles, make a last stop, then follow me.”
Down the deck stairs to a cleared walkway to the river. Almost to the river—Mayor G stopped at the boathouse before the last downhill. He keyed the padlock and swung open the thick river-side door. A cover for anyone floating by with a lens.
“Stand here,” he said. “Let’s measure you.” He took a glance, went inside, and came out with three wooden paddles. Each rose from the grass to the chin. “Perfect, if I do say so. Now Rock, come on in and help me with this.” Beryl took a side spot and lit the boathouse with her flashlight.
“Don’t worry about these numbers,” Mayor G said, tapping his palm on a state registration stuck to the front of an upside-down canoe. Two foam-wrapped poles held it as a shelf underneath. “We’ll pull it off, flip it toward us, and carry it out with the handles at the front and back.”
“Noted,” Rock said.
“Beryl, grab three life preservers from the rack in the corner if you’d like. Then Leo, please lock it back up and bring the paddles. You both catch up to us.” Mayor G and Rock left the boathouse with the green canoe, first off-step and jangly, but soon in sync.
Beryl went in first. “I assume he wants us to take the disposables.” She bypassed the black-and-neon zip-ups for orange around-the-neck rectangles. “Right here.” She took a clear plastic bag from a shelf, let it unroll from her waist to the floor. Almost like a straight-up shot glass. “This will fit all of our gear.”
When she was out, Leo closed the door, replaced the lock, and picked up the three paddles.
“We’re not loading down there,” Beryl said, walking up from the river with the gear. “Maybe downriver a ways.”
A few yards up the backyard trail Leo heard Rock. “Detour, uphill.” They turned and found them by the guesthouse’s garage.
“One, two, three,” Mayor G said, and he and Rock lifted and turned the canoe onto the roof of a Chevy Suburban. “Perfect, I got it from here.” He tossed two waiting ends of cam straps over the canoe, then cinched them tight on the other side. Working fast, he tested the straps, counted the life jackets, nodded at Beryl’s loaded bag, and checked the paddles. He clicked his remote and the Suburban unlocked. “Campers in the back,” he said as he walked around, then fired up the V8.
Beryl followed him to the driver’s side and knocked on the window. Mayor G lowered it halfway. “Where are we going?”
“What I guess is your destination,” Mayor G said. “No dam on the Susquehanna—yet.”
“These roads, they’re crawling, you already know. If it’s feds, I’m sorry to say it won’t matter if you’re a mayor, a state senator, or a governor.”
Rock was already getting comfy in back, and Leo was behind Mayor G in the middle seat.
“Our town has a deal on the bridge. Nobody’s pulling this Suburban over, federal, state, or local.”
“So it’s business.”
“Boring business. Trust me, Beryl.”
Beryl shook her head. “I don’t like it. How far?”
The mayor dug between the seats and pulled out a map. Not a road map, but a woods map with blue squiggles all over. He pointed at one. “Bainbridge to Bennettsville to Arctic, that’s it—”
“Hold on—”
“Town of Arctic. Keep the map.” He handed it through the window. “You’ve seen the hill on the other side of the Susquehanna all day. We need to get over the top, and from there you’re on a waterslide down to the Delaware.”
“Five miles,” Rock said. “I’m guessing five miles. It’ll be fast, in any case. Let’s go, Beryl.”
Beryl looked at Leo. He shrugged. “I’ll trust this driver.”
She shook her head and got in the back.
Left out of the driveway, back on the riverside road they’d fled on from Sidney. No rushing police, no spinning lights as they continued west. Was theirs one of many assaults, was the party still boiling? What did those police, those feds, those tack-ons all the way down to the fish warden—what was that break-in to them? Someone must be pissed their radio was stolen. But is it a joke more than anything, a we’ll get the last laugh? Is it the owners of hunting dogs sitting back, relaxed, knowing they’ll get the rabbits soon enough? This is already on a record, for sure. Again the feds have a description, maybe even photos from someone’s camera, and now they’re watching.
Leo looked left, south, at glimpses of the Interstate beyond the Susquehanna. The hill was beyond, hidden in the night. Up and over.
The riverside road turned into Bainbridge’s Main Street. They’d walked it before, but on the other side, behind the shops, through the parking lot. Over here were bigger signs, but also bigger rust. Galaxy Bowl. Bainbridge Memorial Works. Gravestones? Not yet. Smiley’s Gas & Food. VIP Tax Services.
Left onto State Route 206, the Susquehanna bridge straight ahead. NBT Bank. Nothing but trouble? Herco Truck and Equipment Painting Co. Still working in the garage under a thirty year-old PPG sign. Mayor G waved through the windshield and honked as they passed.
Here it is. The Hugh A. Kearney Memorial Bridge.
“You saw the sign?” Mayor G, said, looking at Leo in the rearview.
Sidewalks on either side, with concrete walls and tight arcs open to the river. Green streetlights up from New Orleans? “Hugh Kearney,” Leo said. “World War II?”
“Not a bad guess. U.S. Navy, ‘48 to ‘52. He was our big mayor—Town Supervisor, actually, but everyone calls it mayor.”
The bridge not wide at all yet, nothing like Harrisburg’s John Harris.
“Eighteen years as mayor—while commuting daily to Sidney. Thirty-seven years as an engineer at Amptronics Aerospace. Quote, ‘one of the largest manufacturers of interconnect products in the world for the military and commercial aerospace markets.’ I’ve read their website plenty. Interconnections. I’m sure he made mean stuff, but he made the good stuff, too. Helped us take care of the world. Connect the world. Six years making parts for the International Space Station. That party in Sidney? One big sales party, paid for by Amptronics. They’re making gear for the dam now, guaranteed. I can only shake my head. I’m sure Kearney would have said something, walked out, quit. Aiming at people inside our borders. I can only hope he would, at least. He respected us, all of us. He even volunteered at Norwich’s Classic Car Museum.”
Mayor G drove off the bridge and through the roundabout on the south side of the river. Roundabouts, another thing we need. Keep life moving. Straight under Interstate 88, first the west bridge, then the east. Then rising fast for the tall forest ahead.
Beryl had been checking the map nonstop, back and forth from her finger-point to the window. Leo leaned over and followed along. The Suburban climbed the side of the ridge, passing nineteenth-century farmhouses, but more often those who sold to farmers. Greek Revival, Queen Anne, Victorian, Federal, Italianate.
Mayor G turned right on a no lines, non-engineered road, its curves designed by horses. “Afton.”
“I see it,” Beryl said. She traced her finger along one of the creeks. “Not this Oquaga Creek, right? It’s far too close to the road.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Mayor G said. “It’s not a big road, and nobody cares. But you’re right, not Oquaga.”
The road wove through trailers with plenty of land. And decorative rows of pine trees, soil driveways, and rides. Buick LeSabre, hand-painted Wrangler, Pontiac Grand Am. All at least twenty years old.
Leo traced the map. The road had three names in less than a mile, a sure sign of the top of the ridge. The bridge over Oquaga was coming up, or maybe that was it a second ago, the curve over the dark hole to the right.
“Borrow your flashlight?” Leo said to Beryl. She hesitated.
“Go ahead, check it out,” Mayor G said.
Leo shined it out the right-side window. From here it looked like a forgotten field, but Oquaga must be running the low point before the rise to the ridge beyond.
Higher still. Dirt wound from the road into the tall trees, no homes or cars or lights. And then a brief downhill—here’s the upstate divide. Not Atlantic versus Pacific, but maybe one day as important. Susquehanna versus Delaware.
The Suburban slowed for a second approaching the base of another road’s U-turn. The road ahead dropped in from above on the left, descended off to the right. Without stopping, Mayor G chose the left side of the U and the Suburban climbed again. Leo pointed to Beryl—the spot was a V on the map, or more accurately the three lines of a Benz logo. South down the top, southeast down the right. And then—everyone blurted together.
“What’s with the crowd?” Leo said.
“Are you dropping us off?” Rock said.
“You’re turning us in?” Beryl said.
The map had a campground, Oquaga Creek State Park. This deep in the woods, probably a new prison.
“I would never,” Mayor G said. “It’s still actual camping. People camp in November.” He kept the pedal down as they passed the driveways between their road and Arctic Lake. He braked hard at the next T and turned right.
“Route 20,” he said. “You’ll follow this all the way down to Route 8, down to the Delaware.”
“Checkpoint up there,” Leo said.
The light ahead wasn’t part of the campsite, but instead the teardrop spotlight and low-cut LED light bar atop a GMC Yukon blocking Route 20. 4x4 cousins so far apart.
“Goddamn indeed,” Mayor G said. “I could have sworn that was the Park Ranger for Oquaga.”
“Fish and Wildlife,” Beryl said. “Federal.”
“Get down,” Leo whispered back to Rock.
Mayor G slowed down, clicked a single light above his seat, and lowered his window to the officer. “Good evening, sir.”
No reply. The officer’s flashlight scrubbed Beryl and Leo’s faces. They didn’t move, didn’t smile, and squinted to keep their nighttime vision.
“Fishing in this canoe?” the officer said.
“Not tonight. It stays up there. Until winter, at least.”
“Three wouldn’t quite fit right in a canoe.”
Mayor G nodded. “Three can be a bit of a challenge.”
“Let’s see IDs, all of you.”
G raised a hand. “Hold up, hold on. I’m Mayor Garrett Montero of Bainbridge. Bringing our town’s battery suppliers back to their van in Deposit. Three days for a new transmission.”
The officer flashed his light on Beryl and Leo’s shirt patches. “Why not take Route 8?”
“You’re up here, you know the answer. It’s not as pretty as 20.”
“If you three like a pretty night, you would have been paddling on Arctic Lake.” He rubbed his hand along the canoe’s base. “But turns out you all are bone-dry.”
“We’re going to head south now,” Mayor G said. “They’re waiting for us at the garage.”
“Step out,” the officer said. “Hands against the vehicle.”
Beryl leaned forward. “I’m bone dry. What are you going to stick me with?”
The officer raised a sawed-off shotgun from his holster. “Open the doors slowly and step out.”
“I hear you can make a bone-dry bed the home of tasty fish,” Beryl said.
The officer breathed fast, licked his lips.
“Stand outside,” Mayor G whispered back while the officer checked his phone. The three got out on the driver’s side, casual, waiting. No turn, no spreading boots for a search.
The officer pocketed his phone and clicked on the light beneath his shotgun’s barrel. First G. “Mr. Mayor indeed. I’m surprised I didn’t see you in Sidney tonight. Quite the party. Quite the unlicensed fishermen by the river.”
Next, Beryl. “Deep and tasty wet spots,” he said. “I always toss a long cast. Can you handle that?”
Beryl nodded with a deep, ready breath. “I can handle it.”
“But first,” the officer said, shining his light on Leo. “Who do we have here?” He kept the shotgun aimed at Leo’s face, and with the other hand pulled out his phone and checked a photo on the screen. “Got your selfie, junior.” He spun the phone to show Leo searching through the trunk of the Explorer. “I knew this gear-stealer wouldn’t cast into the Susquehanna tonight. But a trout-creek dropping into the Delaware? That’d be perfect. Turn around and face the car. You’re under arrest—all of you. And where’s your older buddy the grabber?”
A tiny click from the Suburban’s trunk. “Right here, squid sucker!” Rock charged the officer with a paddle. BOOM— The officer shot the paddle’s blade, pulverizing it into silt.
Mayor G jumped forward and grabbed the sawed-off’s barrel, pointed it up, and sank the value of the second shot.
Beryl lunged in low and pinched the crotch of the officer’s pants with needle-nose pliers she must have found in the Suburban. She filled the little mouth, then squeezed the teeth. “This fish got a hook—” She jerked straight down. The officer collapsed, curled up.
Mayor G grabbed the shotgun and jammed its barrel against the officer’s teeth. “Bite your own bait,” he said and pulled the trigger.
They stood in silence while blood ran in the dirt, against the soles of their boots. “Leo,” Mayor G said, “Drive his Yukon down the way we’ve been headed. Take the first left, and 500 feet in, sink it into the pond on the left.”
Leo rubbed his head, he staggered to the back seat and checked the map. There it is, Clark Pond.
“Move now,” Mayor G said.
“Let’s get this fool in the trunk,” Rock said. “I know how to open it.”
“Can’t do that,” Mayor G said. “He needs to float back to the Susquehanna. Keep the heat off of you.”
“Tracking in him but not the vehicle?” Beryl said.
“Trust me on this. Mr. Leo, please move.” Mayor G pointed at the running Yukon facing them ahead.
Leo pulled on his gloves, peeked in again through the windshield, and grabbed the camera mounted below the rearview mirror as he got in. Hopefully didn’t get in the frame. He checked the dashboard next. Tons here, wait, there it is—light bar off, teardrop off. He pulled the shifter to drive and three-point turned on the narrow road.
The left was under a half mile ahead. He turned and slowed, looking for the next left into water. All dark, all trees, no houses on the edge.
The road had a guardrail, so he couldn’t coast it into the water. But through the fishers’ parking lot and into the muck—that would work. He backed it up, rolled forward and back, forward again, testing the line.
Leo backed up to the start, tied the wheel in place with a rope from the back. He found a heavy flat rock outside. Behind, the Suburban turned into Clark Pond Road, no lights. The over-the-ridge drop was fast. It stopped ninety feet back and turned sideways, hopefully obscuring him from Route 20.
Leo shifted to neutral, dropped the rock on the pedal, and slammed the RPMs to the red zone. Leaning in the from dirt road, he shifted to drive, ducked back out, and let the Yukon speed off, door open. A flooded interior will take it down fast.
Leo turned. The canoe was off the Suburban with nobody there. Must be down the other side of the road, prepping at the creek leaving the pond and flowing under the road in a culvert. Check again. The Yukon was fully sunk, no lights shining up. Leo used a thick dead branch to sweep the tire tracks and boot prints, all the way to the dirt road’s other side where he heard them down by the creek.
Down the hill, pushing branches aside. Rock waved, tying on his life vest, one boot on land and the other in the middle of the canoe. Beryl nodded from the front seat, paddle in hand.
Mayor G stood in back, gripping the stern’s handle. “From one driver’s seat to another.” He passed Leo a paddle. “How many of you have canoed before?”
“At age seven or eight,” Beryl said.
“Unfortunately my paddle’s gone,” Rock said, “not like I’m an expert.”
Leo took his seat in the back. “Not me either. How do you steer?”
“The creek’s moving,” Mayor G said. “You could be a rudder if you want. But to go fast—Beryl, are you a righty or lefty?”
“Lefty.”
“Then paddle on the left, and Leo, you on the right.” He took Leo’s paddle back. “Right side, left on the grip, right on the shaft. Drop it in, strong vertical pull back, pivot ninety for an easy out. And repeat. You can also turn, like this, or pivot, like that. Beryl pushes out on the left, you pull in on the right—”
“Sideways move,” Leo said.
“You have it. But best to keep aiming down creek. Avoid the white water, but if you can’t, then power through kneeling, everyone low. Rock, keep the bag strapped to you, not the boat.”
Sirens poked up on Route 20 from a mile south. “Go, now.” Mayor G batted their shoulders, ran to the Suburban, and sped east on Clark Pond Road.
“To the tunnel ahead, quick,” Leo said. They splash-paddled toward the culvert under Route 20. Only a couple hundred feet ahead.
“How do we brake?” Beryl said as she floated into the culvert.
Rock stood and slammed a hand against the top of the entry, but lost his balance and fell back, nearly rolling the canoe. Leo dug two quick pulls and somehow hooked his hand around the culvert’s edge. Seconds later, the sirens raced by overhead, two feds searching for one of their own.
“All clear,” Beryl said, and Leo let go. Back to splashing. Leo studied the paddle, tried to remember what Mayor G said. “Razor it straight down, all of the blade, then pull back.” That seemed to cut down the flying water.
Another hundred feet forward, Beryl pulled and yelled, “Hard left, hard left!” Leo pivot-stroked, but before they could dodge, the angled right side hit a rock. The tail locked up on the shoreline.
“Back it up, try again,” Rock said.
“You’re not giving directions, passenger,” Beryl said.
Leo pushed back and away with the tip of his blade. “Normal paddle now,” he said. The stream followed Route 20, west of it, only about a hundred feet in the woods. More police raced by, no sirens, no light bars. Leo tried to use his paddle as a rudder, but it only felt like a busted rear suspension. It seemed steering needed more than a rudder. He experimented and settled on a J-stroke, stepping on the gas, then straightening out the back before starting again.
The creek went deeper into the woods, almost out of view of the road. “I’ll accept this route,” Rock said. “Far superior to walking those sidewalks back there.”
“An interesting pair of towns,” Beryl said. “Shows you don’t always know who’s on which side.”
“I thought all of upstate would be pissed at the dam,” Leo said.
“A significant portion of upstate seems to be paid by the dam,” Rock said. “That’s my theory.”
“He told us about the earlier mayor,” Beryl said. “That company must be hundreds of people. Sounds like more than a theory.”
They paddled again in silence. Maybe too fast. “Backwards now, Beryl,” Leo said and steered them toward the right bank. Rock grabbed a branch. “The map says the creek’s only six or seven miles to the Delaware. Rest now? Things will get busy again fast if we do it all in one shot.”
“Who thinks they’re dispatching a kayak patrol?” Rock said.
“I’m with Leo,” Beryl said. “We’re not canoeing down the Delaware. Far too obvious, too out of the ordinary. We’ll be walking into town, following the advice they gave us.”
“Walking where?” Rock said, shaking his head. “River Rebels. It’s not like they advertise with neon from Vegas.”
“Battery sales,” Beryl said. “We’ll ask around.”
“We might see something,” Leo said, “if we’re awake.”
“Where’s the rope,” Rock said, searching. “Screw it.” He cast a metal line, then stepped ashore and chased it with his gloves on, wrapped it around a tree twice and put the hook over the line to anchor.
“We’re good,” Rock said
“Is the wire safe to the canoe?” Beryl said.
“What do you want me to tie? It’s a fishing line.”
Leo left his paddle in the canoe and got out, then dragged a downed tree to the river. He wove its branches around the canoe’s crosswise struts and kept the tree trunk flat on the land.
Seemingly satisfied with this anchor, Beryl stepped ashore and took the dry bag from Rock. “Let’s head in a ways,” she said. “In case the patrol of the creek does happen.” She turned back to the tree anchor. “On second thought, let’s bring the canoe.”
Rock unhooked the line from the tree and rewound it onto the reel. “Hold the side,” Leo said. Rock grabbed it, and Leo twisted the tree out, and they pulled the canoe ashore.
“Handles on the front and back,” Rock said.
They followed Beryl into the woods, over soft pine needles, until the trees seemed to thin a hundred yards ahead. “Right here is good,” she said. She dug the tarp out of Leo’s pack and they lay down, feet facing downhill, views aimed east at the creek and road. But Leo preferred to look up through random gaps to the stars far brighter than Easton. Not watching for shooting stars—more like an astronaut on the top of an experimental rocket, about to blast into the unknown. Embrace the mission.
“Did you bury the officer? Leo said.
“He was still wrapped up in the trunk,” Beryl said. “Mayor G had a place for him on the way back.”
“And I’m damn glad he prioritized disposal second,” Rock said. “They’re already up here, sniffing around.”
“It’s always the trackers,” Beryl said. “Trackers or plain old dispatch-office monitoring. If any of these feds have a radio, they have someone watching their back.”
“Even if the radio’s off?” Rock said.
“Is it?” Beryl said.
“You’re not asking about the one we pulled,” Leo said. “Right?”
“Nothing to hide,” Rock said. “We got the apparatus. Its battery’s with you, I recall.”
“Show me,” Beryl said. Rock pulled the stolen radio out of his bag, still with its hook and broken mount arms. Beryl flipped it around, checked each side for a camera. “No backup battery either.”
“Think that’s what put him up here, waiting for us?” Leo said. “How else could he have guessed so right?”
“I’m sure it has a microchip implant. Damn, damn, damn,” Beryl pulled out her broken radio and laid it on the tarp, then laid Rock’s beside it.
“Dam?” Rock said.
“Both of them,” Beryl said. “We’re getting rid of this tracker. And may the universe help us if the microphone has its own power source.”
“Thank you to you too,” Rock said. He pulled off his Limbo Lightning shirt, balled it into a pillow, and lay down out of sight on the floor of the canoe.
Leo held the flashlight for an hour, then two, then three while Beryl deconstructed and reconstructed her radio. Meanwhile, Rock’s snores bounced off the canoe’s fiberglass.
“It might be best to trash both of these,” Beryl said. “I don’t like the odds.”
“Almost there.”
Finally, Beryl flipped the switch.
The radio let out a dead-air fuzz. A dull brown light glowed over its analog VU meter. She turned the dials on the side, but picked up nothing.
“Go ahead, kick us off your approved list,” Beryl said. “We’ve got our own channel.” She flipped open a cover Leo hadn’t noticed, a thin trap door beneath the glass columns. Underneath, a row of number wheels. She turned each one to line up a twelve-digit number. “One call to the dam, and then we’re done with it.”
Thumb-press on the transmit button. “Beryl to Z,” she said, “Beryl to Z.”
Zappa, Zorro, Zampanò —
“This is Zion to Beryl,” a hushed voice said back.
None of the above. Keep listening, keep studying, memorize the number.
“Change of mission. No air drop. No exact arrival date. We’re a few hours from Deposit, then cruising in.”
“No boat,” Zion said. “Detection and destruction is easy. Disembark in Easton at the latest. Do not float past Easton.”
“Got it,” Beryl said. Leo nodded. Other routes down.
“OK, I’m in the control room now,” Zion said. “We can go back to normal talking.”
“Someone else was listening? Was it recorded?”
“Nothing of the sort. I mean, there’s always an option, but, hold on”—keys of a keyboard, ten seconds of silence—“I queried all the way to the bone. We’re good.”
Beryl lied back on the tarp. “Good. Ahhh! Why worry me like that? Why not hold off and ping me back?”
“You know I wouldn’t not answer.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
“Should I…hike around?” Leo said.
“Zion, we’re getting you in only a couple days. So be ready this time!”
“But this is the first time.”
“It’s time to be ready, all the time. Leo, Rock, and I. Say hi, Leo.”
“Hi there,” Leo said. He gestured a question to Beryl. Wedding ring, question mark shrug?
“Leo thinks we’re married,” Beryl said.
“We are married.”
Beryl looked up at Leo. “No ring required.”
“So who is this young explorer? They sound like…a college student?”
“I’m not in school,” Leo said.
“Then congratulations, where did you go?”
“Zion—”
“It’s OK,” Leo said. “I finished high school in Easton. N Tri-C, Northampton County? One semester. Been working since then.”
“He helped me fix this radio,” Beryl said. “We wouldn’t be talking without him.”
“Well now—cheers, ra-rah! I am impressed. Beryl, I’ve been expecting to hear from you since the airplane. You know I would never assume you died in a crash.”
Beryl hushed. “But Drony did.”
Zion sighed. “True, true, I’ve seen those reports. We’re thankful, at least. Died in service of this venture—”
“It’s more than an adventure, Zion. We’re bringing you home. I’m bringing you home.”
“Not trying to downplay it. See venture, Webster’s 1828. And thank you, my love. I’m lucky and he’s lucky. The crew who hauled in the downed plane would have brought him here, locked him in, and—”
“Got it,” Beryl said. “I don’t need to worry.”
“If it’s OK,” Leo said to Beryl, and then to Zion said, “and what?”
“Let’s say it’s not friendly.”
“My dad’s locked up.”
“He isn’t—”
“He is. We tunneled in. Wait—your voice—were you in the room when we broke through to the bathroom? Did you help—”
“Tony? Tony Pascal? I wish I had more to say. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for you—”
Beryl leaned into the radio. “They didn’t—”
“No—the last I saw he was hauled down that very night. I’m sure he’s down there still. I hope this isn’t a prolonged squeeze.”
“He’ll get through it,” Leo said. “We’re getting him out—”
“And we’re getting you out,” Beryl said. “And then we’re getting the dam out of the Delaware.”
“About that—” Zion said.
“We have them. Three. Should be plenty to take out the rush job.”
“Beryl—they don’t just torture prisoners.”
“Don’t say that, Zion, don’t you quit—”
“I won’t, I swear, but—”
“But you’re OK still? I mean, physically, mentally—”
“I am sorry and embarrassed and”—silence, then a blurt—“I installed the Hoover system. I’m sorry!”
Beryl slapped the tarp. “They tortured you!”
“The Hoover system?” Leo said. No response.
“So how big do we have to haul in now? All three of these fit in a duffel bag.”
“I’m sure they’re fine. You get down here, get in, the usual. I’ll handle the Hoover system. I am absolutely preparing.”
Beryl shook her head. “Fine. Moving ahead. We’ll be in there. Do you remember Rock?”
“I remember your business projects involving Mr. Rock, Esquire. Can I still say esquire?”
“That was horrible, unfair, and completely no surprise.”
“But his post-disbarment masterpiece—it flooded out, correct? Like ours?”
“He’s on another level. Not so much the flood, but the downstream effect. Family. He’s working through it in a positive way. For us at least.”
Rock interjected a grunt, and the canoe tottered as he rolled from one side to another.
“Hold on,” Beryl whispered. They watched. He didn’t shout anything out, he didn’t weigh in on Beryl’s evaluation, he only went back to snoring. “All good.”
“I’m glad he’s along. I’ll be wishing for him. Only the best.”
“We’re going to need it. OK—so no boating up to the dock, I’m not surprised. The original in-through-you-know-where, then up to your office—do we keep that the plan?”
“You have the backup written down. A near-Fibonacci spiral. I’ll hold off with the specifics. In case there’s someone listening in the woods behind you.”
“Do you see us?”
“I’ve been meaning to bring the SatCam up, but we keep going off on a tangent. You have this radio and the other one, from the slopshow in Sidney.”
“Yes…”
“There’s some basics out in the monitoring system. Original snaps of Leo’s face, Rock’s face, and a thirty-mile-diameter spot upstate where the radio is now. I’m glad you’ve kept it off, as that would make the location spot-on, but for now nobody’s chasing.”
“In other words, it’s still alive.” Beryl moved her seat to the edge of the tarp and twisted and chomped the carcass of the stolen radio with the needlenose pliers. “We’ve seen them, Zion. All the way up here, even. Chasing a couple of times.”
“Well it’s nobody to worry about, at least. The Delaware River has bigger fish to fry, so to say.”
“Someone’s worked up, hunting for us. Somebody’s searching for a promotion. That’s old news, too.”
“R&R is at home in Deposit. You remember the info I sent. No need to even give them a group name. You’ll be fine when you get there. A big, flooded city supermarket—in upstate New York. No one to worry about.”
“Who do we look for again?”
“It’s the team that isn’t chasing business up at the docks. They have their own mission. Then it’s a cruise and the documented backup plan you already have.”
“But the other radio”—she smashed its board again—“it’s still on?”
