“How about your brother?” Elvis asks Dominic.
“Tony?” responds the sizeable man. “You mean, like, transport us in his truck?”
“Yeah, why not?” confirms Elvis.
Dominic considers the idea as he gazes at nothing in particular.
Rebekah is consumed with destroying the erroneous bus tickets in her hands and methodically distributing the torn pieces to the rest of Section B for disposal. Shortly afterward they take excursions in opposing directions to distribute the incriminating bits in trash cans, storm drains, and other places unlikely to attract much attention.
They arrive back at their starting spot at different intervals. By the time Brock returns, the rest of the team is discussing the best location in which to once again set up the satellite communication equipment. It’s decided that Dominic will call Tony, albeit using a circuitous route since he can’t remember his brother’s number.
They leave the park, walk down a road to a secluded section of public land, and push through the overgrowth to reach a quiet spot by the ocean. There they set up their gear; a quick operation, almost routine by now. Tony’s company is quickly found through a search engine and their dispatch contacted.
“Tell him it’s a Little China situation,” stresses Dominic as he prepares to hang up the rarely-used satellite handset. Disconnecting, he looks up at Section B and indicates his uncertainty with a shrug. Similar gestures are echoed in response and with nothing else to contribute, the Section sit in the rays of the setting sun watching gilded fire shimmer on the surface of the water.
“Anyone else starving?” asks Elvis, holding his hand over his stomach, a mild grimace animating his face.
“I could use a bite,” responds Dominic.
Dmitri, Brock, and Rebekah all answer simultaneously, making only their affirmative head shakes intelligible in the crosstalk. Mirabelle expresses her indifference with raised eyebrows and a pout.
“But we don’t have any money,” notes Elvis dryly, “and I’m a newbie when it comes to theft.”
“Are any of us good at stealing stuff?” asks Brock as he looks around.
Everyone refuses the connotation with small gestures except Mirabelle who again raises her eyebrows in a noncommittal expression.
An uncertain moment later Dmitri suggests, “Maybe we don’t have to steal anything.”
Section B wait expectantly.
He pulls the laptop computer out of its travel bag and connects it to the satellite uplink. A few seconds later he’s searched for “free food”, “food banks”, and “homeless shelters” in the area. Most locations are closed but a few appear to be accessible. Although they’re within walking distance, none are a short walk.
“Still,” notes Rebekah, “that’s a solid plan. Let’s get going.”
“Someone needs to stay with our stuff and mind the equipment in case Dom’s brother calls,” points out Dmitri.
“Makes me the best man for the job,” admits Dominic, hoisting up a hand.
“Afraid so,” notes Dmitri, partially distracted as he orients himself using the map on the the computer.
Within minutes, everyone except Dominic head into the city and toward the indicated locations. The bald man sits alone among the baggage and leans back, relaxing in the dwindling heat of the sun as it inches its way into the western horizon. Occasionally he glances over at the satellite handset to make sure it’s still functioning.
It’s well after dark when the rest of Section B return sporadically with swollen plastic bags. Brock and Mirabelle are the last to arrive and to get up to speed.
“So he said no?” Brock asks Dominic, brow furrowing in curiosity.
“Yeah,” responds Dominic. “Tony’s hauling a load on the east coast right now. It would take him at least a week before he made it out here, and that’s if he left today, which he can’t.”
“So where does that leave us?” continues Brock.
“He’s getting in touch with his buddies to see if one of them is close by and willing,” responds Dominic.
As the conversation is taking place, Elvis extracts the contents of his plastic bags and begins distributing them. “These ones,” he explains to the group as he points at a few of the plastic containers, “have some kind of chicken curry with rice. And these ones” — he points at other containers — “have some kind of spinach soup.”
Holding up a number of his own bags, Dmitri adds, “We have a bunch of other stuff. Some beat-up produce, frozen bread, frozen cold cuts, probably thawed out by now, some vegan deserts, yogurt, instant noodles, granola bars, fruit cups, canned ravioli, a few other things. Most of it’s past the best-by date but the people at the shelter say it should be fine.”
“They say,” injects Rebekah with mild sarcasm.
