Jeremy took a deep, painful breath. “I don’t know any launch codes. Please, just let me go. I won’t press charges. I swear, I just—”
Calista rolled her eyes. “Derek, maybe he’s telling the truth.”
“Dear, perhaps you’d like to watch some TV. Leave the two of us alone.”
“Whatever.” She left for the other room of the suite.
Condescension. No, she wasn’t stupid. And feeling talked down to was not something she liked.
Yeah, sometimes Derek was sweet to her, but sometimes, like right now, she didn’t like the way he talked to her.
Not at all.
“Try the walkie-talkies,” I tell Xavier.
He goes through the channels and can’t find any signal from another unit. “Strike one. Let me check the cells.”
He pulls them out while I drive. “Looks like we have a couple of bars out here. Surprises me a little — we’re in the middle of nowhere. Not great for conversations, but we should be able to text. I’ll give it a provisional strike two.”
Eventually, we come to a small parking area and a sign prohibiting photography. The road continues to the west. There’s no gate, but there is another prominent sign, this one warning that deadly force can be used on anyone caught on the property.
“That’s gotta count as strike three,” I say.
“Don’t worry, they don’t usually shoot people. They just detain you and then turn you over to the sheriff’s department for trespassing.”
“And you know this from firsthand experience?”
“Yeah, a couple of them. But I only had to spend a few nights in jail. Nothing serious.”
“Ah. But they could shoot us.”
“Theoretically.”
“The sign doesn’t say anything about theoretical deadly force.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone actually getting shot.”
“Have you ever heard of someone impersonating Cammo dudes and driving all the way to the research area of the base?”
He hesitates. “Not recently.”
“Remind me once again why we’re here?”
“To find out why Emilio was murdered. And to find out who was ultimately behind it.”
I let the truck idle and consider what Charlene told me, the look in her eyes when I mentioned that I hadn’t thought of her before leaping off the cliff in the Philippines.
Finally, Xav breaks the silence. “We could turn back.”
“Yes, we could.”
“If we drive any farther we’ll officially be in deep — well, I think you probably know — if we get caught.”
“You mean when,” I say. “You don’t think we’re actually going to be able to pull this off without getting caught, do you?”
“Well, we can at least hope we will — get caught, that is.”
“You’re hoping we’ll get caught?”
“Yeah. Instead of shot.”
“Oh.”
“Theoretically.”
“Right.”
I look at him. “We still have eight miles to go?”
“It’s a couple more miles from there to where we’re supposed to be meeting Fred. But yeah, eight miles to the front gate.”
“You mean to the security guards at the front gate. The ones authorized to use deadly force on trespassers.”
“Pretty much. Remember last night when Fred said that the codes looked legit?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s hope he was right.”
For a long moment neither of us speaks.
Then I pull forward off the public land onto the outer fringes of Area 51.
Part VII
Secrets
We arrive at the first security checkpoint at 5:21 p.m.
Six minutes late.
Fionna had warned us to make sure we were here by 5:15 and I’d assured her that we would be, but the drive along the dirt road had taken longer than either Xavier or I anticipated.
Now, I wonder if our little venture into Area 51 is going to be cut short before it has a chance to really begin.
We have the wrong-year vehicle.
The truck has Charlene’s plates.
And it’s brand-new.
However, thankfully, after driving along the dust-covered road, the vehicle doesn’t look new at all but rather like it’s already seen better days.
Parked beside the guard shack are two white pickups similar to the one I’m driving. The one closest to us has two men in the front seat, and when they see us drive up, they take off in the direction we just came from, obviously confident we’re their shift change replacements.
Two more Cammo dudes are standing guard by the other truck. I wave to them as if I know them, hoping it’ll be enough to get us through, but it’s not.
One of the guys steps in front of our truck and holds up a hand, palm facing us: Stop.
The other man studies us coolly from the side of the road.
I brake and let the engine idle.
The guard has a semiautomatic machine gun slung across his shoulder. He approaches my door, and when I roll down my window he asks us for our paperwork.
I hand him the papers Fionna printed out for us at my house.
He stares at the top page, then at us. “Gonzalez and McIntyre?”
“Sí.” Xavier goes for a Spanish accent but he sounds about as Hispanic as Arnold Schwarzenegger does.
“And you’re McIntyre?” the guy asks me.
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” He studies my face, then eyes Xavier. “You two new?”
“We’ve been working on the other side of the base,” Xavier explains with his distinctive accent. “First shift over here.”
“So you guys know Redmond, then?”
I try to read his expression, his inflection, try to tell if he’s testing us or not. He might just be making up the name to see if we’re legit or not.
He waits.
“Redmond.” Xavier shakes his head and says cryptically, “I shoulda known.”
“So you do know her?”
“We worked on the other side of the base.” Xavier manages to make it sound like a subtle rebuke. “What do you think?”
It looks like the guy’s not quite sure how to take that. He glances at his watch. “You know how they can be when we don’t show up on time.”
“Don’t we ever,” I agree.
“Why didn’t you radio in?”
I show him one of our walkie-talkies and then toss it to the floor. “Broken.”
“That’s not even the right model.”
“No kidding,” I grumble.
Again he looks a little unsure how to respond. “Hang on a sec. Let me call in the plates.”
“It’s a new truck,” I explain. “They told me to use my personal plates until they could issue the official ones.”
Without giving any indication of what he thinks of that, he leaves for the guard shack.
“Well,” Xavier says softly, “let’s see if Fionna’s friend came through for us.”
“Do you think the guy was just testing us with the whole Redmond deal?”
“Hard to say.”
We wait.
Maybe he isn’t calling in the plates. Maybe he’s calling in for backup.
At last the Cammo dude stops tapping at the keyboard and approaches us again.
Alright.
Here we go.
He walks up to my window without saying a word, then hands the papers back to me. “Have a good one out there. Watch out for UFO nuts.”
“We will,” Xavier says.
“There are a lot of weirdos out there.”
“Yes, there are.” His accent is getting worse each time he speaks. Reminds me of Kevin Costner in his Robin Hood movie.
Before the guy has a chance to change his mind, I pull forward. “And Fionna comes through again.”