“I do see it, as mentioned, and yes, it’s still on.”
“Then we’ll leave it right here. Let them put our campout on the to-do list and eventually send someone up to these woods.”
“It’ll be a militia. Like I’ve been saying, far down the list.”
“Whoever it is, let’s avoid meeting them. We’ll get going again after this, and get there.”
“Sleep is important.”
“If I fall asleep now, it could be a whole day.”
“So it’s a day. Send me the code when you’re in immediate range.”
“And if we don’t—”
“Don’t sweat it. I’ve been telling myself you’re in immediate range for months. It’s my natural state.”
“Perfect—heading out here. I love you.”
“And I love you.”
“See you soon,” Leo said. “See you and my dad. Tell him we’re coming if you see him. And thanks.”
“I won’t see him,” Zion said. “But thank you. Beryl—goodbye. Be safe. Soon indeed.”
“Love you,” Beryl said, then clicked off the radio. She rolled over on the tarp and curled up, hiding her tears from Leo.
“Almost there,” Leo said, tapping Beryl’s shoulder. “Delivery en route.” Beryl nodded but didn’t look up. “Where should I take the radio guts?”
“Bury them. Or find a rock and keep smashing. Not too much, not too far. We need to get some sleep.”
Leo inspected the stolen radio. How to shut it down for good? A quick circle around the tarp found two rocks on the stream side, one flat and one sharp, a cutting board and a knife. He put his gloves on, lined the two up, and smashed three times. Rock’s snores had silenced and the metal rang out. Enough for now. Leo turned back to the tarp—and heard two doors slam out on the road.
Those uphill racing cops must have found something. No way do they have a connection to follow this radio. But what if they do? He ducked behind a tree and watched the road.
Two sets of footsteps crackled down to the creek. Good boots. No flashlights—they must have night vision goggles on, too. The steps halted and something clanked onto the ground, ringing straight at Leo. Must be rigging a rifle at us. They know what happened to the last guy.
Back and forth talk, low. No shots yet. Possible to get the binoculars? Have to fall back and join up regardless.
Leo worked out his angle to keep the thick tree in the way, and belly-crawled to the tarp. No need to wake them up—yet. Hidden behind the canoe, he pulled the binoculars and focused on the snipers around the front end. Shot’s coming any second. But no—two on a date, fly fishing under the stars.
Leo pulled up the map in his head. If they’re all the way up here, how many will be on the creek by Deposit? And how many tomorrow, as soon as the sun comes up?
He shook Beryl with a silent shhh.
“The radio,” she said. “What now?”
“Visitors at the creek.” He handed her the binoculars.
“Should have known,” she said. “The afterparty. The party itself.”
“Probably see more on the way south.”
“That’s certain.”
“You OK moving on?”
“That’s what I wanted to do until I listened to Zion and lay down.” She rolled to a squat and started folding the tarp. “What does the map say?”
Leo double-checked it with his flashlight hidden by the canoe. “Maybe only a half-mile, then we can get on another stream. Southwest of here. Same destination.”
“Where does it join the Delaware?”
“This other one would be downtown Deposit.”
“Less than ideal,” Beryl said. “It’ll have fishers like this one.”
“True,” Leo said. It also ran parallel to a road. Other routes? “Or we could stay dry.”
“An option.”
“Hike down off the creek, back like we are now. Low odds of anyone in here.” Silence, consideration. The two fly fishers laughed at each other, more into their jokes than their fish.
“What if the date turns into something more?” Beryl said. “I doubt it’ll happen in the cold November water. We could stumble right into them.”
“There’s always a chance, I guess.”
“Need to minimize risk.”
What else, what other routes? “We’ve got the creek, the woods, and the road.” The other side of the road? No. This is a good north-south gap between County Routes 19 and 20. “The woods, the edge of the woods—wait—we could go farm to farm, all the way down.”
“They get up plenty early there.”
“Four a.m., sure, but they won’t be out searching for us. And which couple wants to roll in the cow plops?”
“Maybe a few,” Beryl said. “But I like the odds. OK, you check the map one more time, get the coordinates, or the feel, and know where we cross from one to the next. I’ll get Rock up.”
Leo squinted at the map, tried to burn it in to speed up the hike. Directly west, then southeast, south, southwest, south-southwest, cross behind the big junkyard, southeast, southwest to downtown Deposit. Rock sat up with Beryl patting his back, luckily quiet, shaking his head. Beryl gave them each their pack.
“Do we bring the canoe?” Rock said, back in his battery shirt, grabbing a handle.
“No need,” Beryl said, paddle in hand. “But you bring Leo’s paddle. He’s on the map and compass.”
Rock picked it up, swung a practice slice. “Got it.”
“I’m sure Mayor G will find it eventually, if he ever wants it back.”
“Wipe down?” Leo said.
“Why not,” Beryl said. They used their gloves and leaves to polish it. Rock flipped it over so it wouldn’t flood in the next rain. They moved.
“Watch the electric fence,” Leo said when they reached a farm. He spread both arms parallel to the wires ahead.
“Use the tarp,” Rock said.
“How far can we follow it on the outside?”
“A good while,” Leo said, tracing the map.
“Probably safer,” Beryl said. Ahead, the lone bull stood from its sleep and snorted.
“On second thought, I agree with that approach.”
They backed a few yards off the wood line’s fence and followed it south, tracing the winterized pastures. Electric fences branched off into the farm, dividing the pastures, often with a new gang of cows. First, black faces with a white stripe down the front, curious, swinging full udders for a closer inspection of what they smelled in the night. Then light brown and thin, but with the same heavy udders, also curious for a visitor. Then curly black and brown fur on heavy chests, heavy muscles. Face beards and a fabulous ring through the nose.
“Beef right there,” Rock said. “Galloway.”
“You’re a cow lawyer?” Beryl said.
“I know a thing or two about bovines. Took care of them first. Holstein, Jersey, and Brown Swiss before that one. I’m watching for the obligatory Wagyu. And maybe even Highland if we’re lucky.”
“I don’t eat any of them,” Beryl said. “Though I’d be up for a pet if they come all the way to the fence.”
“This fence is bringing us close to the road up there,” Leo said. “See it? Let’s trace it a little farther back.”
They continued south, scanning the woods around them as they ducked back in the woods for a half mile. They hit the fence again, with field on every side.
“Where now,” Beryl said.
“We’re west of Hambletville—”
“Not Hamlet?”
“Hamblet. Right here on the map.”
“As in hamburger,” Rock said.
“The farmland stretches up that way”—Leo swung an arm left—“and down this way, opposite. Northeast to southwest. We can cross at the middle of this hourglass, over the fence in, over the fence out, and then do the same thing as this, heading south.”
“So this is the end,” Beryl said. “The downtown?”
“Almost. If we want to stick with farms and really stay off the sidewalk, we’ll do another of these crossings. One across the main road over here—see it?—cross it southwest, then drop in on Deposit.”
“It gets too tight down here,” Beryl said. “I know that makes sense, but we have to adjust.”
Rock snapped his fingers above the fence at a new face. “Hey there, Miss Highland. Beryl, Leo, look who’s here, look at these horns.”
A cow with sandy dreadlocks walked to the fence, followed by a dozen more, all with swooping-up horns ending in javelin points.
Beryl dropped low and peeked. “Not seeing any utters here. Full utters, that is. Rock, what’s the likelihood of beef?”
“The Highland cattle is frequently used to produce organic beef, correct.”
Leo shook his head and pet the big brown nose with hair swinging over it.
“We’ll do more than pet these captives.” Beryl pulled out the needlenose pliers, with rubber handles and a wire cutter at the jaw’s base. “Time for a two-for-one special.”
“Hold on,” Rock said. “These beasts can stampede professionally. I recall an assistant chef at a farm-to-table restaurant who was paralyzed from the neck down.”
“Was he trying to kill it and eat it?” Beryl turned to the Highland. “We’re friends here. Aren’t we, Nessie? But you’re the expert. Tell your owner which side we’re both on.” Beryl snipped each wire at the nearest fence pole, and again at the next pole. Sixty feet of fencing fell to the grass. “There you go, sisters. Free to explore. And please, drop your horns on anybody chasing us.”
Leo dodged to the side as the Highland cows walked past, north, into the woods. The fold curved east, working their way around the fence, likely in search of water at the bottom of the hill.
“Hope they go past the stream and make it all the way to the Delaware,” Leo said.
“Hope the same for us,” Rock said. “Which way?”
“Straight across. Beryl, same cut ahead. It’s the narrow part of the hourglass.”
Once there, she cut through. They traced the southern fence southwest until it bent back east. “Hold up,” Leo said. “That’s Route 19, maybe 500 feet ahead. Looks like a junkyard across the street. We can aim north of it and go around. Or we can go straight in and through it. Or not cross at all, and take the woods down to the river.” He pointed out their location on the map.
“Those woods aren’t going to work,” Rock said. “Look at the turn of the river. Shaped like the Gateway Arch and we’d fall right on top. Must be the headquarters of every fly fisher and fishing guide around.”
“Not to mention the cows,” Beryl said. She raised her binoculars to the junkyard across the road. “Not much to see over there. It’s dark, no farmhouse in sight. The one orange streetlight only shows a lot of sharp angles. Refrigerators, dead trailers.” They passed the binoculars around.
“Without any vehicles, they should have fewer thieves tonight.” Rock said.
“It’s plenty big,” Beryl said. “We go straight through and out the other side.”
“Then follow these farm fences again.” Leo traced on the map. “We’ll enter the town right here, between the high school and its track.”
“Guaranteed no security there,” Rock said. “Barely a budget anymore, even here in New York.”
“But they do start early,” Leo said. “Our bell rang at 7:15.”
“Your school,” Rock said, “but this is upstate. These kids have to take care of the cows.”
“As long as they don’t slaughter the cows,” Beryl said, checking back for the Highlands, long gone. “Fine. It’s four hours until the earliest start, but we have to keep moving.”
“Agree,” Leo said. “Last check of the map. This is going to be a push to get in there, OK?”
Beryl nodded. “Crossing here.” She cut the fence again, same double snip. Leo started the low, quick path across the patty-filled field. They reached the edge of Route 19 in the dark, but then a set of headlights appeared coming north from downtown.
“Duck,” Beryl said.
“It’s an open field,” Rock said.
“Down here.” Leo left his pack flat on the grass and dropped into the road’s drainage ditch. It wasn’t much better. His squat only sheltered him up the stomach, with everything above on display. Three torsos in the ditch? Stranger than three people standing in a farm field.
“Really down,” Beryl said, jumping in behind him and pushing him in the back. Leo went flat on his stomach in the water that already topped his boots. He pulled his face up from a dunk and coughed on the running sewer of cows. At least cows.
“Flat,” she said to Rock, and pulled him down next to her in the same soaking spread. The truck passed ahead, mere feet above them, and flung bits of gravel and road salt onto their backs. Its exhaust soaked them next, not a hot rod muffler but a big mean engine tuned up, burning a gallon every eight miles. When the mufflers went quiet, they pulled themselves up and checked out the truck’s tailgate as it headed north. White letters on dark paint between tail lights. R&R Plumbing.
Beryl shook her dripping head, lifted a wet boot, and slammed it down again in the sludge. “Our one contact up here. And I hid us away. Why?”
“Who’s that?” Rock said. “We’re joining up with the plumbers?”
“Moving on,” Leo said. “I doubt that’s all they have.”
“You know them?” Rock said.
“You were sleeping.” Leo ran across Route 19. Can’t hang out here. Let them follow the route.
Ahead, the junkyard wasn’t the yard Leo had on his map. Nor the junk he expected at Ol’ Grits Bazaar Mall. This junkyard held far more than fridges and ashtrays. It had a twelve foot-high fence invisible from only a hundred feet away, but now topped with spools of razor wire. A light blasted on above him, and then two more, and two more after. These weren’t motion detectors—someone inside was watching a camera and choosing their spotlights.
Rock and Beryl jogged to join him. But before they could talk out a plan, a section of the fence slid open and two security guards strode out.
“Can we help you?” the older guard said.
“Maybe by washing and drying these work suits of ours,” Beryl said. “Elvira Stone, Limbo Lightning Battery Co. We had a hell of an installation up there. It was supposed to be done, what all, by one a.m., tops? Finally got it done around three. And now our truck’s dead—I know, embarrassing—so it’s been a walk all the way back to Deposit.”
“Why’d you go face down in the stream?”
“We watched you go face down in the stream,” the younger guard said.
“Which stream, this stream? We’ve been in five streams tonight already.”
“Who are you installing batteries for?”
“You have your business, we have ours. We’re not concerned about what you have behind the curtain. We’re headed back to crack a few beers, clean up, get our omelets, and pass out.”
“Who did you install batteries for?”
“Our customer is no worry to you.”
“Free Agency?”
“Please, you gun-stuffed dynamic duo, relax. If you haven’t been to our customer’s place of business yet, I suggest you go soon. I suggest you do soon. Maybe immediately after this shift.”
The younger guard pulled his pistol. “Name of your customer. Name him now.”
“Him? Please. It’s Madam None-of-your-little-gun-business. There’s enough people in town who can point you in the right direction. I don’t drop her name so I can protect her. So she can keep on keeping you and your friends happy. And I mean friends from Port Jervis all the way up to the air base in Rome. You wouldn’t want to cork up those pilots’ fuel, would you?”
The two guards looked at each other, stepped back, leaned in, whispered. Something-something they should have told us something-something.
“When did they bring you to this dead refrigerator jail anyway? You signed up for the army and got a third-tier militia?”
“We supply critical devices to the Delaware Gap,” the younger said.
“Enough,” the older guard said, pulling him back by the shoulder. “Stash your pistol.”
He lowered his head. “Yes sir.”
“Walk along, you three,” the older said. “On the other side of the road. We’re both doing our jobs.”
Beryl leaned toward him and pulled down under her eye with a pointer finger. Occhio. “You both need to visit her and do a job or two soon, you too-tight razor-wrapped worry-kittens. Enjoy your nights.” She crossed back to the other side of the road, with Leo and Rock following, hauling the gear that could have easily been confiscated, along with them, for immediate destruction.
Only a mile to the town of Deposit. Twenty minutes. Each with their gear, the dry bag scrunched and protecting the radio inside Beryl’s pack. Route 19 was waking up before the sun, but nobody cared about three mud-drenched hikers. Most likely they once had been the same.
The curving road dropped to a T with Deposit’s Main Street. On the other side of Route 19, a 24/7 McDonald’s was lit and feeding and sleeping a city of its own. The parking lot was more tents than cars. It was a shopping mall of fish and chainsaws and pigs and wool blankets. Across the T, the crowd stretched up and down the Delaware riverbank on a sidewalk, its concrete new and almost milk white. The team crossed with the crowd moving back and forth across the road, nonstop, controlling traffic more than the single hanging stoplight.
Beyond the sidewalk, riverside earth had been cemented into stairs dropping down, into the Delaware and out of sight. Boats pulled in nose-first and hooked to iron rings hanging on the risers of the stairs. Tripping hazards for sure, but the boats are most important. The rings here explained the rings Leo saw on poles before they’d crossed the road. The town was ready and waiting for the flood.
Up and down the Delaware, boats bobbed under lanterns. Their pilots stood on the front, calling to the crowd, negotiating for an extra bit on their trade. Nobody said dollars.
Rock and Beryl scanned and searched the dock. What would be the sign for the River Rebels? Leo looked for logos on clothes—not uniforms, but some sort of giveaway. R&R Plumbing, most likely. No flag, no rank.
It was a farmers’ market, or the closest thing to it. Crowded. A dock market hadn’t built up in Easton, home to farmers’ markets for over 200 years. Why? The city must have been too nervous so close to the dam. No more drunk fishing and floating past the neighbors. Now Easton barely had any boats at all. The feds had cut off all of the river traffic somewhere to the north. Fifty miles? Would be around the Delaware Water Gap. What did the junkyard say about that spot? It’s on the way, a natural route, Deposit to the Gap to Easton. But how to get to Easton on the boat? No asking about it here, too crowded—but maybe that’s the reason for the River Rebels. They’ll sneak past the river’s cutoff, all the way to the dam. Or slip under—with submarines?
Leo scanned the dock stairs again. Must be three dozen boats. No submarines poking up. Most boats either had an in-progress deal with people getting on, getting off, loading up, or taking their delivery. But there, farthest downriver, one had its own two-by-ten board to the shore, past the end of the stairs. Twice the length of the Grand Marquis, probably thirty-six feet. Its pilot lay on the back bench, half-dozing and enjoying a cigarette.
The next job is set up, now he’s waiting for something. Someone? The deck was empty, the helm’s acrylic enclosure battened down, and the cabin entry seemed plenty waterproof. Only one thing sat loose in the cockpit. Leo borrowed the binoculars—a three-pack of chocolate cupcakes with white icing looping across the top—Tastykake. A covert Philadelphia flag.
Leo passed the binoculars.
“And that’s the only Tastykake you’ve seen up here?” Beryl said, checking it.
“That’s it. Plenty of Mars and Entenmann’s and handfuls of sunflower seeds, but only one Tastykake.”
“Chocolate with the swirly vanilla,” Beryl said. She searched her gear for a matching package from the outlaws’ cabin.
“I’d propose something he doesn’t have yet,” Rock said. “Rainbow confetti, perhaps.”
Beryl balanced it at the top of her bag, then zipped it closed. “River Rebel handshake, coming up.”
The pilot was still snoozing when they reached the boat. Beryl knocked her knuckles against the lumber gangway. “Haven’t seen that snack in the local Stewart’s.”
The pilot raised his head an inch from the bench, said uh-huh, and laid back to his nap.
“How far did you cruise for it?” Beryl said. “What’s your price?”
He shook his head. “Not for sale.”
“Are you eating it, or is it a good luck charm?” No reply. “I’ll tell you what Mr.—what’s your name?” Silence even sharper than before. “Tell you what I like to do with it.” Beryl pulled the rainbow Tastykake from her bag. “I eat it as a good luck charm, to get me home to Philly in one piece.”
Now the pilot smiled as if reclining under an Aruba sun.
“You headed south, too?” Beryl said. “Maybe for a little…R and R?”
“R&R,” the pilot said. “That’s me alright. R&R to the bone.” He stood now, coiled a rope, prepped the motor, flipped on a few helm switches. “Hop onboard,” he said. “Pierce. Can at least get you started down the river.”
Beryl stepped on first with Pierce’s help, then Leo jumped across, then Rock managed a stretched-out stride. “Right down here,” Pierce said, ducking into the cabin. “A few days on the hike? Your R&R’s waiting on the big cushions.”
Beryl handed him the Tastykake from her bag. “This one’s for you. A little energy for the route ahead.”
Pierce weighed it in his palms, seemed to detect the chip or intel or molecules Free Agency had snuck inside it for delivery. “A serious treat,” he said. “Much appreciated.”
Pierce hopped back to the cockpit. Leo watched through the cabin entry as he grabbed a line in each hand, and with symmetrical whips unlooped the boat from the dock. He pushed off with the gangway and they floated into the flow of the Delaware.
Leo had learned cars and bikes, but not motorboats, and he studied Pierce. Out here in the current, all he had to do was steer and keep the motor at a steady pace. Classic convertible—he could sit with the enclosure down and pilot with a hand on the wheel and a hand on the gas, or he could block out a storm with his waterproof roof. Which Pierce did next, zipping and snapping the back half of the enclosure against Canadian clouds dropping from the northwest. Don’t distract the pilot. Give them space, they’ll let you know when they’re ready to talk.
So Leo and Beryl and Rock relaxed on corduroy cushions in the hold beneath and tried to nap. Leo and Beryl took the front and leaned against portholes. Leo on port, the left, and Beryl on starboard, the right. Rock reclined on a mattress behind the cabin door’s stairs. But it wasn’t easy to doze. The wind knocked riverwaves against the boat, against the windows. Waves caught the boat from the back and slapped both sides. Beryl searched under the bench and tucked a tiny backup anchor under her pillow.
“How’s that going to work?” Leo said.
“In case we need to help him through a checkpoint out here.” Then she sorted her pack, pushing its gear to either side and twisting shut the bag in the middle. She sat it on the floor next to her head, a pair of improvised nunchucks for any invasion.
Above, Pierce double-fastened the enclosure with levers and rectangular tubing. Now the only sound below deck was the low hum of the engine, the smacks of the waves, and—a minute later—a thunder-flung dawn downpour.
Not that Pierce seemed worried. He looked down into the cabin, well-prepared and storm-cruising. “We’re going to need a little stock up when we get a chance.”
“Oh, we know,” Rock said, pouring a neat glass from the cabin’s rum bottle. “We are well aware.”
“I’ll guess you’re all about a different R&R than plain old rest and relaxation.”
“We already went over that,” Beryl said.
“River Rebels,” Pierce said. “Up here, it starts with the food choice.” He lifted the rainbow Tastykake Beryl had given. “And thank you.”
“Go ahead, tear it open,” Rock said. He took another swig from his rum glass, not sounding drunk, probably happy to have a break after two and a half days of post-crash hiking. But even that was too much for Beryl. She crossed to him and took the bottle, then tucked it in the storage area under her seat.
“These—no, not yet,” Pierce said. “These are an exquisite dessert. Food, though, we need food for muscle and brain.”
Muscle and brain—boxing? BAM— Left-right-left, a three-punch combination from the river rocked the boat. The front portholes dipped underwater as the boat tipped. Side-to-side rocks continued as the boat drifted downriver, trying to steady itself.
Rock opened the mini-fridge in the galley. “No food back here. What did you have for dinner, nine eggs?” He flicked the carton leaning out of the top of the snap-lid trashcan.
“Not nearly as boring,” Pierce said. He yelled over the pounding rain’s wind-blown roars, but still seemed at ease.
Leo peeked up again. Pierce steered with one hand in the daytime dark, seemingly not worried by the storm that dared boats to ride the lightning. A heavy blue coated the enclosure’s windshield—a blend of sky and river and leaf-lost trees on either bank.
“There she is,” Pierce said. “Our on-the-go supermarket.”
Leo looked out the starboard porthole. Ahead, a steamboat was docked on the southern Pennsylvania side of the river.
Pierce passed it, U-turned, pushed slowly upriver, and docked against the steamboat. He opened a side enclosure and a yellow-suited worker popped their head in. Pierce handed them a ready folded list, maybe written before the team’s arrival, maybe after, maybe both. The worker disappeared, and Pierce resealed the enclosure. Now they waited.
“So no kidding,” Beryl said. “Shopping for food. Can we put an order in? What do they have?”
“The quintessential farmers’ market, I’ll bet,” Rock said.
Leo peered up the hull of the steamboat. Red and blue strings of LEDs swept in smiling curves, blinking to attract customers. The dam must have flooded the local markets not too long ago.
“I got breakfast for you, too,” Pierce said. “Bit of a surprise. Hopefully it’s what you need.”
Maybe not a grocery store after all. Sounds like a friends-only establishment, or maybe there’s a special rate for the River Rebels. But no worries—at least Pierce didn’t forget.
A wet fist knocked on the enclosure. Pierce opened it and handed the worker four bills and the three-pack of Tastykake Beryl had paid him with. The worker tucked the Tastykake into their rain suit’s square chest pocket and passed two heaping bags. More than fruits and veggies—are those bullets rattling in there?
Pierce locked the enclosure shut, dried and drained around it, put a small bag aside, and stowed the rest in a locked box. From the smaller bag he passed three long paper-wrapped sandwiches, then balanced his own sandwich on the helm. “How long’s it been?” he said.
Leo tore his paper open—jawn Philly cheesesteak, a long and crusty gold hoagie with ribbons of rib-eye and the melted cheese of wizards. Beryl and Rock had the same, though Rock was already two massive bites. Even Beryl ate, despite her preferences for seitan and turkey-substitutes at Drony’s farmhouse. It all disappeared in minutes.
Leo leaned back, full. He asked Beryl what she thought about the steak—tried to ask, but the words didn’t go from thought to talk. What were the words he wanted? Beryl, what did you think of— Leo’s brain stopped, raised an objection. Think of? Not think, chalk, what did you chalk—no, talk, what did you talk—talk, tank, teak, thank, tock, take—think? All of the words could be used—how to know which one? Only certain of a t-sound up front, a k-sound at the end, some mess of letters between. Are they all the same? What did you t—? Leo tried to raise his hands instead, trusting gestures over the spinning words, what handmove would describe it, but the right hand didn’t lift at all. Neither did the left. He leaned deeper into the corduroy bench and couldn’t lift either hand to signal, to search the grocery bag, to protest, to defend, to explain thoughts to himself, to team up with the team.
Beryl did and didn’t look like she was thinking about steak. Her face squinted and snorted like a dial-up modem. Only her left hand was slightly normal. She stretched behind her pillow and pulled out the pointy steel anchor, hovered it over her pack, then dropped it onto one side of the hourglass. The radio they had repaired cracked and shattered. Beryl rolled, she twisted her shoulders to direct her unpredictable hand. Shaking side to side, she hoisted the anchor up to bench-height. Immediately she dropped it again, twisting it, a windy crane, and another smash rang out. Then Beryl passed out, or at least locked up, with her left hand fallen onto the sharp metal.
Soon after, Pierce came down to the cabin with his own bag of food. Slowly, carefully, he set up a place to eat between Rock and Beryl on the bench, tucked a napkin into his collar, sprayed five packets of ketchup onto unrolled paper with a thick hamburger at the middle. He watched and chewed his burger, circled from Rock to Leo to Beryl to the anchor sank into half of Beryl’s bag and back to Rock. All three cheesesteaked on the cabin benches, rolling eyes but moving nothing else.
Pierce circled the cabin, lifting their wrists and dropping them back to the benches. “River Rebels,” he said, “go ahead and do it. I’m waiting. We’re all waiting.”
Leo blinked without control. Do it? What do is left, what left is do, right, back, forward, where?
Pierce finished his burger, wiped his face. “We’ll get you to the dam, River Rebels. I’m sure you’ll love it. “
Beryl raised her head three inches, a miracle. “Port Jervis,” she drawled. “We only want Jervis.”
“I’m in charge of your destination now,” Pierce said. He scooped up their packs and stowed the anchor back under the bench. “Releasing our tasty and profitable beasts? Creeping up on our medical device factory? Planning a blowout? Next stop is Water Gap Jail—by way of this Payne Creek powerboat.”
PINCH. Leo’s neck jammed pain into a circle as narrow as the steak. Eyes yanked open. A syringe dropped into a plastic bin inches from his face. Above him, a blue-gloved bearded man watched, then punched him in the nose—almost. The fist stopped a millimeter away. Leo had flinched, and the needler nodded.
Leo rolled and reached for the needle man’s sharp toolkit. No luck. Thick hemp ropes wrapped around his wrists and ankles, and his hands were sealed in a leather bag. Across the boat’s cabin, Beryl was getting the same shot. Rock was still asleep. All were roped and bagged. Above, the pilot—what’s his name, Pierce—had removed the storm enclosure, and now he slowed and turned the boat.
