Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) (10 page)

“No.”

“Rob, have your loyalties to SIFTR been compromised in any way?”

“No.”

“That’s enough,” Baltimore said, stepping back into the light. “We’re under a bit of a time crunch here. He’s clean.”

A moment later Bridgett emerged. “Um … I have more questions. Some of the readings are …”

Perhaps she detected my uneasiness about divulging my mind-reading capabilities. Baltimore shook his head. “Next time. If you tell me he’s answered honestly, we need to move on.”

“He answered honestly. I detected no deception taking place.”

Baltimore stepped over to the door. “Meet us in lab conference room 5.”

* * *

Less than ten minutes later, Bridgett Bigalow, again carrying the same stack of clothes, entered lab conference room 5. She placed the stack on the glass table and sat down across from Baltimore and me.

“Okay, here are the clothes you’ll be wearing at the ranch. We were in a bit of a rush, but everything has been triple-checked.” Bridgett took the first clothing items from the top of the pile, placing five folded plaid shirts before me. Each was obviously Western-style wear, having pearly-white, snap-type buttons down the front, as well as on the collars. “Cowboy garb?”

“Yeah. Now listen … you’ll need to wear one of these five shirts at all times. It’s the only way we’ll be able to track your location. Now pay attention: sewn into the sleeve snap buttons, one on each sleeve, are alternating, high-frequency signal generators—unlikely to be detected by anyone but us. We’ll be able to track your GPS position anywhere on the planet—even nine thousand feet up, in the high mountains of Colorado. As a safety measure the trackers are activated only when snaps are snapped closed. If someone comes near you with a wand … checks you for electronics, unsnap your cuffs … just to be safe.” Bridgett then pointed to the two collar snaps. “These work the opposite way. Unsnap both top collar buttons and a distress signal is immediately generated. It’s your way of telling us to send in the cavalry.”

Baltimore added, “Be damn certain you’re ready for that, because it will be the end of the mission.”

“Uh huh,” I mumbled. I noticed the brown holster and pearl-handled six-shooter, previously hidden by the shirts, now lying exposed at the top of the stack in front of Bridget.

“This is a very special weapon—a Colt, single action .45 Army … sometimes referred to as the Peacemaker.”

“Wait … just stop for a minute!”

Both Bridget and Baltimore looked over at me.

“What the hell is this stuff? What’s going on here?”

The corners of Baltimore’s mouth turned up. “Let me back-step a bit. That tidbit of information you dropped on me earlier—the name Rudy Palmolive—well, it changes everything. Knowing now the name of one of the Council members is a monumental game changer. What’s more, we suspect he’s the newest member—undoubtedly criminally-connected—who could even be seated at the head of the table.”

“Okay, so what’s with all this Roy Rogers shit?”

Bridgett laughed and Baltimore rolled his eyes. “This is serious, Chandler. Serious as a heart attack, so you need to dial-back the smart-ass attitude.”

I didn’t think I was being particularly smart-ass, but I nodded my assent just the same.

“Rudy Palmolive is one of the wealthiest people in the world. He’s also dying. Terminal something or other.”

“Knowing that, he still joined this Council of Five?”

“Yes, he’s got a few years left; more, if he stops smoking. Anyway, in addition to whatever he’s doing as part of the Council, he’s now living life to the fullest.”

“Livin’ la vida loca!” Bridgett added with enthusiasm.

“Given what time he has left, he’s become a devout family man. He’ll go to any length for his wife and two young sons—young boys, who live and breathe the Old West … cowboys and Indians. Your Roy Rogers remark, actually, was not far off the mark. They’ll be vacationing for the week at a billionaire’s dude ranch. Everything there is totally authentic—down to the clothes you’ll wear, the trained ranch horses you’ll ride, to the O.K. Corral shootouts.”

“It’s a vacation destination?”

“Our intel is limited. We suspect there are some family-friendly aspects to this place, as well as a sectioned-off area not intended for wives and kiddies. There’s something in the works here … something big. The Order is in a monumental growth phase. There are indications that this place maybe some kind of proving ground … perhaps a way to vet new members.” Baltimore patted the butt of the six-shooter, nestled now into his holster. “Of course, the family living quarters are far beyond luxurious. This is a dude ranch on a whole different scale. Getting you an invitation was difficult; also cost the agency five million dollars.”

