Within the span of five minutes and twenty-three seconds, two things became absolutely and irrevocably real to Justine Rushing.

  One: Having listened to only snippets of Foster repeating the details of his fateful phone call, Barbara had quickly made her way back to the lab’s spacious sleeping quarters. Once there, she locked the door, pulled the covers up over her head, then screamed through the fiberglass walls “I’m done with this shit!”

  Two: Now more than ever, Justine was convinced that Foster was an absolute idiot.

  “You’ve got to be the biggest moron I’ve ever met Foster! Is this how it went down eight years ago?” She did her best imitation of a hysterical puppet. “What did you say to Fitz Hume back then? I think aliens are enslaving people, director. We’re under attack, director! Please believe me, director!”

  “Everything except for the whole enslaving people part. That’s a rather new development.” Foster marched over to the conference table, where his tablet was powering down. He slung the still humming device into his satchel. “Listen, I’m not saying that wasn’t a good guess, Agent Rushing. I am also not saying that’s how it went down. What I can say is, I didn’t say the word director that many times.”

  “Is that what you think is important right now?” She stared at the man as he stood there with that stupid grin on his stupid face. Her anger once again flared deep in her soul. “Foster, who in their right mind would believe what you just told me?”

  “I would.” Hoover said in response to her question.

  “You’re a conspiracy theorist, Hoover.” Her head tilted slightly to the side like she was trying to look directly at the voice in her head. “You would be anything he said.”

  “Oh, Agent Rushing,” Hoover’s tone shifted to pity. “What you call being a conspiracy theorist, I call being a good friend.”

  Exasperated, she said, “you’re both insane.”

  “Maybe… but we’re also in a hurry.” Without expanding any further into what happened, Foster started toward the driver’s cabin and beyond that door, to his freedom. This slow-motion escape attempt turned an already tense situation into one which forced the conflicted agent into doing something she really didn’t want to do.

  “Stop!” She forcefully ordered with the futuristic ray gun aimed squarely at his back. “I’ve got orders, Foster.”

  “Orders?” The man who would be her prisoner spun around with a contemptuous look on his face. She couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t act fazed by her threat. “At least the agents who arrested me eight years ago were ill-advised. They didn’t have the facts that you now take for granted. I thought you were smarter than that. I really did.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Foster.” She replayed every one of his crazy ideas in her head. Just the thought of them made her want to scream. “But I just can’t buy into your theories on a whim. No matter what I’ve seen.”

  “Well,” Foster adjusted his satchel then shrugged. “Then, it’s a good thing I’m not selling anything, Agent Rushing. So just run back to the director like a good little automaton. After all,” he made sure to infuse his next words with as much guilt as possible. “You have your orders.”

  “You’re right. I do have my orders. But out of my own curiosity, what are you planning?” she asked in a more controlled voice as more doubt entered her already doubtful mind. She let the Slinger lower a fraction of an inch. “And where do you think you’re going that we couldn’t find you?”

  “To prove I’m not crazy.”

  “And just how are you going to accomplish that?”

  “Do you remember the odd brain scans I just showed you?” She recalled the last part of Foster’s presentation. She pictured those holographic MRI scans. How something weird had occurred within the mind of their bank killer, something that couldn’t be explained by some dye and a powerful magnet.

  “Hoover ran those scans against everyone who had ever received an MRI at that hospital during the past 12 months. And he found something.”

  “What did he find?” Justine said as her curiosity allowed the door to Foster’s crazy to open a little bit more.

  “He found a set of scans that matched our prisoner’s.”

  “Whose scans?” Her question was quickly followed by a recent memory of a person. No, not a person, a deputy. A deputy named Joseph Howlam. So, whether out of wanting or needing to believe him, she lowered the gun even more. “Where is this person?”

  “That’s where I’m heading now.”

  Then, as quickly as she could blink, Foster disappeared from the conference room by way of the driver’s cabin. With the speed of a sprinter, Justine catapulted forward, until the lab’s exit was only a sharp right turn away. She was about to take the four steps to the pavement in a single bound when a voice from the driver’s seat stopped her dead in her tracks.

  “Where are you going?” Foster asked with an air of curiosity. “Are you already hungry again?”

  “What!” Justine slammed on her brakes so swiftly that she almost tumbled to the concrete parking lot below. Pissed and confused, she turned around to discover Foster sitting comfortably in an oversized leather chair, smiling like a hyena. “I thought you were trying to escape.”

  “That depends, Agent Rushing,” he gave her a quizzical look. “You still haven’t told me your final decision? Do you follow the director’s orders and turn me in, or do you follow your instincts and see this thing through with me?”

  Justine hesitated. Caught between duty and inquisitiveness, the thought of running off with this man on a search for aliens with his amazing tech was the dream of every sci-fi nerd. Who wouldn’t want to defend the frontier against Xur and Kodan armada?

