Power in the Hands of One Read Online Free
metal car drops in silence to the basement. At the bottom, the doors retract. My steps across the gray cement are substantial; every placement of foot is a resolute scuff.
I hustle through the startup sequence for the bike before fastening my helmet. Strange—pulling out of the parking space is easy; riding up the ramp and onto the street takes no great strength of will. It seems I’ve temporarily lost my restraint; I feel almost confident as I blast down empty city streets.
The crisp night air wraps around my exposed neck, and with it comes a new clarity. And with that clarity, more questions. Ray said he was scared not only of the Illuma Corp, but also of what Worthington built—so scared that his usual decisive nature was rendered anemic.
Yet Ray is intent on following through with this insanity. It’s out of character and illogical. There must be something he hasn’t told me—something critical. My fear is that I’ll discover whatever that is too late in the game for it to matter.
The fact is I’m en route to a secure warehouse owned by a shadowy organization. The CEO of said organization might be involved in quasi-illegal activities which include the creation of technologically advanced war machines. Chances are I’ll get more than I asked for.
6
Bennett Road is a never-ender consisting mostly of unremarkable straightaways. Doused in headlight, I trade the road ahead for a side mirror every few seconds. Each time I check, the only thing chasing me is the darkness.
I regret not asking for specific directions, if Ray would’ve let me. Heading north, I assume the storage facility will be obvious when I see it, considering there’s not much to speak of in the way of architecture.
My assumption is rewarded when I reach a crossroad. There’s an enormous domed building five hundred feet further up the road, bloated against the starlit horizon. Feathering the clutch, I increase throttle and pull away, anxious.
The structure looms ahead, elongated and bulbous. The surrounding grounds are protected by a fence. I pull up to the gate where there is a speaker box on a post; I engage its red button and wait for a response.
“Troy.” Ray’s voice, tinny and hollow, squawks through the speaker. “Enter.”
There is a clink and then the gate opens as if pulled by invisible hands. I buzz through the gap, after which the gate closes behind me. I steer the bike next to Ray’s green Infiniti. There are no other cars in the grassy lot.
Ray emerges from the cocoon-like structure via a side door. He waves me over and then stops me at the door. Putting a hand on my shoulder, he says, “Thank you for coming.” He’s still wearing the dark slacks and button-up from yesterday and his hair lies greasy and disheveled.
I return his uncomfortable gaze and nod, indicating it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal. I follow Ray through the door, willpower railing against common sense.
Inside, we’re dwarfed by the exposed ceiling, the crossbeams and other structural arches curving beneath the shell of the roof. Fifty feet inward is a partition, separating the sparse, open area we are in from the remainder of the facility.
Reading my expression, Ray explains as if giving a tour. “It was an airship hangar—364,000 square feet. Redd Research purchased it in the eighties. It was modified for storage and then later for manufacturing—climate control to manage humidity, etc.”
I’m puzzled by Ray’s calm demeanor after his rant on the phone—the rant which brought me here at this ungodly hour. I’m ready to comment on this but he hustles me onward.
Ray gestures toward a simple steel desk and a few boxes. “There’s nothing to see out here, though most people aren’t even allowed this far.” We stop at a door in the partition, where he swipes a security card.
After a beep, I follow Ray into the next portion of the hangar, which is approximately the same size as the first. There is an array of video monitors to
I hustle through the startup sequence for the bike before fastening my helmet. Strange—pulling out of the parking space is easy; riding up the ramp and onto the street takes no great strength of will. It seems I’ve temporarily lost my restraint; I feel almost confident as I blast down empty city streets.
The crisp night air wraps around my exposed neck, and with it comes a new clarity. And with that clarity, more questions. Ray said he was scared not only of the Illuma Corp, but also of what Worthington built—so scared that his usual decisive nature was rendered anemic.
Yet Ray is intent on following through with this insanity. It’s out of character and illogical. There must be something he hasn’t told me—something critical. My fear is that I’ll discover whatever that is too late in the game for it to matter.
The fact is I’m en route to a secure warehouse owned by a shadowy organization. The CEO of said organization might be involved in quasi-illegal activities which include the creation of technologically advanced war machines. Chances are I’ll get more than I asked for.
6
Bennett Road is a never-ender consisting mostly of unremarkable straightaways. Doused in headlight, I trade the road ahead for a side mirror every few seconds. Each time I check, the only thing chasing me is the darkness.
I regret not asking for specific directions, if Ray would’ve let me. Heading north, I assume the storage facility will be obvious when I see it, considering there’s not much to speak of in the way of architecture.
My assumption is rewarded when I reach a crossroad. There’s an enormous domed building five hundred feet further up the road, bloated against the starlit horizon. Feathering the clutch, I increase throttle and pull away, anxious.
The structure looms ahead, elongated and bulbous. The surrounding grounds are protected by a fence. I pull up to the gate where there is a speaker box on a post; I engage its red button and wait for a response.
“Troy.” Ray’s voice, tinny and hollow, squawks through the speaker. “Enter.”
There is a clink and then the gate opens as if pulled by invisible hands. I buzz through the gap, after which the gate closes behind me. I steer the bike next to Ray’s green Infiniti. There are no other cars in the grassy lot.
Ray emerges from the cocoon-like structure via a side door. He waves me over and then stops me at the door. Putting a hand on my shoulder, he says, “Thank you for coming.” He’s still wearing the dark slacks and button-up from yesterday and his hair lies greasy and disheveled.
I return his uncomfortable gaze and nod, indicating it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal. I follow Ray through the door, willpower railing against common sense.
Inside, we’re dwarfed by the exposed ceiling, the crossbeams and other structural arches curving beneath the shell of the roof. Fifty feet inward is a partition, separating the sparse, open area we are in from the remainder of the facility.
Reading my expression, Ray explains as if giving a tour. “It was an airship hangar—364,000 square feet. Redd Research purchased it in the eighties. It was modified for storage and then later for manufacturing—climate control to manage humidity, etc.”
I’m puzzled by Ray’s calm demeanor after his rant on the phone—the rant which brought me here at this ungodly hour. I’m ready to comment on this but he hustles me onward.
Ray gestures toward a simple steel desk and a few boxes. “There’s nothing to see out here, though most people aren’t even allowed this far.” We stop at a door in the partition, where he swipes a security card.
After a beep, I follow Ray into the next portion of the hangar, which is approximately the same size as the first. There is an array of video monitors to
Readers choose
Megan Linski
Lin Anderson
Allan Leverone
Margaret Weis
James McCourt
Sam Crescent
Ted Dekker
Suzanne Woods Fisher
Michael Kuhar