Deep Storm

4

Kevin Lindengood had worked everything out with fanatical attention. He knew the game was potentially dangerous-maybe even very dangerous. But it was a game about preparation and control. He was well prepared, and he was in complete control. And that was why there was nothing to worry about.

He leaned over the hood of his beat-up Taurus, watching the Biscayne Boulevard traffic pass by. This gas station was on one of Miami 's busiest thoroughfares. You couldn't ask for a more public place. And a public place meant safety.

He loitered by the air pump, hose in hand, pretending to check the tires. It was a hot day, well over ninety, but Lindengood welcomed the heat. On the Storm King oil platform, he'd had enough ice and snow to last several lifetimes. Hicks and his damn iPod, Wherry and his swaggering…there was no way in hell he wanted to go back to that life. And if he played his cards right today, he wouldn't have to.

As he straightened up from the front passenger tire, a black sedan pulled into the station and parked in the service area, a dozen feet away. With a thrill that was half excitement and half fear, Lindengood saw his contact get out of the driver's seat. The man was wearing the clothes he had insisted on for the meeting: tank top and swimming trunks. No chance to conceal a weapon of any kind.

He glanced at his watch. Seven o'clock: the man had arrived precisely on time.

Preparation and control.

Now the man was walking toward him. In prior meetings, he'd said his name was Wallace, but had never volunteered a last name. Lindengood was fairly certain even Wallace was an alias. He was thin, with a swimmer's physique. He wore thick tortoiseshell glasses and limped slightly as he walked, as if one leg was a bit shorter than the other. Lindengood had never seen the man in a tank top before, and he couldn't help but be amused at how pale his skin was. Clearly, this was a fellow who spent most of his time in front of a computer.

"You got my message," Lindengood said as the man approached.

"What's this about?"

"I think we'd be more comfortable in my car," Lindengood replied.

The man stood still a moment, then shrugged and slipped into the passenger seat.

Lindengood walked around the front of the car and got in behind the wheel, careful to leave the door wide open. He kept the air hose in his hand, playing with it idly. The man wasn't going to try anything, not here-besides, he hardly looked the physical type-but on the off chance he did, Lindengood could use the air hose as a blackjack. Yet once again he reminded himself that wouldn't be necessary: he'd transact his bit of business and then vanish. Wallace didn't know where he lived, and Lindengood sure as hell wasn't about to tell him.

"You've been paid, and paid well," Wallace said in his quiet voice. "Your part of the job is finished."

"I know that," Lindengood replied, careful to keep his own voice firm and confident. "It's just that, now that I know a little more about your, um, operation, I'm beginning to think I was underpaid."

"You don't know anything about any operation."

"I know that it's far from kosher. Look, I'm the one who found you, remember?"

Wallace didn't answer. He simply stared back, his expression neutral, almost placid. Outside, the air compressor chuffed, then chimed, as it maintained pressure.

"See, I was one of the last of the crew to leave Storm King," Lindengood went on. "It happened a week after we'd finished our little business, and I'd fed you the last of the data. All these government types, all these scientists, began swarming over the place. And I got to thinking. Something huge, really huge, was taking place. It was a lot bigger than I'd ever thought. So just the fact you were interested in what I had to sell meant your people must have resources-and deep pockets."

"What's your point?" Wallace said.

Lindengood licked his lips. "My point is certain officials would be very, very eager to learn of your interest in Storm King."

"Are you threatening us?" Wallace asked. His quiet voice had gone silky.

"I don't want to use that word. Let's say I'm trying to redress an imbalance. Clearly my original fee wasn't nearly enough. Hey, I'm the guy who first discovered the readings, reported the anomaly. Doesn't that count for anything? And I passed the information on to you: all the readouts, the triangulation data, the telemetry from the deep-sea probe. Everything. And I'm the only one who could have done it-I made the connection, saw the data. No one else knows."

"No one else," Wallace repeated.

"Without me, your people wouldn't even have known about the project. You wouldn't have your own-I presume?-assets in place."

Wallace took off his glasses, began polishing them on the tank top. "How much were you thinking?"

"I was thinking fifty thousand."

"And then you'll go away for good. Is that it?"

Lindengood nodded. "You'll never hear from me again."

Wallace considered this for a moment, still polishing. "It'll take me a day or two to get the money together. We'll have to meet again."

"Two days is fine," Lindengood replied. "We can meet here, the same-"

Quick as a striking snake, Wallace's right fist shot out, index and middle knuckles extended, hammering Lindengood in the solar plexus. A crippling pain blossomed deep in his gut. Lindengood opened his mouth but no sound emerged. Involuntarily he bent forward, fighting to get his wind back, hands clutching his midriff. Now Wallace's right hand grabbed Lindengood by the hair and pulled him down onto the seat while brutally twisting his head around. Staring eyes wide with agony, Lindengood saw Wallace look first left, then right-glasses forgotten-checking that his actions were unobserved. Still holding Lindengood by the hair, he reached over to close the driver's door. As the man sat back again, Lindengood saw he had the air hose in his other hand.

"You, my friend, have just become a liability," Wallace said.

At last, Lindengood found he could speak. But as he drew in breath to yell, Wallace thrust the air hose into the back of his throat.

Lindengood retched and bucked violently. He pulled up from the seat despite the restraint, hair tearing out at the roots. Wallace grabbed a second, larger handful of hair, pulled him back, and with a brutal movement shoved the air hose directly down his windpipe.

Blood filled Lindengood's mouth and throat and he let out a gargling scream. But then Wallace clamped down on the compressor handle; air shot from the nozzle with terrible, overwhelming force; and a pain unlike anything Lindengood had ever remotely imagined exploded in his chest.