The trick was learning to land in a way that transferred momentum through your body and into the ground rather than your organs or bones. This was accomplished by funneling the kinetic energy through a pendulum-like leg swing that planted your heels and stopped your slide.
The reason the Black Hats spent three weeks teaching wasn’t to put the right moves in paratroopers’ minds; it was to meld them into their muscles. To make them automatic. To train their student soldiers to reflexively tense and twist and adjust just right whenever and wherever they “hit the wind.”
I’d passed then, and apparently I’d passed now.
I did not recall making those moves after my motorcycle hit the guardrail. I did not remember properly positioning myself for each of the five prescribed points of contact. But clearly, my conditioning had kicked in. The evidence was obvious and undeniable.
With a deep sense of relief and a satisfying exhale, I began a thorough self-assessment. No cranial contusions. No issues with my neck or shoulders. My hands and arms felt fine. Things got more complicated below the belt. My right knee ached like a mule had kicked it, and my left ankle seemed severely swollen. No doubt the boulder that had ultimately stopped my slide had taken those tolls, but I wasn’t about to bicker over the price.
I looked toward the bent guardrail some forty or fifty feet above. I didn’t see the Harley. It must have gone over as well. I looked back down the canyon. It was deep and remote. “You are one lucky soldier.”
Studying the canyon floor to the extent the foliage permitted, I thought I caught the glint of sunlight off an orange reflector. Then the lighting itself caught my attention. The source wasn’t the afternoon sun. The sun had just cleared the cliffs.
The required calculation wasn’t complicated, but given the rattled state of my brain, I eased my cellphone from the breast pocket of my leather jacket. Fortunately, it recognized my face and rewarded me with both time and date. I had lain unconscious for about twenty hours. Through the afternoon, evening, and night. The morning sunlight was likely what had roused me. That and my bladder.
After rolling sideways for a bit of relief, I pressed a button on my phone. “Siri, what’s my location?”
“Your location cannot be determined.”
Of course not. “What’s the nearest road?”
“The nearest road is Deer Creek Road.”
I dialed 911 and spoke as soon as the call connected. “I’ve been in a motorcycle accident. I need an ambulance.”
“Are you injured?”
“Yes. I need an ambulance. I’m a mile or two from PCH up Deer Creek Road.”
While waiting for help to arrive, I tried calling Lars again. Still no answer.
After a few minutes of spinning my mental wheels on the mysterious implications, my thoughts turned to the bike. With it totaled, the rental company would hit my credit card for ten grand while my insurance company determined the best way to deny reimbursement. That was going to put a serious crimp in my available cash. Cash I might now need for medical bills.
The ambulance and fire truck took forty-eight minutes to reach my location. I could hear the sweet siren coming from a mile away. Then they called and we played warmer/colder until a paramedic spotted me.
Extracting me put another forty-two minutes on the clock. The cliff was steep, and the firefighters didn’t rush once they surmised that my injuries weren’t life threatening.
X-rays gave me the good news an hour after that. Nothing broken. Just some soft tissue damage. A set of shots, a couple of soft casts, and a pair of ice packs later I found myself in a taxi, headed for the nearest cheap hotel.
I was surprised that the police hadn’t confronted me, either at the accident scene or the hospital. Apparently, if no serious injuries or third parties were involved, they couldn’t be bothered.
That was fine with me.
I’d been happy to accept assistance from the firemen and ambulance, because there was nothing to lose and everything to gain, not the least of which was a ride back to civilization. But I wasn’t about to delegate the law enforcement part of the Lars investigation. That would be an exercise in bureaucratic futility. It would waste time, grate nerves, and go nowhere.
Fortunately, I knew where to start the search.
I hadn’t seen the license plate of the skulking SUV, but I had caught a glimpse of the driver. It was my second sighting in as many weeks. The first time I’d seen those chiseled cheekbones had been the last time I’d seen Lars—three thousand miles east of Venice Beach.
17
Bad Day Dawning
LISA AWOKE TO A SENSE OF SATISFACTION and the sound of crows. She had done it! She had gotten the go-ahead to pursue her dream. Sure, it had required some backstage maneuvering and more than a mouthful of guile, but those were the tools it took to make it in Washington. Best to hone them here, on more familiar turf, among friends.
Upon reflection, the meeting itself had been a bit anticlimactic. Immediately prior to the vote, the tension had been taut enough to tune a piano. But afterward, the objections had evaporated faster than margarita ice in the Florida sun. In the aftermath, she had expected David to try talking them around with his trademark logic. How many times had she seen him obliterate opposing views with his unrelenting Socratic wit? But he’d shrugged it off. Apparently Eric’s death and Allison’s turnabout had taken the fight out of him. Or maybe he was just evolving.
With David’s dukes down, Ries had lowered his guard. That left Felix as the lone defender of the old way. Being a paragon of practicality, he swiftly surrendered as well. Aria, of course, went along. She wasn’t one to make waves.
No doubt the wine had helped.
Lisa had broken out the best bottles in her cellar. Nothing under a thousand dollars.
She lay still for a minute, staring at the bedroom ceiling, reflecting on where she’d been and contemplating where she had yet to go. The Senate move had been a long time coming. She and Pierce had been discussing it for years. Plotting and preparing, then finally executing.
The external obstacles were the easy ones. Introductions, advice, and endorsements could all be purchased for the right price. Manipulating their fellow Immortals, however, had called for cunning.
The biggest challenge had been getting them to vote for replacing real people rather than assuming false identities. Pierce had steered that situation with subterfuge. He had paid consultants to emphasize and exaggerate the government crackdown on false identities, by tying it to the war on terror.
Once Lisa and Pierce had set themselves up with suitable backgrounds, the challenge was getting permission from their fellow Immortals to run. Uncovering Allison’s passion had been the key to that. Paying an agent and casting director to show encouraging interest had sealed the deal. Again, good practice for national-level politics.
Lying there the morning after on her silky sheets, Lisa could admit that the real reason for her Senate run was that she wanted the challenge. She craved the purpose, passion, and power of achieving and holding high office.
The others hadn’t felt that pull yet, but they’d be planning their own conquests well before the next twenty-year replacement came around. It was a golden opportunity. Irresistible. The ability to literally step into another person’s shoes—and then run with the energy of eternal youth, backed by all the money in the world.
Whoever said you couldn’t buy happiness clearly didn’t have a billion bucks in the bank. With that kind of cash, one could enjoy an unbelievably lavish lifestyle on the interest alone. She was plenty happy all right, just not content.