Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) (12 page)

“Mrs. Gulliver.”

“Mr. Brighton,” she answered back, with a slight nod of her head.

They both watched as the third person, Leon Goertz, tan—far too energetic-looking for such an ungodly time of early morning—joined them at the table.

“Mrs. Gulliver, Mr. Brighton,” Goertz said.

Brighton gave a perfunctory nod and Anne Gulliver said, “Good morning, Mr. Goertz.” She waited for Leon to get seated before asking, “And where is Mrs. Goertz? We were expecting both of you.”

Leon shifted in his chair, maintaining a casual smile. “I’m sure it’s simply a matter of a traffic snarl in New York City, or perhaps she missed her wakeup call at—”

Anne Gulliver interrupted his speculations. “You’re not in touch with her? You haven’t spoken to her? She’s your damn wife, Leon!” Two men, both in suits, entered the ultra-modern conference room and made their way to seats at their table.

Leon, who’d rehearsed the same general conversation with himself several times on his way over, knew the importance of keeping his cool—of maintaining a professional demeanor. The truth was, he had no idea where his fucking wife was. Granted, they lived more or less autonomously these days, but it was highly unlike her to pull something like this. Hell, for years this was what they’d worked toward; this was the golden ring! There was no greater honor than to be a part of something so monumental … so impactful … so powerful. The Council of Five, soon to become the Council of Seven, was the culmination of both his and Heidi’s life work: seats, literally, at the BIG table.

Leon looked back at the Council of Five, minus one. Their newly appointed leader, Rudy Palmolive, was also absent—taking some kind of personal time off. The little asshole, supposedly, was on the fast track to the Pearly Gates. Why they’d elected that little weasel as the head council member, when he only had two or three years left on his ticket, eluded Leon.
I’d have been a
far better choice
, he mused. Then again, every pitcher on the mound has another pitcher warming up in the bullpen. Inwardly, Leon thought it interesting that he’d used a truly American sports analogy, when he was from the Fatherland …
Germany
. Had he been in the States so overly long that he’d lost touch with his first true allegiance?

“Mr. Goertz, I’m speaking to you,” Anne Gulliver said.

“Yes, of course, we keep in constant communication. These are busy times and I’m positive Heidi will be here momentarily.”

The two most recent arrivals joining the meeting looked over at Leon with disdain. He gave them both a confident nod. “Mr. Berg … Mr. Chang …”

Anne continued, “I have Mr. Palmolive’s endorsement to begin these proceedings. Do you have any idea to what lengths we’ve gone to bring the four of us together? From Europe, parts of the U.S., and the Far East?” Her eyes flashed over to Mr. Chang. “Why don’t you try her on her cell phone—” she said, cutting herself short.

Leon gave a half-hearted nod—one that said,
well, that’s a problem now, isn’t it?
At present, they were two hundred and eighty-five feet below ground. No cell phone on Earth could receive a signal down here. It was the most secret, most protected, location on Earth. Leon gave the hexagonal conference room a quick glance. It was beautiful, with its granite-like walls and high ceilings. Just sitting there, he felt the impregnability of the place. Most people surmised Washington, D.C. to be the hub of power for the free world, but they were wrong. Purposely misled. Here, hundreds of feet below ground, below DIA—Denver International Airport—was where everything, the ultimate world order, would stem from. He’d heard the nutty rumors; watched many
conspiracy theory
YouTube videos with skepticism. But, in this case, the conspiracy was an actually true fact. A multi-billion-dollar below-ground facility did exist beneath DIA. Skyscrapers built below ground: a new city that could survive a mass uprising or even the next world war. And there were clues to be seen—elaborate, wall-sized murals were strategically placed throughout the airport up above: Bizarre, out-of-place renderings of an Armageddon-like world. Leon contemptuously thought of the thousands of travelers who passed by them daily unaware—another indication of the masses’ cluelessness.

