Текст книги "The Eden Plague"

Автор книги: David VanDyke

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Daniel laughed tightly. “Well, that didn’t work out so well. And now some poor arrogant tailored-suit schmuck is dead. I guess he didn’t have the super-healing. Why not? Experimental? Some kind of side effects? Doesn’t work on everyone?” His mind was racing now, the adrenaline and the problem keeping him on track. It felt good, to be firing on all cylinders again.

Outrunning the serpent.

“Yeah, there’s a downside, mostly for the Company.” She finished making the sandwiches, pushed one across the table to him, and demolished another in four bites.

Daniel had to wait for her to keep talking anyway, so he took a cautious bite. Too much mustard. The woman looked into his eyes then, with a kind of haunted compassion or…something. Something hard to pin down. Maybe pity. He liked the eyes but he didn’t much like that expression, and he resolved he wasn’t going to fall for her sneaky womanly wiles, but there was still something in her that attracted him. Maybe it was because she had guts. In some other circumstances…

She kept eating. Kept staring at him.

Dragging his mind back to the now, he barked, “Come on, talk between bites.” Daniel still felt on the ragged edge of control, and his weapon hand started shaking.

She stared at the gun and those shakes and said, “All right. Just let me tell it my own way, okay?”

Another quarter of a sandwich went down her throat. She finished a cup of juice, poured herself some more. “I was a terminal patient. Cancer. Hodgkin’s. I had maybe two weeks to live. I was already in hospice, doped up. The Company made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Be a test subject for a new cure, they told me. Of course I said yes.”

She paused to eat another sandwich, and as she did she watched him fidget impatiently, watched his flickering eyes.

She’s worried about  me, Daniel realized. Thinks I’m losing it. but I’m not. He thought she was looking much better now, and her wounds were visibly shrinking. The bruising was getting smaller, the holes were closing, everything. His eyes moved all over her body, watching it happen. Unbelievable. But he had to believe it. It was right in front of him.

As he took the last bite of his sandwich the woman across from him sighed, as if regretting something. The next second he found himself falling over backward as the dining room table flew up in his face. He forced his finger not to pull the trigger in reflex, and by the time he disentangled himself from the chair, table, tablecloth and sandwich makings, she was gone.

Story of my life. The good ones always leave.

-4-

Staring down the barrel of Daniel Markis’ gun wasn’t Elise’s idea of a good time. There was no guarantee he wouldn’t snap and shoot her like he shot Jenkins, so as soon as she had enough calories in her to survive, she’d gotten the hell out.

It didn’t mean she felt good about it.

Everything in her wanted to stay with him, to explain what was going on, to hold his hand and ease the confusion in his tortured eyes. She could see the pain underlying the bravado, with compassion hidden behind his need to control an uncontrollable situation. but as a scientist, she knew there were just too many variables.

So she ran.

But she didn’t want to.

She’d driven them in Jenkins’ SUV to Markis’ neighborhood, so she had the keys. Where the usual controlling jerk would have insisted on driving, Jenkins’ privileged upbringing meant he liked to be chauffeured. Serve me had been the subtext of his every move, just like his father, who was far more powerful and frightening. They’d parked around the corner and out of sight.

Running to the vehicle, she hoped that Daniel wasn’t so out of control that he’d try to chase her down with a gun in his hand in broad daylight. Hopefully he’d just accept what happened and calm down.

I have a plan, she thought as she climbed into the seat. Or the beginnings of one, if only he’ll cooperate. He’s exactly the man I need. Her mind flirted with what that might mean for the future, then forced it away. No time for such thoughts, Elise. Not now.

Driving away briskly, she checked the rear view mirror, seeing nothing following. A mile later she pulled into the back of a strip mall and changed out of her rags and into the nondescript clothes she had brought for that purpose. Sight of the crisp man’s suit hanging there on the back seat hook sent a wave of nausea rushing over her. Thank God it wasn’t me that killed him, but I’m still glad he’s gone and can’t hurt me anymore.

***

In Daniel’s teens, when he was young and foolish, he’d thought war would be fun, or would make him a man, when he went to the Gulf. In his twenties he deployed to Afghanistan to get some back for the Twin Towers, when Bin Laden seemed so near, just over the next mountain, and everybody in a turban might be Al Qaeda and he thought who cares, shoot them all anyway, let God sort ‘em out.