Where had the needler boarded? Maybe on a return trip to the steamboat supermarket, maybe in Port Jervis. Shot third, Rock yelled bathroom! There was a bathroom—a head, words officially back—in the cabin. Leo had seen it as soon as he’d boarded below. There had been a slight urge, but he hadn’t tried it. Figured there would have been a chance to go when everyone took a nap. Now Rock yelled again—bathroom!—and again the needler ignored him.
“Your call.” Rock rolled to the edge of his corduroy bench. He lay on his side and produced a stain that darkened his pants and grew and eventually drifted toward his boots when he managed to knock his bound ankles toward the floor.
Beryl watched Rock and sighed at her lack of options. She too kicked her ankles off the bench. In a La-Z-Boy recline with eyes clamped shut, she soaked her pants. Likely to avoid knowledge of who was watching. Leo looked away as it continued until Beryl sighed in anger and frustration. No strategy, no talking. The needler kicked open a drain with his boot, and the roving puddle from Rock and Beryl swirled down and away.
Leo felt something the same, dull, but the crowded cabin wouldn’t work. Making a stain here was as bad as sharing a trough. Anyone watching would expect the soak to grow and grow and reach an expected size along his pants. A full stain justified the self-contamination, as well as the shared puddle. But to start and then freeze? Unacceptable. It would only lead to questions. And because Leo knew the urge might start but immediately lock up, he didn’t start at all. He held it, and tried not to imagine where he would go. Probably a more isolated bathroom at the next stop, wherever that is. Better than here. Waiting always turns up a place to go in private.
Instead, Leo looked up through the cabin door, past the needler, past Pierce, past the removed enclosure’s frame, into the sky. Clear and blue, a scrubbed sky following the thunderstorms. Cold fall blue. But not for long—the door hatch filled with a vertical wall of bushes, trees, and moss, and the boat slid under a cliff, into a cave.
The cave’s mounted lights gave it the yellow haze of a Pennsylvania highway through a mountain. A tunnel dug by coal miners, a tunnel that seemed so wrong, but had been cut so easily, simply, strongly, by a team who knew they could dig through anything.
One at a time, Leo, Beryl, and Rock were winched out of the boat’s cabin in a net like trophy fish. Each was gagged on their way out. Sweatsuit soldiers chained them onto three wooden carts in front of a crowd on the tunnel’s side dock. A woman pushed to the front and examined their Limbo Lightning patches. She turned to Pierce and said, “So?”
Pierce brought her the three packs of gear, and the two of them turned away and whispered. She nodded, and their packs disappeared into the crowd. The woman stepped to their carts and paced only inches from their feet. “Limbo Lightning—yet another brand. I’m not familiar. Why come here?”
Leo and Rock held tight. Beryl shook her head and groaned until a soldier let out her gag. “That’s right, Elvira Stone, Limbo Lightning Battery, Gary, Indiana. We offer a full line of light industrial batteries, forklift cells, server backup, refrigeration support. We even have waterproof models for your particular environment. What’s the application you have in mind?”
“Our very question for you.”
Beryl shook her head, shrugged. “It’s critical to not depend on a single power hookup. And the price of a kilowatt? An underground business like this, I’d guess your power meter’s spinning so fast it could cut ham. What’s the power need? We’ll help you out.”
A member of the group stepped forward, handed the woman a racquetball racquet, and she swung it hard into Beryl’s shin. Beryl wrenched against her ropes.
“Sure, you may sell power hookups on the side. We don’t care. What side operation gave you not only bombs, but also tasty and subversive cakes?”
Tasty cakes? Tastykakes! One word. This boss must be two or three steps down from the feds.
Beryl talked fast, before the metal racquet swung again. “It’s all sales, all of it. Would sales professionals carry anything that’s not sales? One of our clients—in Pennsylvania, somewhere down by Philly, I don’t even know where—this client had upended their business. So they said. No problem, we were on our way there today to provide a simple Ohio delivery and let them get back to work. Business is business. And you”—Beryl looked at the black and yellow flag hanging above the dock—“Payne Creek, an eight-hole golf course? You say a business shouldn’t be allowed to get what they need to run the business? You—or whoever you report to—sounds like a too-big magnifying-glass government economic inspector. Damn them and damn you. Let us get back to asset-building business, thank you in advance.”
The boss slapped Beryl’s other shin with the racquet. “We have squash courts, too. Maybe after a few games you’ll decide to tell us the truth.” She stepped back and nodded.
Beryl was gagged again. Rock was wheeled out first, onto an elevator at the end of the cave-tunnel’s stone pier. Two soldiers pulled a rope and closed its vertical sliding doors. Five minutes later, two new soldiers did the same for Beryl, who shouted something Leo couldn’t understand—stay silent, probably. Three minutes later, Leo was rolled onto the elevator by two new soldiers. Inside, doors shut, the soldiers pulled the rope hand over hand, and raised him into the mountain. From the rope, Leo estimated 300 yards but it could be far from one-to-one. They wheeled him into a rowdy corridor of barred stone cells, each with forty men at least, and—he guessed—one toilet in the back.
Shouldn’t have held it. Cells of grabbing hands and flying spit rolled past. Should have gone in the cabin. If he had known this was the destination, he would have felt privacy in the boat, and might have been able to release. Now the urge had only grown, but a battle lay ahead. A battle or a performance, possibly both. Or a lack of performance that could spark a battle.
The cart stopped halfway down the rock-roofed passage, lit by a string of mining lights along the center. No bulbs in the cells on either side, just crowds. The soldiers took off Leo’s hand-pouch and his chains. Three guards arrived from the end of the hall with machetes. They posted up on either side of the cell’s door, plus one behind the cart. The prisoners inside pushed against the bars until the machetes sliced and backed them off.
The door slid open halfway and the guards pushed Leo off the edge of the cart to the floor, then snowplowed him into the cell. A prisoner hurdled over Leo, diving choke-hands-first at one of the soldiers. The linebacker machete guard dropped a clean slice down the prisoner’s back, top to bottom, then lifted him by the spine and smashed him against the bars of the opposite cell. Leo watched as the cell door slammed shut, and stood as the blood puddle crossed the hallway at him, the soldiers and guards already gone, the body left to rot.
Immediately Leo was herded with grunts and shoulders, away from the bars toward the back wall. Real estate on a first-come, fist-serve basis. At the back wall, a row of men shouldered him down the sloping floor to the far corner. There wasn’t a toilet at all. Only a drop hole occupied by a squatting man, briefs lowered and stretched across the upper bend of his knees, a spiraling stench announcing the coil below. The man rose without a wipe and claimed the last open square of space next to the hole. The shoulders and fists pushed Leo farther. Now he saw—the coil sat between the cracked stone footpads of the drop hole. Three places to put two feet—he placed a boot atop each footbrick.
Fists, yes, but none for him—yet. Leo counted forty-eight men, more than he’d guessed. Where had Beryl and Rock landed? Likely on another floor in the belly of the mountain. Should have tried yelling for them while in the front row. Though they were probably already in the back of their own cells, and even if they weren’t, they wouldn’t hear their names over the open-outcry trading between front-row prisoners.
The crowd shuffled and a hunched man emerged, face to face with Leo, pained but not in agony. Without making eye contact, the man lowered his waistband and filled the hole with dehydrated yellow. Part of the job, bad traffic, a busted radiator hose, only coolant. Better than seeming afraid of it—though that was coming soon. The lingering coil washed down the hole, out of sight and smell. A few nearby men nodded—Leo hadn’t prevented a flush. The man turned and melted back in the crowd. Shoulders parted, let him pass, reclosed.
Leo Pascal, owner-operator of the prison drop hole. This wasn’t what the connection with River Rebels was supposed to be about. Leo calculated; he had plenty of time to run numbers and run them again: Forty-eight men times seven bathroom breaks a day is fourteen less than 350, that’s 336. Spread it over twenty-four hours, or 1,440 minutes. Probably thrown off by sleep, but it’s an estimate. How many minutes from one hole use to the next? 330 times four minutes is 1,320, add six times four, 24, that’s 1,344 minutes, with under a hundred—96—extra minutes up for grabs. Divided equally, 96 minutes for 336 goes is over a quarter-minute. One toilet fill every four minutes and change. Four minutes and 15, 16, 17 seconds.
The math felt good, Leo still had something. Maybe he could survive in here.
A white-haired, long-starved man looked up from his nearby seat. “We can trade off if you want a break.”
Leo nodded to say thanks. “I’m fine for now.”
“Let me know,” the man said. “I’ve only got half the target. Till then, you can lean back on the wall. We’ve managed to keep it pretty clean.” He uncrossed his legs. He had a foot on one side and less on the other, hidden in a sewn-shut cuff.
He’s been in here since when? From where? Didn’t see him on deliveries, nor at the counter. Is he nice to whoever’s new and forced to the back? Leo didn’t ask any whys. The man could talk if he wanted to.
“I’ll let you know,” Leo said. “And thanks.”
The one-legged man nodded and returned to his game. A gridwork solitaire he’s made out of pebbles and a scrap of fabric.
The hours passed without any hints from the sun. The cell stayed barely lit by the bulbs in the passage. Leo’s estimate had been ambitious. Men seemed to arrive and go once every ten minutes, not once every four. They must have their own resistance to the cell, the crowd. Maybe almost everyone feels shyness to some degree.
About eight hours in—another guess—some of the drop hole’s visitors arrived with questions, suspicions. When are you going to go? and What you hiding in there? and You leaving soon, holding it for your toilet back home? Leo stayed silent.
Everyone seemed to know when night fell. The crowd settled into a group recline, leaning on each other. The cell-to-cell shouting nearly stopped, and most everyone closed their eyes and tried to sleep.
Leo angled from the footbricks to the wall. It could be weeks in here, or months, or years, or forever. How could he ever go in this crowd? The privacy he’d chased throughout his life had been yanked away. It could always have been taken—but instead of preparing, he’d told himself it wouldn’t happen. He’d chosen his delivery job for privacy, not because of dollars or Dad or how much he loves to drive. He’d managed his privacy on the mission with Beryl and Rock, he’d built stall walls floor-to-ceiling around himself by neglecting their safety, their lives. He would rather have let them die than piss in front of them—isn’t that the truth of the ratcatcher mess?
And when he didn’t sacrifice their safety, he paid in his own health—holding it for eight, ten, twelve hours. Not recommended. Kidney juice goes bad in the bladder. The body needs turnover to be clean and healthy, don’t have to be a doctor to know. Already a new set of stings. Sure, they might be worry, but more likely something in the pipes. What do they call it—a kidney stone? The salt and whatever else all clumped up into a sharp-edged chip. A chip the TV commercials swear will be a painful piss unless you buy the medicine. But no medicine here. Just a wet and slippery hole surrounding the footbricks. Have to learn to go. There are ways, some trick, something.
Leo had occasionally searched for help. On late nights, after a four-hour bar stint with friends, with his bladder twice the size of a calzone, after he finally got home and drained the pitchers. Searched online and found pee shy. Even learned the doctors’ special word—paruresis—for pissing? Or shooting par, your spritz right in the hole? Leo smirked and shook his head, still remember. Stage fright, toilet phobia, bashful bladder, public piss resistance. Online had books to buy to work on it, but he didn’t want any shipped to his house, forever tied to his name. The doctor who wrote the book with the most stars had a website, forums, groups in every city, pee buddies, speeches, conventions, a legal advocacy branch. A doctor trying to fix the drug testing procedures, the requirement to go in a cup when your boss demands. Read a lot of research, but never really tried to change. Maybe once or twice, but not enough. Among strangers in Allentown’s arena, Lehigh’s football stadium, Bethlehem’s fancy grocery with stone-tiled bathrooms and smooth jazz and lavender-chamomile scenting and no-gap doors on the stalls. Never much luck.
He’d read about the tricks—wear headphones, run the sink, flush the toilet, use the sound to cover up. Close your eyes, don’t feel bad, stand and wait it out, wait up to two minutes, and if there’s still nothing, don’t beat yourself up, take a break and try again. Don’t go until it’s a strong urge, an eight or a nine or a ten, best to wait until a ten, won’t have to do much, it’ll be ready and wanting to go. What is it now? Levels beyond—ten on Level 1, up to a one on Level 2, up to a ten on Level 2, up to a one on Level 3. Now almost Level 3’s ten. Best to go soon, before the day starts up, before the body sacrifices health to climb to Level 4. Everyone slowed down for sleep, it’s a few minutes alone.
Throughout the day, every so often a prisoner would sit and deuce. Leo had stepped off the drop hole for those, had been allowed to share the one-legged man’s square of floor. Now, tonight—could squat as if dropping, then wrench open the tap.
Leo lowered his pants to his knees and dropped as the others had. Nobody stared or pointed or even seemed surprised. Just dozes. He closed his eyes, pressed the heels of his hands to the sockets. Nothing. Held his breath as someone had recommended. He thought he’d fall over, he breathed in—nothing. He put his fingernails past his hairline and gave himself a hidden shot of pain.
The trickle started. He bit his tongue and pressed his eyeballs. Purple and orange blobs flew. He watched the show, distracted, and drained for what felt like two minutes. When done, a rush of prickly pride washed over. Victory. Will live at least until morning. He stood and pulled up his pants without faking a wipe, then leaned back against the wall.
But then two rows ahead a shaggy man on the floor raised his chin and boomed to the sleeping crowd. “Look at Curtsy over there. Pees sitting down!”
“Curtsy. Back corner. Heya, Curtsy!”
“Did you sit for it? Sit down—did you really do it?”
“Down in back!”
The mob mind took over, and men hollered and rolled the name. After a minute, a guard dragged his baton across the bars. “Shut it or I get the hose.”
“The hose!” the shaggy man said.
The hollering stopped in a murmur of hose jokes. Leo was about to fall asleep—until a rougher, right-in-front Hey, Curtsy!
A tower stood in front of him. Leo wasn’t fluent in the tattoo code, but knew the man had flattened the skulls of a few dozen feds.
“Same team,” Leo said. He moved to get out of the way.
“Get him, Stoneneck,” the shaggy man said.
Stoneneck grabbed Leo’s shoulder with one hand. He smiled and lowered his drawstring trousers with the other. Leo watched—need to see what the hand is doing in case a knife shows up. But Stoneneck slid his hand up from shoulder to jaw, and locked Leo eye to eye. Is Stoneneck nervous too? Not quite—Leo was splashed on the kneecaps with a full jangly flow, showing off ownership of the cell’s water supply, making no attempt at hitting the drop hole. Leo grit his teeth but didn’t fight or yell. Same team.
Stoneneck shook off with a side-to-side slap, then threw Leo against the wall. “What else you hiding, little shitpeeker?” He turned and stomped through the cell, back to his spot in front, huffing at anyone brave enough to ask why he didn’t break Curtsy.
Leo stood straight and let his pants drain into the hole. Better than standing in a puddle.
“They’re going to keep coming,” the one-legged man said low. “Let’s trade off so you can sleep.”
Leo waved no thanks.
“You can’t go without sleep forever,” he said.
“Already got it,” Leo whispered.
The man stood up and hopped close in front of Leo, anchored himself with a hand on Leo’s shoulder. “Tony showed me your picture. Said to ask for your help if they picked him up first. But it was me who got picked.”
“Dad,” Leo said. “The tunnel?”
The man nodded. “We’d started. I was loading the mole in my driveway and it fell backward, off the truck—” He patted his half-leg. “Tony came to see me in the hospital. I remember the name on his visitor sticker, Lawrence Flowmacher. Nobody even picked up. Damn lucky, too, because I went from the hospital to jail only a few days later, and he hasn’t made a visit.”
“He’s captured,” Leo said.
“Tony? No—”
Leo nodded. “But not for long.”
“In there?”
Leo checked the corridor, no guards walking by. He formed his hands into a dam. “Right after punching through.”
The man shook his head. “It would have been in and out with my tunnel. My fault—I should have been steering the dig. I’m sorry—” He paused. “Your name wasn’t shared. Smart. Only your picture.”
“Leo.”
“I’m sorry, Leo. It’s a stunner he even got in there at all. Made a digger out of a dough machine—I swear I didn’t believe it at the hospital. We all know the dam is still up. I figured he was still shoveling.”
“He’s getting out. And the flood’s getting out. We’re all getting out.”
“So you’re Free Agency now?”
“Kind of. Same team.”
“He said you were a pizza driver. I’m sure driving the tunnel’s a cinch. But avoid the Pennsylvania side. I’m sure they’ve already filled it with concrete. We—Free—dug another in Jersey. Word is the crew finished. It’s an option.”
“Wait—who’s it reserved for?”
“If I’m telling you about it, you can use it. Get in there from a mausoleum. Fred Arcuri, north of the dam—”
“They have dozens of graveyards.”
“Mount Hope at Lambertville. No, Saint Joan? Damn it, I have to check the map. Try Hope.”
“But one mile? Three miles?”
“No, four—four, five, six miles. That crew has a different approach. And can you steer a—”
“Shut it up, Five-Toe,” the shaggy man said. He stood up now, somehow almost as big as Stoneneck. Must be why nobody shouts back. “He’s no Free Agency agent.”
“It’s Pylon, thank you very much.” He spun around on his foot. “And I know that already. He’s a buddy.”
“No buddy. He wouldn’t ever pass the piss test.”
Shut it the other prisoners said, and silence and Stoneneck beat the baby and cut some tongue out.
“His dad’s Free Agency. One-hundred percent.”
“Math man percent counter? He’s no Free. He’s talking to you. Getting all your secrets. He’s a fed. Shy. Fed man walking!”
Now the other prisoners stirred louder. What fed and shit fed and feed me that fed and dead feddyboy. Knifes shanked against the stone and the prisoners rose, leaning in, ready to slice.
No pizza cutter—like it would do anything against all these. No window, no shit to throw, no backpack bomb, no proof. Only Pylon wobbling in front, the oldest in the cell, arms spread, saying hold on, hold on. And then Pylon yelled Dam tunneler fight! The crowd of prisoners charged. Pylon swung two razors from his sleeves, he took out four attacking wrists, dropping their knives and bending the men in a wall blocking the rest. Leo ducked and grabbed two knifes—a kukri and a karambit—both curved, close enough to the pizza cutter. He raised them but before anyone dove blade-first, the cell’s door slammed open, and Pylon said at least you’ll have a chance out there, and all of them were clouded in a nerve-rattling gas and fell to the floor. Leo dropped, barely avoiding blades, and four guards stomped across the crowd and grabbed him—maybe Pylon had planned ahead to protect Dad this way—and he was carried out mouth-frozen, unable to say thank you, with only his eyes awake, shaking and tearing up at Pylon’s slashed collarbone, which had already drained the life.
Leo was tossed into a solitary cell, half the size of the interior of the Subaru, dark, heavy, alone, crowded.
Before the first day of kindergarten at Saint Catherine of Siena, went there with Mom to meet a urinal, taller and dropping to the floor. She said boys stand in front of it and pee on the porcelain. Now you go. Good, good.
Asked for a rest stop on the drive to Niagara Falls and Dad pulled over and opened the two doors on the right and said stand in between and face the woods and go, and the trucks that were loud in the wagon were scary outside, and it took forever, and Dad asked are you ok, any problem? Eventually went, or maybe didn’t—can’t remember, so probably didn’t. The next time Dad stopped on the shoulder, went in the woods, either up a hill or down a hill, and must have gone—but maybe not. It was only a few times. Must have stopped asking.
A new bathroom for fourth graders. Took the dare to see who could pee the farthest, and with two others backed up step by step from three wall-hung urinals, arcing the streams, until the stream couldn’t reach inside, and then walked back, closer, until done. Who won? Who hit their butt against a handwash sink, still arcing without a spill? Somebody else.
The echoing bathroom at the middle school. Walk in, five marble-printed toilet stalls on the right, then a massive square with an L of pissers, half on the right wall and half straight ahead, ten on each wall—counted—and two foot-controlled half-circle sinks on the left wall, and a ceiling higher than the top of a basketball backboard. Three grades here but not too crowded, always enough spots to have at least an empty one between you and anyone else. Fine—until Simon from the grade above slammed the forehead with a locker and said he’d kick ass when they meet the bathroom because—why? Because had said Simon, something about the bus seat cuts? Who knows? It was before anyone said cover it up, don’t report it, but now if they’re the fed at the top of the feds, you don’t cover it up, you do something. Back then did something, whatever it was, and at middle school every time after, worried about who came in the bathroom door behind. But still went standing against the wall.
Then Easton Area High School. No problem—could go and go and sex was on the mind but hadn’t done it yet and pee wasn’t exactly sex but there were other things to do with the crotch—a sprint, who’s first? Older, bigger, hairy, balls-soaky, no hiding from guys whose voices had already dropped, owner of a deep enough voice already. With older friends on the running team, through the woods, the start of rally racing, nothing to worry about, and the poppable neck zits, no trouble at all, and Simon had moved to Arizona, and the bathroom was never a problem. Some big, some small, ten urinals, one urinal, could trade off, could wait in a line, could talk over the shoulder to Carrozza, could go in the library’s old wood-walled bathroom, no sound blockers, trying to hit the target water and make them laugh back at the study group. Took shop classes, and a CAD class for designing floor plans, and could flirt with Amelia in Math and still follow along and help her with her homework. Every number out there, the end of a fiber-optic cable stretching into the truth of whatever’s below. PSI on a tire—why? The vent in the bathroom, what’s behind it? Which size screws, what angle of the blades, what temperature, does its handle still work, is it fully closed, all the way open? Which brings in air, which pulls it out, what’s the volume of air, the cubic feet per second—or is it meters?—it’s both, but what’s recorded in the notes, on the screen if there’s even a system for this at school—probably not. Where do the ducts go, tunnels above the ceilings, through filters and back into machines to circulate again, or out pipes to the sky? And the same wonder for plumbing, managing water, the cakes and spheres and mats in the urinals. Did the school buy whatever was cheapest? Turquoise pucks, or sea green and cream, or bubblegum-salt, with their nose-climbing mist of public pool chlorine, or a mid-street opened and roped-off sewer, or if lucky Dad’s bucket of carwash, or those white eggy ovals smelling of mothballs, shoe-snagged marbles spray could bounce around the bowl. Red and pink and highway-crew orange, plastic doilies or labyrinths or dartboards to splash, root vegetable funk crossed with ammonia, Hawaiian Punch slapped with a bleach-fish, a space-rocket popsicle tossed in a campfire.
Fires—went camping a few times in sixth and seventh, before Dad said stick with the Scouts or not, up to you, no such thing as dropping out of learning. Old enough to steal wooden matches in a thousand-box from the local supermarket, not yet old enough to steal cigarettes from the register where they used to be stocked, but still old enough for a buddy to steal five or six from a mom’s purse. The Pocono preserve. All night, a party of fake-ID couples atop the nearby hill, yelling and smashing thick bottles and Jeep-looping down, around the three-sided shelter and its fire, and back up the hill, everyone hanging onto the Wrangler, not part of the handbook lessons. Then, fire down to coals, without waking the laid-off circuit-board dad, ran in the dark from the shelter to the women’s latrine and peed on the pit toilets. Not what to do, but who knew then? The old urge to say man here too led to splashes on the seats.
But earlier! The Cub Scout trip to the camp where every fort was built with lashed wood, and the bathroom was wrong—not old, just wrong—where you couldn’t tell the difference between the hand-wash sink and the pee-in-it island. Not against the wall, but down the middle of the building, a long and evil aluminum gutter a foot wide on either side of the drains, drains centered below sprinkler spigots. Too high to aim for—lucky. Where men facing men facing kids facing men stood and peed, and avoided eye-to-eye contact by looking down at each other’s penises peeing in the face-off pool, and why, why, how could anybody allow football fields of grass to fill with vans and trucks and 4x4s and allow all of the dads and sons to fill the camp for two nights and offer this as their only bathroom—why? Couldn’t reach it to go, only almost-washed the hands in it before seeing a man’s penis pulled out of a dark denim fly. Peed in the toilet as the backup option, an open metal bucket with no bottom, a long shared splashpit. Stood in front of the hole and peed in there, with no door closed behind because the stalls had no doors, just tiny dividers stretching out as far as the toetips of seated kids. Why?
Only one time, never again, thank god. And after the Wrangler night, peed only in the woods because it smelled better than any latrine. Had hours to explore a camp big enough to seem empty. Explored without parents. Explored with lighters and matches and cigarettes and matches and lighters, and in the long mystery pit latrine with six toilets on each side but no walls, neither elbow-to-elbow nor back-to-back, Jeffy found the latrine’s one empty roll of paper towels, and lit the cardboard and threw it down the hole, and everyone stared at it through the three closest toilets, and nobody had a water bottle to put it out. Tried to spit on it, no help, until Jeffy said, let me go, let me go, and while everyone watched he peed on the flames and put them out and saved the building and kept everyone out of juvenile hall. More impressive than any badge or award or even rifle practice. Got out a few weeks later. No more Boy Scouts.
The senior year trip to Busch Gardens. Ate weed butter bagels on the back seat of the bus when forty-five minutes away. First stop for the four horsemen—Alpengeist coaster or the bathroom. Went to the bathroom and filled up the row, was closest to the stalls, and everyone laughing and laughing and going, it was normal back then, and laughed so hard a Hershey Kiss was sharted, and finished at the pisser but then went to the stall next door and took off the shorts and the boxers and threw the boxers in the toilet and wiped and put the shorts back on and met the other three outside and rode Alpengeist and all the rest.
Blamed the weed worries so many times, but it wasn’t the weed, or maybe it was a bit, but it’s not the source—plenty onboard before Busch and went fine—too fine—with the group against the wall. But there was one buy from the RA at the dorm at N-Tri-C, he said it was from Alaska, cold and icy with crystals, and the first bowl was packed in the RA’s room, and it had a deep inner what’s this? awareness, and then it was time to go somewhere, and with the RA hit the dorm’s bathroom on the way out, all stalls, and stood in the stall next to the RA and the guy went with the peace of the Pacific and talked with his SoCal mellowmelody, and all said in return was don’t have to go, must be stoned… And he didn’t care, why would he? But after the stone went away, the awareness, the watching, the don’t make a mistake in the bathroom, the if-you-promise by stepping to piss, you piss, all of it stuck around, tightening, a twist on the end of a joint, and bathrooms weren’t the same after that.