“I nominate Rebekah to be the designated food tester for the Section,” suggests Dmitri wryly.
“Just because I did it that one time?” she asks, recalling the soggy sandwich she’d consumed as they awaited their helicopter extraction.
“Because you’re so skeptical,” he assures her with a spreading smile on his face, “and so small. If you’re poisoned, your body is the easiest to carry to a doctor. It’s just logical.”
“Nice,” she concludes, a mirthless smile accompanying a slow nod. Simultaneously amused smirks appear on a few of the faces of Section B as they reach for their food.
The donated meals are devoured quickly and nearly silently as darkness begins to creep in around them. Within moments of his final bite, the trill of the satellite phone causes Dominic to sit up with a start. He reaches abruptly for the receiver and presses its glowing green button.
“Tones?” he says expectantly. “What’s the word?”
After a few seconds of silent head nods he continues, “Okay, yeah, that’s great. That’s exactly what we’re looking for. And you told him how he’s getting paid?”
For a moment, Brock’s face wrinkles with confusion but he quickly remembers the thick envelope in his coat pocket. He removes it and holds it out inquisitively in front of Dominic. The large man casts a quick glance at the item and produces a single confirming nod, then turns his attention back to his brother saying, “Thanks again for setting this up. I owe you. All my best to Meghan and Lance, and Tones … love ya buddy.”
Grinning, he disconnects the call and places the receiver on top of the satellite equipment.
“His name is Mike,” explains Dominic. “For some reason he’s hauling an empty trailer across the country so it works out. One of us is supposed to meet him out there on the road in about an hour.”
“How much does Tony know about us?” asks Rebekah with a sudden coldness.
“What, you don’t trust my brother?” retorts Dominic with jovial sarcasm.
“It’s not that,” she replies flatly. “It’s just that we were getting shot at not too long ago and none of us know why. If my family is implicated then who’s to say that they won’t come after yours?”
“Shit,” notes Dominic, the suggestion slackening his features. “I didn’t really tell him much. Told him about you” — he looks pointedly at Rebekah — “and Dmitri. A little about Mira. I didn’t go into much detail. He had no idea I’d left the country.”
“Can’t you call him back to warn him?” asks Brock.
“I’d have to go through his dispatch again and he’s already had to jump through a few hoops to securely set up our meeting with Mike,” laments Dominic, the creases on his forehead deepening. “Every time we talk is another opportunity for that security to be compromised. Until I can give Tony some solid intel, something specific to warn him about, I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to call him again.”
Rebekah nods in solemn agreement. Mirabelle cocks her head to the side, eyelids sliding down approvingly over hazy blue eyes. Dmitri produces a tiny pout of accord. Elvis produces a downcast nod.
Brock scratches the back of his head, turns to Rebekah, and holds out the bulky envelope. “I … we,” he begins as he glances over at Dmitri and Dominic, “have some some questions about this. Where it came from, how nervous I should’ve been about carrying it around, that kind of thing.”
Pulling up her eyebrows she breathes out an, “Oh, that.”
After a brief pause she continues, “Most of it came from convenience stores around the city. You know, the usual modus. I made them think I’d won the lottery and I didn’t know what to do with all my winnings so I started putting them into lockers and safe boxes, then other places. Inside the stack” — she points at Brock’s hands — “is a list of locations to go with the keys.”
“How much money is there?” asks Brock with mild surprise as he thumbs through the bound bills.
“Thousands,” she admits. “I didn’t really count it.”
“And you gave it to me because you didn’t want to get caught with it?” he asks again in a playfully accusing tone.
“No, that’s not why,” she replies forthrightly. “I was careful. I made sure that security footage got deleted, always wore a disguise, always wore gloves, always worked late at night when the clerks were sleepy and no one else was in the store. I gave you the package because I thought it might help to persuade you, to show you that I was being serious. Things were moving fast and I didn’t have time to convince you of the actual truth so I made up a little lie about where it came from.”
In a casually flat tone, Elvis includes his own observation. “Even if she slipped up and got caught,” he conjectures, “what crime would she have been charged with?”
Slightly surprised, Rebekah replies, “Umm, yeah. That’s probably true.”