If you listened to Dr. Benchman, you’d think he’d be having flashbacks right now. The VA psychiatrist had convinced himself Daniel Markis was a full-blown PTSD case, a danger to himself and society, and nothing Daniel could say could convince him otherwise.

He’d been ordered to see the shrink because he’d clocked a Marine lieutenant who started mouthing off about Air Force “blue-suiters.” They’d both been drunk, and it had been a mistake, but it sure felt good at the time. About broke my hand along with his pretty jaw, he thought. Of course, I never told Benchman about the serpent in my head. Thank God he never thought to try to get my carry permit revoked.

Daniel felt lucky, really, because he’d had more than nineteen years in, and by the time the whole JAG process was done, what with his lawyer successfully drawing it out and staving off the threat of a court-martial, he was happy to make a deal, sign that Article 15 and get his retirement orders. Twenty years, thirteen days, but it was enough to qualify, and life was much better as a retiree with fifty percent disability than as a disabled vet with nothing but the VA to help out.

Sitting there at the righted table, he tried to concentrate on the present. Brain fog was closing down again, because the speed was wearing off. He wanted a drink. He wanted a nap. He stared at the dead man leaking all over his old wall-to-wall carpet, and the body wasn’t going to resurrect itself if it hadn’t already, he was pretty sure. Elise, if she was telling the truth, had said Jenkins didn’t have the healing drug, or whatever it was.

At least there were no sirens racing for his house, so it appeared no one had reported the gunshots. His basement walls were thick, cinder block set mostly below ground. I guess no one heard the two extra pops when I…his mind shied away.

On the other hand, Elise was probably already reporting to her Agency masters and there would soon be a cleanup team on the way. They might make it all go away, or they might set it up to implicate him, or they might come try to recruit him using a different approach – something a lot more certain. Like eight Men In Black with body armor and tranquilizer darts and beanbag rounds. Imagination spinning, he tried to stay on track, tried to stick to the facts.

Instead, he sat there staring at the body.

Should he call the cops? Was it easier to deal with the local authorities, claim a righteous shoot in his own home? If he did, he’d have to rearrange the scene, because he’d simply executed Jenkins. No matter how you sliced it, he’d killed him in hot blood, without just cause.

With Miss Wallis, had she stayed dead, he’d have had justification. She’d had a weapon, she’d fired on him. In fact, the weapon should still be down there, all the proof he needed. Elise had bolted out his still-open side door. She’d had no time to detour to the basement.

No, he had to either deal with the Agency, or he had to run.

Flight was an attractive option. Disappear, get out of the country. Slip across to Mexico before the alarm went out, from there to points south. Take a tramp freighter to South Africa maybe, sell his skills. Private security firms there liked guys with combat experience. They’d get him a new identity, if he was willing to be one of their quasi-mercenary security contractors and kick back part of his pay. He’d made some good contacts in the Green Zone in Baghdad. The Zone had been a patchwork of embassy territories then, with South Africans, Pakistanis, Sri Lankans, Filipinos, even Gurkhas providing security for each little walled compound.

Shaking himself out of the fog of reminiscence, he told himself he had to do something, he had to act, or he was going to be acted upon, but he didn’t want to run. It was not in his nature.

His phone rang.

He stared at it stupidly for a couple of rings. Nobody called his home phone but telemarketers and work, and he didn’t have the kind of job that called him after hours.

Heaving himself up he grabbed the handset, looked at the number. He didn’t recognize it but it was local, Northern Virginia. Telemarketers had other numbers, weird ones from foreign countries that tried to scam people. He decided to answer.

Maybe they wanted to talk, whoever ‘they’ were. Maybe he wanted to listen. Maybe there was some way out of this mess.

“Hello?”

“Daniel?” It sounded like Elise.

“Yeah. Elise?” Bitch. Shoot at me then run away when I try to be nice.

“Yes, Daniel. We have a little time. They don’t know what happened yet. When they do, they will probably want to clean up and they’re going to insist you join up. If you don’t play ball, they’ll either do you the hard way, frame you or disappear you.” She had a trace of Texas in her voice now, if he knew his Westerns.

“About like I thought. What are we gonna do about it?” He suddenly had a feeling she was in a tough spot, too, having failed to recruit him, and lost her boss as well. Or maybe she wanted out of their grip. She’d said she’d had no choice. Maybe I misjudged her.

Or maybe it’s all a crock of bull.