“The President of the United States is in transit: Air Force One’s ETA, to land at DIA, is an hour from now. He’s been granted access to this room so he can meet with other Order, mid-level, members. I suppose we can break now …” Anne Gulliver looked at her watch. “We can convene back at 2:00.” She looked at Leon with disdain. “Don’t make us regret the trust we’ve placed in you, Mr. Goertz. The most significant event in history is imminent—mankind’s evolution—away from warring egos and religious-based conflict. It’s all about to end—one nation under God becomes, instead, One World under God. Do you want to be a part of that, Mr. Goertz?”

“I most certainly do, Mrs. Gulliver, and fellow council members. Together, we will change history.” Leon thought for a second. “Perhaps my wife is close; is there a way to communicate with her hydro-pod?”

Mr. Berg answered, “Yes, of course, but Mrs. Goertz is not in transit, at least not via her hydro-pod. It’s sitting back in New York City and that is a growing concern for us.”

It was to Leon as well. Currently, an ever-expanding network—tens of thousands of newly bored subterranean tunnels—crisscrossed the United States, as well as in Europe and the Far East. Massive amounts of military equipment were being repositioned; the same with the Order’s Armed Forces. Not so different, really, than what President Eisenhower initiated back in 1956: a 41,000 mile U.S. Interstate Highway System, making life simpler for travelers and commuters to jaunt across the country. Actually, the Interstate’s primary function would allow the Defense Department to quickly move its military assets around, in case of enemy invasion. Years later, the Order initiated the same system, but went a step further—constructing an elaborate subterranean combination of roads and hydro-passages between the country’s major cities. Above ground roads can be bombed—destroyed. What the Order successfully accomplished underground was ingenious. There was no stopping them now.

Leon briefly wondered if Heidi had taken another pod. If so, perhaps the thing was having mechanical problems? But he quickly discounted the thought, since there really wasn’t much mechanics involved. She wouldn’t be caught dead in a maintenance pod, anyway, preferring to take her private jet.

“I’m sure Mrs. Goertz will be here by two and we can continue. Thank you for your patience,” Leon said, looking at each member with the most confident expression he could muster.

Anne Gulliver held back as the others hurried from the room. “Hold on, Leon.”

She waited until she heard all the doors close in the distance. “Is there a problem? If so, tell me now, don’t wait till we reconvene. The others will be far less tolerant. You’re not a member yet. You don’t have the protection that comes with being a full member.” Stooping, she picked up her leather satchel by her feet then clutched it to her. “In just a matter of days, the order to attack will come from Palmolive. You and your wife do not want to be loose ends. Clear her absence up today, or face the wrath of the council.” She strode away without waiting for Leon to answer.

He heard the door swing closed behind her. “Shit!” He pulled his cell phone from his breast pocket and looked at it, then gazed around at the surrounding granite walls. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” There had to be some way to get in touch with Heidi. He scrolled through his contact list and found Taffy’s number.
Fucking pretty boy.
He hated the man … was sure he was screwing Heidi on a daily basis. But, really, so what
—
he too was having his own indiscretions, in spades.

Leon hurried off toward the exit. He needed to get aboveground fast.

I gave Carmen a sympathetic smile. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. Between the smell from the horses, the constant dust swirling about, and the long, ever-winding dirt road we were on, she looked close to throwing up.

“We’re almost there,” I said encouragingly.

“Just stop talking.”

The sibling trio of our fellow passengers stood together at the stagecoach’s right side windows. “Look … there it is,” the oldest of the three boys said, pointing.

I wasn’t sure what to expect, as the brochure hadn’t actually shown the front of the property. It was impressive. The dirt road had given way to a graveled, circular drive that U-turned around the front entrance of the largest log and natural stone structure I’d ever seen. Perched atop a ridgeline, which offered up magnificent views of the distant mountains and the valley below, from here it was easy to find the messy little town of Guffy—a far-off clump of dark-looking structures and tired automobiles that looked more like dead ants from this distance. Perched atop the ridge line, the lodge and two smaller, ancillary, structures looked like they had been there for decades, if not longer, which I knew was not the case. In the distance was a timber gazebo. Inside, a man and woman could be seen, silhouetted against the midday sun, embracing and kissing.

Two other stagecoach rigs, horseless, rested on the property. We weren’t the first to arrive. When our coach door swung open the kids jumped out first. Fred and Alice Jacobson, both looking excited, followed behind them, leaving the two of us alone.