“So what’s with the lottery tickets?” follows Brock.
“Like I said, the convenience store clerks believed I’d won the lottery,” she recounts, “but sometimes they had no money so they gave me tickets instead. Kind of ironic now that I think about it. Anyways, I ended up with a small stack of them. The losers I threw away but the winners I kept.”
Cutting in, Dmitri inquires, “So there’s more? More than what Brock’s holding, I mean.”
“I hid caches around town and snuck the locations into the agency research,” she responds, pointing to the leather messenger bag propped up nearby. “The coordinates are disguised as wrong results in equations or what look like meaningless numbers. The remote viewing data has more details about where exactly to look. I don’t know how many packages are still out there but at least I know where they’re supposed to be.”
Looking between Dominic and Dmitri for additional questions, she receives none. Both men’s curiosities seem to have been satisfied. The moments of silence that follow indicate that the matter of the envelope appears to have been settled for everyone.
“Lucky I forgot about this thing,” Brock says at last, patting the bulky package, “otherwise it could be drowning in salt water right now.”
“You still believe ze luck?” Mirabelle asks him with a look of genuine amusement.
“I don’t know,” he says. “It feels like luck.”
“But it need you to make it ‘appen,” she points out with a sly smile. “Even if you forget, you do it. You make your luck.”
“I guess,” he admits.
“Zis is ‘ow I feel,” she says, pulling back into a casual recline.
“What if your feelings are wrong?” asks Brock.
“When it ‘appen I can tell you,” she responds, narrowing her eyelids and pulling down the corners of her mouth into a smiling frown.
Chuckling, Dominic stands up and announces, “Well, I’m going to meet Mike. At this point no one knows exactly who I’m with so unless I need your help it’s best if you hang back. The less exposed you are the better.”
Section B agree but Rebekah wonders if perhaps Mirabelle should accompany him as backup. Dominic points out that, “He’s only expecting one of us and I don’t want to risk spooking him. Maybe if she hides in the bushes …”
“If somesing will ‘appen I must be close,” retorts Mirabelle. “In ze bushes, I maybe arrive too late.”
“Better if I just go alone,” determines Dominic.
According to a hastily improvised plan, if he’s taken hostage Dominic will try to place some markers to guide them toward his location. If he doesn’t return within ten minutes, Section B will either come for him or to follow those markers.
Taking possession of the lumpy envelope, the imposing man trudges off into the darkness. In the meantime the rest of the group take the opportunity to clean, pack, and prepare for a quick departure.
It only takes a few minutes before Dominic comes wading back through the tall weeds and extended branches, empty-handed.
“Mike seems okay,” he summates. “Wants to know as little as possible, thinks it’s safer that way, so he’ll only be dealing with me. We have the trailer to ourselves but we’re going to need to hike around weigh stations.”
“What does that mean?” questions Brock.
“Transport trucks are sometimes required to be weighed along highways,” responds Dominic. “If Mike gets the signal we’ll have to haul our stuff around the station using a side road or something, then hop back on later.”
“Are we that heavy?” continues Brock.
“We’d show up as extra weight in the station logs and that could lead to questions. So would an extended inspection.”
“Right,” accepts Brock with a conclusive nod.
At that, Dominic leads Section B on a slightly different path through underbrush, into a group of prickly pines, and between dense clusters of deciduous foliage. At times the darkness in front of them is nearly complete and the short walk effortful as they struggle to pull both their food and their baggage through the thick plant life.
After a few minutes they emerge onto the shoulder of the sparsely-lit park road. They quickly spot the rear of the waiting semi-trailer to their right, doors hanging open, hazard lights engaged. The powerful machine to which it’s attached occasionally whines and hisses as its air-brakes release pressure. The diesel engine idles with a patient rumble.
Soon they’ve hopped into the back of the spacious container and unloaded their belongings. At the far end they find some rolled up blankets, an electric lantern, a bucket with a lid, a few rolls of toilet paper, and two flashlights. Dominic pulls the doors in behind them and then bangs three times on the wall nearest to the cab. Shortly afterward the doors are fastened from the outside with loud metallic clanks. A few moments after that the truck and its cargo lurch forward into the night.