Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Page 17

  “Pickle,” The Saint laughs. “It’s such a funny little name. Given your circumstance, quite appropriate don’t you think?”

  “The suits that killed Bobby and tried to kill me are somehow connected to Aleutian Oil. They’re here somewhere. They’re following us.”

  “I knew you were a smart one, Jackson. Good man. You’re with the good doctor now?”

  “I thought you knew everything? Why are you asking?”

  “My suggestion would be you separate yourself from him.” No laughter.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The men from Pickle want you dead. Of that, I’m certain. They would likely prefer Dr. Ripley meet an untimely end as well.” The Saint clears his throat and takes a sip of something. The sound of ice against glass clinks through the connection. “You’ve made it easy for them. You’ve led them straight to him.”

  “They don’t know he’s here.”

  “You found him didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Jackson, my good man,” he interrupts, “you’re smart. I assume George Townsend the reporter is smart. You’re learning the game, but don’t think for a moment that men with the kind of experience they employ at F. Pickle aren’t light years ahead of you at every turn.”

  “Why haven’t they gotten us already?”

  “They’re watching you, Jackson. They’re waiting. It is much easier for them to get three of you at once, than it would be to hit you individually.”

  “What about Charlie?”

  “What about her?”

  “Is she on their side?”

  “She’s on someone’s side, Jackson. It’s not yours. Who she is and what it is she wants I don’t quite yet know.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You need to survive, Jackson,” his voice deepens. “You are more important now than you were when you delivered the first iPod to London. You’re less of a pawn and more of a knight.” Backhanded compliments? “I underestimated you in that bar. I saw a weak, needy, restless orphan willing to do anything for a father-figure and a pair of long legs.”

  He pauses, clearly baiting me.

  “I see much me in you. Your drive. Your persistence. Your ability to survive. Your raw intelligence. Oh, and your ability to keep secrets.”

  “Whatever.” He disgusts me. I’m nothing like him.

  “I do what needs to be done, Jackson.” The hallway is still empty. “Do what needs to be done,” he tells me. “We’ll both get the answers we need. You have to separate yourself from Ripley. I’m telling you it’s imperative.”

  The phone goes silent and I slip back into Ripley’s room. If The Saint is right, we don’t have much time.

  ***

  “The science is simple in theory,” Ripley starts, talking directly into the camera.

  “Look at my shoulder,” George instructs. “Don’t look directly into the camera. It looks better when you aren’t staring into the lens.”

  Ripley complies and starts again. “The science is simple in theory. To increase the fuel efficiency of a gallon of gasoline, you need to, in effect, amplify its octane. Fuel efficiency, in and of itself, is essentially thermal energy, right? If you take the potential energy you have in a drop of gasoline and you convert it to kinetic energy, you’re creating fuel efficiency. The better the conversion, so to speak, the better the efficiency.”

  “How do you make it better?” George was holding the flip cam out in front of him, looking at the image of Ripley in the small LCD screen on the back of the camera.

  “There are a number of ways to do that,” Ripley exhales, as though he’s irritated with a child’s repeated questioning. “You can increase the efficiency of the fuel itself. This is represented by its heat value, among other things. You can better the efficiency of the combustible engine, which goes to the processing of that heat and the conversion to kinetic energy. You can improve the aerodynamic properties of the vehicle; design and weight. All of those efforts improve the efficiency.”

  “What is it you’re working on right now?” George widens the picture, zooming out.

  “To explain that, I have to tell you what Nanergetix is doing.”

  “So do that.” George zooms in again, awaiting the answer.

  “Nanergetix is using nanoparticles to affect the potential energy in the fuel itself. There is only so much automobile manufacturers can do to improve engine efficiency and reduce aerodynamic drag.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s all well and good the Obama administration set these astronomical fuel standards in 2012. They’ve given auto makers until 2025 to make cars and small trucks run at essentially fifty-four miles per gallon. That’s a stretch. While the automakers are on board, publicly, the oil industry is fuming.”

  George looks up from the LCD. “Could you explain?”

  “Let me back up.” Ripley leans back against the desk and sighs. “Nanergetix is helping the auto industry, okay? Much of the funding for their work doesn’t come out of Don Carlos Buell’s pockets. It comes from the automakers. Detroit threw a lot of money at him when he decided to go green. The oil industry felt betrayed. He wouldn’t take their cash. He doesn’t need it. He’s on some mission.”

  “And?”

  “Nanergetix is essentially trying to use engineered nanoparticles to increase the convertible energy of every drop of oil. They add the particle in the refining process and it helps the gasoline stretch farther than it would otherwise.”

  “By making gasoline go farther, we’d need less of it?”

  “Exactly. Can you imagine the profit for a company that does that? If the government requires all petrochemical refineries to use that technology? We’re talking billions upon billions of dollars in perpetuity.”

  “Buell is not popular with the oil companies?”

  “Not at all,” Ripley says. “He’s persona-non-grata, which is why I believe it was the oil companies that wanted him dead. Without his vision, Nanergetix is nothing.”

  “If he’s governor,” I interject, “he’s in a better position to control the legislation governing the industry.”

