A high-pitched horn squeaked somewhere in front of Desmond’s modest three-bedroom home, and office. Neep-neep-neeeeeep! The horn sounded closer, outside his front door, and he heard an engine rev, a rumbling motorcycle engine. Opening his front door, Desmond found himself confronted by a black street bike on his porch. The driver wore black riding gear to match.
“What the hell are you doing?” Desmond shouted over the obnoxious purr from the engine.
“Let’s go,” a muffled voice hollered through the helmet.
Desmond noted a second helmet behind the driver, Jimmy, whom he had first met years earlier at the Air Force Academy. Jimmy the Pimp they called him. It seemed he was always juggling a handful of ladies, even at school in Colorado Springs, a masculine military town starving for women.
With Desmond on the back of the bike, Jimmy throttled through flat, grid-patterned streets, zig-zagging across the San Fernando Valley to Coldwater Canyon where he gunned the bike up the winding road into the hills. He turned west onto Mulholland Drive and followed the snaking mountaintop road until the houses were fewer and farther between. Ignoring a no trespassing sign, he turned onto a dirt road and followed it up a storm-damaged driveway to a vacant lot. They could see for miles — nothing but coastal sage, remote canyons and distant hilltop houses.
Desmond hopped off the bike and removed his helmet. Jimmy kept his on, lifting the face shield enough so he could be heard without exposing his face. Noticing Jimmy had removed the bike’s license plates, Desmond sensed trouble.
“That woman you were dealing with last month,” Jimmy said. “Did you tell her how to sneak on the base?”
“The sexy one?” Desmond knew who Jimmy meant. He would never forget the drunken sexual escapade he had with the salacious Asian beauty, but downplayed his memory of her.
“Yeah. The one who gave you a bogus name, and we told you to stay away from.” Jimmy raised his voice and repeated his question, “Did you tell her how to sneak on the base?”
“I didn’t tell her anything specific. We were joking around, having a few drinks, talking hypothetically.” Desmond shrugged it off like it meant nothing.
“You know better than to think with your dick.”
“That means a lot coming from you, Jimmy the Pimp.”
“I’m married now. And when I did sleep with a lot of women, I didn’t talk to them.” Frustrated, Jimmy hopped off the bike, his temper nearing a boil, and stood in Desmond’s face. “Rumor has it she is Chinese Intelligence. They caught her in Papoose Valley.”
“Ah, crap.” Desmond’s encounter with the woman changed from a sexual conquest to a dilemma.
“If she talked, you can bet that microscope up your ass is going to get shoved deeper. I’m surprised the spooks haven’t talked to you already. Or maybe they have.”
“I wouldn’t jeopardize you guys like that.”
“You already did. And we’re afraid to keep you involved.”
“I’ve invested too much time to stop now. Don’t let them cut me out. I’ve got a new lead. Just give me a little time.”
“It’s not my decision.”
“At least tell them to work on this next lead with me. I’ve got a good feeling about it.”
“What’ve you got?”
Desmond had never intended to deplete his shoestring budget by sending Blake a FedEx letter as he had promised on the phone. He needed an excuse to get his address so he would have an easier time obtaining preliminary information about him. He handed Jimmy the results.
“This is just some dope in college.”
“He’s no dope, and he came to me with the attached document.”
Jimmy glanced at the memo. “I’ve seen fakes like this before. Where’s the second page?”
“He’s not ready to show it. He might be young, but that’s why I believe him. He doesn’t seem to know what it is. He was researching anti-gravity and somehow came across it.”
Jimmy remained critical. “This could be a spook setup.”
“I don’t think so, Jimmy. I got a good feeling talking to him. I’ll tell you what — I’ll check this out myself. If I discover anything, I’ll let you know.”
“You do that,” Jimmy ordered. “Stay away from us for a while.”
CHAPTER 21
Damien Owens waited patiently near a ticket counter at Vegas’ McCarren Airport. Pedestrian traffic was light since it was Wednesday and hoards of weekend tourists had already left or hadn’t arrived. Kayla entered the terminal in a crisp black business suit with a carry-on bag in hand and quickly spied Owens standing stout in similar attire. He glanced at his watch as she neared.
“I know, I know,” she said, acknowledging her tardiness. “I was finishing the bank reconciliations. Ten accounts is quite a bit to reconcile,” she said trying to distract him from reprimanding her.
“We have over fifty financial accounts at our disposal worldwide, all linked to independent corporate structures. Reconciling ten accounts will be trivial come tax season. So you better streamline your routine because you’ll only get busier as you learn more about what we do.” He handed her a plane ticket to Los Angeles, “Make sure you brought the proper ID to match the name on the ticket.”
Kayla’s late arrival at the airport became a moot point as the flight was delayed an hour and they found themselves with a small group of travelers sharing their predicament on the less-than-full flight. Owens still chose to sit one gate over as they waited because it was not being used and they could talk in private.
“All those bank accounts and corporate structures we use,” Kayla commented, “at what point do our actions become subversive?”
“Hopefully from the beginning. Subversion is our modus operandi. Right, wrong, good or bad, the ends always justify the means in our duties.” Owens retrieved his small gray rock from a coat pocket and handed it to Kayla. “Do you know what this is?”
“You’ve told me — your good luck charm.”
“Yes, but do you know what it is?”
“A rock?”
“It’s a moon rock.”
Kayla studied the small rock in her hand, feeling the edges in an attempt to discern a noticeable difference from any other rock she had touched. “I don’t imagine a moon rock is easy to come by.”
“How I acquired it is a complicated story in itself. Why it was acquired is even more critical. It wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing if American citizens knew the hows and whys behind that rock, but any disclosure would ultimately enlighten other countries — we can’t have that right now. Being subversive is the best way we know to keep the secrets.”
CHAPTER 22
Tired from crunching the new facts, figures and possibilities that Professor Eldred had introduced to his life, Blake flopped on his sofa — he and Trevor had two long sofas crammed into their living room to prevent arguments over who got to stretch out in front of the television — and gave his mind a rest. Closing his eyes for a catnap, however, did little to slow the traffic flow of information in his head. He began considering what kind of government officials might fret over the professor’s research. Did a subversive government truly exist? If so, might they question his involvement? Who the hell has such a right? he wondered. The thought heated his blood. Government officials weren’t Holy. They were no better than Blake; he was the better person. He worked hard, obeyed the laws and respected others’ rights. Never had he thought of himself as the rebellious type, but he would fight any government official who unjustly challenged him.