And then a week later: A frat party at Lafayette College. They always say private school. But the bathroom had a line of men and women shuffling up the stairs, through a door stenciled FIRE EXIT, and into a packed party of more men and more women. Sitting on the left-side counter tapping cigarettes into sinks, smoking buds in the walk-in shower, and one urinal straight ahead topped with cans, bolted to the wall above a red wooden box to step on, which every man stepped on because someone had mounted the porcelain too high. Three toilet stalls to the right with doors not quite closed and sit-downs in there, and the voices said women, one trying to pinch the plywood door shut, two others letting doors hang open and talking to the sink crowd. Front of the line now. Asked a guy—asked!—where to go, and the—chapter president?—sitting at the corner of the counter, already watching and laughing, said step up and piss, don’t hold up the line. Stepped up and pulled it out but didn’t piss. Faked it? Eventually said don’t have to? What was it? The president of the packed bathroom said something, come back when you’re ready, Betty, something that made all the others laugh, and red and flushed—not the right word at all—went down the stairs and drank some more to drown the splashing shame. Left and found a dark row of bushes outside and squeezed inside them and finally went, shaking the head, relieved, relieved there was nobody watching, and maybe that was the start of it, or maybe RA and frat together, or maybe there’s not so much of a start button as a ramp, a tunnel, deeper and deeper, and some days it’s up and some days down, and if you go down you have to dig back up, go by go by trickier go. But at least one dig-up back in the cell.
Days and nights now indistinguishable, ceiling too low to sit up, Leo rolled from side to side on the floor of the cell. Once a day—he guessed—the door’s pass-through unclicked and delivered a meal but not light. A cup of water and a blender-shredded mess of potatoes and frozen dog food. He went to the bathroom occasionally, curled and leaning toward the downhill back of the cell, at least alone. Must be the lack of meals and not the worries. Though each time he went, he worried the pass-through would slam open, or the cell door, or he was being watched by a night vision camera his searching fingertips hadn’t detected.
He tried to count the days, but how? Keep bits of food and invite cockroaches in through the toilet? He guessed it was day six or seven when the cell door opened.
Before he could dodge, two guards shot him with something, froze him, and dragged him out to a cart. Strapped down, the cart rolled back, out of the center of the mountain, through the spiral of same-direction tunnel turns, to the crowded passage of cells stretching away. But then, instead rolling toward the forty-eight-man cell he’d fought in—forty-eight minus two—the cart turned the other way, through a steel door with a saltine-sized window. It rolled farther, now on smooth tiles. Cleaner, smelling of bleach and fresh cotton. And grilled meat? But not anything served on Dad’s menu—this was the night long-gone cook Edwin deep-fried a squirrel. But clean enough. He rolled past doors lined only on the passage’s right-side. Swing doors, each with a long window, all with shades behind and probably locked. The cart turned into one of the swinging doors and pushed him into a room.
Leo cycled through where he’d been. In the solitary cell, but further, in his mind inside the cell. Again the pain cinched him tight and he yanked against his foot and ankle ropes. An echo of the pain he’d dug into shovel by shovel, up and down for eighteen years, but since then only down… But that pain—guaranteed meaner than anything they could throw in here. The wall—an ice cream shop of knives, twenty-eight flavors. Nothing. They could cut, dig, punch, hit, choke, splash, fill, flush—none of it would be worse than what he didn’t know he’d been through until now.
The guards—greasy, sweating, nervous?—lifted Leo from the cart and clamped his hands into chains hanging from the ceiling. They whipped him with trout carcasses for as long as it would take him to drive a single delivery of pizza. No problem.
When he was covered in fish juice, guts, and blood, a woman entered. Beryl had dueled with her upon arrival. Now she passed a can of kippered herring from hand to hand. “Who do you work for?” she said.
“Limbo Lightning Battery,” Leo said, shaking fish oil from his eyes.
She nodded to the guards. From a cabinet, they pulled lemon juice bottles and soaked Leo from head to toe. He grunted to push away the acid. He writhed but didn’t talk. “I’m not saying you’re our enemy yet. Tell us who you work for.”
Leo coughed out a fishy blood loogie. “Limbo Lightning Battery.”
“Very well,” she said. “Scan him.”
The guards left the room. The woman pull-ringed open the can of kippers. She unwrapped a plastic fork and dined in front of Leo, checking her watch, waiting. Before she finished, the guards returned with handheld metal detectors. They scanned the devices over Leo’s body. Above his hip, a slew of beeps.
“What might we find in here?”
“Old hernia operation,” he said. The truth this time.
“That’s what the last centrally intelligent federal agent said. He was clearly prohibited from admitting the agency’s built-in tracker. We had to dig it out to be sure. So if indeed you’re on our side, tell us the truth. Who do you work for?”
“Limbo Lightning Battery.”
With the edge of the kipper’s peeled-off metal top, she sliced the skin between Leo’s tiniest toes. “You smashed a radio from the dam’s network on your way in. Why did they send you up?”
Through his teeth he said, “Selling batteries.”
“We looked through everything you carried in your bags. This is Goldilocks and the Three Bombs. Why? To wipe us off the river? To seal our prisoners inside? Or maybe you’re mining us for something.” She sliced between the next pair of toes.
Leo’s chin reached for the ceiling. “Selling—getting a ride for selling.”
“Bombs are far from batteries. And those scrumptious Tastykakes. Are you teaming up with River Rebels now? Maybe the pocket-protector joke of a Free Agency? Or did you swipe these treats on the way?”
Leo shook his head, scrunched his toes together, but couldn’t block her from finishing the left foot.
“Three options. You can admit you’re a fed, or another militia, and we’ll turn you over to D.C. for confirmation—or death.” Slice. “You can admit your sorry little clique and team up with us, Payne Creek.” Slice. “Or you can die right here.”
Leo spun his hanging body, tried to kick his tied-down feet and splatter her. “Not on either side.”
She laughed. “Perfect! That means you’re on our side. Before we proceed, let’s see if your body wants to add any comments.” She turned to the guards. “X-ray him.”
The guards wheeled an X-ray machine from the corner, stripped him down, and shot him with the rays.
“Over the private parts one more time,” she said from behind the monitor. Then she nodded at the guards, who rolled it away behind him. “Hernia indeed.” She walked to the wall and took down a quilting rotary cutter. She raised it for the first cut of tricep.
Leo clamped his jaw. Pizza. Pizza skin. But before she sank the blade, the room’s door swung open. Someone in blood-splashed scrubs called her to the hallway. She returned a minute later. “Your big boss is on board. Gold-Tooth Beaver, is it? An interesting name for an arms trafficking crew, but these times interest all the time. Thank you for your three pathetic little bombs. We might make cupcakes with them. And now we’ll finish what I started. For practice. You’re not going anywhere. Maybe Gold-Tooth can negotiate purchases on our behalf. And maybe our validation team can use you for tests of the defense system.”
A soaking rag covered Leo’s nose and mouth. He slumped into darkness.
Leo woke up still hanging from the ceiling. He had a scattered recall of the final stages of something, blink-shots of stitches getting sewn into his legs, his arms, his torso. He looked up, down—there they are, miniature five-stich slices covering him. The new homes of every government tracker. Or none? Something must have been done inside—they weren’t cutting for fun.
He wriggled from his fingers to his feet. Someone had even stitched between the toes. At least he was alone now. He could go if he had too—but nothing. Must have all leaked out while he was unconscious. Straight through his boxers to the floor. But chalk it up as another win. That’s two in this jail, twice in front of people, no matter how or who or where or why.
The door’s saltine-cracker window was open, and soon Leo locked eyes with a passing guard. What next? The guard came in and checked him, left, and returned with two guards and a cart. As usual now, tied and rolled out. Through the door, into the hospital hall, into the hall of big cells, past his cell, now far above fifty. He barely twinged at the yells and spit. All the way down to the elevator at the end. Back to a boat, a new place, a mission? Or a turn-in to feds? But the elevator only went halfway down.
The guards rolled Leo down a quiet passage, but the opposite of solitary. The cells were closer to rooms and mostly empty. Through the windows of the metal doors there were bunk beds and desks and chairs, and in one, a television. But the luxury dropped off fast—the guards stopped and slid open bars and pushed him into a windowless cave-cell with a drop hole, blankets on the floor, a sink, and nothing else. Nothing except for Beryl and Rock, who caught him under each arm. They stayed silent as the guards turned and left.
“Here we go,” Beryl said. They laid him on a blanket. Rock cut two corners from his own blanket with a hidden knife. Beryl turned on the sink and they scrubbed him down, soaking up the dried blood crusted on every set of stitches. “We’ll talk soon,” Beryl said. “Get some rest.”
Leo closed his eyes to sleep.
“Dream of the Gold-Tooth Beaver,” Rock said. “A beautiful invention. Our guaranteed ticket out of here.”
“One thing at a time,” Beryl said. “Leo, we’ll talk when you’re rested up.”
Beryl shook Leo awake. In the corridor, a cart’s wheels rattled. “Dinner’s coming,” she said. “Guard’s name is Jimothy. Don’t say anything. Best to pretend you’re asleep and face the wall.”
“I’m asleep,” Leo said and turned on his blanket.
Three trays clanked into the cell and were laid on the ground. “Not till I’m off this shift,” Jimothy said. “You sure it’s time-delayed?”
“One-hundred percent. Third-shift cheese-lover will be home and tucked into his sunshiny bed when it blows.”
“And no giveaway flavor? No taste?”
“Let’s check—the grater’s right here, the press looks adequate. He won’t have a clue at the difference between bombchem and cheddar.”
“Perfect.”
“You’re going to be in charge of this floor in no time, Jimothy. And that’s when the big boy bribes roll in.”
A tray shaking around, four-star serving domes opening and closing. “We’re good,” Rock said.
“We need all the time left,” Beryl said.
“Hold on,” Jimothy said. “Who’s the new guy. He a Beaver?”
Beryl scoffed. “Of course he’s a Gold-Tooth Beaver.”
“What’s with all the cuts?”
Leo stayed still. They should have covered him with a blanket.
“You were protecting him in solitary confinement,” Beryl said. “Until you weren’t protecting him, you were feeding him to your in-cave bug population. They literally colonized his poor body. And he’s the one we really need to do big things for Payne Creek. It was an emergency surgery, touch and go, dig all the eggs out. He barely survived. But he’s back—he’s why we waited until today. Of everyone in the business, I trust only his bombercheese-making ability.”
“That right?” Jimothy said. “You, guy lying down. You know how to do this?”
Do what?
“Leave him be,” Beryl said. “He’s doing the math on the percent composition right now.”
“Let me see his face. I need to recognize him during the inevitable questions.”
Beryl put her hand on Leo’s shoulders, holding him in place.
“It’s alright,” Leo said. Beryl finally let him raise up to his elbows. No—could it be—yes—the death-deserving piss-party sits-on-his-counter-throne president.
“Cheese is a weapon my family has perfected over fourteen generations,” Leo said, then turned back to the wall. He’ll get it soon enough.
“True that,” Jimothy said. “He used to deliver pizza to my frat at Lafayette. Damn good. I’ll let you do what you got to do.” The cart rolled down the corridor and through a door at the end.
“So close,” Beryl said. “At least he has bad memory.”
“I’ve seen him,” Leo said, sitting up. “But I didn’t think it was pizza.” Pizza too.
“You have too many customers to remember every face,” Rock said. “A profitable thing to have.”
“Let’s see how much,” Beryl said.
Rock slid his tray to the middle and took off the serving dome. Underneath, a brownie-sized cube of bomb. A big fat snowed-in brownie.
Beryl opened hers. Underneath, a plate-sized wheel of cheddar. Leo reached to his own tray and revealed a test-tubey cheese press. “Shredding the bomb and that wheel and making a new one? I hope you’ve got the recipe. Our shop doesn’t touch cheddar.”
“Or bombs,” Rock said.
“That too.”
“You’ll have a taste for cheddar soon enough.” Beryl wrapped a cut of cotton around the brownie bomb. Then she scooted back to the drop hole and pulled the bolts from its stainless steel cover.
Meanwhile, Rock pulled all of the dinners, the cheese stuff, everything as close to the bars as possible. He stacked all blankets atop each other and filled their center with gear. He lifted a pair of tongue-and-groove pliers from the mix. “Pre-loosened. We traded him future Tastykakes for these only two days ago.”
What are they hiding under there? Tucking the bomb underneath? How does this affect going in here—is it a take it out, everyone go, put the squatter back kind of thing? Had it so good alone, not even thinking about it, but now it’s back to the close-ups and the sneaking around. Time to tell them—
Beryl pulled out the squat toilet and handed it to Rock. Rock had already knotted the blankets into a bindle. He put it in the space of his cross-legged lap, then stood the squat toilet as a wall out front.
“Leo, it’s best if you set up next to Rock with your back to the bars.” She lowered the bomb into the hole, seemed to set it wherever the toilet had drained to.
“Road trip,” Rock said. “Get excited, Leo. And cover those ears.”
Beryl lit the cotton wrapper and ran back to the bars, where they plugged their ears and ducked and jammed together and BLABOOM! bits of the stone pipe flew everywhere, but small as dust. “Here’s the real waterslide,” Beryl said. “Swim time!” She slid feet-first into the new hole and disappeared.
“Go, Leo, you next.” Rock pushed him to the edge.
In the passage, Jimothy and his jangling keys raced toward the cell. “Hey! You can’t go there!”
Leo flicked a backward middle finger, yelled, “I’m going,” and dropped into the hole and disappeared.
Leo slid from the cell into darkness. But only a darkness of light—he dropped onto a sludge-iced track of feces, some mudballs as big as car fire extinguishers, some as small as driveway gravel, some bouncing off his boots, others smashing and spraying like wind-piled snow on an empty road. All combining their stinks not into a peaceful brown-noise blend, but instead a heavy metal band of bacteria’s sweat. The crowded jail cells were far above, but now they returned through vertically descending pipes. Some luckily dry and only flashing a hint of light from above, some waterfalling a wall he slid through. A broken faucet, a car wash sprayer into a wire-entwined hubcap, or tooth-breaking potatoes tossed from a boxcar into a river. And Leo heard Beryl ahead of him, Rock behind, and himself too, grunting with closed lips, an ancient chorus of get away forced through the nostrils. Hopefully driving out scents as well—more likely overpowered.
A curved wall ahead. Leo braced and his boots crept up it, he slid up the wall behind them, and it suggested a turn. He stayed up there, speeding and pressing hard to the wall. A corkscrew? And then a brown-golden glow in the tunnel, getting brighter, brighter, brown rock and brown filth seen for the first time, and then lightening as only the sun could do, and then the hole opened to a flag of cloudy white, scratches of brown, wavy dark blue—the Delaware!—and he launched over the pipe’s flow-smoothed edge into cold wind.
Leo somehow remembered to press his pointed feet together and tighten his arms to his side. Two seconds later he hit the river. He shot underwater in a skin-cleaning dunk he didn’t dare open his eyes to watch. He swam to the surface and spun in the hard current, searching. Towering there, the mountain they’d been locked in. Must have flown right over the little road at its base. Another vertical mountain on the far side—east side based on the river’s flow—must be New Jersey. At its base must be I-80 shooting the gap. Beryl was ahead, downriver but facing him, wringing her hair. Leo waved.
Rock called to them from behind. “Are you both certified to swim?”
“Doggy paddle if you have to,” Beryl said, turning downriver with the bindle of gear towed behind her. A shot ripped from the nearby mountain into the water beside them. “Underwater strokes are the best till we’re out of their range. Let’s go!”
Leo tried a few underwater but tired quickly, struggling to hold his breath. He tried freestyle, the side stroke, the breaststroke.
Behind them, the roar of a speedboat. “Keep going,” Beryl said, pulling a double plastic bag from her pocket. It sped at them, not shooting anymore but seeking recapture. Leo tried to keep swimming and downshifted to the elementary backstroke. At least he was watching Beryl now.
Beryl treaded, waiting, and raised her hands above her head when the speedboat cut its motor. But then she lit a saved little square of bomb and tossed it in the boat. She turned and swam fast downstream. One guard dropped and searched for it under the turquoise and tangerine seats while the other scrambled away. A second later black smoke blasted and both guards crumpled. The speedboat raised each side and pushed them together like the buns of a salami hoagie, and disappeared below.
“Bravo,” Rock said as Beryl swam beside him. “Your anticipation saved our lives.”
“That’s the only one we have—we had—so it’s time to keep going until we find a good pull-off.”
Payne Creek must have guessed more bombs were waiting, and didn’t send any more boats. Shots from the mountain became only annoying firecrackers far behind. The roads along either side could have invited a search, but consistent trees on either side blocked any steady view of the river. The best angle was on the Jersey side from the interstate, but Leo hadn’t seen a bridge yet. Doubtful anyone wants to stop on the narrow shoulder. Payne Creek must be still in the caves, planning the recapture.
Leo shivered—he’d been shivering since the plunge, but it only showed up after the boat and the river route were dealt with. The daylight was almost gone. November wanted to be December.
The mountains dropped, the gap was behind them, and the interstate turned east on a straight hour-long shot to the George Washington Bridge. Not far beyond, they swam under a two-lane concrete bridge to connect the Poconos and I-80, the first they’d seen on the river. They skirted the Pennsylvania bank and searched for spots to climb out, until the river turned a corner and revealed a power generating station.
“Back to the middle, back to the middle,” Beryl said through her shivers, and they gambled a wire hadn’t fallen in. A crew on break smoked and shouted at each other, half of the picnic table blocking the other side’s view, and the team slid past without a yell or a rock toss.
Beyond, the trees got thicker. The freshly painted homes became rare. It seemed there was finally room to get out. “How about here?” Rock said as a single frozen word. He pointed at a triangle of stones reaching into the river.
“There,” Beryl said. She pointed to a shed of something leaning toward the river in the last of the light. “But here, get out here, we’ll walk the shore.”
Leo floated belly-first onto the rocks, he rolled uphill and out of the water, too cold and tired to stand. He’d been cleansed, at least, and had even leaked in the river. Beryl and Rock carried him between a pair of trees, hopefully out of site from both river and road. The fallen leaves were dry and deep, and the team stuffed brown leaves into Leo’s clothing, filling it up. They wrung the clothing on Leo’s sides, alternating back and forth with doing the same to their own.
“We can start a fire up in there,” Beryl said. “Moving.”
Leo wiggled his boots and shivered, trying to explain about the slices between his toes.
“I got him.” Rock threw Leo on his back. Leo hooked his hands and drooped onto Rock’s shoulder. Rock raised his arms under Leo’s knees and clasped his hands at his belt. “He ain’t heavy…”
Leo grunted, Beryl stopped and looked back.
“Come on, Leo,” Rock said. “What comes next?”
“Something, something, Christmas brother.”
“That counts, he’s making it,” Beryl said. She turned and continued south. Rock stomped behind her through the leaves.
Ten minutes later, the team ducked into a broken-down brick shed with only woods behind it. A mishmash of severed wires nested on its half-smashed roof. River Rebels, most likely.
“Switchgear, or at least it used to be,” Beryl said. She opened the knotted blankets and spread them on the hard dirt floor.
Rock laid Leo on a blanket in the back corner. “Checkup time. Flashlight?”
Beryl passed him a mini-flashlight. “I’ll be right outside getting our lamp.”
Leo shook his head, tightened up.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “He’s not a personal injury lawyer—”
“—disbarred—” Rock said.
“—he’s also a dad.”
Rock gently removed Leo’s shirts and pants. He hung them from broken spikes in the shed’s roof. Below, Beryl coned sticks around leaves. She lit it—finally a flash of light, a crackle, that old smoke smell, and soon enough, heat.
“All these stitches,” Rock said. “So many places.” He stopped counting out loud at twenty-one. “What do you remember? Did they take anything out? Put anything in?”
Leo shook his head again. “Unconscious,” he shivered.
“No way we’re checking all of them. Anything under the boxers? These are soaked—Beryl, some cover-up leaves.” Leo pushed his eyes shut, and Rock removed the boxers. “I’m sorry, I don’t enjoy this, trust me. Just making sure they didn’t”—he rolled Leo to his side, checked beneath, then rolled him back—“looks like they kept your boxers on.” Leo peeked at where Rock had hung them up. Almost black with bloodstains from before the swim.
The fire rose now, halfway up the wall, but Beryl pared it back to only a foot above the ground. She faced the wall and wrapped in a blanket, then hung her clothes in the heat of the flames. Smoke rose through the break in the roof. She hung the third blanket over the shed’s door, trapping their light inside. “How are you doing with walking?”
“The toes,” Leo said.
“Getting to those next,” Rock said. He still had his soaked clothing on, but steam rose from the calves of his pants facing the fire. He didn’t shiver, either. Must have a tolerance of some sort. “Have you walked at all yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Lucky you swam then,” Rock said. “Beryl, can you ready the med kit?”
“How’d you get med?” Leo said.
“There we go,” Beryl said. “Getting back in the game. You remember our bomb-cheesy guard? We had a trade going. We give him something, he gives us something. Bit by bit from our bags. Not everything, far from everything. But some of the key items.”
“The dam bombs—”
“Not those,” she said. “Only today’s pair.”
“Holy horrible sandals,” Rock said, checking Leo’s feet. “What happened down here?”
“Fish tin.” Leo flinched.
“OK, Beryl, soap, water, and a miniature rag.”
“Coming up.”
“Where are they,” Leo said. “The bombs.” Try to ignore the return of sliced pain.
“Somewhere in the jail still,” Beryl said. “The storeroom. Or maybe they’re already out on a mission. Let’s hope not, for whoever gets underneath. We’ll be fine, though. They’ll never trace those back to us.”
“Here we go,” Rock said.
The pain was heavy but fat, spread throughout the foot. Far from the attack of the pull-top. Leo took deep breaths, in, out, in, out. “It’s alright.”
“Good,” Rock said. “Moving down the line.”
“We need bombs,” Leo said.
“We do need bombs,” Beryl said.
“Bombs away,” Rock said. “But only bombs we issue. No presents.”
“We’ve been working on it,” Beryl said. “I always figured our three weren’t coming back. If you have any suggestions, Leo, any sources, we’re interested.”
Leo nodded. Both feet swelled with blasts of pain-blood from toe to heel to ankle. Where in Allentown, Bethlehem, Easton were the bombs? The steel mill used to make artillery—exploding shells, too? It’s been down for how many years? Did they forget to empty a cabinet? Where’s the closest mine for the stuff? North, backwards. Or west, but can’t waste time searching past Harrisburg. “Will think.” Leo lay back panting.
“Alright, Beryl, antiseptic.” Rock took the tube and dabbed between each toe. “Fire warming you up?”
“Getting there.”
Rock rolled the blanket over Leo’s toes and started cleaning up the legs. “Five stitches here, five stitches there. For fun—sick fun. Payne Creek indeed.” Rock washed each cut, then put the cream again. “This situation could consume all of our Band-Aids, so I’m only going to cover the bad ones. But at least the knots look good. They weren’t wasting you yet. Overall, I’d say this could be much worse. Beryl, are his boxers dry?”
“Here you go.” She handed over the cardboard-hardened pair. Rock smushed it, shook it, and held the right leg open. “A foot through each.” Still lying down, Leo pointed each foot and Rock slid the boxers up to the knees.
“I can do it,” Leo said. He turned toward the wall, batted away the leaves, and side-lifted his waist to pull the boxers all the way up.
“Well done,” Rock said. “Halfway through. No drone yet, so I think you’re clear of communication. Fake-out cuts, most likely.” He continued with the soap up the chest.
“But why would they knock him out?” Beryl said. “The only answer is to do something they didn’t want him to see. This could be one tracker or twenty trackers, however many cuts you counted.”
“If it is, we know where to pull them out.”
“Though I doubt the place had the budget for twenty trackers.” Beryl cut a chunk of cheese. “Rock, here you go.”
“My hands.”
“Open wide.” She cut it in half and delivered it to his teeth.
“How are you with food?” Rock said when able to talk again. “Nausea? Hungry? What did they feed you?”
“Can’t remember the last meal.” The bomb delivery had been perfect but far from a dinner.
“Sit him up,” Beryl said. “Try this.” She placed a slice in Leo’s mouth. “We’ll see what happens. You have to eat.”
Cheddar, not bad, not frozen, not mozzarella, but sharp in a good way, a wake-up with fat and protein for the push ahead.
“We’re basically back to where we started,” Beryl said. “I’d guess the same latitude as my spot in the woods. We’re twenty miles up the Delaware from Easton. Then it’s another thirty, thirty-five to the dam. We’re not running away anymore. We’re attacking the dam. For our river. Our land. Our people flooded under. We need to figure out the best way in. From any side, any way—foot, wheels, air, hang glider…”
“You can fly a hang glider, right?” Rock said to Leo, laughing.
Leo gave a tired thumbs-up. “Beryl—what’s the way in.”
“We originally planned on dropping in the back, snapping open the power plant’s emergency exhaust, and getting in through there.”
“But we’re not dropping in back,” Rock said.
“It’s not impossible,” Beryl said. “But there’s a better backup plan.”
That’s right. Zion said written down—
“And who designed this backup plan? We’ve had a wholly sufficient waiting period to learn about the person you’re on a mission to see.”
“We need to get in,” Beryl said.
“You’ve shaken this request how many times now?” Rock said. “We’re going to be at the ends of the barrels of who knows how many guns. Dodging, of course, but please—I’m not asking for expensive sweaters. I need to know what happened. What’s happening. This is how I help my clients. Two-way river.” Beryl squinted, no response. “Two-way street.”
“Zion,” Leo said.
Beryl tossed up her hands. “Who? Why get into this, Leo? But fine—Zion. Zion it is. My special someone. A big love story, rushing down the river to bring him home. No ring, but yes we’re married. But don’t get me wrong. I’m not on a mission to grab him and ride off. We’re taking the dam out.”
Leo nodded. Rock shook his head. “So simple! I want to say see, but I won’t. It’s a grand motivation. A plenty valid reason. And I respect it. But two questions— One, why is he in there and you’re out here? Forgive my memory if you’ve said this. And two, why, exactly do you need to pair this up with the bombing of the dam? It appears so much easier to get him out first, and then to worry about destroying the dam.”
Beryl closed her eyes, shook off the cross-examination. “One, we both used to help people we agreed with—”
“—the government—”
“and then we both left when we disagreed. And only he was captured back.”
Rock sucked ouch air through his teeth.
“And two, let’s all think of it like this. We can bring the bombs, but he’s the only one who can push the button.”
The Hoover system.
Rock raised his hands. “Fair enough. Palms out. No more questions.”
“Zion and my dad,” Leo said. “I bet they’ll get along when they finally meet.”
“They will.” Beryl cracked off another big bite and passed him the cheese.
“The backup plan,” Leo said. “Zion said you had it written down.”
“When?” Rock said. “Both of you have been communicating? Since—I thought we were—what else have you tucked—”
“You were asleep in the canoe when we fixed the radio.”
“Beryl, we were in the same cell for how many days? And you didn’t provide any information on Zion, or the conversation, or the intelligence you acquired.”
“I’m sorry!” Leo said. “I’m new to this party.”
“Relax, Leo, you’re fine,” Beryl said. “I convinced them to put us in the same cell only a couple days before you joined us. And Rock, the answer is simple. The notes are gone, but I still saved it until we all reunited. And here we are. And we’re talking about it.”