  “Yes.” Ripley glances at me before returning his attention to George’s shoulder. “Nanergetix is getting increasingly close. Right now their efforts work only in a lab environment. They’re having trouble with the particles adhering beyond certain temperatures, but they’re close.”

  “How do you know this?” I ask.

  “Nanoscience is a very small community. When everything is under a microscope, it’s very hard to hide.”

  “You’re making some assumptions based on hearsay,” George states. He sounds like a lawyer.

  “Maybe,” Ripley acknowledges. “But the rumors are persistent enough they’re believable.”

  “You’re trying to mimic what Nanergetix is doing and beat them to the marketplace?” George asks. “That way the oil companies can control it?”

  “Quite the opposite,” Ripley says, closing his eyes. “I’m being paid to stop it.”

  ***

  The shades are pulled against the single-paned windows of the lodge. The wind outside is howling with such intensity it sounds as though the glass might shatter at any second. The night winds in the Ft. Davis Mountains are fierce.

  With only the lamps beside the bed and on the desk lighting the room, and George with his small flip cam aimed at Ripley, it’s as though I’m in an Oren Peli film. All we need is a poltergeist attacking us to complete the effect, though the kind of stuff the scientist is explaining seems unreal enough.

  “Nano markers are little invisible serial numbers,” he explains. “We insert these markers into anything commercial – make-up, processed leather goods, food, pharmaceuticals, refined oil, etc.”

  “Why would you do that?” George asks.

  “The market would let you know what you’re buying is the real deal. It prevents the sale of counterfeit…anything, really. If I tested a batch of Prozac I knew had this
marker in it, and the marker doesn’t pop up, it’s clear the medicine didn’t come from Eli Lilly. Or say, for instance, I bought barrels of what I thought was oil from Saudi Arabia, but the marker indicated it was from West Africa, then we have a problem. It’s protection for the manufacturers and the consumers.”

  “At the same time,” Ripley continues. “If you could mimic the marker of the original product, and attach it to the counterfeit—”

  “An untraceable black market,” I say. I get it.

  “Yes,” nods Ripley. “Or a fuel that doesn’t really go as far as you think it should. Reducing the efficiency of gasoline by an almost imperceptible amount changes the balance sheets by billions of dollars over time.”

  “So you’re trying to copy the marker in Nanergetix improved gasoline.” George gets it too. “By doing that, the oil companies can pretend they’re refining the oil using the new nanoparticles, but they’re really not.”

  “Yes.”

  “The oil companies are paying you to do this?” I ask.

  “Sort of,” Ripley replied. “They’re funding the project,” he says, still looking at George’s shoulder. “But they’re not alone. Your boss is involved. He’s the one who first approached me, who misled me about what I would be doing.”

  My boss. The oil companies. The iPods. The money. It’s adding up.

  “What did you think you were doing?” George asked him.

  “Well,” Ripley glances into the lens before averting his eyes again. “I thought I was working on creating a marker that would identify products refined in Texas. It would help with business and taxes and other stuff I don’t really remember. The idea, as the Governor sold it, was to help Texas define itself from the rest of the industry.”

  “Then you found out what you were really working on?” My question.

  Ripley nods. “I started asking too many questions. I was warned against it. I couldn’t help myself. I threatened to quit, to go public.”

  “Buell gets shot, your dad gets framed, and you disappear,” George again.

  “Yes.”

  We stand in the dim light quietly for what seems like forever, the wind threatening to crash through the windows. None of us, I guess, know what to say next.

  George hits the stop button on the flip cam and lowers it to his side. He sidesteps to the chest of drawers and leans against it.

  Ripley folds his arms, closes his eyes, and tilts his head back toward the ceiling. He exhales deeply.

  I sit on the bed trying to quickly process what we’ve learned. It’s a lot to take in.

  “You think the same people who want me dead also want you erased from existence?” I don’t look at Ripley when I finally speak, but he knows I’m talking to him.

  “I guess. I don’t know. I mean, clearly the Governor is not happy with me. Apparently the oil companies don’t like me. If, as you think, they’ve hired some undercover agents to kill you, what would stop them from wanting to do the same thing to me?”

  “It doesn’t make sense that they’d want you dead,” I say. “You’re their key to beating Buell. You are the one working on their project. If they kill you, they’re back to square one. They wouldn’t do that.”

  “Then different people want us dead?” Ripley stands up from the desk. “Somebody wants you dead and some other faction wants to kill me? That doesn’t make sense either.”

  “What’s our next move?” George pipes in. “We can debate who wants who dead all night, but we’ve got to come up with a plan. We have to get out of here. We need to get back to Houston to the newsroom. We can protect both of you from there. At least until we sort the rest of it out.”

  At his core, George is trying to figure out how to break this twisted story, but he is right. We have to get somewhere safe.

  ***

  It is nearly dawn and the sun is about to come up. Ripley is standing at the window. We each slept for about an hour, in shifts. George is the one resting now.

  “It’s time to go,” I say. “Do you have a car here?”

  “Yes. It’s outside the lodge. What’s your plan?”