  But this wasn’t a movie, or a comic book, or a television show you could just put back on the shelf when you had enough. This was real life. And her next set of moves would more than likely determine the course of maybe the rest of her life.

  “Foster,” Justine teetered on the brink of telling him no. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Of course it is.” Foster’s face was uncharacteristically placid. “You just make a decision.”

  “Maybe for you. You’ve got nothing really to lose.” As the words escaped her mouth, she knew she would regret them. And stared at Foster’s face, she did. “I mean…”

  “No, you’re right. I’ve got nothing to lose, Agent Rushing. Not after he took everything away from me.” Justine watched as a rising anger swirled just beneath his fa?ade. And more than she wanted to admit, she understood the reason for it being there.

  “Listen,” again the young agent started to put an end to his plans when something strange happened. His sly grin reappeared. Only this time, the mere sight of it didn’t annoy the shit out of her. This time, his smile had morphed into something sweet and endearing. Something that…

  Justine’s eyes closed as her inner FBI agent railed against the direction this conversation was going. What the hell was happening to her? Why was she hesitating? What else was in his satchel?

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Foster…” shaking off that last question, she tried for a third time to say no and follow her orders. But something about this man and that grin gave her pause. Something about letting an injustice occur when she could stop it.

  Then, that switch that made life and death decisions in her head went off. And without any more doubt, she made a big one. Screw Edgar Fitz Hume, she screamed silently to herself. Screw him and his bullshit orders.

  “Fuck it. Where are we going and how are we getting there?” She scanned the parking lot for a vehicle they might be able to ‘borrow’. “Jeff and Malcolm have the Tahoe.”

  “True,” Foster’s smile grew even bigger, which for some reason made her decision even more exciting. He twisted around in the driver’s chair until he was facing a large panel full of various buttons and switches.

  “You know, I have always wanted to drive one of these things ever since I was a little kid.” He began turning the steering wheel, pretending to drive the behemoth vehicle like he knew what he was doing.

  “First of all,” she placed a hand of reason on his excited wrist. “You don’t know how to drive one of these things. Second,” Justine remembered the way that Malcolm blindly sped into town yesterday when the need called for it. “There’s no way we could escape from Malcolm in this thing.”

  “Your absolutely right, Agent Rushing.” Foster searched through the sea of switches until he located a bright red one on a nearby console labeled GARAGE. Without skipping a beat, he pressed it. “But I’ve accounted for that.”

  “Accounted for it?”

  In response, the mobile lab began to shake so violently that Justine needed to steady herself on one of the nearby railings. For a second, she would have sworn they were in the middle of an earthquake. But just as quickly as the shuddering began, whatever was happening to the RV started to dial back.

  Soon, all she could feel was the hum of what sounded like an electric motor beneath their feet. “What the hell is going on?”

  “You didn’t read the briefing packet on this thing, did you?” Like a record stuck on the same embarrassing song, she shyly shook her head.

  Foster stood up and waited by the top of the mobile lab’s steps.

  “Generally, this thing is equipped with a backup vehicle for situations that require multiple field teams. Normally, the GSA would bring a Buick Lesabre or Crown Victoria. But I had a funny feeling that Fitz Hume might try and double cross me.” He took one step toward the exit. “So, I figured that if I had to run, I should have something with a little more horsepower.”

  As the vehicle continued to vibrate, Foster started down the steps. On his heels, Justine hit the pavement just in time to see the lab do something unexpected. Between the front and rear wheels, she watched as a rectangular section of the exterior plating pushed outward from the main shell about six inches. Then, on hidden steel tracks, the panel rose up out of the way to reveal a hidden cavity beneath the lab.

  “What is that?” Justine asked, but Foster motioned with his hand for her to wait.

  She did as somewhere inside the opening, industrial hydraulics engaged, and a large platform slid outward into the bright midday sun. On top of that platform sat a car. Or more precisely, a brand new, jet black, 2013 Ford Mustang GT500.

  Instantly, Justine felt her legs wobble a little. Even so, she couldn’t help but smile at what sat before her. “What the hell?” Her voice cracked as she excitedly staggered over to the car and ran her hand across the perfectly formed hood.

  “Is this thing gassed up?” the dumbstruck agent asked.

  “Again, I refer to the packet you didn’t read.” He couldn’t help but swell up a little bit at her happiness. “I had Hoover make a last-minute request just before we left Wilson. Do you like it?”

  “I don’t know.” The goofy look on her face answered that question. “Do you have the keys?”

  “No,” he patted his pockets in a feigned attempt to find them. “But I do have the next best thing. Hoover, I need a car started.”

  Instantly, the Mustang’s throaty engine roared to life as eight powerful cylinders exploded in succession. At the same time, Hoover unlocked both doors. Without saying anything, Foster opened the passenger door and hopped in. Confused by all this, Justine marched over to Foster’s door and rapped on the window. He pressed a button, and the window smoothly slid open.

