“Spare?” Faith asked.
“Rather take more supplies,” Steve said, tossing a case of bottled water into the back of the trailer. “The way to avoid loading the heavy on light is to move heavy first.”
“What about ammo?” Stacey asked.
“Ammo, guns, first aid, one case water, one general case mountain house in the car,” Steve said. “Bug-out bags and webbing. Hook in. We’re on short time.”
“Know it’s bad,” Faith said, grinning. “Da’s going DU, then.”
“Hooking in, Dad,” Sophia said, then paused. “Dad… Are we really, really sure?”
“No,” Steve admitted, tossing a case of rations onto the trailer. “Not until we have a confirm or I can talk to Tom in the open.”
“I don’t want all my friends to die,” Faith said softly.
“I don’t want either of you to die,” Steve said. “Which is why we’re hooking in.”
“And there’s a partial confirm,” Stacey said, walking down the stairs. “There have been three reported incidents on the West Coast. People are putting it down to drugs but it’s zombie-istic.”
“The bath salts thing again?” Faith asked. “That’s it?”
“No,” Steve said. “That’s a confirm. Tom’s message indicated that it’s already out there. Those are infected people. Presumably. We’ll get a solid confirmation later. I’m hoping that guy makes the meeting tomorrow.”
“Then you’d better get upstairs and call him,” Stacey pointed out. “He’s probably getting ready to close up shop.”
“Boat broker,” Steve pointed out. “He’s connected to his cell. But…yeah.”
CHAPTER 2
“Hem, hem…” Steve said, dialing the number. “Aggravated and harried… That’s easy enough…”
“Mr. Resto? This is Jason Ranseld again… Can I call you Felix? Absolutely, call me Jason. Felix, there’s a problem. Here’s our deal. We’re trying to close an investor and he’s into sailing. The last time I did this it was some schlub that just won a big settlement and he wanted to go out on a cigarette boat. Got him into a Fountain Lightning and it just about scared the shit out of him… Yeah, you know the type. Thing is the fricking meeting got moved up to Sunday and we don’t have a boat available on the East Coast… Yeah. So I convinced the partners to just go for the whole thing… Yeah, purchase order is in place… We’ll sell it later. Maybe to the client. Happens that way sometimes. But we’ve got to close this tomorrow so I can make sure everything’s in place for Sunday… I know it’s a snap-kick… We’re going to have to move up the meeting to either tonight or tomorrow morning… Late tonight: I’m in Richmond… Sorry about that. You want the commission or not…?”
“Yes, hello? You rent luxury cars…?”
“Found the house…”
* * *
“Jason Ranseld’s identification,” Stacey said, handing over the driver’s license, American Express card and Australian passport. Steve had set up the identity years before and carefully maintained it. “Jason Ransfeld’s photos of his kids and Mrs. Rensfeld. Cute kids. Wish they were ours…”
The rain had at least passed but the sky was still gray and the wind outside the Nissan looked to be biting. It would be a great day to go sailing. Not.
“Hey,” Faith said, sleepily. “I bet they’re real snowflakes.”
The sun was barely up and the drive had been long. The girls had been able to rack out in the back but Steve and Stacey had had to drive separate cars. Then there had been the recon of the marina…
“They are,” Steve said. “My daughter Faith Ransfeld just had her thirteenth birthday for sixty kids at Disneyworld in Orlando. And their parents. We had to pay for the whole damned thing. Sophia Ransfeld’s sweet sixteen is coming up and God knows what she’s going to want, the spoiled little brat!”
“I want a cake that looks like a full size dragon and has real flames,” Sophia said. “And Disney is sooo kitsch. I want mine at…Uhm…”
“Keep working on it Sophia Ransfeld,” Steve said.
“Why are we having to change our names?” Faith asked. “We’re not meeting this guy, right?”
“No,” Steve said. “But I need to remember my ‘real’ name.”
“Okay, Mr. Ransfeld,” Stacey said. “Conspiracy to commit fraud and grand larceny. Great.”
“Nothing really turning up on the radio,” Steve said. “We need to get internet access.”
“We need more supplies,” Stacey pointed out. “We’ve got at most thirty days. Not food, other consumables.”
“And you can’t make toilet paper,” Faith pointed out.
“Make a stop,” Steve said, getting out of the Nissan. “Level One protocols. Best we can do without freaking people out. I’ll meet you at the rendezvous.”
* * *
“Felix,” Steve said, stepping out of the rental Mercedes. “Glad you could meet me so early.”
“You know the drill,” Resto said, sipping his coffee. “We also serve who sell boats,” he added with a grin.
“Tell me about it,” Steve said, shaking his head. “Speaking of which-boat?”
“Follow me,” Resto said, walking over to his BMW.
Steve kept his eyes open and carefully if covertly examined the marina. There was a guard shack but a drive-by the previous night had shown it to be unoccupied at night as well as day. They’d staked out the marina for two hours and had seen no sign of any roving guard although a security car had passed at 4:23 AM. Probably the marina had once featured “guard on duty 24 hours” but had cut back with the current economy to an occasional drive-by. The gate had a keypad lock, which Resto opened. Which gave at least one code to the lock, given the punch-tracker that Stacey had installed. If the con didn’t work they could always slip in and slip out with the boat. Assuming the owners hadn’t removed something critical from the ship systems.
Better to just buy it with fake money. Money was basically fake anyway. At least the way his source did things…
* * *
“Tom,” Richard Bateman said. “You’re the man at this meeting.”
Dr. Richard Bateman, PhD Econ, was CEO of Bank of the Americas. Tall and nearly as broad as his security chief at 6' 4", he had the de rigeur height for a Fortune 50 °CEO and greying temples so perfect everyone wanted to know what hairdresser he used. “Yes, sir,” Thomas “Train” Smith said, standing up and going to the end of the board table.
Tom’s full nickname was “Thomas the Train Engine.” This was given to him back in officer’s Basic Course and had stayed as his handle ever since. The joke around the office was “Clark Kent turns out to be Australian.” In his “banker suit” and Birth Control Glasses he did rather look like a sandy-blond Clark Kent. And the typing pool generally agreed that when the suit came off he looked exactly like a blond Superman.
When the young ladies he met in clubs asked him what he did he generally just said “Investment Banking” because that meant he had money and he’d get laid. Well, the dancers and actresses. The Goth and Emo chicks at the alternative clubs seemed to prefer his other answer: “I’m the bad guy that gets killed second to last in the movie. You know when the villain turns to his boss henchman and says ‘Take care of it’? I’m that guy.” With some who were way out there, this occasionally backfired. The one time he got a call to come help him move a body he’d agreed to meet her, asked where, then politely called the police. Fortunately, it turned out to be an OD and NYPD had limited their questions.
In fact he had yet to be told to “take care of it” in any extreme manner. When he’d taken the job he’d wondered if dirty work was in the offing and even, tactfully, checked during the very long vetting process. The response had been, for bankers, humorous at best. Bankers didn’t have to have their employees kill, defame or otherwise destroy enemies. There were lots of people that just did it for them because, well, people wanted their money. When a new dam was being negotiated in some developing country, it wasn’t banks who paid “laborers” to go beat up “protestors.” That was the local government who was going to make money off of the dam. To the extent that investment banks did anything along those lines, it was to quietly protest “No. Stop. No. Seriously… It looks bad…” And then lend them money anyway.