TARGET #4
MAR A VISTA—CALIFORNIA
IN THE “FAMILY AREA” OF JIMBO’S MOTOR HOME, Einar ground his teeth until his jaw hurt. The room stunk—a mixture of body odor and cigarette smoke. His legs ached from standing, but he refused to crowd in with the others around the faded dinette set. Not until Reverend Jimbo was done with his Bible study.
He hated Reverend Jimbo.
He hated his disgusting mobile home.
He hated the Americans.
In the background, Reverend Jimbo read a passage in his slow drawl. Einar watched the old man without listening—thick gray hair slicked halfway down the back of his neck, pockmarked face, the glistening eyes of a true believer. A group of Reverend Jimbo’s followers crowded in around him, rapt, paying attention, although Einar figured the reverend could have read his flock anything—The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, for instance, one of Einar’s childhood favorites—and they would have taken it as gospel.
All of Jimbo’s followers—bikers, ranchers, survivalists, burnouts—had the same stupid tattoo. A scythe slashing down on a serpent as it burst forth from a circle. The symbolism didn’t require much unpacking.
Harvesters, they called themselves.
Einar glanced around the motor home. On the walls were pinned a jumble of newspaper stories about alien life, hand-drawn maps of UFO sightings and snatches of Scripture. Piled against one wall was a stack of rifles.
These people weren’t professional. Compared to the research and resources of the Foundation, Jimbo’s group was laughable.
Even though they often looked at him like a child, Einar missed the efficiency of Jarl and his Blackstone mercenaries. They were banned from operating on American soil, which made getting them into the United States for this operation too much of a risk. His employers had to use what resources were available. In this case, a grassroots cult that believed the Loric were devils made flesh and that any humans touched by them were irredeemably corrupted.
He and Rabiya were alone on this one. A calculated risk by the Foundation, Einar supposed. Even with the addition of the Italian Earth Garde healer, his employers still needed more healing power. Einar sensed the matter was becoming desperate.
If the Harvesters knew what Einar and Rabiya really were, they would certainly try to kill them. Einar sensed the way Jimbo and some of his brighter lights looked at him. They already had suspicions. But his presence had come with a generous contribution to the reverend’s mobile church, both in money and weapons. Not to mention, Einar promised them violence, gave them a purpose. That kept the Harvesters from looking too hard at him and his partner. At least for now.
The weapons Einar provided were like nothing the Harvesters had seen before. They were designed specifically to fight the Garde and currently available only to select government agencies. Select government agencies and the Foundation. Einar and Rabiya were posing as representatives from Sydal Corp, the weapons manufacturer, spending time with the Harvesters so that they could field-test their anti-Garde technology. That made the Harvesters feel special.
“That’s an honest-to-God multinational corporation, y’hear?” Reverend Jimbo had told his men when he introduced Einar. “We ain’t just pissing in the wind out here. The powers-that-be, they’re starting to take notice.” That Einar and Rabiya were a little young to be representing a prominent weapons manufacturer like Sydal Corp didn’t seem to occur to the Harvesters. That they were both obviously foreigners didn’t raise any red flags either. Jimbo had stressed multinational, after all.
And what better place to test these weapons than out here, on the coast of California? They just had to wait for a suitable target to come along. A straggler. That’s what Einar had told Jimbo and the others, anyway.
They didn’t need to know that he and Rabiya were waiting for someone in particular.
Einar brushed a spot of lint off the front of his black button-down. The Harvesters favored what Einar considered silly postapocalyptic costumes—leather, gas masks, outlaw bandannas. He stuck out in their company by wearing a fine gray suit and wingtip shoes. Despite the preponderance of mildew in Reverend Jimbo’s narrow motor home shower, Einar managed to stay immaculately clean. He kept his light brown hair rigidly parted from the side. There was not a speck of dirt under his fingernails.
He and Rabiya had been out here for a week. Living among the vermin. Waiting.
A walkie-talkie buzzed to life. “Got one coming your way,” said the scratchy voice of a Harvester. Aside from the reverend, Einar hadn’t bothered to learn any of their names. “White van. Looks like another supply run.”
Einar quickly picked up his attaché. He turned to the reverend and his disciples, who had paused in their reading.
“I’ll look into it,” Einar said. “Ready yourselves.”
“With the Lord’s guidance, we are always ready,” the reverend responded. He motioned for one of the Harvesters—a muscular young man with slicked-back black hair—to join Einar. The reverend always had someone watching him.
Einar stepped outside, the cool night air a relief after the stuffy odors of the motor home. His escort followed him. Outside were a dozen more Harvesters and their motorcycles. They had skipped Bible study to drink beers and grill what were probably steaks but Einar imagined to be squirrels.
