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like this, he could not imagine, but the evidence before his eyes could not be disputed.
“There she blows,” Buchs told him, leaning across for a closer look.
Kane glanced at the man for a moment, smelling mint julep on his breath as he spoke. “Mighty impressive,” he commented. “You find this place or build it?”
“Built it,” Buchs shouted with a proud, toothy smile. “The air around here is real clean, good for manufacturing the kind of stuff we wanted, free from dust and junk like that.”
“And prying eyes,” Grant added from over Kane’s shoulder. Even raised as it was, Grant’s voice was a low rumble like approaching thunder, emanating from somewhere deep in his chest.
The mustached negotiator nodded. “Life’s easier that way, isn’t it?”
The Chinook dipped lower, circling the vast factory. Oblong in shape, Kane estimated that the factory stretched the length of a thousand feet. Veering around, the Chinook’s pilot located the landing pad—just a square of smoothed rock among the otherwise uneven ground—and brought the craft down into a swift drop. There were roads here, Kane saw as they descended, rough paths cut through the uneven terrain. Perhaps not so inaccessible after all, then.
Recognizing the landing pattern, the paraplegic shimmied back in his seat and clung to a handhold that jutted from one wall. He gritted his teeth as the chopper came down, landing with the violence and abruptness of a prizefighter’s punch.
Kane had taken the cue and braced, too, as the craft came to land. Behind him Brigid lurched forward in her seat, tumbling toward Kane’s seat back until Grant grabbed her with one of his big paws, his well-muscled arm stopping her like a safety bar on a fairground ride. An experienced chopper pilot and passenger, Grant dismissed Brigid’s thanks with a smile. “Gotta know when to hold ’em,” he told her.
“And when to fold ’em,” Brigid finished, smiling back.
An instant later, two of the armed guards hurried forward to unlatch and draw back the doors before their leader, Buchs, made his way out of the craft on his gracefully curving fiberglass limbs. His artificial walk reminded Kane of a grasshopper, with a bouncing gait that made it appear he was walking on a springy surface like an old bouncy castle.
Kane stepped from the helicopter and joined the negotiator while Grant, Brigid and the other security officers followed. They were thirty feet from the outside wall of the factory, where a set of rollback doors had been opened wide. The sunlight turned the brown paint of the doors a pleasing shade of umber. People and machinery could be seen working inside the building, sparks flying like film scratches on the air where metal was tooled and cut, whining and screeching like a choir of cats. Beside the rollback doors, a line of jeep-type road vehicles had been parked, six in all, roofless and each one painted black. They looked new and Kane suspected they had come from the factory’s production line.
“So, what is it you make here, Mr. Buchs?” Kane asked as he kept pace beside the negotiator.
“Little of everything,” Buchs told him, trudging along with his strangely bounding steps. “Your people said you’d be able to fund us through to the year after next, but I have to warn you it’s a pretty big production line we have going now.”
Kane smiled. “All to the good,” he said, “if it means a better return on our investment, right?”
The negotiator laughed. “Sure.”
Stepping past the jeeps—and noticing their wet-paint smell even as he did so—Kane made his way through the wide doors and into the factory. Three stories high from the outside, the factory was four deep within, another story carved into the rock itself. It appeared to be just one gigantic room split in two down the middle. Vast conveyor belts snaked through the room, rising to a height of fifteen feet or more, many of them wider than the vehicles at the doors. There
“There she blows,” Buchs told him, leaning across for a closer look.
Kane glanced at the man for a moment, smelling mint julep on his breath as he spoke. “Mighty impressive,” he commented. “You find this place or build it?”
“Built it,” Buchs shouted with a proud, toothy smile. “The air around here is real clean, good for manufacturing the kind of stuff we wanted, free from dust and junk like that.”
“And prying eyes,” Grant added from over Kane’s shoulder. Even raised as it was, Grant’s voice was a low rumble like approaching thunder, emanating from somewhere deep in his chest.
The mustached negotiator nodded. “Life’s easier that way, isn’t it?”
The Chinook dipped lower, circling the vast factory. Oblong in shape, Kane estimated that the factory stretched the length of a thousand feet. Veering around, the Chinook’s pilot located the landing pad—just a square of smoothed rock among the otherwise uneven ground—and brought the craft down into a swift drop. There were roads here, Kane saw as they descended, rough paths cut through the uneven terrain. Perhaps not so inaccessible after all, then.
Recognizing the landing pattern, the paraplegic shimmied back in his seat and clung to a handhold that jutted from one wall. He gritted his teeth as the chopper came down, landing with the violence and abruptness of a prizefighter’s punch.
Kane had taken the cue and braced, too, as the craft came to land. Behind him Brigid lurched forward in her seat, tumbling toward Kane’s seat back until Grant grabbed her with one of his big paws, his well-muscled arm stopping her like a safety bar on a fairground ride. An experienced chopper pilot and passenger, Grant dismissed Brigid’s thanks with a smile. “Gotta know when to hold ’em,” he told her.
“And when to fold ’em,” Brigid finished, smiling back.
An instant later, two of the armed guards hurried forward to unlatch and draw back the doors before their leader, Buchs, made his way out of the craft on his gracefully curving fiberglass limbs. His artificial walk reminded Kane of a grasshopper, with a bouncing gait that made it appear he was walking on a springy surface like an old bouncy castle.
Kane stepped from the helicopter and joined the negotiator while Grant, Brigid and the other security officers followed. They were thirty feet from the outside wall of the factory, where a set of rollback doors had been opened wide. The sunlight turned the brown paint of the doors a pleasing shade of umber. People and machinery could be seen working inside the building, sparks flying like film scratches on the air where metal was tooled and cut, whining and screeching like a choir of cats. Beside the rollback doors, a line of jeep-type road vehicles had been parked, six in all, roofless and each one painted black. They looked new and Kane suspected they had come from the factory’s production line.
“So, what is it you make here, Mr. Buchs?” Kane asked as he kept pace beside the negotiator.
“Little of everything,” Buchs told him, trudging along with his strangely bounding steps. “Your people said you’d be able to fund us through to the year after next, but I have to warn you it’s a pretty big production line we have going now.”
Kane smiled. “All to the good,” he said, “if it means a better return on our investment, right?”
The negotiator laughed. “Sure.”
Stepping past the jeeps—and noticing their wet-paint smell even as he did so—Kane made his way through the wide doors and into the factory. Three stories high from the outside, the factory was four deep within, another story carved into the rock itself. It appeared to be just one gigantic room split in two down the middle. Vast conveyor belts snaked through the room, rising to a height of fifteen feet or more, many of them wider than the vehicles at the doors. There
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