“So what’s the plan? What will I be doing?”

“Your mission is to get close to Palmolive: befriend him, and from there, glean whatever information you can from him. I understand he has a weakness for aged Scottish whiskey. Once you’ve determined you’ve gotten all you can then … end him.”

“The dude ranch opens for business in three days,” Baltimore said, getting to his feet. He fetched the holstered six-shooter off the table and secured the belt around his hips. He wore the pistol low, on his right side—to me, he looked fairly badass.

“We’ll need every bit of that time to get you into shape.”

“Into shape?”

Baltimore drew the pistol, twirled it twice around on his index finger, then returned it to his holster so fast my eyes barely registered the movement.

Bridgett gleefully clapped her hands. “I’ve been waiting to see this.”

Baltimore drew the pistol again, this time pulling the trigger, then returned the unloaded gun into his holster in less than a second. He looked at me. “You have three days to get better at this than I am.”

I scoffed. “You’re dreaming. There’s no way—”

Baltimore cut me off, in no mood for an argument. “You will, if you want to get Pippa back in one piece.” He undid the buckle on his belt and placed the re-holstered gun down on the table. “Two weeks ago I couldn’t do any of this. We have somebody in-house here who will be working with you. He’s a bit rough around the edges, but you’ll get used to him,” Baltimore ended, sitting back down.

“Why? I mean isn’t the place just a dude ranch … a vacation place?”

“Again, I’m not sure how the place is configured. There will be numerous others staying there, as many as one hundred, or more: Vacationing families, ranch help, and Palmolive’s security people. From what I understand, his people will keep out of sight, mostly blending in with the existing ranch personnel. Anyway, you’ll have very little time to make an impression on Palmolive—so it has to be something out of the ordinary. We figure your Wild Bill Hickok skills will be a good start. Remember, he and his kids are Wild West fanatics. You’ll also be disguised as a prominent multi-millionaire—a corporate tycoon named Troy McAlister.”

“Why does that name sound familiar to me?” I asked.

“Because he’s been on the covers of Inc., Fast Company, and Forbes this past year. He’s the Elon Musk of personal transportation devices. Think the Segway, on steroids. You’ll be briefed on all that as well.”

Bridgett got up and left the conference room.

I changed subjects: “What’s the latest on Pippa? Do we know where she is?”

“We know that she was in New York.” Baltimore then said, “Look, she is a trained operative. The truth is, she’s exactly where we want her to be, as difficult as that may be to hear. She’ll find a way to contact us and convey needed intel. Something’s happening, Chandler … something very big. I’ve heard the word
cataclysmic
batted about in the field. Whatever the Order is planning, we need to get in front of it. The best way to do that is to let Pippa do her job and for you to get chummy with Palmolive. Now can we get back to your mission?”

I nodded.

“The real Troy McAlister has been briefed and is actually on vacation in South America, at an undisclosed location. You’ll be made up to look like him, using the same cosmetic procedures we used for the Baden-Baden mission.”

As if on cue, Bridgett stuck her head in the door. “Is he ready for me?” She held up a glass beaker, half-filled with a clear liquid, and smiled at me. “Time for me to change the color of your hair—all over.”

* * *

Over the next three hours, my brown hair was dyed a dirty-blond color—thanks to Bridgett’s magic liquid. My features were altered, too, through a series of precise facial injections—enough for me to closely resemble the real Troy McAlister. Baltimore gave me a glossy, multi-page brochure to look over, describing Morning Hawk Ranch. Other than indicating the ranch resided at a high elevation—somewhere in the Colorado Rockies—no specific location was provided. I had to admit, the dude ranch looked like a lot of fun. Something about it reminded me of the old Yul Brynner movie
Westworld
.

Baltimore found me waiting in one of Bridgett’s lab compartments. I remarked, “This is an experiential, family-type environment. I’ll stick out like a sore thumb, going in there on my own.”

“You’re not going in alone. Carmen is going with you … as your wife.”

“Carmen?”