  “We’ve gotten some sleep,” I said, knowing it wasn’t nearly enough. “I imagine whoever is waiting on us did too. The best bet is to split up and meet back in Houston. You can’t hide out here forever.”

  “Not now that you’ve led them to me.” His back is still to me, but the anger dripping from his words is hitting me in the face. “I’m going to die here for something I wouldn’t do. My father will die in prison for something he didn’t do.”

  I rub the exhaustion from my eyes. “We’ll make it out of here if we’re smart. I’ll take your car and you go with George. If you’re with him, you might be better off. Maybe.”

  “Maybe,” he snorts, laughing at the absurdity of it. “I deal in absolutes, Jackson. I’m a scientist. I see it or I don’t. I can find it or I can’t. I’ll survive or I won’t. There’s very little room for maybe.”

  “You believe in theory. Theoretically you can survive this if we get you to George’s newsroom. They’ve got security there. They’ll protect you until all of this gets sorted out.”

  “What do you propose exactly?” Ripley said. There’s a soft red glow warming the side his face from the sun peeking over the mountains.

  “You and George fly out of El Paso. Same flight. Maybe you fly to Austin and drive from there. Maybe you go straight to Houston. That’s up to George. Once he lets his station know what’s going on they’ll be able to help.”

  “Then?”

  “You get to the station and wait for me. We can regroup from there.”

  “What if we don’t make it?”

  “I thought you dealt in absolutes?” “Theoretically.” He turns toward me. His eyebrows are still bunched together. His lower lip is pouting, revealing a slight under bite. At least he’s looking at me.

  “Then we’ll have to assume we’ll make it,” I effect a smile I imagine is hardly convincing.

  George stands from the bed and stretches languorously. “You know reporters can’t assume. We get in trouble for that.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” says Ripley. “Let’s get this over with.”

  George rolls his eyes, fixes his shirt and belt, and walks to the small bathroom. Ripley moves to the dresser and picks up the gun. He opens the cylinder and closes it.

  “Loaded still?” I ask.

  “Yes.” He checks the safety. “Shotshell. Six of them.”

  “You said that when we first got here,” I said, remembering what he’d told us after pointing the gun at us through the door. “You mean ammo like a shotgun?”

  Ripley nods. “I’m not a good shot. With the shotshell, I don’t have to be particularly accurate. That is, as long as I’m close enough. It’s not really meant for distance shooting. Are you good with a gun?”

  “I dunno,” my shoulders shrug almost involuntarily. “I don’t shoot much.”

  “Much?” Ripley’s brow arches with interest. He’s still holding the gun, waving it toward the door without much thought.

  “Well, I have fired a gun. A rifle. Some other stuff. I wouldn’t say I’m a good shot or anything. I try to stay away from them.”

  “Why?” Ripley places the pistol on the chest of drawers, spins the barrel toward the wall and turns his attention back to me.

  “Just do,” I mumble. “Look, we’ve got to get going. Now is as good a time as any. The faster we get to an airport, the more flight options we have to get out of here.”

  “I’m ready,” Ripley sighs. He’s probably trying to convince himself of it.

  George appears from the bathroom. “So am I.” His hair is slicked back, his face is pink, and his eyes bloodshot. He looks like hell. “Let’s do this.”

  I sling my backpack over my right shoulder. “George, you should go with Dr. Ripley in his car. I’ll take mine. We can switch at the gas station.”

  “What do you mean switch?” Ripley asks.

  “We left my
rental at a gas station about forty-five minutes from here,” George tells him. “I guess if we’re getting tailed, we could switch it up and confuse them?”

  “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Ripley says, a vein in his forehead exposing itself. He’s clearly about to explode. “You two have no clue what you’re doing.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say—” George tries to interject.

  “No, really,” Ripley says in a strained whisper, trying not to raise his voice, “you two are absolute morons. You find your way to me, you bring with you trained killers, you’ve got no weapons, you’ve got no plan – my life is not a game.”

  “I think you’re—”

  “What would make either of you think this could work?” His forehead vein is purple and thick. “You are clearly out of your league. Now you want to ‘switch cars’? You want to ‘maybe take a plane into a different airport’ to avoid these professional head hunters? How can you be so naïve? Neither of you look like idiots, but you must be.”

  “You’re right,” I admit.

  Ripley, his chest heaving from the adrenaline of his rant, looks bewildered.

  “What?” George looks at me with confusion and maybe some hurt.

  “We’re idiots,” I repeat. “I mean, we really don’t have a plan. We don’t know what we’re doing. We’re no match for professional killers or whatever. We didn’t think this through. The truth is, our lives are in danger too. Something bad is happening. Too many people are keeping secrets. It could be your nanocrap, it could be something we haven’t thought about. I still don’t know.”

  “Yes, clearly y—” Ripley starts.

  I raise my hand at the scientist to stop him. “My turn. You had yours.”

  Ripley glares at me.

  “So what if we brought the heat with us?” I propose. “What were you going to do? Hide out here forever? If we so easily found you, do you really think professional killers would’ve taken much longer? Then you’d be alone. Now at least, you’ve got some help. We do have a plan. We want to get all of us to the safety of George’s newsroom. Nothing’s going to happen to us there, if we can make it.”