  “I don’t understand. Do you expect me to drive this thing?”

  “Agent Rushing,” he said. “I expected you to drive this thing from the very beginning.”

  Smiling from ear to ear, she rushed around the front of the car and hurtled into the driver’s seat. “So,” Justine pressed the center shifter into the drive position. “Where are we headed?”

  In the center console, a six-inch monitor flashed to life, and an address appeared near the bottom of a finely detailed satellite image of the town. “1341 Mt. Vernon Rd,” she asked, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “That’s where we’re going? That’s where Joseph Howlam lives?”

  “Yes.” Foster started fooling around with the radio dials. “At least that’s what the post office says.”

  Justine waited for him to elaborate on his plan, but he just kept scanning through the local radio stations. Remembering their time crunch, she eased the car off the ramp, maneuvered around the icy parking lot and headed toward the main road. Near the entrance to the hotel parking lot, she hit the brakes so hard that Foster went flying into the dashboard.

  “What the hell!” Startled, he started rubbing his forehead. “Why did you stop?”

  “What about Jeff and Malcolm? They’ll be looking for us.”

  “No, they won’t.” Foster returned to the radio dial. “Hoover, can you buy us a little time.”

  “Absolutely.” Hoover said happily as he went to work.

  Foster didn’t say what Hoover was going to do, but Justine knew that whatever it was, Jeff would be pissed. She looked right then left, and there wasn’t another car anywhere in sight. Throwing caution to the wind, Justine fed the engine with her foot and the whole car vibrated with power.

  “I really like this car, Foster.”

  “I know you do.”

  “What a minute,” her brain clicked into another gear as the memory of her computer’s lock screen sprang forth. “You didn’t?”

  “I didn’t” Foster motioned for Justine to hit it. “Hoover did.”

  With that, she planted the gas pedal to the floorboard. The Mustang responded to her actions like a caged beast wanting to run and the car slid sideways onto the highway. And for the first time since meeting Foster and his little program, she wasn’t at all offended by either of them crossing her well placed boundaries.

  ________________

  Ten minutes outside of town, a 2012 Chevy Tahoe sat motionless on the side of the road. Two solitary figures sat inside the vehicle in utter silence as a series of large logging trucks flew past them on the way to some unknown worksite.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Saunders asked sullenly.

  Malcolm turned the key over in the ignition again. Just like before, he was welcomed by the single click of a nonresponsive starter. Frustrated, he replied, “I don’t know. But a brand-new Tahoe doesn’t just die on the side of the road with no warning or reason.”

  “What do you think it could be?” Saunders pulled out his phone and tried to dial 911. But for some reason, there wasn’t any service. “Also, my phone’s not working. I’m not getting any bars.”

  Malcolm pulled out his own phone to see that the device was fully charged with all the apps working correctly. And like Saunders, he didn’t have a signal either.

  “That’s strange…” He opened the menu settings and switched the phone’s internal antennae from radio to satellite. Weirdly, the results were the same. “This model is a SAT hybrid, and I’m not getting any reception either.”

  “Doesn’t a satellite phone always get good reception, no matter where you are.”

  “They usually do.” Malcolm tapped the phone against the Tahoe’s steering wheel in a crude attempt to fix it, but nothing changed. In an uncharacteristic fit of anger, he tossed the phone out the window where another passing truck smashed it into a thousand tiny pieces. “I hate technology.”

  Saunders shook his head as his own phone alerted him to an incoming text.

  “How in the hell?” The moderately annoyed senior agent slid his thumb across the tiny screen, and one new message came up.

  The sender’s line contained the name Justine Rushing, and the body of the message contained only two words: “I’m sorry.”

  That figured, Justine had never been one to follow protocol, but this was dangerously close to treason. As he read it over again, the agent’s heart sank. Fitz Hume was probably going to fire her for this.

  “What is it?” Malcolm could see him reading something but couldn’t quite make out what it said. “Is there a problem?”

  “Maybe… probably,” Saunders looked up at the rearview mirror, to the tiny little blue OnStar button resting beneath it. Of course, he thought bitterly. This vehicle’s components, like most new vehicles, were computerized and wired up to the internet. “I know why the Tahoe died. I think Foster’s little program is trying to slow us down.”

  Then, as if the AI was in the actual car with them, his phone beeped again with another message. This time, the sender’s line had the name HOOVER written on it. The message read, “I’m not sorry.”

  “There goes my retirement party.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Malcolm’s normally cool fa?ade cracked a bit more. “What’s happening?”

  “What’s happening is Foster’s in the wind. And I’m afraid Agent Rushing is along for the ride.”

  “Oh.” Malcolm stared down at the Tahoe’s console and grimaced. The check engine light was blinking on and off. “That’s not good.”

  “No, Malcolm. It’s not.”

  Somewhere in cyberspace, Hoover was laughing his ass off.