Rock shook his head, swore through a loud nose exhale.
Only the stiches kept Leo from smacking himself. Slid these two in opposite directions. Not bringing up the Hoover System that Zion mentioned. Let Beryl lead the team.
“We’ll stick to the topic,” Rock finally said. “So where’s the backup door? You have it documented.”
“By documented he means we have a map. But here.” Beryl unfolded the map from the pile of gear and wove her finger south, then back north. “Delaware River.” Farther north. “The Gap. And now I’d say we’re down here.” Past the bridge from Pennsylvania to the interstate, around the corner. Finger farther south. “Easton, barely afloat.” Farther south. “Down from here, all flooded. Frenchtown, New Hope, Lambertville. Long gone. And beyond, the dam. Not drawn on the map for obvious reasons.”
Rock squinted at the map. “Palisades on either side.”
“More or less. Though the cliffs are mostly underwater now.”
“I never got close enough to see it—only the photography, the news—”
“The viral drone footage,” Leo said. “Was that you?”
“We’re moving forward now.”
“I’ve delivered pizza. On the Jersey side. And then the tunnel, across in Pennsylvania.” The driveway wasn’t on the map.
“The backup plan,” Beryl said, “is this little ketchup stain northeast of the dam.” Goat Hill Overlook.
“Obvious?” Rock said. “Is that why you asked about hang gliding?” Leo had assumed a wingsuit, but both would be impossible. He could parachute, but was far from a pilot.
“It’s whatever works for us up there. There’s an exit tunnel from the dam, an emergency exit that brings them up just shy of the overlook. Could be an entrance, but we’d have to ask Zion to clear out the guards before we get there.”
“Or we take them out.”
“And hope the dam’s not monitoring their blood pressure. As is, we don’t have a doorbell for Zion. Gone and smashed the radio not long after this last conversation.”
“Leo, who were you in the cell with? Did they give you anything good? Our floor was protestors, taggers, mural artists—nobody marching a bomb to the dam.”
The first cell—Leo closed his eyes. Each time he saw a face, the image clicked and showed the dark solitary cell instead. As if solitary was better—and maybe it was—click—he tried to check and memory sent him out again.
“It’s weird but—I’ve got nothing.”
Both Beryl and Rock hung their heads. “Sorry,” Beryl finally said. “Sorry I asked you to think back.”
“At least you know the roads,” Rock said. “We’ll get in there somehow. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“I’ll tell you right here, the roads aren’t what you see on the map,” Leo said. “The flood took out all the riverside roads. Then you have the fenced zone, where they kept the trees but bulldozed the houses. Lot of those roads are blocked off. Our tunnel was from a no-name driveway on the river just north of that zone. Maybe even farther. I’d guess on the rise near Solebury, Bucks County. And we went through a checkpoint to get there. And since that attempt, who knows how many new checkpoints and fences and cameras are up.”
“Do you think it’s as bad in Jersey?” Beryl said.
“Basically the same. The land’s a little bumpier, more of these long mountains coming in from the northeast. But the same thing—checkpoints and fences and cameras.”
“We could dig a tunnel in on the Jersey side—” Rock said.
Leo slammed shut his eyes, shook his head from side to side. Tunnels—tunnels—death by tunnel—Dad—no— He shook hard enough to open his eyes and find Beryl with a fistful of Rock’s hair, whispering into his ear. They both straightened up.
“I’m sorry,” Beryl said. “We’re rescuing your father. No need for a second tunnel.”
“Change topics,” Rock said, handing Leo a bit of cheese and taking a big chunk for himself. “Beryl, tell him about the Gold-Toothed Beaver.”
“Gold-Toothed Beavers,” Beryl said, toasting with her piece of cheddar.
“Arms dealers par excellence,” Rock said.
“A middle-of-the-road militia ready to help Payne Creek, or Free Agency, or whoever has the most gold toothpaste.”
“They didn’t even pick up on it,” Rock said. “The dam. The tail slap. I love it.”
“Beavers know where dams should and shouldn’t go. They don’t listen to fishing quote-unquote environmentalists. I don’t have all of it memorized, but there’s purification, there’s thermoregulation, there’s establishment and maintenance of wetlands—”
“See! Beryl knows all about beavers. And note I am using the word in its first definition exclusively.”
“You better be.”
“I’ve seen the videos,” Leo said. Beryl held up one finger, don’t go there. “Elementary school, getting into the lodge by their dam. Submarining in and out of there. Dark all winter, living in darkness…” He switched to a stare into the fire. Don’t go back to solitary, don’t go back to solitary— “But why gold-tooth?”
“Seemed to fit. Distract them from the beaver with gold. Get lucky with gold. Everyone wants to eat as many nuggets as they can. Gold nuggets, right Rock?”
“Our captors were certainly money-hungry. My guess is that’s why they kept so many people alive. The feds on the other hand—it was a quick turn from the nonstop bribery cash flow to literally drowning anyone who opposes.”
“Not for long,” Beryl said. “We need to take care of two things. Get bombs. Get in the dam.”
“And sleep,” Rock said.
Leo, already lying down with his eyes closed, raised a thumbs up and was snoring before he uncurled his fingers.
They woke the next morning to a buzz in the sky above the switchgear shed. Beryl peeked through the chimney-gap in the roof. “Drone. Baby drone. Directly above us.”
Rock grabbed half a brick from the smashed top of a wall. He slipped out the blanketed door and fastballed the half-brick upward. Leo heard a plastic smack, then clicking as the drone’s propellers tried and failed. Rock smashed it more on the ground.
Beryl inspected its guts. “No memory card, but it looks like they put a tracker in.”
Rock sniffed a scrap of plastic. “A tracker or who knows how many other methods of detection out here.”
“Whatever it is, they’ve seen us. Time to get moving.”
Leo pulled up his shirt and looked at his stitches. He checked on them, but more so braced himself for digging. They’ll have to go through the cuts one by one, find the tracker, take it out. And this time, while awake. But then his bathroom urge spoke louder. Rock was going on the far side of the shed, loud enough to hear the pour. Leo had chugged filtered river water all night, waking up to Beryl’s water bottle to heal. Bottle after bottle, but no break outside. Now he had to go—but where? Not where Rock went. They’d talked through so much last night, the entire mission, but he hadn’t shared what solitary told him. Even though in solitary he’d told himself to tell them. Now both were packing in a rush, and there wasn’t time—
“Grease you up one more time before the boots,” Rock said, back in the shed. He slid a squirt between each toe, then slipped on the dried socks.
“These are nice,” Leo said. His feet didn’t smash with pain yet, just a dull ache. But he hadn’t stood, either. He pulled the socks up.
“Boots,” Rock said. He helped the toes make it to the tip of each boot without smacking or sliding the walls. “Tell me if these knots are too tight. Tying them as braces.”
“All good,” Leo said.
Fully packed, Beryl took a last scan of the drone. “We’re lucky. Intelligence only. They thought they’d be looking down on piles of Gold-Tooth’s gold. Can’t blow it all up. But a few are probably on their way here now, ready to climb down the ladder to our nonexistent storage pit.” She walked outside and threw the drone in the river, where it disappeared. “Moving out.”
Leo rose to his feet.
“What’s your assessment?” Rock said.
“Seems fine,” Leo said. He took a step and nearly dropped to his knees.
“I did a little recon last night when I couldn’t sleep,” Beryl said. “This shed has an access road. We can hustle down it and scatter if anything gets messy. If so, we’ll regroup in the next wooded area south, a quarter-mile in. Goal is to get to the nearest north-south road. Plenty of traffic, we’ll blend in down there. Leo, here’s the map. You set the pace.”
“You keep it,” Leo said. He pushed a limp-walk down the edge of the gravel access road. The still-held overnight urge chewed the inside of his pelvis’s ball and socket joint. Chewed with sharp teeth, as bad as the foot. Maybe worse. His bladder pushed from inside against one of the cuts. Bladder, don’t change sides— He face-planted on the stones.
Beryl and Rock dropped to a knee on either side. “You made it farther than I thought,” Rock said.
Eyes closed, Leo felt his arm pulled over Rock’s shoulders.
“You have it in those feet,” Rock said. “Toughen them up.”
Leo nodded, tried again. The collapse wasn’t from the cuts between his toes. It was from a diver’s knife twisting below his belly button, slightly to the left. A fight between the full bladder and a slashed abdominal above it.
Now Beryl and Rock pushed the pace. Leo bounced along, kept his boots moving. The access road curved uphill, past houses with federal spray paint on their front doors. The area would soon be underwater. He’d delivered to plenty of houses where people were still inside, despite the spray paint and the orders. They knew they’d be pulled to a truck at gunpoint soon, and hauled to North Dakota without receiving even a blanket in return. But with no chance of selling and no money for rent, where else could they go?
“Route 611 should be only a half-mile up,” Leo said. Assuming it was still out of the flood zone. He’d never had to deliver on it this far up, only in Easton where it stuck to the edge of the river—now deep underwater. But up here it continued a northeast line and didn’t follow the Delaware’s lazy loop to the east. This was the road that crossed the Delaware and the bridge they swam under, the road connecting Easton to Interstate 80 and beyond.
“Ride up?” Beryl pointed at an abandoned house’s open garage. The thieves hadn’t been interested in road bikes.
The pinchy seat, the bend-over to the curved handlebars—who knows what would happen to the bladder. “Almost there,” Leo said. “The walk is better.”
No traffic on this residential street must mean there’s something ahead. They crested the top of the hill expected to one day hold the reservoir. There it was, below. Beyond a pair of orange blockades at the T-intersection: Route 611.
Traffic was thick. When had he driven up last? It must have been at least a year. The two-lane road had swelled to seven. Three on each side, with a free-for-all lane in the middle for daredevil passing. Route 611 had confiscated front yards on each side, but it wasn’t feds and it wasn’t an interstate. It was everyone who chose to leave the flooded Delaware valley to bunch into a new town on a new Main Street.
Out from the center lane, cars and trucks rolled north-south in a heavy march. Especially trucks. Decades ago, when the steel industry crumpled, the fired vice presidents sold the secret that warehouses built between Easton and Allentown are ideal for the East Coast. For the entire world! The next thirty years built warehouses in a ring around the valley’s houses, filling all of the surrounding fields. And indeed, the warehouses had been in a perfect location, paying out more money than the steel industry—until the dam.
Easton’s I-78 bridge over the Delaware had been built for a ten-foot-deep river, not a 250-foot reservoir. Water knocked away the bridge’s piers like bocce balls and only the state government tried to fix it. Harrisburg built a floating bridge with second-hand leftovers from the Core of Engineers. Although the governor insisted the new bridge was ready for tractor-trailers, the drivers, buyers, sellers, and middle-of-the-deal warehouse teams said don’t even try it.
Trucks bound for the northeast crossed the Delaware on Route 611 to I-80. The swim bridge. Or if there was a Philadelphia delivery on board, crossed on I-95. The I-295 bridge north of Trenton was confiscated along with the Trenton-Mercer Airport. Trenton-Mercer was now the home of A-10 Warthogs spritzing to keep locals in line. Moving south, the Trenton-Morrisville Toll Bridge stood strong, but only drew trucks to its right-angle route when the I-95 hypotenuse jammed red.
The warehouses near Easton were still in business, and at least the valley had that. The owners hadn’t been shy in reassuring their workers. Why move the location if you don’t know where they’ll flood—or bomb, or burn—next? A devil-you-know argument. So the warehouses still filled trucks with goods from the Midwest and the West Coast and the Pacific and the Far East, and sent them to the Northeast and Canada and Europe and the Middle East and beyond, as well as the reverse.
So truck after truck on Route 611, north and south. Four-wheels were wedged between them, from two-door electron sniffers to body-on-frame forever-roll panthers, from crossovers shaped like comic-talk bubbles to owner-tricked pickups with obscene cost-per-cubic-foot beds. And then the local trucks, smellable a quarter-mile from the intersection—pork sculptures and luxury condo plumbing and stew can recycling and surgery trash. And then the contractor vans, with their great-grandfather’s name painted in nearly-tag script, with a phone number beneath it and, if lucky, a website.
Those vehicles took up the center three lanes. Moving outward, north and south lanes for traffic on motorbikes, bicycles, hand-pushed carts, and the occasional horse-drawn buggy bought from the Amish. No different than what Leo had seen in the driving videos from India and so much of the world. Next to those, two lanes of parked trucks and cars, and slowboats in various states of parking, sitting, and merging. Hemming it all in, repurposed houses and the claimed spaces between. Commerce—stalls, tables, stocked blankets, quick-handed exchangers, all manner of bargains and bartering.
“Which one to grandly thieve?” Rock said, spanning a hand over the chaos ahead.
“Change your look as best you can,” Beryl said and wrapped her hair in a Limbo Lightning polo. Rock broke away toward the nearest abandoned house, then came back in a minute. Could get in there, could make it a bathroom, should make it a bathroom—
“Leo, here.” Rock handed him a green accounting visor, already wearing a wide-brim straw hat. They walked down, past the blockade, into the market.
“Just off the river?” the woman closest to the T-intersection said. “What do you need? Food, drink, smoke, fuel? A boat fix? A new boat? Or do you need to earn a little something?”
Beryl turned them away and headed north, rolling with the traffic.
“A new trio,” a man said under a farmer’s market tent. “They must have really soaked your carpet. Want to get ‘em back? I’ve got more than potatoes.”
Beryl scanned. No uniforms around. Leo recognized a wheel-roller, a second cousin of the pizza driver. The farmer’s tattoos crept up and around his face, vouched for gutterpunk. Trustable.
Beryl seemed to have the same conclusion. She edged up to his table. “Like what?”
He checked the road, put a box on the table, and shifted the kale. Beneath, a rusty Beretta.
“What’s the biggest thing you grow,” Beryl said.
The man smiled tattooed gums and lifted another box. Beryl peeked and shook her head. “Best to you,” she said, and they continued north. When they hit an empty spot in the crowd, she said, “M-80s basically. Going to be a real deep dig to find what we need.”
A crowd was forming for a size-powered flow across the road. “In here,” Beryl said, and they crossed and turned south, checking the other side’s vendors. Baby clothes and garage-emptied sports gear and expired Tylenols and hot dogs. Rock broke off and dug in his pocket. He returned seconds later with an aluminum bat. “In case the hitchhike goes sour.”
“The less conversation the better,” Beryl said.
“That truck,” Leo said. “From a Bethlehem shoe place. A good stop.” It was a regular cube truck, a twelve-foot bed with a canvas cover. A man turned from purchase of a barbeque bag and hopped back in front.
“Express lane,” Beryl said and chased after it, Rock and Leo right behind. She slipped between the cargo bed’s canvas folds as the truck threaded past bikers and tried to merge. Rock hopped in next, and pulled up Leo by the armpits as it rejoined the traffic.
In back, sacks of corn kernels, stacked high enough to block the window into the cab. Corn for the shoe store? Leo collapsed on a sack, not surprised—it’s a do-whatever time for these businesses. Beryl sliced one open but didn’t find anything explosive. Rock kept watch through a slit in the back canvas. Waves of the driver’s barbeque drifted back. Leo closed his eyes, tried to take the pressure off his morning urge. Trapped in here for who knows how long.
But the pain was more than a bathroom demand. The truck’s bouncing stirred up the almost-bellybutton pain that earlier today had dropped him to his knees. Something in there was twisting, cutting, grating from the inside out. Kidney bullets? Of course, a stone, now cracking up needle by needle and trying to leave. He’d been holding everything in for two, four, ten times the recommended duration. Not just in the jail, but since the trip to the tunnel with Dad. At some point he was bound to silt up. There had been an article somewhere online about doctors prescribing wooden rollercoasters to get a kidney stone to move. He’d read it years ago, and now it was clear he had known what was coming.
He had never passed a stone before. But in here? How long would they be trapped in the truck? Only twenty, twenty-five miles to Bethlehem. But what if he stops in every town along the way? Not to worry—they’ll be out the first time he stops, before he even gets out of the cab. Won’t be too long. Then it’ll be behind a wall, an alley dumpster, maybe a porta-potty, maybe even a coffee shop’s one-seater. As much as it’s a rush to the dam, they’ll have to stop too, right? But then there’s the stone itself, a crystal of calcium shaped like a comet. Peanuty, jagged—
“Another drone,” the driver yelled on a phone call over his open window and barely-muffled engine. “Dead ahead.”
“You both hear that?” Beryl whispered.
“I know,” the driver told his phone. “We’ve got a right to corn as much as the next guy.—No worries about the good stuff. —Yeah, I dropped it off.—If it was going to fire, it would have fired by now.—Already locked and loaded?—Roger, taking Postman Road back. Don’t aim at me from that roof. —Perfect, thinking ahead.”
The driver turned right off of 611, westbound to Bethlehem on farm roads.
Beryl peeked through the far right corner of the window into the cab, staying back, letting a bag of corn block her from sight of the driver. She spun back fast to Leo and Rock.
“Drone turned off with us. It’s still watching from a couple fields ahead.”
“OK, still with us,” the driver said. “Nothing new, watching. Same distance in front. Chewing my barbeque, driving the speed limit. Still on the way.”
“Drone sniper waiting. His crew’s ready to take it out. We can’t be onboard when he gets back to his place, same side or not. We don’t need any questions. Leo, are you good to drive?”
“I know the roads.”
“Perfect.” Beryl dug through the blanket. “Rock, here’s enough rope. At the next stop sign, let’s haul him back here.” Rock peeked. “A hundred and thirty pounds, max. Watch for a pistol.”
At the end of the field, sure enough, a four-way intersection. The truck slowed to a stop. “Come on, grandpa,” the driver said. “You got your whoopie pie, now get on with it.” A mint-sparkling Buick Regal rolled into the intersection ahead, crossing without acceleration.
“Go!” Beryl whispered. Rock lunged through the cab window, put an empty corn bag over the driver’s head and pulled it down, trapping his arms. He roped a lasso around the driver and tightened, then grabbed each baguette bicep and started pulling him up from the seat, back through the window.
“Go Leo!” Beryl said. “That was your go, too!”
Leo scooted to the edge of the truck’s bed and slid out through the gap in the canvas. Three steps—then face-down on the farm road. A Kia pulled up behind, all rims, and honked at the parked truck with Leo on the ground beside it.
Beryl hopped out of the back and waved the Kia past. “Something still biting you?” she said. Leo nodded, eyes clamped. Down low won’t even allow a footstep. Beryl pulled him into the back. There Rock tied the final knot on the bagged driver, tightening a gag, and pushed him against the right-side canvas wall.
“I’ll do it.” Beryl slid through the window into the cab. “He’s getting worse. Check him out, top to bottom.”
The driver rolled, yelling through the gag.
Rock stayed quiet and took off Leo’s shirt and pants. “I’m guessing infection,” he said to Beryl. Then to Leo, “Brace yourself here. Let’s take a look.” He poured a shot of water over the chest. “Not seeing any new red.”
“Drone’s not moving,” Beryl said. “Hovering at the same distance. Looks more like a program than a pilot.” She turned a U-turn in the intersection and headed back toward Route 611. The roped driver yelled again.
“Nothing down below,” Rock said, same as last night.
“How about the drone. Hooked on behind us?”
Rock peeked out the canvas back wall. “Creeping in fast,” he said. “Only a hundred yards—” Crack-bang! A bullet pierced the truck’s tailgate and dinged between Rock and the driver. The driver pounded his head and hands and feet, shaking his head. Beryl started swerves of evasion. Rock pulled the gag from the driver.
“We all live or die on this shitroad,” the driver said. “Take off the ropes, whoever you are. All them damlickers hate us supplying the daily dose. They shoot, we shoot back. Or it never stops. And once that assgnat is out of the sky, I expect the truck back and a thank you.”
“Nothing funny.” Rock pulled off the ropes and the bag.
“Same to you, Mr. Guilty Already.” The driver rolled back a mat at the base of the cab’s wall and pulled out a .30-30 rifle. “Spray this, butthole bee.” He aimed prone, up through the center gap in the canvas. Rock rolled atop Leo and pressed him against the left-side edge of the bed. The driver pulled the trigger, boom, slapped the lever, pulled the trigger again. “Goddamn quadcopter.” He stood and leaned against the left side of the truck, holding open half the canvas, but before he could shoot, bhrooom! His chest peeled like a mango. He and his rifle crimpled off the bed of the truck, into the crowded street.
The drone followed, zig-zagging, searching for shots at the truck between the traffic and Beryl’s swerves.
“Find the tracker, find it now,” Beryl said over her shoulder. “Leo, this is going to be a metal-worthy rip, but fast. It’s worth the tradeoff.”
“First, we’ll orient you to minimize the chance of a bullet.” Rock laid Leo straight on the corn bags.
Not another knife. “Detection—you have something—a magnet—something—Rock?”
Rock pulled off Leo’s shirt, balled it up, and jammed it in Leo’s mouth. “At least twenty up here alone.”
Seen enough Civil War movies— Leo bit down and closed his eyes.
“Get going!” Beryl said.
“Going, here we go.” Rock sliced open three rows of stiches with a razor knife, then searched each with a swirling finger. “Empty. Leo, help me out here. Which one’s the worst. Most painful. Which one’s got a plastic and metal square in there, bashing you up. Where’s the most pain.”
The stomach, the bladder—down there. Not a kidney stone at all— Too full, the bladder poking against the chip’s sharp corner— “Stomach,” Leo said. “Low stomach. Left.”
“There’s three down here,” Rock said. “This one”—finger press—“this one,”—finger press—“or this one—”
On the third press, Leo screamed louder than the driver. Louder than he remembered screaming while hung from the chain—stop. Not there, not now. Rock kneeled on Leo’s left arm, pinned it down, and cut the scream-stitches. He swirled his finger inside.
“Indeed.” Rock pulled his curled finger to the top. With the other, he pinched a clot-wrapped tracking chip from the hole. “Got it.”
Leo’s pain dropped skydive fast. He opened his eyes. Rock wiped the chip on a corn sack. Green and gold, fresh out of a smashed calculator watch. The scrapes from it, in and out? Would things ever work the same? He’d find out—the urge pulsed now, free of the pain, not afraid of anything except a bladder explosion. And maybe of Beryl and Rock watching.
“Toss it!” Beryl said.
“You toss it, out the window, get us off the firing line.” Rock handed the chip up to Beryl. She flung it into traffic headed north in the opposite lane. It landed in an open Jeep. The drone spun a 180 and flew in the opposite direction, its rifle calibrating to attack again.
“Leo, do you want to drive now?” Beryl said.
“He’s staying back here,” Rock said. “He’s under observation, clean up, antibacterial gel, and maybe even more stitches.”
“Not driving yet,” Leo said, rolling his head at the thought of another needle.
Rock poured water over the bleeding cut, then put pressure with a square of gauze. He handed the bottle to Leo. “Let’s keep talking. How’s it going?”
Leo laughed, shook his head. How could that have been worse than the jail, the fish-can room hanging from the ceiling? He willed himself to sip, but his body overruled. He needed new water to heal, despite the beef broth waiting for release inside him.
Rock tilted the water bottle until Leo finished it. Kidney stone? More like a fourteenth cousin of a kidney stone. Where could he go here? Kneel and aim for the gap between the bed of the truck and the tailgate, and drain it onto the road? Pretend to sleep face-down on the corn bags and go? They seemed absorbent, but it would soak his pants. Unless he pulled out. Did kidney stones block the flow? If he claimed a stone—on top of the tracking chip, only a mosquito of believability—would he have an excuse for why, despite trying, nothing arrived? Yes—if it worked, perfect, and if it didn’t, it wouldn’t be his fault.
“Kidney stone,” Leo said. “Need to get it out.”
“Diagnosed recently?” Rock said. “I am unbelievably sorry to hear this, Leo. One on top of the other? I couldn’t take it. I had one in Belize. We’ll get you a strainer.” He scanned the truck and cut a corner of burlap from a corn bag. “This will work. Hold it like this and go in there.” Point-down like an empty ice cream cone. “It’s critical to see what comes out. Visual confirmation.”
“Kidney stone?” Beryl said.
“HIPAA is in effect at the moment.” Rock stacked corn bags to block the window to the cab.
“No fun,” Beryl called back.
Audience cut in half—thank you, kidney stone. “How long did it take you?”
“Plenty long. I don’t remember exactly. You have to lay the egg. But not as round as those shells. Kneeling helps.”
Leo’s bladder ignited in anticipation, his ureters pumped hot sauce. Still, Rock’s here. How to go? But then, Leo’s view dimmed as he spun in dark memory. Went in the crowded cell—somehow—people not moving—a squat, silence—someone had even seen and still—finished. Could ask Rock to turn away. That would be normal. Right?
“Kneel back here,” Rock said. “Aim for the crack in the tailgate. Hold on, brace yourself on the gate there.” Rock helped him maneuver into position, and Leo cupped himself with the cone.
Might this be a phantom urge, brought on by the worry? It wouldn’t be the first time. No—all night, all morning—it’s in there.
Rock held Leo’s shoulders to steady him in the bumping truck. “Ride it out. No rush. You got it.”
Leo tried, he pushed, even though forcing tended to lock up the system. He pushed, and when his lungs emptied, he gave up. Rock pat him on the shoulders. “Breathe. Here we go again.”
“I’m alright,” Leo said. “You go up by the cab, face the other way. It’ll help.”
“OK, stay below the highest point of the tailgate.” Leo heard him slide up to the front. “Not watching.”
Leo opened his eyes and glanced through the crack between the tailgate and the road. Below, the road rushed by. Catching a ride on a freight train, not a hopper in a bunch, just solo, crossing the country, out and back, north and south, going out of the boxcar whenever. To be there, the safest spot in all the world! Why isn’t that what’s going on? Hitch a ride and find Dad. Then back to work with the locked door. Leo built the red and green walls of the pizza shop’s bathroom around him, he flipped the door’s lock. Still nothing.
“Think of the river,” Rock said. “Hold your breath and think of the Delaware”—Leo closed his eyes and went there—“river rolling, floating along, great millions of gallons. Let it carry you home. Wash it on out. No pain once you let it go. Blow the dam, Leo. Let the river flow free. This is the mission. You got this.”
This is the mission— Leo pulled away the burlap strainer and freed himself and with eyes closed—rushing the dam with a spear, running across the top of the river, going in the cell while swiping a curved sword to slice all his enemies in half at once—he went. He drained but couldn’t hear it splash over the river-road clatter he used as the sounds of what he watched in his mind. He hoped it was through the hole, but if not, who cares? Not the priority, just go, go, keep going, go— He finished and tucked and collapsed backwards onto the corn bags, feeling his knees welcomely wet from the pool of relief.
Rock rushed from the front and picked up the burlap from the wet floor. “What did you get? Did you filter it through the strainer?”
Let him look. Leo stayed on his back and rode the high, better than thirteen bingers. He had gone in front of someone else, someone who wasn’t asleep, in a room that wasn’t dark. And the timing—the timing! A new start to the day, good for at least eight hours. Hopefully not eight hours, but valuable as they entered the dam.