“I want to talk with you, but not on an unsecure line, and not at the wrong end of a gun. Especially not when you’re all amped up like you are now. Somewhere a bit more friendly.”

He wondered at the tone of her voice, no-nonsense but with an undertone of concern. Or was he imagining it? “How do we do that? You could be armed next time, and I can’t come back from the dead like you can.”

“I didn’t come back from the dead, I wasn’t dead. I can be killed. It’s just harder. And it still hurts to be shot.”

“So you say. How and where? And don’t you think they are listening right now?”

“Possibly.” She sighed, audibly. “Look, I’m sick of being their slave. I have to get out from under, no matter how dangerous it is. So we have to meet, and we have to do it soon, before they can keep me from giving you everything. And I need your help too. You must have contacts. You spec ops guys always keep in touch.”

“Maybe. So if they are listening, why don’t they cut this line?”

She laughed, shaky. “You know, it’s not like on TV. They can do a lot but they’re only human. Don’t give them too much credit.”

“Or too little.”

“Yeah, well, even if they could, they would want to hear where we are going to meet. They’ll be waiting if they can.”

“Well, you’re the secret agent,” Daniel said sarcastically. “How do we do it without getting caught?”

“Daniel, I’m just a scientist that happened to get cancer and got sucked into this. I’m not a field operative. But I picked up a few things in the last couple of years, so here’s what we’re going to do. Go to a nearby shopping center drugstore. Don’t tell me which one. Go buy a fresh prepaid cell phone. Call this number.” She rattled off a phone number. “Add the number of shots I fired at you to the digit in that position. Get it?”

“Got it.” Right, he thought. Add four to the fourth digit. Writing it down on a scrap of paper, he stuck it in his pocket. He couldn’t trust his memory.

“Call that number in half an hour exactly. First and last number you ever dial on that phone. We should be able to talk freely on that connection for long enough to arrange a meet. As soon as we have, you stomp on the phone and throw the pieces into the nearest storm drain. Got it? And do the same with your own cell phone, right now. They might be able to track it.”

“Okay…”

“And don’t go home after that. Take anything valuable you can carry, but somewhere along the line you will have to ditch your own vehicle. I don’t think they have a tracker on it but they will eventually. And get as much cash as you can out of just one ATM near the drugstore. Then drive away and make that call.”

“Got it.” He thought, I’ve got to keep my focus. It was getting hard. His head hurt.

She hung up.

He slammed an energy drink and swallowed two black-market but genuine Ritalin. He stuck the bottle in his pocket, grabbed an old rucksack and started packing. Magazines and ammo, granola bars, water, energy drink, his work badge and ID, and his runaway packet containing twenty grand cash in several currencies and two passports, one his, one Canadian with a different name. He wasn’t a covert field operative but any special ops guy learns a few things in the black world.

Also, he wouldn’t visit that ATM. Grabbing his travel Bible, he tossed it into the rucksack. He might need it, and he was sure to need the twelve hundred dollars he kept zipped inside it. It made him feel better anyway. Sorry, Lord, and please help me out of this one.

He pulled on a hoodie, then a windbreaker. February was still cold on the East Coast, especially at night, and the sun was going down. He threw his laptop into the ruck, too, then booted up his desktop computer and put in a suicide code, watching the special software start to burn his hard drive one sector at a time. They won’t get anything off that. Then he smashed his cell phone.

He also grabbed his M4 in its case, ten full magazines, his Remington 870 pump shotgun, and an Army surplus ammo box, heavy with cartridges. The last thing he tossed into his van was his aid bag. Everything imaginable from band-aids to Benzedrine, scalpels to syringes.

Doing as Elise had said, more or less, he drove to the second-nearest drugstore to his house in case “they” had been listening, and bought a disposable phone with cash. It was all cash from now on.

Back in the van, he drove out of town on the main road heading west as he waited for the half hour mark after pulling over into a gas station and filling up. As soon as he was done, he drove around a corner onto a side street, parked, and then dialed the number.

“Yes?” He heard Elise’s voice.

“It’s me. I’m mobile, I got money and some supplies.” He could hear traffic sounds behind her. He figured she was at a pay phone. Not many of those around anymore.

“All right. You know the Iron Saddle?”

“Biker bar, on Route One south of Quantico.”

“Yeah. Meet me there, one hour.”

“Roger wilco.”

