exchange?
Jack: I was thinking somewhere in California but a little less populated.
Remote: Let me consult a map. . . there are several small towns along the I-5. How about Mount Shasta City, or maybe Dunsmuir?
Jack: Mount Shasta is fine by me.
***
Mount Shasta City was barely more than a large town, with a population of around three and a half thousand. It sat at the base of Mount Shasta itself, born as a way station on the gold rush route called the Siskiyou Trail. These days the trail was known as Interstate Number Five, the prospectors replaced by ski bums and spiritual tourists; the fourteen thousand foot height of the mountain attracted those who wanted to go down it really fast and those who thought it could lift them nearer to Heaven. New Age cults, Buddhist retreats and churches of varying denominations all clustered there; Native American lore held that the mountain contained the essence of a sky chief named Skell, while others claimed it was home to an ancient race of Lemurians who lived in a system of tunnels deep inside.
Malcolm Tanner didn’t much care if gray-skinned aliens landed on top of it every Saturday night and butt-probed all the locals for fun. He was here on more serious business.
He drove carefully. Thick, heavy snow blanketed the shoulder, weighed down the branches on the pine trees lining the road. His SUV had more than enough power or traction to handle most situations, but he wasn’t used to towing a trailer; he glanced at his rear-view mirror every few seconds, worried it would drift out of control. He didn’t want the contents damaged before delivery--not that he cared personally, but it would make him look incompetent. He couldn’t allow that.
The instructions for the transfer had been extremely detailed. Tanner understood the danger; transport was always the most dangerous part of the job. Too many variables, too much risk that the cargo would try to make a break for it or try to alert someone.
Not that there was much chance of that now. Goliath Mason had been in a sleep so deep it was almost a coma for the last six hours, and Tanner didn’t think he’d come out of it any time soon. Even if he did, he was securely shackled and attached to several monitoring devices; Tanner would know he was awake before Mason did.
He stopped at a small mom-and-pop motel, paying for a room in cash, then backed in to his parking spot so the trailer was close to his door. He checked on the sleeping giant and verified that he was still out.
Then he went for a little hike.
The transfer point was in the middle of town, in a parking lot next to a supermarket. It had been easy to find using Google Earth, and it was just as easy on foot. Tanner took his time, playing tourist, circling the area, wandering in and out of shops, buying a paper cup of coffee and a local newspaper. He saw two monks in bright orange robes, some obviously stoned snowboarders, a group of excited Japanese tourists in expensive ski-wear, and any number of ordinary-looking people that might be local or just visiting.
He didn’t see any cops, or anybody that set off his law enforcement radar. If they were here, they were invisible.
Finally, he approached the supermarket itself.
He could see a van parked in one corner, an old brown Econoline with its nose toward the street. He scanned it while walking toward the supermarket’s entrance, trying to make it seem no more than a passing glance. Were those out-of-state plates?
He went into the market, got a basket, grabbed a bag of pretzels and some diet soda. He deliberately picked the slowest line, and studied the van through the large front windows of the store as he waited.
Not much snow on the roof—it hadn’t been parked there long. California plates. No ski rack, no bumper stickers with New Age slogans—not on the back, anyway. No chrome Jesus fish, not that he could see. Rear window was blocked by
Jack: I was thinking somewhere in California but a little less populated.
Remote: Let me consult a map. . . there are several small towns along the I-5. How about Mount Shasta City, or maybe Dunsmuir?
Jack: Mount Shasta is fine by me.
***
Mount Shasta City was barely more than a large town, with a population of around three and a half thousand. It sat at the base of Mount Shasta itself, born as a way station on the gold rush route called the Siskiyou Trail. These days the trail was known as Interstate Number Five, the prospectors replaced by ski bums and spiritual tourists; the fourteen thousand foot height of the mountain attracted those who wanted to go down it really fast and those who thought it could lift them nearer to Heaven. New Age cults, Buddhist retreats and churches of varying denominations all clustered there; Native American lore held that the mountain contained the essence of a sky chief named Skell, while others claimed it was home to an ancient race of Lemurians who lived in a system of tunnels deep inside.
Malcolm Tanner didn’t much care if gray-skinned aliens landed on top of it every Saturday night and butt-probed all the locals for fun. He was here on more serious business.
He drove carefully. Thick, heavy snow blanketed the shoulder, weighed down the branches on the pine trees lining the road. His SUV had more than enough power or traction to handle most situations, but he wasn’t used to towing a trailer; he glanced at his rear-view mirror every few seconds, worried it would drift out of control. He didn’t want the contents damaged before delivery--not that he cared personally, but it would make him look incompetent. He couldn’t allow that.
The instructions for the transfer had been extremely detailed. Tanner understood the danger; transport was always the most dangerous part of the job. Too many variables, too much risk that the cargo would try to make a break for it or try to alert someone.
Not that there was much chance of that now. Goliath Mason had been in a sleep so deep it was almost a coma for the last six hours, and Tanner didn’t think he’d come out of it any time soon. Even if he did, he was securely shackled and attached to several monitoring devices; Tanner would know he was awake before Mason did.
He stopped at a small mom-and-pop motel, paying for a room in cash, then backed in to his parking spot so the trailer was close to his door. He checked on the sleeping giant and verified that he was still out.
Then he went for a little hike.
The transfer point was in the middle of town, in a parking lot next to a supermarket. It had been easy to find using Google Earth, and it was just as easy on foot. Tanner took his time, playing tourist, circling the area, wandering in and out of shops, buying a paper cup of coffee and a local newspaper. He saw two monks in bright orange robes, some obviously stoned snowboarders, a group of excited Japanese tourists in expensive ski-wear, and any number of ordinary-looking people that might be local or just visiting.
He didn’t see any cops, or anybody that set off his law enforcement radar. If they were here, they were invisible.
Finally, he approached the supermarket itself.
He could see a van parked in one corner, an old brown Econoline with its nose toward the street. He scanned it while walking toward the supermarket’s entrance, trying to make it seem no more than a passing glance. Were those out-of-state plates?
He went into the market, got a basket, grabbed a bag of pretzels and some diet soda. He deliberately picked the slowest line, and studied the van through the large front windows of the store as he waited.
Not much snow on the roof—it hadn’t been parked there long. California plates. No ski rack, no bumper stickers with New Age slogans—not on the back, anyway. No chrome Jesus fish, not that he could see. Rear window was blocked by
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