“Better?”

“Somewhat. Just help me get the hell out of this damn thing.”

I took Carmen’s arm and guided her to the door.

“I’ve got it from here,” she said.

The thing that struck me first was the abundance of people milling around—all dressed in Western attire. Carmen joined the Jacobsons, now being greeted by a tall, sixtyish man, wearing a black cowboy hat, a six-shooter on each hip, dark leather chaps, and well-worn boots with spurs—Western-attired the whole nine yards. I joined the huddle and nodded to the black-hatted gentleman.

“Good … so you’ve decided to join us, Mr. Holliday.”

As part of the earlier registration process, all guests were issued alternate names—mostly some name derived from a real-life, Old West character. No one was to know anyone’s legal name, the one they used in the real world. It was both a means of adding realness to the overall experience, as well as protecting the actual identities of those lodging here. Carmen and I were named the Hollidays, after the infamous Doc Holliday, I presumed, from the Wyatt Earp storied legend.

“My name is John—John Wayne, and I run this little shindig.”

It took me every ounce of willpower not to roll my eyes. “Glad to meet you, John,” I said, taking his outstretched hand. I found his grip somewhat disappointing, especially for someone calling himself John Wayne. He was of medium height and slightly built. Beneath his Stetson I spotted white hair at the temples, clear blue eyes, and two enormous ears. John said, “Did you know that Wyatt Earp in his elder years, when he lived in Los Angeles, was actually a technical advisor on a cowboy movie? One of the early talkies. He took up friendship with one of the young actors … a guy named Marion Morrison. Do you know who that was?”

I shook my head but Carmen quickly responded, “John Wayne!” probably louder than she intended.

John turned toward the crowd now amassing: “I’d like to talk about the rules and regulations. Following them will make your stay here far more enjoyable and safe.”

I was having a hard time following John’s introductory chat, due to some kind of scuffle going on between two hired hands attending to our stagecoach horses. I saw one man shove the other, and the quick reciprocal shove back. That’s all it took for an all-out fisticuffs to break out. Soon others—other ranch workers, I presumed—were also going toe to toe with each other. It was mayhem. I felt Carmen move closer to me. “Is this for real?”

I flinched my shoulders, unsure at first. I know what it looks like when someone is struck in the face with bare knuckles, as opposed to a fake, Hollywood-type punch. The punches thrown now were real time, and real blood dripped from the corners of more than one fighting man’s mouth. I probed the minds of the closest ones. There was real anger there—borderline hatred.

John Wayne moved with surprising agility for a man his age. In five strides he put himself in the middle of the ruckus, pulled one of his pistols out, and fired off two rounds into the air.

“That’s enough! What kind of impression do you think you’re making for our guests? Now get back to work. The next man throwing a punch will be spending the night behind bars.” John waited for the ranch hands to disperse before holstering his weapon and rejoining our group.

Alice Jacobson said, “Was that part of the show, Mr. Wayne?”

“No.” He looked at her as if she had three heads. “Let me make something perfectly clear here, right from the get-go: this is not Disneyland … Magic Mountain … or goddamn Knott’s Berry Farm. You people paid for authenticity. Paid an unimaginable amount of money for it. Though we take the utmost care to protect all the little ones, folks do … and will … get hurt here. You can take that to the bank, missy.”

John next turned his attention to Fred, then to me. “Now I suggest you both go get your side arms. This is not the kind of place you want to walk around unprotected.” With that said, he strode off in the direction of another arriving stagecoach.

Alice, pulling her three boys closer to her, said, “He has to be joking … right? It’s all part of the Old West atmosphere they’re trying to provide here, right?”

I gave her the best look of reassurance I could muster up. “Yes, I’m sure it’s all part of the experience, Alice.”

“Millie,” Fred said.

I looked at him.

“Our names. I’m Sam Bass, the famous train robber. She’s Millie—my wife.”

“Fine. Millie, I’m sure this is all part of the show, but I’d keep a close eye on your kids, anyway. At least, until we know the lay of the land.” My words seemed to soothe her ruffled feathers somewhat.