After the call ended he started wending his way south, then back eastward to pick up US-1 at Dumfries north of Quantico Marine base. He was glad to stay in Virginia, where it was legal to carry around loaded firearms.

Laughing to himself without humor, he realized he was a recent murderer, or at least a manslaughterer, and no matter how justified it seemed, he had lost control. He was guilty, but he didn’t want to become a guest of the state just yet, and maybe he could do something to make up for it later. Some kind of penance.

Right. I keep trying to convince myself of that. The serpent doesn’t believe it either.

-5-

Elise put the pay phone receiver down and walked casually back to the SUV parked at the side of the old station. She rooted around in the glove compartment and came up with a thick permanent marker. In back and front she performed some simple alterations to the license plates – a K became an R, a C became a G, a 4 became a 9. It might foil a computerized webcam-image search.

She drove through a fast-food place, a one-off frosty-freeze that didn’t have any security cameras as far as she could see. A couple thousand more calories went into her gullet, helping to rebuild her torn flesh.

Driving away, she wended slowly southward toward the rendezvous, thinking, trying to formulate a plan. I have to find a way to give it to him, she thought. It will improve his mental state, the PTSD his file talked about, and fix his lingering injuries. The trick will be passing it without him freaking out.

Then the two of us will have it instead of just me.

Thoughts of the treatment filled her mind. With her two female chimps, Bobo and Mandy, as soon as they both had the same strain they became inseparable, like littermates, though they were unrelated. She wondered whether it would work the same way – did the virus somehow connect people in proportional proximity? That is, were those who passed it directly more likely to form bonds with the recipient? If so, did she want to be bonded to Daniel Markis? Or him to her?

But what choice do I have? Needs must when the Devil drives. She laughed at herself. Or the Eden.

Arriving at the Iron Saddle early, she parked on the side and went in. Out of place in her business casual, most of the looks she drew were nevertheless appreciative, not hostile – except for a few of the biker chicks. One slugged her man in the gut for looking and he laughed, spinning her around and slapping her on the butt.

Taking a seat at the bar, she shot a pleading look at the leather-clad bearded bartender. He had kind eyes.

Coming over promptly but politely, leaning in close he said, “You all right?” He spoke just loud enough to hear over the hubbub.

“Maybe. Not really my crowd, but I’m meeting a friend. Give me a diet Coke and keep these hound dogs off, will you?” Already she could see them lining up to make their passes.

He nodded, said “Play along, then.” As soon as he saw she understood, he pecked her on the lips and winked.

Her face tickled with the brush of his beard. This should keep them off me for a while. How quickly I play the whore…I almost wish I really could. Haven’t been with a man in years. The smell of him excited her in spite of herself and she shrugged away, blinking. Damn. They’re right about that near-death arousal. But I’ll do just about anything right now to get away from the Company. Even kiss a few frogs in search of my prince. “Having a good night, sweetie?” she asked loudly.

The bartender nodded, “Yeah, pretty good.” He shot a couple of bikers a glare and they backed off. Then he smiled knowingly at her and went back to his bartending. Probably he thought he’d just gone to the head of the pass line.

She thanked him with her eyes, then checked her watch. Five till. Looked around, hoping Daniel would show up early. Hoping they’d have a chance, make a chance, to get away. It was a fantasy, to escape with her chosen white knight.

She’d subtly steered Jenkins toward Daniel Markis. Unlike all the other spec-ops files they’d looked at, Markis wasn’t a killer by trade, but instead a healer, a combat lifesaver. Hopefully that will make him different. Maybe just different enough.

Checking her watch again, she turned to look out the front window. Neon beer and motorcycle brand names obscured her view but the big man in the dark suit was clear enough, as was his weapon.

He burst through the front door, high-tech blunderbuss in hand, but by that time she was off the bar stool and scurrying for the back door. Chaos erupted behind her.

***

Daniel passed the Marine Corps museum in the early dark, the blazing spire on the roof reminiscent of the flag-raising on Iwo Jima. His grandfather had been there; Gunnery Sergeant Donald James Markis, USMC. He suppressed a strong impulse to turn into the parking lot, to put off this rendezvous for as long as he could. Driving south on US-1 through the cold quiet in his familiar musty van, time seemed suspended for a little while.