“Nothing in here,” Rock said.
“Coming up on Bethlehem,” Beryl called back. “Feds remade this road. We turned west, away from the riverside portion. You missed the reservoir. It was a sea.”
“We’ve got our own reservoir,” Rock called back.
“No kidney stone,” Leo said. “I just don’t like to go around people.”
People. Around them. There, admitted it. The weight pulled up and away with four rotors. What does Rock think?
“Very normal,” Rock said. “You ready to drive now?”
That’s it? All it would have been all along? Leo rolled his toes in his boots. Barely a poke. He checked under his shirt. “Can you bandage this thing?”
“I forgot, I can’t believe I forgot, too many things at once. Kidney stone excitement. And that’s fine, you’re lucky, I’d say—good to be on the safe side.” Rock grabbed the cream and bandage and slid them flat and tight onto the abdominal cut. “He’s ready to drive.”
“There’s a market up here, right next to the Crystal Cave Senior Center,” Beryl said. “We’re ditching this truck. Need something clean. Pack up.”
They threw everything into the blankets and tied the knot. Beryl turned right into the lot of a supermarket. She parked in the back edge near donation dumpsters, the bed facing the woods, under blustering yellow branches of maples. “At least the truck fits in, in case they’re already looking. Helping the feral cats if anyone asks.” She climbed from the cab to the bed. “Correction. Open those blankets back up. It’s cheese time.” Rock untwisted and handed over the last chunk of the cheddar wheel.
“So—kidney stone? I had one back at the office in Albuquerque. No treat, believe me.”
“All done,” Rock said. “He’s used to the pain by now. It was nothing.”
“It’s over,” Leo said. And thanks for the cover his eyes said to Rock. People, was able to relax around people and go—twice, twice now. More than twice? Did those not-too-far-away trees count? The tower? But the go in the mountain cell—thanks for the cover—who was the old one-legged man again?
Rock and Beryl passed the cheese and talked about the traffic on 611. Leo closed his eyes, tried to dig back something. The cover—that man, Free Agency, Dad, a tunnel, the tunnel, he was supposed to build it with Dad, but then jail, captured there, no captured from the hospital, and Dad built it himself, but we can’t take that tunnel again, goes to the wrong spot, wrong, the cabin raid, safe from above, outlaws sprinting, out, in and out, get in, get out, the outlaws, a tunnel, Free Agency, the cell, the outlaws made a tunnel to get in and get out, we’ll be safe from above—
“There’s a new tunnel in Jersey,” Leo said, eyes wide and looking far beyond the bed of the truck. “Free Agency tunnel, the outlaws dug it, he told me in the cell—”
“Who told you?” Beryl said.
“I don’t remember his name. One leg. One leg from digging the other route with my dad.”
“Knew your dad’s name?” Rock said.
“He knew, he had a procedure, my dad gave it to him—but the tunnel—before I forget, the tunnel, it’s Jersey, above—”
“How far?” Beryl said.
“Fence zone is two miles? So maybe two and a half?”
“Did he give you a specific location?”
Leo closed his eyes. He only saw the crowd charging him for squatting to go. The one-legged man, fighting—
“What details did he communicate about the tunnel?” Rock said.
“Leo, close your eyes, visualize it, I know it’s hard, but—”
The blades, the fists, the big guy pissing on him as if the waterfall was a sword—
“Not the bad stuff, Leo. Where’d you meet him, back to the start—”
We can trade off if you want a break. “He offered a rest. He knew what was coming. He knows Jersey, he lives in Jersey”—Leo shuttered at the knife through Pylon’s spine—“he’s dead, he’s sliced, goddamnit, he should be buried in Jersey.” A monument, the root of resistance, a grave, a big grave with the flag in front of his grave proclaiming what it actually stands for, no pretend opposites, a big walk-in grave Dad and I will go to and say our thanks every year—mausoleum—which cemetery, which name on it? Leo heard the old voice in his head, walked back to the image he’d had in the cell—Mount Fred. “Mount Hope, Fred Arcuri. We’ll find it on the map.”
Beryl handed him the rest of the cheese block. “This is big. This is perfect. It’s exactly what we need right now. Tonight we roll into Jersey, we saunter up to the Dam, we do our job, we get out.”
Rock raised his hand. “Excuse me. Forgive me if this has already been figured out, but it seems to me we still need the bombs.”
“We need to get in position,” Beryl said. “We have all day to restock the bombs.”
“Restock?” Rock said. “Like the search all over upstate to get three boxes of cookies? For a price far beyond what we’re carrying post-jail? Please enlighten me. Which salesperson is going to bring us a bomb. A bomb with which we can cross to New Jersey.”
“We won’t be staying in Jersey. We can’t trust the float-bridge, not in this truck, not in the Buick that clogged our intersection. It’s a 24/7 checkpoint.”
“That’s what I’m saying. So we’re shopping in New Jersey? Even better.”
“Leo—do you still remember the route to where you and Dad got in the tunnel?”
Leo nodded. “378, 309, and then winding in. Normal.”
“Absolutely not,” Rock said. “A pair of donut diners are waiting there for fools to take another spin.”
“Which is why we’ll set up another three miles north of sunk New Hope, in one of the parks. Nobody’s checking for us there.”
“And then—swim the bombs across? I don’t need to read the paper to tell you it looks like snow’s on its way in.”
“Even better. Rock, have faith in this. We already trained on the canoe. Hal Clark Park is right there. It’s a snip, oops, and we have our choice of boats across the river.”
“Who’s going to know about us? Isn’t it best to pick up the gear before we head down?” Rock peeked out. “Sun’s not even at noon yet. Maybe I don’t want to get snagged as we’re sitting here in a parking lot.”
“Leo, do you want to pick up a car for us?”
“A car and a coupon,” Rock said. “Twenty-five percent off at the bomb vendor.”
Leo glanced through the outward-facing windshield to the senior center linked to the lot behind the shop. “I can find something.”
Leo walked along the back of the lot and didn’t fall. Somehow so much easier to walk after those two clean-ups. Back here, with a borrowed polo and khakis pulled from the donation bin, it didn’t seem like the feds had blocked anything. The parking lot was far from the ancient Buick. The rides were decked with teams of mini-cameras and sensors born to the market only a few months ago. Dealer plastic around the license plates, the plates sparkling, the bumpers with traces of a single winter’s salt, at most. The residents of this six-floor, all balcony, ton of trees, fresh-paint property either leased these sleek sedans, or bought them for five figures they didn’t even notice they’d spent.
So this is the upside of the flood—it almost made sense. He’d never delivered to a luxury apartment down by the river. There aren’t any there. All uphill waiting with dollars. The only voters left in the valley.
In his pocket, Leo ran his fingers over the wire stripper and tape stolen from the truck’s glove box. None of these shining newbies would let him get them going. They’d laugh, they’d honk and radio the police and record a video—if they hadn’t already started.
He arced around the oval lot, checking each full-size sedan. Everything immaculate. Avalon, Genesis, new Continental! He rounded farther, to the benches under the curved steel awning where the residents smoked 100s, 120s. Possibly the reason they bought the cars, because the seniors’ cafeteria doesn’t serve smokes.
“Visiting your grandparents?” one of them asked. Leo nodded, continued on.
“When are we going back to Zolfo Springs?” another said. Leo smiled and nodded.
“Did you order the car wash?” Leo finally said. “Which one wanted the car wash?”
A man flicked his Winston at Leo’s neck. “The hell you don’t. Never driving my Lexusmobile.”
“You ma’am, was it you? You? Who ordered the complementary service?” Arms crossed on all the benches. They dropped their jaws to their necks and the stinkeyes stunk from fifteen feet away. “Let me go check.” Leo crept away.
Walk the loop again, hope nobody goes in and tells the management, and maybe get a new group out here in ten minutes. He stepped back into the oval lot, already inspecting the cars parked on this side, but then he froze. An engine approaching at redline was reined in as Pilot tires chugged pavement and stopped without an inch of skid protest. The driver’s door of the Benz S560 silently swung and a man stepped out with a Coffee Coolatta almost as big as the Rübezahl’s 20-inch wheels.
“Valet—finally! I’m still waiting for your team to respond to my feedback card in there.” He handed Leo a folded twenty. “Not too close to a domestic, a Honda, Toyota, or whatever that silly Korean brand is. Lexus, Acura—maybe. Not next to a scratched Volkswagen. The rest is OK.” And he turned and walked in the building, gas-and-brake foot better than the luckily not-needed clutch foot. Leo hopped in the driver’s seat and tuned the radio to Lady B out of Philly. Chuck Brown and the Soul Searchers speak the truth. He nodded at the sport mode already on and leash-pulled around the oval lot. He cut behind the supermarket and stopped at the truck. He held back from hitting the horn. But they’d heard, or they’d been watching, or both. They jumped out of the truck with the blanket and got in, Beryl in shotgun and Rock stretched out.
“Did he see you take it?” Beryl said.
“Valet. At your service.”
“I think we’ll all agree this has never been stopped at a checkpoint, and never will be. Ideal choice, Mr. Leo.”
Beryl leaned over. “Full tank. We don’t have to stop. We plan it out here. Loops are fine.”
Leo rolled slowly on the residential streets north of Bethlehem. Again, not a checkpoint in sight. A flag and a cinder block in support of the dam on almost every porch. Opposites.
Beryl pulled a notebook and pen from the glove box. “Rock, you want to look at picking up an explosive, that’s fine. Let’s talk about it. We need to get in and get out. First, we’ll list all our potential sources. Go ahead.”
They went in circles until nobody had any more.
“Reading it back,” Beryl said. “Now we’ll list pros and cons. May the best source win. First, Club Bombastic. That was mine.”
Rock slapped the ceiling. “I’ll comment on Club Bombastic. Have you been there? Explosives are not the theme.”
“Yes, I have been there, and yes, I understand. But I think they might have a good connection. We’ll find out when we talk to them.”
“Been once, don’t remember,” Leo said.
“Next, this is yours Leo. The old Bethlehem Steel Factory.”
“I’m guessing they have something hidden away, not cleared out. They made bombs, or at least the casings.”
“And now they host blues bands and slot machines and Christkindlmarkt.”
“So either hard to dig through or completely buried. Unless we have the time or the tech for a full search. Next, Rock, you said, quote, ‘the thirty-lane fireworks store that’s the first retailer on the PA side of the border.’”
“They changed the law on these. Massive fireworks are available for sale. Put them together and—”
“If they can do damage, how come nobody’s used them yet?”
“They lack the creative foresight.”
“I checked them, did the math. They’re too weak. Next on the list, Leo, PennDOT.”
“Highway builders,” Leo said. “Anyone highway building, really. We saw how they re-routed 611. And upstate was plenty big. It’s promising.”
Beryl shrugged. “I’d guess they’re collaborating with the local police department for their explosives, requesting them as they need it. Nobody’s letting them hang it next to the break room these days.”
Rock raised a finger. “Which begs the question, do we have a police contact?” Silence. “Didn’t think so.”
“Alright, Rock, good suggestion. Another one of mine here, Free Agency.”
“They won’t do anything until they interview you,” Leo said. “You got to pass their drug test.”
“Yikes,” Rock said. “No, thank you.”
“The point is, it’s an eight-hour check-in just to talk.”
“Unless you have a connection.”
“You have a connection?”
“I mean you.”
“I don’t have a connection, I’m a sheet of copy paper to them, no more.”
“Nothing over here,” Rock said.
“Fine. Put it on the side for now. Next, Rock, the Martin Tower takedown company. They certainly have enough.”
“It was big blast,” Leo said. “Woke me up in Easton.”
“Pro, it’s their primary way of business,” Rock said. “Have the inventory, have the talent, do the deals. Con, it’s also their primary risk. They lock up stuff up tighter than evidence. Doubtful there’s any side deals.”
“And they’re based in Florida, not here,” Beryl said. “I read the article.”
“Any local destroyers?”
“I haven’t delivered to any,” Leo said.
“Probably even searching for them online raises a flag. But we’ll keep an eye out. OK, Leo has Walmart. The gardening shop.”
“Deck this car out like the Ryder truck.”
“It’s big, but not that big. Though being parked in the middle of the top of the dam could do some damage. But how does that fit in with the rescues? It’s not especially undercover.”
“All the engineering—not sure.” Leo played with the key fob. “It’s probably a couple days of electric work to really get it done right.”
“So for now ammonium nitrate will be off the list.”
“Leo, what about your dad’s house? Or your pizza shop? Maybe he had a backup for a second try?”
“He wouldn’t do that. Plus, I took a quick look through the house. Nothing there.”
“And the shop’s under surveillance for sure.”
“It was Free Agency, like we talked about. I don’t think they’d give him a single thing extra. He built his own tunnel machine after— After—”
“—after the guy who saved your life was scooped up.”
Leo nodded at Rock. At least the story doesn’t depend on telling anymore.
“That fighter already earned honors. Moving on, Rock, here’s yours. Scouts.”
“We don’t have time to drive back upstate, even in this car,” Leo said.
“They very well could have it,” Beryl said, “but they’re not a business. Let’s hope they’re working on something in case we—” She paused.
“In case we what?” Rock said.
“Nothing.”
“Please continue. We what?”
“In case we don’t come back.”
“Or…”
“That’s it, Rock.”
“Or in case we decide to go in without the bombs,” Rock said. “Someone else can sweep up the dam after we get our people out.”
Beryl nodded.
“So that’s the path now? No need to blow it up anymore. We go in and out, and let someone else knock it down for their Eagle Scout project.”
“I’m not saying we will or we won’t. But it’s an option.”
“I’d say the more we talk, the more this rather convenient option seems likely.”
“Last one. We can try to find something at the dam to blow up. A guard’s truck on our way out—”
“Beryl, you know why I’m on this mission. My daughter isn’t locked in the dam. I respect Zion’s capture, and I want to free Tony. But what I really want is to blow it up. Explosion cannot be discarded from our plan—or else I won’t be going in.”
Beryl held up her hands. “This team is sticking together. We’ve made it this far. We’ll get a bomb before we go in. It might not be good enough. But then again, Steeltown, USA. We’ll find something to swing with.”
Rock nodded, Leo too. “So where are going?” Leo checked the dashboard, the gas hadn’t dropped.
“We’ll take a vote.” Beryl ripped a notepad paper in three.
Rock shook his head. “Club Bombastic. You must know something I don’t.”
“Leo, your preference?”
“Why not—Club Bombastic.”
Beryl scrunched the papers into the cup holder. “Club Bombastic. Leo, do you remember where it is?”
“En route.”
Leo turned into the parking lot on Union Boulevard, a strip mall connector of Bethlehem and Allentown.
“Jesus,” Rock said.
Then Beryl, “How long has this been—”
Leo steered right and spun around, and they stared at the pile of twisted steel and concrete. The devil-flame curvy Club Bombastic sign sat tall atop the pile. It clearly hadn’t been part of the blast—it was now the shame pin, letting everyone know what happens if you try to party at another club like this.
“I have to see.” Beryl got out.
Rock lowered his back window a few inches. “They have cameras here, Beryl. Get back in. Come on, get in.”
Leo didn’t follow her. The shards and debris started only a few feet ahead, and she was already past. She circled the edges of the pile. There were no fences around, no orange tape. As if the feds who blew it up wanted you to play on top, take a shot of tetanus to go with their lesson.
Beryl disappeared behind the pile, circling, and in a minute came back around the front. She pointed and jogged to the driveway they’d turned into. Leo gassed and met her there, then turned right on Union, back east toward Bethlehem.
Beryl held up a tiny square of paper. A business card cut in half. “Bombastic Lives Concert.” She read the phone number.
“What’s the date?” Rock said. “I would normally say absolutely, but one, it’s probably over, and two, we don’t need a distraction at this point—”
“In honor of those who died in there,” Leo said. “Jesus. I’ll go. But we’re busy tonight.”
Beryl read it again. “Bombastic lives con certare. With the struggle in opposition. With the fight.”
“Concert—” Leo said.
Rock surrendered. “I’ll admit, my Latin needs work.”
“They are definitely on our side, active, and ready to help. I’m calling this number. Leo, have you seen any pay phones?”
Five minutes later, Beryl reclaimed shotgun at the liquor store lot. “I know I haven’t done this enough, but”—both hands in the air—“high fives, all around!” Triple powerslap fives. “We are back in business.”
“Big ol’ Silverton moneybags biznasss—” Rock said.
“Yes,” Leo shouted at the windshield, then lowered his closed-eyes forehead to the steering wheel and rested. “Yes. Going in. Getting Dad. Boom—”
“Boom Tomb,” Rock said. “Where those feds can nap for a while.”
“Need to get to our spot, relax, and wait,” Beryl said. “They’ll stop by around ten. Donate explosives. Then we head in.”
“Where we headed,” Leo said, clicking back to sport mode.
“Same as we talked about before. By Hal Clark Park. Best to avoid 611. Once we cross South Mountain, we can zig zag back roads.”
“Easy enough,” Leo said.
There was only one checkpoint. Plumstead Road. Leo sat parked behind a Mazda 626 for ten minutes until its driver was forced out at gunpoint. She got out with her phone lens held high, and was arrested in her Eagles jersey. An officer pulled her car to the side of the road, two locked her in the back seat of one of their two Interceptors, and the fourth saluted the Mercedes-Benz and waved an open hand, urging them through.
“Left on Upper York Road,” Beryl eventually said. Leo took the next left. After a minute, the road peaked and descended into the flooded Delaware valley. “Turn right—right now, here.”
Leo pulled into a driveway and rolled down its gravel into woods, out of sight of the road. Park, e-brake.
“This used to be the horse trails of the inn up the street,” Beryl said. “All gone now.”
“Horses too?” Rock said. Beryl nodded.
They got out and explored the driveway’s cul-de-sac. A covered bulletin board with an expired map of the trails. A wooden fence at the end to make sure nobody got ambitious. Leo popped the hood and disconnected the battery. With pliers and a crowbar from the trunk, he extracted a circuit board. Nobody’s calling or tracing or space-photographing the Benz—hopefully. He pulled a folding chair from the trunk, set it up, but didn’t sit. Been sitting all day. He took a water bottle from the nearly full 24-pack and tossed two to Beryl and Rock. He chugged. So good! He tossed the empty bottle in the trunk and started a new one. No need to worry about the inevitable drainage. This is a good place. Plenty of trees, right on the damstep—how close?
“Beryl,” Leo said. “How close are we to the dam?”
“Three and a half miles, as the drone flies.”
“Are they patrolling up here? In the woods?”
“Their ring is two miles. So as long as we don’t go exploring south, we’ll be fine.”
Leo nodded. No need to go far. And north is an option.
An urge arrived immediately after the second bottle. It wanted to go, it wanted to be back to going with bathroom neighbors. He was lucky to be getting this extra urge before they headed into the dam. Best to get in shape, get hydrated, get ready, and go right before—again—to help with the sprints and fists and dodges ahead. Leo heard water—there was Rock going, only ten yards from the car. Beryl had turned west to not watch. Away from the rivers.
So normal by now. Leo hiked south ten yards of his own, not even close to the two-mile line, leaned on a tree and—waited and waited. It said it wanted to go! But OK, the truck was a shocker, a good shock but still a shock. And maybe it’s not ready yet, a four somehow felt like an urgent nine. No, it wasn’t going. He zipped up and walked back to Beryl and Rock.
“How are the cuts?” Beryl said. “Anything new? Painful? You look like you’re walking fine.”
Nothing had gotten worse. It was probably even healing if it wasn’t taking over his thoughts. “No problem,” Leo said. “False alarm now. Chugged so much water, but I think my body wants to keep it.”
“Hydration’s important,” Beryl said.
And they don’t even care! The beauty of it, go or not go and it barely makes a difference. Why bury under worries? The engraved-in-earth truth is people don’t care. They have their own globes to drain. But still—best if there’s no need to go in the dam.
Beryl spread out the blankets. “Suit up now for the trip in, then let’s rest until the delivery.”
Barely anything left. Leo grabbed the pizza cutter and hooked its sheath to the back of his belt. He took his coil of thin sturdy rope. He squinted under new nicks of freezing rain.
“We’re not bringing these blankets.” Rock rigged a piece of rope between two trees. Atop it, he tightened a blanket into an A-frame pitch, rolled another beneath it, and they crowded underneath.
“Are they OK driving in this?” Leo said.
“We talked weather briefly. This front won’t be a problem.”
They dozed and the sun went down.
When Leo woke, the urge arrived in full. The iced rain had changed into sleet, half-rain, half-flakes. Beryl and Rock were still sleeping. He could stand up and go, close but not too close. But who cares? Even if they wake up, it’ll be fine, it’s dark now.
Leo rolled out and went northwest this time, away from the search radius, away from the spot he’d tried last. To the other side of the Benz. Go on the side of the Benz? No—it did its job, and the owner was already screwed, and who knew if it would freeze there and tell his name. Instead he stood beyond the Benz on the side of the driveway and went on the leaves.
There was no need to avoid a stain. The sleet hadn’t stuck to the ground. Yet. A major boost for the Bombastic team. Hopefully it’s the same on the road.
And this driveway—no sign. Even if the sleet doesn’t blend it with the dirt and leaves, the driveway’s still hard to spot.
“Leo,” Beryl said when he came back under the A-frame blanket. “You’re already up. Put this at the top of the driveway.” She handed him a rope-wrapped stone. “I forgot earlier. They’ll be looking for it.”
“Sure thing.” Didn’t even have to bring up the signage. Everyone sharing the same pie, just in time. “Be right back.” He checked his pockets for anything he might need to secure the stone—pizza cutter, extra rope, mini-flashlight.
Back up the driveway, farther. It curved left, curved right, and Leo lost sight of the Benz. Up to the skinny ridge road. He put the stone on the driveway’s west-side corner, the first part of the driveway they’ll see, the rope wraps facing out. And then Beryl’s yell in the night—
Then Rock’s hammer-punch grunt, then Beryl again, then a flurry of muffled blows. Quick short yells from different throats. Four? Six? Benz glass shattered, then again, and again. It was the two-mile patrollers, an overpowering swarm. He could throw the stone hard enough to crack someone’s head. Then what? Slice an attacker—but the others? Beryl and Rock were already silent, and the patrol was talking through next steps. Leo sneaked west, away, and ducked into the ditch on the far side of the road. The Benz clicked and clicked, then absorbed steel-tip boots around its body for refusing to start. Then a gas blast and the Benz burned as high as the trees around it, and a minute later lowered under newly heavy snow. Eventually the flames fell to campfire height. No voices, no silhouettes. Leo crept tree by tree back to the site. Rock and Beryl were gone.
Leo searched the debris around the car. Streaks of blood and face-punch splatters dotted the tree trunks. He searched the piling snow for left-behind gear. He pocketed a flashlight, more rope, empty Ziplocs, a pair of sunglasses. He peeked into the steaming Benz. Nothing but the owner’s standard-issue lucky charm survived. The dashboard’s analog clock lay charred and stopped at 7:45. Felt like an hour of watching the fire, so over an hour until Bombastic rolls through with the bomb. Leo carried everything else across the street and buried it under a stone, in case they patrolled this way again.
No stars, no moon above the tucked-in clouds. Snow continued back and forth between rain, ice, and sleet. Leo didn’t have a watch, but had worked hours long enough to know the road had been empty for three. It was almost midnight. The road now had a cling-wrap ice sheet, a quarter-inch cover with creases and folds over the potholes. And this was the downhill section that disappeared east into the reservoir.
Leo hiked west in the woods off the edge of the road, evading the ice. No tire tracks. Maybe they got to the turnoff but couldn’t make it up the hill. Should have checked the spot a long time ago. But maybe they’re still waiting. Maybe they left another phone number. Why not carry in the delivery, it’s only a mile? Because footprints in snow are far from ideal.
Down the hill to the T with Upper York Road. Even here, no tire tracks. They must have cancelled. Likely waiting for a phone call. And their card isn’t up at the spot. Beryl had ripped it up and thrown it out the window right after the phone call. She must have memorized the number, but that doesn’t help now.
Leo traced his steps back up the hill, sliding his boots over icy but walkable rocks, wiping away his earlier tracks. No bombs. But Dad is still in there, and Zion, and now Beryl and Rock. Pylon’s tunnel waits across the river, and Zion waits at the end of the tunnel—somewhere. Only a matter of time until they’re out and the dam comes down. Blast it at the earliest opportunity.
How many others are thinking the same thing? The Bombastics might like this weather—they might be on their way in now with no need to pass it off. Ready to blow it up without any knowledge of who’s trapped inside. Dozens of groups might have the same thought. Everyone wants an early Christmas present.
Leo paced the empty cul-de-sac where they’d rested. No wait. Going in tonight, as planned. He slapped the trees—give me strength. He found a tossed-aside water and drank through the ice. Be ready. He stepped to a silent tree and let out whatever he had. Be ready. A last peek in the Benz, front to back. No skeletons.
Drive safe—this would not be a swim across the Delaware. He put on his gloves and pulled at the flame-resistant seat cushions, but they either didn’t come out or flaked into cereal in his hands. Who has a boat—check every house on the road? No, move fast, the patrol could already be on their way back for cleanup.
Leo slammed his shoulder into the driveway’s wooden trailhead kiosk, but it barely swayed on its four-by-four-inch lumber legs. Find a saw, something. He checked the feet of the kiosk, how big of a rock is it going to take? Concrete shoes, not going anywhere. He circled the sign under its open gable roof. Same project? No—someone sank legs four feet high, and someone else mounted the covered map. The top section was stuck on the posts with only four nails on each side.
Leo found a rectangular rock and slammed the top from behind, right above the nails. It popped face-down into the snow like the top of a bucket, roof and all. He flattened the nail ends with the stone, then grabbed a paddly branch. The patrol could easily have heard these slams—get there, get across, get across now. He dragged the roofed map and branch up to the icy road. He pointed the gable downhill, squatted on all four atop the map, and pushed off.
Leo skeleton-raced down the iced road, into the Delaware. The reservoir was at its widest here, north of the dam, before the cliffs the dam towered between. But looking like a lake was far from being a lake, and the water flowed deep to the south. Leo rowed hard with the branch, northeast, hoping his fight against the flow with the slightest bend toward Jersey would yield a straight crossing. But the branch wasn’t an engine. He’d barely left the Pennsylvania side and the launch was already a hundred yards upriver. At this rate, he’d soon bash against the dam and its cameras and lights.
Paddle, damn it— Leo lay on his side and kicked the gable roof. Three, four, five times. The right half came loose and bent away into the river, ready to break off. Leo kneeled on the plywood map’s edge and pulled the roof in, then lifted the right side out of the icy flow and twisted it vertical, then dropped it against the water on the other side. Screws whined under the pressure, and he booted it again, and the roof broke off.