Baltimore used the conference room intercom to page her. Less than a minute later, a husky woman, with round, rosy cheeks entered the conference room. I’d seen Carmen before—though her face looked different.

“Seriously? She’s not a trained field agent. It’s far too dangerous.”

“Look around, Chandler … it’s slim pickings around here. Remember, SIFTR is virtually in lockdown. Anyway, she’s been made up to look like Loretta McAlister; she’ll be fine.”

“See, you didn’t even recognize me,” Carmen said, her hands on her ample hips.

“Uh huh. Well, okay,” I said, taking in her poofed-up chignon—reminiscent of hairstyles back in the sixties.

“I know, I look like a chubby Tammy Wynette.”

* * *

I’d stayed at SIFTR in the past, on another level, where the dorms are located. Although not optimal, tapping in was not a monumental issue. AC wall outlets provided both 110 and 220 volts—all over the facility—even in the dorm. I did have to carefully pick and choose the proper time to sit on the floor, my head resting against the wall, to avoid being noticed. So far, I’d always managed to schedule it just fine.

True to Baltimore’s word, my six-shooter coach was indeed a bit rough around the edges, and he looked ancient. His long white beard and old overalls made him look more like Elmer Fudd than Billy the Kid, but he knew old-West quick-draw routines like no one I’d ever come across. For three days, I worked with Howard Pleck, starting with the basics. In no time at all, I was pulling my holstered pistol as quickly as Baltimore had done. A quarter of our time was spent at the SIFTR indoor range. I found it one thing to simply draw fast, like a gunslinger, but it was altogether different to also actually hit what I was shooting at. Already a pretty good shot, I soon mastered that aspect as well. I was ready—as prepared as I was going to get in the brief timeframe of three days.

I had to give the people at Morning Hawk Ranch their proper due—for providing us as realistic a means of transportation to the ranch as possible. After an hour on the old dirt road, and a driver intent on rolling both into and over each and every pothole, my sore ass could attest to its true authenticity, derived from traveling on a one hundred-and-fifty-year-old stagecoach.

The two wooden bench seats sat across from one another—each was wide enough to sit three adults. Our coach had four adults and three young’uns
.
Carmen sat directly across from me; Mr. and Mrs. Jacobson sat next to Carmen; while their three kids, ranging in years from about five to ten, sat next to me—sometimes on me.

Keeping to their promise of high-security all the way, Carmen and I earlier flew, via a private jet, to an unlisted private airport somewhere in Colorado’s mountains. Once we landed, we were scanned for electronic devices. Our watches and jewelry, once removed, were placed into secured lockers. I’d already opened the appropriate snaps on my Western shirt … just in case, ensuring there wouldn’t be the slightest chance of any signals being generated or detected.

Our luggage was not only scanned, but also unpacked and inspected. Obviously, the airport’s personnel were going to great lengths to ensure that the anonymity of the ranch’s actual location stayed hidden. At the small, nondescript airport I also got my first look at some of the others we’d be spending the next few days with.

“So … where did you two come in from?” asked the woman, sitting beside Carmen. The same woman who’d yet to tell her three bundles of joy to settle down and shut up.

“Freeport, Maine,” Carmen replied cordially. “It’s a pretty town … most people haven’t ever heard of it.”

The husband, who looked even more uncomfortable than me, scowled, “I’ve heard of it. Freeze your balls off there in the wintertime.”

The wife backhanded her husband’s kneecap. “I’ve told you, you need to watch your language around the kids, Fred.”

We’d done the introduction thing earlier, at the get-go of our long trek up the mountain. They were Fred and Alice Jacobson. She was mid-forties and tired-looking; he was pot-bellied, about the same age, and had a bad comb-over.

I asked, “First time at the ranch?” I’d thrown in something of a Western drawl, which surprised even me.

Fred’s scowl returned. “Of course, it’s our first time here. This is opening weekend for the ranch.”

“But the brochure, the pictures of the happy families …”

“All marketing bullshit.”

Again came the slap to his kneecap.

Carmen added, “Well, it should be loads of fun just the same, don’t you think?”

Neither Fred nor Alice had the chance to answer as the coach came to an abrupt stop. Someone outside yelled, “Welcome to Guffy … ten-minute stop. Best you take advantage of it.”