He wished he had a cigarette. Since he didn’t, he tortured himself with imagination by thinking of the last time he’d smoked one: with Gramps as he was dying of emphysema in hospice. Daniel had helped him out of the oxygen rig and onto the balcony, to suck down one last forbidden coffin nail before they said good night.

I should have said goodbye. And this healing thing could have saved him. Eyes tearing, he squeezed them with thumb and forefinger. Goodbye, Gramps. Maybe I’ll see you soon.

Realizing he hardly cared at this point, he didn’t think he had much to live for. With his messed up brain and his messed up life, he barely held onto his job, trying desperately to keep up with even the light workload they gave him. Hanging out with the other retired disabled veterans, their green and maroon and black berets and tabs and coins set in their sterile cubes and offices, they were all just marking time, milking their security clearances for a few more bucks. Staring at his own beret perched on the shelf above his computer screen, the Pararescue flash with its guardian angel, cradling the world in her arms, a symbol of what he was and never would be again. Reminiscing war stories. Trying to keep his hand in.

Trying to starve the serpent.

Trying to look himself in the mirror every morning, knowing he was useless. They wouldn’t let him put his hands on a patient, wouldn’t let him practice his medical craft. He couldn’t even drive an ambulance, much less work trauma, for fear of his PTSD. Just push papers. Be a consultant.

A man who can’t do his job isn’t a man.

But he had done the job today. He had taken a shooter down like the pro he used to be, and if Elise had been human – normal? – he could have patched her up too, if he hadn’t killed her. Only he hadn’t killed her, he’d killed the suit, and Daniel couldn’t patch him up from dead.

His stomach clenched. No excuse for that murder. He’d crossed the line from watchdog to wolf, and bitten the hand that fed him, no matter how much that hand stank. He’d murdered a duly appointed representative of the United States government.

They never forget that. They will never let me rest.

He could imagine what his father would say. Come on, Dan, pull your head out. You have a vehicle, you have an ally, you have a mission – and you have resources as yet untapped. Stick and rudder, boy. Take control and fly.

Now all he needed was to care. That was the hard part.

The Iron Saddle came up on his right, a big parking lot filled with bikes surrounding a faux-Western building with an enormous roof extension to the front, providing a covered space. Even tonight, temperature in the forties and a bit of a breeze, there were ten or twenty bikers and their old ladies outside, under the roof or sitting on the bikes, knocking back a few. Most of them would be inside, though it shouldn’t be too busy on a Wednesday night.

Steering the van sharply to the right, he drove around the building, parking nose-out in the left rear corner under a hanging tree limb. Easy to see out of, hard to be seen. Sitting there for a moment, he checked the dive watch on his wrist. 300M, it said to him, and 18:56. Four minutes to seven. Close enough, and better to be early than late.

Using the time to settle his pistol in a belly holster and thread the magazine holder onto his belt, he then got out, crossed the parking lot warily toward the back door. Ritalin still sang in his veins, though he knew it wouldn’t last.

Just then the back door flew open and Elise burst through running flat out. A man stepped into the doorway beyond with something big and gunlike in his hands. BOOM, BOOM, it spoke, like a shotgun but twice as loud, and Elise staggered and fell off to Daniel’s left. Strangely, he felt like it was him that got hit, though at a distance, like a fistful of rocks thrown in his face.

In his hindbrain the serpent hissed as he drew his automatic, to lay down covering fire in the direction of the lighted doorway while he crabbed sideways toward his fallen comrade. He figured that was what she was now. Grabbing the back of her jacket collar with his left hand he dragged her behind a convenient Harley trailer, popping off a couple more shots at the doorway. Blood covered her again, smearing his hand and arm. Somehow that shook him more this time.

Real men don’t shoot women. Not intentionally anyway. Bastards.

“Daniel,” Elise gasped, “get out of here. Leave me. I’ll be fine, they just want me back on the leash. Here…” She reached up with one hand to grab his wrist…

Pulled it down toward her face…

Bit him.

He jerked his hand out of her mouth with a reflexive yelp. “What the –” He throttled a curse. The serpent thrashed, demanding to be set free.

“Just go. You’ll understand soon enough. It’s all I can do. Now get away. We’re both still alive, you’re free. Stay that way! Go! Go!” Her eyes were liquid with tears, confusing him.

Right now, he thought, the capture team is probably working their way around both sides of the building, with one guy covering the door that they sure aren’t going to come through again. She’s right; I have to get out now.