Now Leo doggie paddled the plywood after it, soaking his gloves, and pulled it in. He kneeled and roof-rowed hard, demanding more grip than he’d ever needed from tires. He pulled the riverwater with the V of the roof, aiming straight upriver, and after almost an hour he realigned with the original road. Here he added the slightest bit of east and kept rowing, only pausing to use the tip of the roof-paddle to push away blocks of ice. He dug the water and ignored the sleet river drenching him from above. And after another hour, he hooked the toothpick tip of a submerged tree on the other side. Tip to branch to trunk, he pulled himself ashore.
Leo followed the woods south, looking for the graveyard. Mount Hope at Lambertville. He ran into a chain-link fence, followed it up the riverbank, and soon cut through a downed section. Likely a boaters’ entrance to an improvised slipway. He traced the fence downhill and passed a private property sign. Trap Rock Industries, a quarry he remembered from the map. An additional thousand feet of deep dark reservoir he’d crossed before landing in Jersey.
Leo hiked the edge of the river in silence. He angled uphill to get a better view, to avoid another two-mile patrol. Downriver, the four-lane Route 202 slid into the Delaware at its cloverleaf ramps, the bridge either gone or sunk. A dead megawatt powerline dove in beside it. And on the bank directly below him, stone graves marched underwater.
Leo went down to the graveyard. Its private drive rose from the river and turned northeast, into the lower part of the woods he’d pushed through. He followed the graveyard into the trees.
They were selling new graves, likely cheap if the flood kept rising. Who would build a mausoleum down here? He searched the turnoffs winding in the woods. Someone, it seems. New Orleans graves appeared, boxes on boxes. He read each name, uphill, nothing, downhill, nothing. He left the private drive, peeked behind stacks of stone, and only then found an obelisk hidden by bushes on three sides. Fred Arcuri.
He turned the copper knob and pulled the door. Inside, a mahogany casket on a marble stand. He circled the casket. How to get to the tunnel from here? A solid marble floor. He tried to open the lid of the casket—locked. He rounded it again, and turned the blended miniature key at its base. Now the casket opened, revealing an urn. He moved the urn to the floor, then pushed the casket off the marble stand. Surprisingly light—for show? It dinged the floor but only revealed solid marble below. Need a manhole in here, need to find the false floor. He poured out the urn in the coffin and sifted his fingers through the pile. There—something. He blew it off. A Cadillac key fob. He clicked each button. Nothing—a remembrance. Must be outside. He went outside, rolling the fob in his fingers, searching the outside of the obelisk. Marble, too much marble, nothing to push, nothing to pull, twist, tweak, or pinch. He circled in growing loops, checking the trees, the snow-dirt. Press the button—only when you’re clear of the bomb. He put fifty yards between himself and the obelisk, aimed the key fob, clicked, and buashhh, a low marble-silenced explosion.
Leo ran back, inside. The chandelier had rocketed down through the marble stand, revealing a descending ladder. His flashlight suggested thirty feet to a rock floor, no spikes or snakes. He pushed the prop casket back atop the stand, started down the ladder, and dragged the casket over the new hole above him.
Thirty feet below, flashlight in his teeth, Leo entered the tunnel. Next to the ladder waited a switch labeled SEE. A strand of rainbow holiday lights stretched out of sight. They started in Limbo Lightning batteries beside his feet. Was this a Tex sale? Thank you, Tex, or whoever you are.
Leo had delivered to the dam enough times. The tunnel would take him under the two-mile radius, under the dam’s three fences, under the dog line, under the farm of facial recognition. Into where?
Soon the tunnel narrowed. The six-foot round passage squeezed to a chute, no longer dug by survey equipment but primitive reckoning. It swerved around boulders. Graffiti emerged, songlines waving along the walls, wrapping the ceiling, spiraling into the tunnel’s progression. The lights became unreliable. The rainbow bulbs had been plucked from their strands and rearranged in a code: Fourteen red, seven blue, one green, or 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, counting up in primes. The designs tried to cheer him on, but characters only stirred worry about where he was headed. PLUGMAN, a superhero electrician screwing a battery-powered bomb-bulb into the dam. DAMBO, a flying elephant using its trunk to toss a bomb. FLOWMASTER, a dancer’s body twisted into script by torrents of water, an explosion at the end of the right leg R. Leo searched for traps, fearing both fire and water, but all he found was mud.
The tunnel lost all unity of direction, it curled and swerved and doubled back. The Christmas lights thinned, then disappeared. He clicked on his flashlight and followed the curves. Around the fortieth hairpin, he stopped at a board strung across the path. Ahead, a hinge and a handle and a note stapled to a tiny round wooden door: Ladder in the third chimney, east side. Leo swung a peephole’s cover aside and spotted the referenced chimney. Big enough—as long as they don’t start whatever it’s connected to.
At the base of the door were three bottles of water and a coiled, bolted-down rope. This would be a scout camp drop from the top of the wooden tower—without a harness. It would be a slide down the playground’s fire pole slowed only by his still-wet gloves and boots. Leo backed up to the tunnel’s last hairpin turn and went to the bathroom. He shined a light on the stream and confirmed he was hydrated. Still, he’d drink another bottle before going in. This was the last go in solitude until— He kicked the rock wall, almost too hard. He’d said the same thing before the campsite capture. So who knows what’s ahead. Get ready.
Leo checked through the peephole again. The dam stretched halfway across the Delaware, then kinked at an obtuse angle and spanned to the far cliff-bank. The dam’s concrete was a pale blue-gray under LED floodlights, it was thick and foamy, a pool toy wedged in the river. Red and green system indicators dotted the dam in a lattice of steel bars, ladders, rails, and piping. Security guards roamed the top of the dam, not even nodding as they passed. At least snow hadn’t piled up. The top must be lined with radiant heat for snowmelting. And for keeping his bootprints out of sight.
He studied the smokestacks again. Wide, low cones set back from the lip of the dam, each atop its own concrete pad. Why would anyone want chimneys when all the energy they need is on tap? Generators? Inputs? Outputs for single-pass air? Experiments? Or cooling for turbines? The Delaware roared and foamed from the spillway behind the dam, galled after spinning through thirty-six turbines. Its growls overpowered his analysis. At least the air seemed clear of drones. Leo opened the door, tossed out the rope, and rappelled toward the dam below.
At the base of the rope, Leo’s hands bumped over a tiny button as his feet hit the top of the dam. Click Me, a marker had drawn on the plastic. He clicked, and the rope silently reeled up to the hole and the tunnel’s cliff-door closed. Next up, third chimney.
Sleet sped at the dam from the north-northwest. Leo ducked behind the cone of the first chimney. At the center of the dam, guards packed together under an access door’s awning. Leo continued to the back of the dam and snuck to the second chimney. No sound of footsteps, only southern-accent shivers. He gambled the guards weren’t patrolling and crept farther to chimney three.
Climb up, climb down—but his reach was five feet short of the chimney’s top. The concrete pad, promising from above, was only six inches high. Leo kneeled and wiped away a spot of the chimney’s snow, then silently chipped away the base of ice with his pizza cutter. He ran from the back of the dam, stepped a boot-toe on the shoveled spot, and lunged. A glove caught the chimney’s icy lip but immediately slid back. He spun the other arm and knuckled the lip, cracking off ice, and slid the caught hand sideways onto the scraped section. Now he lodged both hands. He swung his legs over the top, hung over the abyss, and searched for ladder rungs. Around and around, no ladder. A dot of light a hundred feet below.
Leo spider-spread the width of the chimney—luckily dry of ice—boots on one side, back on the other. He shimmied down its tube. The dot of light grew, and finally he let go and fell ten feet onto a round paisley-embroidered mattress.
Leo rolled out of the fireplace and into an office. It seemed transplanted from the ancient inn back home, where he delivered Hawaiian pizzas to kitchen workers tired of grass-fed filet mignon. The office was almost as cold as the dam roof, but thankfully the fire hadn’t been lit. In the bathroom, the shower was running. If this office isn’t Zion, there’s a problem.
Have a minute to search. Tiffany lamps, a velvet chaise lounge, a black walnut desk with mounds of paper but no name tag. The personal bathroom was illuminated from the crack beneath the door. Now in addition to the shower, a low voice singing—
Free Agency’s tunnel contact could be anyone. Leo rubbed the still-new bullet scar on his arm. Is this the Major? No—he wouldn’t have this taste for design. But best to check in there in case, see if it’s the bathroom Dad had— Leo grabbed a fireplace poker and silently swung the door.
A running shower, clearly empty through its fog-resistant glass door. Escaped? Leo pushed the bathroom door farther and crept behind it, checking the corners of the room. All empty. He straightened up and took a breath—and the door swung at him fast, hard, and knocked him back into the office. Someone sprang around it in fleece pajamas. With the pinching fingertips of both hands, they aimed a keychain-sized pistol at Leo’s face. “Give me your name,” they said.
The voice from the radio, from the night in the creek woods. “Leo. Zion, I’m Leo.”
“I see now,” Zion said, lowering the gun. “And put that ridiculous thing down. This isn’t a hotel murder mystery.” Leo put the poker back. “My brain struggles with social memories, but you certainly match your pictures.”
“Beard’s growing out.”
“You’re too kind. And you’re alone right now. Are Beryl and Rock installing the bombs?”
“Not exactly.”
Zion pulled a cabinet-sized Samsonite suitcase from the closet. “So they’re done. Did they get your dad as well?”
Leo sat on an ottoman, opened his empty palms.” We’re getting my dad. And we’re getting Beryl and Rock. You and me. And then we get out of here and demolish the dam another day.”
“Hold on—” Zion dropped a stack of magazines into the open suitcase. “Security might have narrow intellects, but how would they only pick up two out of three? You’re traveling together, are you not? It seems impossible”—he raised the miniature pistol again—“whose side are you on here, Mr. Pascal?”
“That’s not it—” Leo raised his hands and stood.
“Berloque says sit back down.”
“No gun here.” He pulled up his shirt, revealing stitches and tape, patted his pants, showed his socks. “I took the tunnel. Free Agency’s. They told me about it in the—in the jail—”
“All of you?”
Leo nodded. “Delaware Water Gap. These cuts—”
“I thought you wrestled with a thorn bush.”
“My dad’s partner was there. Same cell. He steered me to the Jersey tunnel. All of us, tonight, that was the plan. We were waiting upriver, tucked in. I was setting up the sign for the bomb delivery—Beryl’s contact—it was all woods—the two-mile border guards, we didn’t think they’d be up so far—”
“So you watched as they carted my loved one away? And Rock. You didn’t fight them, you didn’t even try—”
“Fight a whole crew? I had nothing but this pizza cutter and rope. They hauled them off and left. I didn’t hear any gunshots.”
“Please. You don’t have to use guns.”
“I could have said screw it, gone home. But I sat in the sleet for three hours. The bomb driver never showed up. I took the tunnel anyway, and I’m here now.”
“This delivery spot was by Lambertville?”
“North of New Hope. But they’re both sunk.”
“I know they’re both sunk. And now I know you paddled across the Delaware in an ice storm to reach the tunnel.”
“There was a square of wood, it floats—”
“Forget wood. You paddled a Durham with George Washington’s ghost. He wouldn’t let anyone cross in tonight’s weather. What am I doing?” Zion pocketed his mini-pistol. “I trust you. I’m too deep in the Phytolacca decandra. What’s next? What do you need? You want to find them—”
“We’re both finding them.”
“I have blueprints but I can’t tell you what’s down there this second. In the jail. It’s a big gray square. I doubt the builders even stuck to this stuff. I barely leave this office, Leo, though I’m allowed to order a surprising number of deliveries, not consistently inspected”—he tapped the pistol pocket—“but in truth, I’m a prisoner as much as Beryl and Rock and your dad. From here to the exercise bike, bike back to here, lunch at the cafeteria, evening to play squash alone, and back to here. I sleep on this sofa every night. That’s what I know. As for beyond—”
“You said you have a blueprint?”
“I’m ones and zeroes. Maybe you’ll see what I don’t.”
Zion cleared accordion folders from the desk, pulled a cardboard tube from a trash can used for storage, and rolled out a stack of blueprints bound on one side. Leo traced his hands over the architectural details. Memory, try to stay on…
The famous Gorgeous Gorge dam! Two vast powerhouses separated by a flood control wall—a strainer—nearly 500 yards wide. Fourteen turbines in the east powerhouse, twelve in the west. Each thirty-plus-foot diameter turbine was plugged into the floor of a great central passage running the length of the powerhouse. This map isn’t just for tonight. “Before I forget—when we come back, which is the better powerhouse to bomb?”
“East,” Zion said. “Right here. Along the front is where the majority of attempts have floated in and exploded. And after each of them, one little computer kept the dam together until the cracks were fixed. The dam is resting full strength at the moment.”
“The Hoover system?”
“What now?”
“You mentioned it?”
“But of course, our radio conference—once you say something, you can’t un-say it.”
“Nothing’s crumbling until we rescue my dad. And Beryl and Rock. And get out.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t shut off the toy truss until I’m with Beryl and we’re flying free.”
Leo nodded and went back to the blueprints. A network of tunnels, corridors, and crawlspaces. He had delivered pizzas deep into salad dressing manufacturers, mattress factories, and stairlift shippers. He’d only needed to wear a Hello! My Name Is badge. But that wouldn’t let him roam around here.
“Where are we now.”
Zion pointed to square O-638 on the top blueprint. “But please, take a peek out the door.”
Zion led Leo up front in silence, then pulled the office door open an inch. He inspected, then slid aside.
Leo looked and froze his breath. This was the end of the central passage, far bigger than it looked on the floor’s blueprint. It stretched west from Zion’s office door to a vanishing point. Guards dotted the passage on the north and south side of each turbine, marked by hall-width red circles on the floor. To enter the passage without Zion, without a badge? Suicide.
Leo fanned the stack of blueprints. “Where’s the jail?”
Zion flipped to the last page. “As I mentioned. Big nothing.”
The blueprint for the dam’s lowest level had a gray rectangle labeled HOLD. It claimed almost the entire east side of the dam. The rectangle had random tumor tails curling off. Solitary…
Leo flipped between the print with Zion’s office and the jail print. He checked the four levels between the office and the jail. All except the jail had bold, three-sided squares, always matching up at the same spots on the print. “Elevators?”
Zion nodded. “Not far down the hall.”
“But no elevator to the jail.”
“No button to push, at least. I haven’t tried hacking it. I assume there’s a monstrous lock-and-key door if the elevator goes that far down.”
Leo turned back to the start, then flipped each page slowly, looking for stairs, looking for something. He flipped the final page to the plastic back sheet. Stuck there, a slide-in plastic pocket with something else. He pulled out the paper and unfolded. Another drawing, but looking sideways at the dam, not down from the top. The bottom-right title block said Mechanical Systems – HVAC. The three chimneys on the right, with chimney three descending into room O-638. Makes sense. Six stories, the jail at the base. Chimney five, probably where the dam’s guards were warm under an awning. It descended all the way to the jail, forking into three incinerators. No. Not Dad, not Beryl not Rock not anyone. Not anyone else—chimney five was the smell of pork-gone-wrong on the roof.
Leo forced his eyes from the whirlpool of the incinerators and searched the rest of the jail. Each tiny duct joined a horizontal main exiting into the dam’s runoff. One massive duct, almost the size of the elevator shaft, connected the jail with floor two. Leo pointed at it. “What’s this? Second floor.” Zion looked but didn’t say anything. Leo flipped to the second floor chart. “Right about here, directly above. Says GYM.”
“The gym smells—strong. All I know.”
Leo flipped back and forth, first floor, second floor, HVAC. “The gym must be the air source for the jail. Look here. The intake duct starts at the gym’s locker room, makes two turns, and it’s in. No big drops or anything. The rest of the gym’s air has its own system fanning into the locker room. They’re stinking out the jail with this duct.”
“I do hear a whoosh in that bathroom, but never thought much of it.”
“Look close. Only one fan at the start of the locker room. But they still have intakes before the curve down? Then it’s ducts into the jail. Which makes no sense. It seems inefficient—”
“Probably some want-to-be Calder.”
“But it’s lucky for us. We get to the gym—you say you go there all the time—and then pop in the duct, follow it over, tiny step down, over, and we’re in. We get them, and we can get out the same way.”
“Or out those sides you pointed to.”
“I don’t know about the water rush. But maybe we walk out the jail’s door. Who knows. But side ducts joining the main—a good point. Look here—if we switch ducts where we land in the jail, intake to exhaust, we can find their cell from the other side of their vent, pop it out, and bring them up. Don’t even need keys.”
“There’s no electrical system surrounding each cell.”
“Next stop, the gym,” Leo said. “And gym clothes—we’ll say squash, a two person game.”
But no game, straight to the locker room bathroom. Likely a big open locker room. Is it best to use Zion’s single bathroom before the trip down? Would Zion be listening to the sound behind the door? Would he worry again about switching sides, would he ask for an open door? Best to hold it, get in and get out.
“But Leo, I don’t have any visitors scheduled for today. Or ever.”
“What about maintenance? I won’t wear the gym clothes. Structural integrity. You have a hard hat and a vest?”
“Even more obvious. Visitors would never perform maintenance on the dam. No, we simply need to use the tried and true. Bribery.” Zion moved an ironing board and swung the door of an already-open safe. “Except the Major took my cash two months ago. I can’t even bribe anymore.”
“It’s not always cash, right? Promise them something. Give them a fake, cards for an empty account, something.”
Zion scanned the room, then rushed to his Samsonite suitcase. “Let’s try this.” He unzipped the case and poured its clothes and magazines and books into his closet. “This looks like it has the proper space for technical equipment. Squeeze in.”
“Hold on, let me stock up first.” Leo circled the room with Zion’s guidance. He topped his pockets with anything that might take out a lock, a window, a duct fan. Kept the pizza cutter safely secured in back.
The prison diet had whittled Leo enough to fit inside, although with a re-ignited gasp of pain from the scrunched stitches. Zion closed the suitcase and left the zippers open a smidge at Leo’s eye level.
Dressed for squash, Zion rolled the Samsonite out of the office and down the central passage. Two guards stopped him at the elevator.
“Hold up, smarty shorts,” one said. “You’re not scheduled to ride.” The other’s hand went to his radio.
“And you two are not scheduled to cancel my squash match.”
“You always play solo.”
“Not today. Today my expertise has been requested.”
A guard smacked the suitcase with the butt of his rifle. Zion zipped the zippers together and clicked a luggage lock through them. “System controllers. Would you like to break them for us?”
Only a pinhole to watch through now.
“Get serious,” another guard said. “Who you bribing today?”
“Better be the Major.”
“We’ll need to inspect a percentage of what you’re bringing.”
Two new guards arrived. “Cut the lock, count it out.” “Nobody bribes without an appointment.”
The elevator beeped, the doors opened. Zion tightened on the handle. “You polyester-uniform chafers wouldn’t know how to bet if Atlantic City made you its mayor.” A clatter of casino chips filled the corridor, followed by the guards’ boots chasing as they scattered. Zion pulled the suitcase into the elevator and they descended.
“Floor two,” Zion said, “The lowest button in here, at least.” He pulled the suitcase out and along a concrete passage. Despite the locked zippers, Leo swam in the sweats he heard on all sides—sprinting, sinking baskets, clanking barbells, even squash. Zion pushed open a door and pulled him onto tight tiles, wheels clicking fast. Here the sweat dripped from salt-caked gym shorts, front-and-center urinals with splash-stirred para blocks, pimpled feet racing to the Finnish sauna, and a splatter-announced potato-and-steak dinner.
Zion steered through the crowd ignoring their comments: Here on vacation? and Sam-so-right and Mine’s bigger. Finally a shower curtain slid closed and the suitcase zippers opened.
“The single personal shower,” Zion said. “We got lucky given the crowd.”
A wide changing area and a same-width wide shower. Directly above the changing area, a metal vent trapezoided upward and was barely held by two screws in its four holes. Just flatheads. Leo didn’t have to adjust Zion’s nine-in-one twist tool. He climbed up with one foot on the changing area’s grab bar, one in Zion’s hands, and popped the cover off the duct. And behind it, he met a woven security grille of steel squares, and, out of reach, a video camera with a blinking red light.
The changing area’s curtain ripped open and four security officers pulled Leo down from the grille. Zion’s stomach blocked Leo’s head from slamming, but the rest of Leo’s body took the fall hard. Security cuffed Leo’s hands together in front, cuffed his feet, and did the same to Zion. They locked both to grab bars, one on each side.
“Here for the shower, you two?” a guard said. “Let me get you into the appropriate attire.”
“Hold up,” the other guard said, keeping his pistol aimed at them while clipping his radio back on his vest. “Let him do the honors.”
Him? Him.
The locker room’s front door swung open. No crowd, just a single set of strutting boots. Whistling around the corners toward their shower in back. “Clean it up,” the voice said, dragging something on the ground here and there. “Keep a clean space.”
The Major. Leo could still hear his bullet-wrapped words in the tunnel. The Major turned the corner with Leo’s dad’s pizza bag of bombs. He slowed and dragged the bag over someone’s puddle of sweat. “Was controlling the water around here. Forgive my thirty-five minute delivery. I had to prepare it for you from scratch. A custom order, nice and toasty.” He put the pizza bag on a bench and turned to the guards. “Strip them. Let’s see what you find.”
Now the guards tore off Leo and Zion’s clothing with curved blades. “Careful,” the Major said. “I’m in charge of the sauce.”
A guard searched them and dropped each item into a bucket. “Screw driver, rope, pizza cutter—”
“Maybe I’ll hire you.”
“—casino chips, and stupid little stuff from the suitcase’s pocket.”
“Such as?”
“Santa Fe postcard, a cowboy keychain, broken sunglasses.”
“Trash it. I’ll keep the bucket and these two little boys.” The Major leaned his back against the wall and smiled at Zion. “I knew you’d eventually make a mindless attempt, despite your fancy SAT score.”
“Ph.D., you fool.”
“Don’t waste your breath. You’ll be back to work in no time. From a cell with a keyboard and a skull-aiming shotgun. But I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it. It’ll only be a few weeks. By then we’ll have everything reverse-engineered. We’ll scrub this motherboard of yours.”
The Major knocked his knuckles on Zion’s head, then stared down Leo on the other side. “And you. I’ve been waiting for this self-delivery since your last visit. Everyone saw you on your way in, from the Rome missileman to the Sidney dashcam to the Deposit McDonald’s. And then you disappeared for a few days. Off the radar—a trendsetter! I’m guessing it was Payne Creek?”
The Major ran his fingernails slalom around the stitches on Leo’s back. “If they only communicated properly, this would have been such an easy order. But all they know is how to burn the crust. Luckily, you made it here on your own. A driver follows the map—the made-up self-delivery map we gave to Zion for this exact situation.”
Zion spit but didn’t talk. The Major grabbed Leo’s hair and twisted his face at the ceiling vent’s camera, still blinking red above. “Ring the doorbell. Ring the doorbell, genius.”
The Major nodded at the guards. The guards blew a whistle, and a minute later two rolling tables arrived. The guards transferred Leo and Zion, laid them on their backs, and bound them down with ropes around the feet, thighs, wrists, chest, and forehead. The Major led the group to the elevator, where two guards pushed in Leo and Zion.
The Major got in last, next to the elevator buttons. “Zion, you need a key to get to the jail. And you couldn’t even make one.” He turned the lock below button two and the elevator dropped.
The Major led the group through the jail. Leo tried to work out which direction was which. The right turn out of the elevator was east, then north, east, north, east— All of the cells were on other corridors branching off of their zigzag. By now it seemed they had left the dam’s jail and entered the New Jersey cliff. The walls’ cover-up was abandoned and the Major led them through rock tunnels. Almost the same as the Delaware Gap. Inside a room to the right, the unmistakable yells of Beryl and Rock.
“Stay strong,” Leo called. No sign of Dad yet—they’ll search back through all of the turns—
“These tunnels stay strong indeed,” the Major said. “Much more dependable than Free Agency’s digging. Don’t even need Zion’s stability steroids in this section. Wait till you see what’s ahead. Turn here.”
The guards steered the rolling tables into a domed rock room, tightened a gag into Zion, and started tying one on Leo. “Thank you, that’s all,” the Major said. The guards handed him the gag and left.
The Major dabbed sweat from around the rope on Leo’s forehead. “You were looking for your dad on the way in. Making those glances from left to right to left?”
Leo stared him down. No talk.
“You both wanted to blow up the dam. Make a little tunnel, dig into my very own bathroom. And you still want to. Admirable. A truly un-American mission. But I’m sure you said the pledge of allegiance in school. Maybe even saluted peckers with the Boy Scouts. I have faith you’ll come around and support the country. We have everything you need right here.”
The Major picked up the pizza bag and swung it over Leo’s head. “You can blow up the dam—blow up the damn snakedaddy who brought you here.”
The Major opened the pizza bag and tilted it at Leo. Something round and hard, the opposite of pizza but with almost the same colors—a pizza-wrapped bomb?—rolled out of the bag. It twisted in the air as it fell, and it wasn’t pizza at all, but Dad’s sliced-off head, fresh and dripping and hot.
Leo screamed and lunged against his tie-downs—not to dodge Dad, but to catch him and save him from smashing on the floor. Dad’s head rolled onto Leo’s chest and stopped.
The Major smacked it off and caught it in the pizza bag, slapped the Velcro, and boot-slid it to the corner of the room. “Time for a few questions. You can answer, or you can blow up with your dad’s freshly cut toppings and his gourmet bomb. Now tell me—where’s the bomb you brought for us today?”
Leo unfocused his eyes on the clouds miles above the cliff above them, braced for whatever the Major would do. Zion yelled against his gag. The Major walked behind Zion and pulled it out. “Location?”
“No bomb,” Zion said. “Leave him and—”
“Mute.” The Major crammed the gag back in Zion’s mouth. He returned to Leo with a gallon of water, he rocked it above Leo’s face. “Where did you park it.”
Leo shook his head no in millimeters, didn’t even want to, but it’s the truth. No bomb.
“Thirsty? Take a sip and then tell me.” The Major poured the water over Leo’s face.
Leo chugged it as best he could. He’d drunk his last bottle in the tunnel, not forever ago, but the rope and the chimney and the elevator guards had quickly spent it. Time to refuel, half the bottle—
“Stop drinking and tell me where the bomb is.”
Leo shook his head, rested, and let the water flow to his biceps, his fists.
The Major stomped to the door of the cell, leaned into the hall and yelled something at the guards with towel and board and set it up right, you fools. He slammed back in without the gallon.
“Where was I.” The Major leaned over Leo, traced his fingers along the stitched slices. “Who cut you up and didn’t tell us?” Silence. “Think. You’re not on their side. No need to be on your enemy’s side. Am I right?” He dragged his nails down to Leo’s feet. “Specialists? Or not. You’ve still been running and climbing and riding despite their attempts between your toes. And this left foot—the clutch. You don’t need to poke on the third pedal, do you? Two is fine for most people. Automatic. You can stop thinking so hard.” The Major turned back to the bucket, pulled out the pizza cutter. “You can keep your clutch foot for the price of one name—who cut you up and didn’t tell us? Starting now.”