Their encampment was on a ridge that overlooked the Mar a Vista scenic roadway. In the decades before the Academy took over this piece of California, Mar a Vista was popular with tourists and surfers. Now, according to the Foundation’s source inside the Academy, it was the route the Peacekeepers used when they wanted to travel unobserved. Unlike the nearby Shoreline Highway, this road was secluded. Usually without traffic. Perfect for discreet travel, but also ripe for a trap.
Thanks to their source, Einar knew exactly where the Academy’s security checkpoints were located. The Harvesters had a handful of vagabond-looking bikers posted nearby there—far enough away to avoid detection but close enough to observe any comings and goings. That’s who had radioed in.
In addition, there was a small team farther south on the highway, ready to spring a roadblock on Einar’s command. Rabiya was down there, supervising that piece of the operation. If they were discovered as Garde and the Harvesters turned on them, it was better that Einar be with the bulk of the group. He could handle them.
Einar’s source had assured the Foundation that the target made frequent visits to San Francisco, where she honed her skills at a local hospital. She would come this way. In all likelihood, she would be escorted by Peacekeepers and some Academy personnel. All expendable.
Whenever a vehicle left the Academy via Mar a Vista, they checked it. So far, there had been no sign of their target.
The Peacekeepers would detect their presence eventually. They couldn’t camp out here forever without attracting attention. Every day, much to Einar’s chagrin, the number of Harvesters increased. Word was spreading, a small army amassing. The atmosphere around the reverend’s camp got more and more like a party. But Einar could tell the Harvesters were growing restless. Soon, they’d want some action, whether approved by Einar or not. He’d already overheard the idiots pondering an assault on the Academy. A lot of bold talk.
The operation would have to fold up if the Harvesters became too unruly. He hadn’t been sent here for a pointless attack on the Academy.
The whole mission was riskier than Einar would’ve liked. Riskier, even, than kidnapping the sniveling Italian boy in the Philippines. Acting so close to the Academy; there would be consequences. His employers surely knew that. They’d likely run dozens of cost-benefit analyses.
Acquiring the target was worth the exposure.
And, if all went well, the whole operation would simply be blamed on the Harvesters.
Three days ago was Einar’s eighteenth birthday. He’d spent it among these sweat-stinking cretins. He hadn’t told anyone, not even Rabiya.
As a belated gift, he hoped to see some of these Harvesters die.
Einar speed-walked towards the ridge with his Harvester escort. Once there, he crouched down in the grass, careful not to get any dirt on his suit. He opened his attaché and took out his goggles. They were bulky things and Einar tsked in annoyance as one of the straps caught on his ear.
“Here, let me help,” said the Harvester. He straightened the strap on the back of Einar’s head before Einar could stop him.
Einar turned to regard the Harvester. His eyes looked bulbous and huge with the goggles on.
“Thank you,” said Einar coldly.
“No problem,” the guy said. “That accent. You Russian or something? Been meaning to ask.”
“Icelandic,” Einar replied.
He turned to watch the road, waiting for the van to come into view. The goggles were not night vision. They did not magnify Einar’s vision. He stared into the darkness.
If his target came down that road, he would know.
“Never met anyone from Iceland before,” the Harvester continued. “That’s cool.”
“What is your name?” Einar asked.
“Silas.”
“You are talkative, Silas,” Einar observed. “Does the dark make you nervous?”
Silas laughed. “Hell no, man. I’m just making conversation.”
Einar concentrated on this young man. Silas’s palms began to sweat. His stomach turned over, clenched in a knot. His heart was pounding now. Was that movement in the grass? What were those shadows? Einar smiled thinly when he sensed Silas creep a little closer to him, as if for protection.
“Actually, it is a little freaky out here,” Silas said, his voice cracking. “Shit, man. I’m weirded out.”
“Be calm,” Einar said, and released his hold on the Harvester. It was so easy to put the fear in people when they didn’t know what was happening.
Headlights appeared in the distance. Einar turned his attention to the road below. The van approached . . .
“What . . . ?” Einar mumbled.
He struck the side of his goggles with the heel of his hand. What he saw didn’t seem possible. He checked the diagnostic in the bottom-left corner of the display. Everything appeared normal; the goggle’s batteries were fully charged.
The reading had to be correct.
Einar’s lips quirked in a bemused smile. Through his goggles, he watched six vivid blue energy signatures pass by on the road.
He pulled his walkie-talkie from his hip. “Rabiya?”
His partner came back a moment later, her voice soft as always. “Yes, Einar?”
“There are six coming your way. Confirm the target is among them before engaging.”
“Yes, Einar.”
Calmly, Einar returned the goggles to his attaché. He felt Silas’s eyes upon him, his mouth agape.
“You say six, fella?” Silas asked. “Six of—of those things down there in that van?”
“Yes. Six of them without an escort,” Einar replied. He turned on his heel and headed back for camp. “Your men must arm themselves and prepare to engage.”