“Thanks anyway, and you’re welcome,” he hissed angrily. Crazy bitch, his mind spat unbidden, I was just starting to like her. Shaking his bitten hand in disgust, he backed up low, keeping the trailer between himself and the building. Moving behind the scrubby line of pine trees, he then ran to the back of the van and climbed in the rear door.

Through the windshield he could see one man coming around the right end of the building, with that big shotgun-thing in his hands. It looked like a grenade launcher, one of those rotary kind with a dozen shots, like a huge revolver. Probably loaded with flechette, something to take down a super-healer.

The front parking lot of the building was filled with activity as bikers roared off or spread out to watch from a distance in about equal numbers. The ones with no record or warrants outstanding stayed for the fun, and to prove they were not afraid.

Lights and activity provided a backdrop and enough confusion that Daniel wasn’t worried they would see him here in the back seat of his van, watching from behind the front headrest. They might think it was Elise that had fired at them. It didn’t really matter what they thought, though, for he could hear sirens in the southern distance. Someone had called 911 and Stafford County’s finest were on their way.

Daniel was right; as he watched, they just grabbed Elise and dragged her off, three of them, big men in ill-fitting dark suits. A fourth opened the door to the black Suburban at the edge of the front parking lot, and the thinning crowd of bikers parted like the Red Sea as the three men walked through waving their cannons. Moments later they were gone northbound in a screech of tire smoke.

Daniel followed discreetly, heading north too, trailing behind. He wished he could follow them but that would play into their hands. Instead, he wanted to duck into Quantico Marine Base to avoid getting pulled over by the sheriffs’ department and having to answer their questions. He’d risk the slight possibility of a search at the Marine gate. Usually the faded windshield sticker with Senior Master Sergeant’s stripes, and his retired ID card, were good for a wave-through with hardly a look.

He got in all right at the commissary gate, to relative safety. Whatever you could say about the Agency, they did not like to tangle with the Department of Defense without all their ducks in order. DOD didn’t much like them either, and Defense was the 800-pound gorilla of the US Government.

The sheriffs’ department, on the other hand, had no problem busting service people on County turf. Lawyer’s fees, court costs and fines kept them in shiny new cop equipment, so he was glad to get on base where they couldn’t reach.

Daniel pulled into the on-base McDonald’s drive-through and got two Big Mac meals. Hungry, he’d eaten nothing but a ham sandwich in some very strange circumstances since coming home less than three hours ago. Was it only that long? Since then, his whole world had turned upside down.

Sitting in the parking lot with the van’s rear against the dumpster-corral wall, he watched and thought. He doubted they knew where he was, or they’d have had him by now, but they must have been tracking Elise. Some kind of bug, like the bloodhound modules used in the sandbox for certain ops. About the size of a pack of cigarettes, a little antenna, a strong magnet, turn it on, stick it under an enemy bumper and as long as the battery lasted you could track him, intel or drone fodder.

He crammed burger into his mouth, sucked down the first Coke in one long pull. Eating the entire first large fries in three big bites, he then slowed down to work on the second meal, and kept thinking.

There was still the mess at his house, unless they cleaned it up. They probably would. And since they had avoided the sheriffs, they didn’t want involvement with local law enforcement. They would want to keep looking for him themselves, he figured.

Well, he’d do his best not to be found.

After finishing off the food his belly felt comfortably distended, so he looked idly at his left hand and the human bite Elise had bestowed on him. Had she lost her mind? She didn’t seem out of her head. What had she meant, “You’ll understand”? The wound wasn’t severe, just a few blood spots where her canines had cut, and some generalized bruising that was fading already.

Pulling out his aid bag, he unrolled it to access the equipment. He poured some disinfectant on his hand, wrapped it in some gauze, tied it off awkwardly with his teeth and forgot about it.

His watch beeped twenty hundred, eight p.m. The Marine Corps Exchange was still open and it was right over his shoulder, a hundred yards across the parking lot. All right, time to improve my supply situation.

He drove over and parked just on the side of the enormous building, then grabbed a cart and went shopping. An ice chest, always useful. A two-gallon water jug. Some MREs, meals ready-to-eat. Field gear. A few other odds and ends, another two prepaid disposable phones and a pack of batteries for them. He’d have to make some calls sometime. Paying cash again, he loaded his purchases in the van, then drove off down a side-street and parked next to a pair of battered white base engineer work vans, blending right in.