The Major rolled the cutter around almost all of Leo’s ankle. It drew blood, but only from the skin. “Here comes the Achilles order—”
“Payne Creek!” Leo said. “Payne Creek. Delaware Water Gap—the jail. There.” His eyes rolled up in the skull under his closed lids. The shame of being true to the captor. But that foot—need the foot, here at least, need the foot to move forward.
The Major stuck the pizza cutter’s handle in his belt, then returned to Leo’s chest. “Very good. Now all these little ziplock baggies. What did Payne Creek send you in with? A fancy video camera? A knickknack microphone?”
“Nothing,” Leo said.
“Please—it looks like an Advent calendar up here.” The Major peeked into the three cuts Rock had searched on the upper arm. “White chocolate, I hope?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing now or nothing always? Because if you rigged a special present, I think I’d have to— Let’s check to be sure.” The Major pulled out a pencil and jammed the point under five stitches on Leo’s right waistline, then flicked them out of the skin, still knotted. “Hello?” Leo skylaunched from a catapult into pain. He scratched his teeth together hard, he breathed so deep his nostrils doubled in size. The Major explored the hole with the pencil’s point. “Testing, testing, one, two—three?”
“A tracker,” Leo finally said. “Just a tracker. But I pulled it out and now it’s gone. Check your radar, no one followed.”
The Major slapped a palm on the three open arm cuts. “Good job. Good search, good disposal, good reporting.” The Major went back to the door, leaned out, gave instructions to the guards, then returned. “We’re checking. And if they’re here, we’ll check every last hole you’ve got. But for now, more important things. When’s your next delivery.”
Leo shook his head.
“Time and date.”
“No delivery.”
“Anyone’s delivery. When is the next delivery?”
“I’m out, I’m done, what else do you want?”
The Major lifted Leo’s right hand from beneath the rope, gripped it tight but softly. “The clutch foot won’t be fun without a hand to yank the stick. Maybe I should take this off to be sure there’s not another delivery?”
“I’ll drive automatic—pizza only. I’m not bringing you anything.”
“Not a bomb—”
“Not a bomb, not a tunnel, not a team—”
“We need to be sure. How about I take the fingers, you keep the palm. You can still shift. No, that won’t work, I see you carrying your bomb bag hanging from the arm.” He pulled Leo’s right arm vertical, and inspected the elbow with the other hand. “Right between the bones.” He pinched the funny bone and sparks shot to Leo’s fingers. “First the guide line—” He traced the pizza cutter around the skin of Leo’s elbow. Leo rolled back and forth on the bed, shoulders tweaking, grunting, searching for a way to avoid the pain. “Be still now, last chance. When’s your next delivery?” The Major inspected the teaser nick, his eyes three inches from the elbow, salivating over the next slice—
BAM! With his bound left wrist, Leo shot a two-millimeter bullet over his thighs from Zion’s mini-pistol, into the Major’s head, where it scratched skull and dinged the ceiling. Leo dropped the bloodsoaked Berloque to the floor, into a puddle from the dripping, stich-ripped slice on his thigh—its holster.
The Major ran both hands over his head, searching for the shot, checking if he was alive. Leo stole back the pizza cutter with his freed right hand. He cut his ropes as fast as Dad’s four slices across a large pie. He rolled off the table, slammed it into the Major, and then freed Zion with more slices.
Bleeding from his head, the Major raced to the bucket of gear. Leo chased him and swung again with the cutter, but the Major blocked him with the bucket. The blade clanged to the floor.
Zion said from behind, “Duck Leo, I’ve got a shot,” and aimed the red Berloque. The Major ducked. Leo sprinted to the corner, grabbed the pizza bag, and uppercut-swung Dad’s Calabrian igneous skull into the Major’s face, sprinkling the floor with teeth and knocking him groggy onto his back. Zion wrapped ropes around him on the ground, jammed in his spit-soaked gag, and pocketed the Major’s keys. Leo added a second top-to-bottom wrap using the rope from the bucket.
Leo reunited the blade and the cutter but didn’t slice the Major. “You’ll be drowned in thirty minutes or less.”
Leo and Zion each donned their torture table’s sheet around the waist with a twisted knot. Zion insisted Leo put on the Major’s boots and went barefoot himself. They peeked out to the rock tunnel. No more guards, all likely working on the Major’s orders. Leo carried Dad’s head in the Super Sicilian pizza bag atop their original delivery bomb.
“Thanks for reminding me of the inside pocket,” Leo said.
“Just the right size,” Zion said, nodding at his wiped-clean Berloque.
They crept back the way they’d arrived until they again heard screams and slices from Beryl and Rock.
“Wait here,” Zion said. He leaned only his face into the room. “Colleagues, can you please put this research aside for sixty seconds and help me monitor capillary flow pressure? I’m set up across. Major’s orders.”
Zion left the door and flashed a hidden thumbs up at Leo. Two lab-coated experimenters walked out, and Leo hooked both in a lasso and pulled them back in the room.
“Down in the corner,” Leo said.
Zion aimed the Berloque pistol at them. “Spine to spine. Don’t move.” Loaded until proven otherwise.
Leo untied Beryl and Rock from the room’s two tables. Both in their stain-wrecked underwear. Neither jumped to their feet. Stamps of weeping underflesh pocked their bodies, but their heads were still untouched. The extracted puzzle pieces of epidermis had been tacked to a foam-core board on the side wall.
“Zion—” Beryl said. “I love you. I can’t hug though. Can’t move—”
“You will,” Zion said.
“First aid,” Leo said. “What do I get, Rock?” He searched through the surgery cart.
“A light spritz with the spray bottle and gauze,” Rock said. “We’ll use every reel they have.”
“And”—Leo pointed at the tack board—“are you putting those back on the holes?”
“They’re dry by now. We’ll handle these like any old third-degree burn.” Rock raised his arms and talked Leo through wrapping the gauze, then wrapped his own chest and legs. Next, Rock wrapped Beryl. Meanwhile, Zion applied their table ropes to the experimenters, who didn’t have a procedure to fight back.
Beryl pulled four pairs of lab coats, goggles, face masks, and shoe booties from the room’s closet and passed them out.
“All of your experiments have left me wanting a slice of my own,” Rock said. “Mr. Leo, pizza cutter.”
Leo planted the handle in Rock’s upturned palm.
On each forehead Rock cut a pizza slice pointing down. “Have you tried these culinary masterpieces yet? Delicious. Open up.” He shoved the skin-slice of each into the other’s mouth. “Chew, chew. How is it? Is it a five-star rating? See the pistol? Chew!” When both had swallowed, Rock pulled back his fist for knockouts.
Beryl stepped between. “Not yet. Where’s the nearest grass?”
Elliot—per the nametag—raised an eyebrow. “Cannabis sativa?”
“Crabgrass, or forest, or snow, or whatever’s outside. How do we get outside?”
Neither experimenter talked.
“Tell her and I’ll go easy—” Rock said. “Easier on the one who says it.”
“Down Block 4, Block 3, Block 2—” nametag Vivian said.
“Don’t tell!” Elliot said.
Rock grabbed him by the ears. “We’ll kill you if she doesn’t tell.”
“Tell!”
“Block 3, Block 2, Block 1, then right, right, left into security, straight, right—”
Zion brought over a pen and pad from the side table. “Draw the map, please.”
Elliot took the pad and drew the route, now showing a security office between each block. The team’s quick round of glances said nobody approved.
“Where’s the nearest room with a window?” Beryl said.
Elliot grinned. “Not far at all. Our office. H-170. Down and on the left. Incredible sunrises there.”
“I’m done,” Beryl said. Rock pulled back his punch.
“Wait,” Leo said. “Last time.” He turned to the experimenters. “Where’s Tony Pascal’s cell?”
Elliot grinned at the pizza bag at Leo’s feet. “This is H-174—”
Leo slammed the pizza cutter’s base on top of Elliot’s skull. “Where’s he kept?” He held the cutter to Vivian’s neck. “Where, doc?”
“H-131,” Vivian said. Elliot sank his head.
“What’s the matter?” Rock said to Elliot. “She saved your life.” He turned back to the team. “Anything else?” Head shakes around. “Night.” Rock pummeled both unconscious. Zion searched their pockets and added their keys and radios to the bucket. Rock squeezed into the bigger one’s boots and passed the other pair to Beryl.
“H-170,” Beryl said. “Next stop.”
Leo stepped between her and the door. “H-131.”
“170’s closer. We can’t hang out in here.”
“Numeric order,” Zion said. “Turning left will follow it backward.”
“We’ll talk there,” Beryl said.
H-170 was only three seconds down on the left, opened by the fourth key on Elliot’s keychain. And inside, one large linoleum tile for each. Two by two. A drain in the center, a faucet on the wall, a firehose reel directly across, and high on the back wall between them, a window the size of a dollar bill, locked under a tight mesh of steel.
“We’re not squeezing through,” Rock said.
“No need to.” Beryl reached for the pizza bag, but Leo pulled it away. “What?”
“Like the last jail escape,” Rock said. “Perfect.”
“We need to get my dad,” Leo said.
“We already have the keys,” Beryl said. “You and Rock run down while I open our door.”
“H-131,” Rock said, searching the room’s high shelves. “As soon as I find it.”
Zion passed a rolled-up cleaning diagram from his corner of the shelf. “One moldy map.”
Rock opened it overhead. “H-131. I don’t know, Leo. Assess the route. He’s not close at all.”
H-131 was west, near the middle of this half of the dam, beneath three chimneys combining to one leading to the top of the dam. Chimney Five. “At least he stays warm in there,” Rock said. “Unlike our cell. The sleet, Beryl?”
Silence. Leo squeezed his eyes shut, slammed a mop bucket against the wall with his boot.
“What?” Rock said.
Leo tapped the pizza bag. “We need to get the rest of him.”
“My god—” Beryl started to hug Leo, but then stopped, wincing at her missing skin. “I’m sorry.”
Rock wrapped Leo in a tight, damp hug. “From both of us.”
“But you’re right, Beryl,” Leo said. “We got the bomb in here, too.” He held the bag so nobody could see inside it. “Zion, there’s three pizza boxes’ worth in here. How much do we need?”
“I only need a bite of crust,” Beryl said. Leo pinched it off and handed it to her, then reclosed the bag.
“If I may.” Zion rolled a crumb of bomb-crust in his fingers, sniffed it. “Nothing works on its own, as we’ve talked about. This treat is enough to crack the structure—maybe. It needs to be placed as close to the front edge of the dam as possible. From inside.”
Beryl pointed to the window. “It’s coming with us.”
Rock flicked the map. “Three security toll booths between here and 131. Probably four. I don’t like it, Leo. We’re going to need a bigger gun.”
Leo borrowed the map, traced a curlicue for Beryl. “We’ll get my dad on the way out.”
Beryl inspected, nodded. “Everyone, hallway. Explosion coming up.”
Beryl ran out seconds after and met them behind the open door of H-174, where the experimenters were half-awake, tied, and mumbling. A firecracker rattle filled the hall with smoke. Beryl led the team back through it, found the office door with her wall-dragged hand, and they scuffed outside through the gravel hole, onto the dam’s steep and freezing Jersey hillside.
An alarm rang out as they pushed up the frozen grass and roots, bypassing the cliff, curving toward the top of the dam.
“Don’t worry,” Zion said, “I called in with Elliot’s radio. Level 4 fire on the west side.” They reached the dam’s top six stories above and peeked over the edge. “See? They’re racing for Pennsylvania right now.”
Beryl squeezed three strokes of massage into the back of Zion’s neck. “Functional, beautiful. Where next?”
“This way.” Leo jumped onto the dam’s top with the pizza bag. Behind him, Rock hauled H-170’s firehose reel, having carried it since Leo’s request on their way to the hall.
Now Leo threw the hose over the edge of Chimney Three. He fed it for a count of a hundred feet. Then twenty more, just in case. He dropped a wide overhand loop around a fatbellied kitchen exhaust fan, then tightened the loop around the skinny base. “Beryl, Zion. Slide down it like a playground. A hundred feet. There’s a mattress at the bottom, but hold on till you hit it.”
“And Rock?”
Rock smacked the roll of firehose continuing beyond the exhaust loop. “Elevator down Chimney Five.”
“Be careful,” Beryl said. “Zion, follow me.”
“Don’t slide your hands over the chimney edge, move your grip inside one at a time.”
Beryl nodded, then climbed to the edge and over. Zion followed with a boost from Rock.
Leo and Rock duck-ran to Chimney Five with the rest of the loop-secured roll of hose. Rock tossed it over the top. It fell and shook the exhaust fan when it hit the bottom—or not.
“Let’s hope it’s sufficient,” Rock said.
“If not—shoulders and boots.”
“Chipped up shoulders and boots.”
Rock and Leo shook hands again, and now Leo pulled him in. “You got this. We got this.”
Leo squeezed his head and an arm through the pizza bag’s strap, wearing it on his back. He slid into the chimney, into Zion’s office. Beryl waited, Zion must have taken the luxury bathroom. But its door wasn’t closed—
“Rock tie up alright on Five?” Beryl said.
“All good,” Leo said. “I didn’t come down till I saw him disappear. At least there’s no smoke.” Might get Dad yet.
“In here,” Zion called from the bathroom. Beryl pushed in, Leo followed.
Everyone working in here? How to get alone in this one-person bathroom? Close it up, let the overhead fan cancel the splash noise of the near-gallon chugged on the table. The urge had been hidden on the hike up and the slide down, but now, with the option of a private moment—
“Back there,” Beryl said.
The back of the shower wall had been rotated, revealing a tunnel into the dam. Leo had seen it too, but the wish for privacy had taken over. No time for a break.
Leo and Beryl jogged three strides and froze. A control room, a wall of screens displaying the dam’s outline. The dam blinked red in one spot, where they had blasted out of the closet office. A tight matrix of yellow dots surrounded the red, and the dam was cool green everywhere else. Beneath the screens, Zion was pulled in tight to an automation dashboard, monitoring numbers across the diagram, tuning values, tweaking set points. Flowing.
“Zion, it’s time,” Beryl said. “Dam’s coming down. I’ll put the bag against the north wall. We’re getting out now.”
“I thought I’d left a quick off-switch,” Zion said. “But look up there, nothing. Someone must have clamped on an extra safety layer.”
“From Bluffdale?” Beryl turned to Leo. “We can blow up the boxes, but the dam’s not coming down unless Zion lets it.”
“The Hoover system,” Leo said. “We—”
“Good. You two prepped.”
“Not exactly, Beryl,” Zion said. “This dam’s Hoover is a mobile net of graphene veins. An electromagnetic tensioner.” He pointed at the matrix connecting the red, yellow, and green dots. “Even better than what we put in the Black Canyon. Combinatorial optimization for concrete integrity. Here to here, here to here. Hundreds.”
“It senses threats and weaknesses and reinforces the structure in response,” Beryl said.
“An algorithmic Little Dutch Boy,” Zion said.
Of course—the electro-tensioner toughened Shutyergorge Dam. It was why monthly bombs did nothing, why the feds chained up Zion, ensuring the dam would never collapse. Why after too many close calls the Major scrambled to have someone who’s not a prisoner learn how to keep it working. Why Zion was struggling to turn it off.
“You have cameras here?” Beryl said.
Zion brought them up. The dam soldiers, the maintenance crew, every person in uniform hadn’t found fire on the west side, hadn’t heard orders from the Major, and were on their way back toward the smash-blast on the east.
“How much time?” Beryl said. “Two minutes?”
Zion pushed his sleek chair back from the keyboard. “No time. I can’t override it, and it’ll take years to unlock the door with a codebreaker. The Hoover system needs a manual shutdown.”
“Where’s the control board?” Beryl said. “Please don’t say Utah.”
“Luckily no. This power module is on-site only. Well, power plus magnet plus data—”
“Zion, where is it? Leo, loan me the pizza cutter.”
“No—” Leo said. “You and Zion get out together.”
“Together, Beryl.” Zion led them through the shower, back to the office. He pointed at the front door. “Leo, you’ve rolled down the central passage. Now over Turbine Five take the door on the back side of the dam. Down the stairs, then all the way up the ramp.”
“Up?”
“Yes, up, trust me. To the control station at the top. Then smash it.”
Leo grabbed the fire poker. “This work?”
“That handle won’t insulate you from the 480 volts,” Zion said. “So aim your sword for the server, it’s vented enough to smack through.”
“Break the computer part,” Beryl said. She tested the firehose in the chimney. “Zion, you climb first.”
“How am I going to climb this?”
“Use your feet,” Leo said. “Like the rope climb, elementary school gym class?”
“Not my elementary—”
“Stand on your feet, hands keeping you tight.”
“I’ll be under you,” Beryl said. She took the detonator from the pizza bag’s outside pocket, then hesitated before reaching in for the bomb. “You likely prefer—”
Leo gently pulled out the bomb from beside Dad’s head. He slid it under the Victorian armchair, against the front wall of the dam. Beryl ducked in and got the lights blinking. Leo velcroed and clipped the pizza bag shut with a safety pin from Zion’s desk. “Here you go.”
Beryl secured the bag across her chest. “We’ll watch for you from under the peak of the ridge, north of the dam. As soon as I see you leave the roof, I’ll blow the bomb.”
Zion called down from a yard up the chimney. “We can’t wait for confirmation the Hoover system’s down.”
“But if I’m in here—” Leo said.
Beryl stared at the bomb and shook her head.
Zion slid down, crawled out, and turned to Beryl. “If he’s in here, and the Hoover’s dead, and only cheap concrete is holding this together, then we have to blow it before someone searches this office. Hoover and the dam. We have to smash both. Fast.”
“Leo, he’s right. We’re blowing it as soon as we get out. Look for us south. South, downriver. We’ll find each other. And thank you.”
Leo tapped the fire poker. “Might be my last delivery.” He shook Zion’s hand and then Beryl’s, pulling in to forearm cross-and-nod. Last, he patted Dad through the pizza bag.
“You’ll see him soon,” Beryl said. “You have what you need.”
Zion disappeared up the chimney.
“Climbing,” Beryl said.
Leo nodded. “Climb away.”
Leo bolted into the central passage and across the red circle of Turbine 1. At the far end, over Turbine 14, a horde of soldiers pounded from a jog to a charge. Leo sprinted into their blood-hungry screams, holding the poker diagonally across his chest, a skinny bulletproof streak. He reached Turbine 5 before the mob covered half the distance to him. Back wall door, here—LAUNDRY POWER.
Down clanking metal stairs, one-eighty, one-eighty, shiv—the inner railing’s turn scraped the two open slices on the left. Thirteen turns total, done. Doorknob, prepare to meet this— Unlocked. A left turn to the ramp, headed west, gradually sloping up the back face of the dam. A hundred and fifty, two hundred yards? Something big up there. Sprint.
The sprint took Leo halfway. It tore the left thigh’s holster cut and slowed him to a hobble. The mob was back, squeezing through the staircase’s bottleneck, frothing out with new vigor.
Eighty, fifty, twenty yards—there, against the tunnel’s dead end, was the unit Zion had promised: A puke-green control station the size of three pizza ovens. A stretched cheese of electrical cables pulled from the top in all directions, disappearing into the wall. Leo hurled the fireplace poker and dented the front panel. He threw again and hit the door latch, but the poker bounced off. The box stuck closed.
A gunshot from the rushing crew hit the floor behind him, then skipped into the wall inches from the breaker.
“Hold your fire!” an officer yelled. “Don’t help him out!”
Steel poker again, shock risk be damned. Leo whacked the latch like a fastball. Get inside and throw the main switch, cut the power, paralyze the electro-tensioner, let the Delaware’s pressure do its job. But the box didn’t wrinkle again.
Up top, the wires, bash those— Leo slid the poker atop the box. With a slice-stretching leap, he caught the edge and pulled on top. The metal conduits along the wall were thick enough to stop the soldiers’ bullets, but knives were already in the air. Still from far enough away. Leo dodged Ka-Bars, Bowies, and Bucks. There, on the box top, the shielded hole where the conduits emerged. Leo batted them with the poker but they didn’t snap, their cables refused to cut, their fittings didn’t move.
Flying knife to the bicep. Leo dropped the poker, and it clattered down to the ramp. The soldiers would crack him with it in seconds. Smash now.
Leo stomped the weakest part of the box top, a rectangle of air vents slightly longer than his boot. Smash through, reach the main switch only a foot below. Stomp, stomp—but the vents didn’t budge. A knife darted through sock, into his ankle. Leo staggered backwards, caught a handful of metal conduit, and swung over the edge of the box.
Never piss on the third rail—someone had said it during a pizza delivery to a parked locomotive, never mind that Easton’s track didn’t have the third rail of New York. The rail of almost execution at only three years old, the rail Dad pulled him back from and told him to never go on. Dad knew someday you ride your own rails. Rails and roads and rivers and sky. Up and down mountains to get here. Keep climbing.
Leo fumbled for his zipper and yanked it down. The bladder—my bladder—is pounding somewhere. Urge was a nine in Zion’s bathroom minutes ago. A ten. Urge is still there, under this dead-end mob, under the sliced arm and ankle, under the worry of falling off the edge face-down and cracking the neck. Leo aimed through the vents. The mob’s approaching war cries added a shock atop their fury.
“Piss.” Leo clenched his eyes. “Piss, I can piss, I can do this, I can piss.” Half-urgency returned to his bladder. Potential welled in the lower abdomen, but as far away as Utica.
Open the eyes— Leo squinted down through the metal grates atop the circuit box. The green paint was no different from his lesson before the first kindergarten class, starting school in a Catholic brick bathroom. It was the same bouncing truck-bed gap he’d threaded and survived, with Rock behind him cheering in their temporary home. Ankle wobbling now—it’s the truck’s suspension—there it goes, there it is, going, going, down onto the main switch, splashing the circuits, shorting out the electro-tensioner—
The control station exploded in a cannonade and sent its metal doors knifing into the onrushing mob, slicing soldiers through the waist, leaving those on the edges dazed but still charging Leo and the tremoring dam wall, where the graphene net, now unplugged, no longer stopped the river from serving the Constitution, and just before the mob grabbed Leo’s boot, the dam crumbled into lint and the Delaware flooded the tunnel.
But only for a second. The Delaware ripped out the dam’s far wall and shattered the tunnel. The river hurdled down the valley, carrying all of the dam with it.
South, Beryl and Rock and Zion raced uphill to avoid the waves of the reservoir and soon were safely above the river. They searched for Leo among trash and bodies and ice and trees and roofs. The experimenters floated by, still tied back to back, their project over. The Major floated by, already frozen.
Zion pointed. “Vermilion antibacterial linen hamper—there.” Leo rode a laundry bin bobbing in the waves. Rock hurled a log tied to a rope. Leo hugged it and they towed him in.
The northern flood drained south, never more than a foot above normal thanks to the four-mile-wide junk swamp between Levittown and New Jersey. Past Trenton, Philadelphia, Camden, Wilmington, into Delaware Bay. The flood of rebellion jumped street to street, town to city to highway to farm, to California, Alaska, Hawaii, and back to D.C. The flood of this is who we are. Within a month, every paid-off militia and soldier and stopper and flooder sank in their fascist bloodmud. All the way up to the President.
Leo re-opened Tony’s “Toe-Tip of Italy” Calabrian Pizzeria in Easton. He hung two red marble slices on the wall above the register, one for Mom and one for Dad. Though for anyone who asked, they were samples of sizes, medium or large.
He stayed in touch with Rock and Beryl and Zion. Every now and then he delivered a few pies to Rock’s cabin, or to Beryl’s new riverside build, or to a drained and refilled pub. They’d play two against two on the foosball table, and laugh and remember and toast and hold back tears. Sometimes Leo could go at the bar and other times he couldn’t even go at Rock’s cabin, but did anything ever really end? No—so every few months they went northwest, deep into game forest, and practiced destroying whatever needed it next.
One Year Later
“Pomodoro Team, move out!” Leo threw two loaded bags on the roofless back seat of his new Bronco.
Beryl was already in shotgun, map in her lap. “Come on!”
Zion and Rock ran out the pizza shop’s back door with their mission gear and hopped in. Leo had already flipped the sign to closed and locked the front door. Now he pulled out with no squeal, the suspension ready to scramble offroad to the next target.
The team covered ten miles in silence. Leo turned onto a road along the Delaware that had been underwater until only a few weeks ago. There were always holdouts hiding in woods or caves or swamps.
“Coming up,” Beryl said.
The road wove into an abandoned section of steel mill. Leo parked behind a decommissioned freight train and pulled the bags from the open back.
“Drones are on the other side,” Beryl said. “We stick to the tracks, then drop these behind them.”
“I’ll monitor their communication from here,” Zion said, opening his laptop on the back seat. Beryl nodded.
Rock led the way, Leo behind him, Beryl in back. Ahead, a frog-green tent with a meeting in progress. Drop it and make it disappear.
They planted their bags, turned, and dodged from the tent team’s view.
“Hold up right there,” a voice called.
The three of them froze but kept their breathing slow.
“Pretend we’re delivering pizza,” Beryl whispered.
Slowly, the three turned, palms out. The commander was straight ahead, already outside the tent.
“Here’s your tip,” she said. “We’re about to start the festivities. Sure you don’t want to stay?”
“We have lots of deliveries tonight,” Beryl said.
“You might find it inspiring.”
“Best if we get back to work,” Leo said.
“We can’t take no for an answer,” the commander said. By now, her officers surrounded them. They even had Zion from the Bronco. “Follow me.”
They followed her into the tent, to a sharply pointed something under a cover in the center. “I mean, we can take no for an answer, but then we have to—” The commander pulled the cover off and revealed a steel sculpture of the Delaware River smashing the dam, flowing freedom back to the world. No names, no faces, only stars.
Dad and Mom, and Drony and Cyro, and our scars, and so many others—
“—we have to hope you see it in the news and make a visit.” A soldier stepped up with an open box of the pizza they’d delivered; the commander grabbed a slice and took a bite. “I know it’s work every day. We understand you don’t have an hour to sit here. But I wanted to show you our tribute to unknown heroes. As part of your tip.”
“We appreciate it,” Leo said. “Really—thank you. Those are true delivery experts.”
“Heard the story,” Beryl said. “It helps with our daily motivation, for sure.”
“Indeed,” Zion said. “An upgrade to the finicky thought system.”
“Inspiration extraordinaire,” Rock said.
“But we better get back,” Leo said. Before we cry for who we lost and what we won.
# # #
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Support
The International Paruresis Association (IPA)
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Flowtastic Forces © 2023 is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International (CC BY-NC-SA 4.0). To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book cannot and does not contain legal advice nor medical advice. Resource information is provided for general informational and educational purposes only and is not a substitute for professional advice.
