Our Only Hope - S01 E22

Story 10 months ago

Our Only Hope - S01 E22

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 22

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Chapter Seven

The Blue Deuce

It was almost four in the morning before I got out of Davenport after making sure that Wyatt Monty was securely strapped into one of the seats of a small business jet owned by one of Master Randolph’s companies. Once the pilot and I were both satisfied Wyatt would be a peaceful passenger for the many hours that it would take to get to The Society’s private island prison, the pilot reached into a large pocket on the side of his jacket and pulled out a thick manila envelope. “Mister Burroughs said you would be needing this for expenses,” he said as he handed it to me. “The bills are not new and not in numerical sequence,” he added, “but they have been thoroughly laundered.”

I must have looked confused because he quickly said, “Literally laundered... they have been dry cleaned, washed in detergent, and freshly pressed.” Not waiting for my question of why, he explained, “Almost all high denomination money in this country has traces of cocaine or other drugs on it. There’s no danger, except from some cop who is looking for a reason to run you in or take your money. Then they do a field test on your cash and surprise, surprise, they find you are carrying ‘drug money,’ which they can confiscate and/or use as a reason to arrest you.”

“Tell Master Randolph thank you for his thoroughness,” I replied.

“Don’t mix it with your regular cash,” he said quickly. “Cocaine dust transfers easily.”

“I will remember that.” I said. Then I asked, “Anything else?”

“There are also two messages,” the pilot said. “Message one: ‘Get these bastards– especially the traitor.’ Message two: ‘I expect to see the eighty-thousand on your expense account against your expenses.’”

“Tell him I will do my best... for both,” I said as I turned to go back to my Jeep. I waited until the jet was in the air before leaving the airport and starting my trek to Los Angeles.

It is one thousand, eight hundred, forty eight miles from Davenport, Iowa, to Los Angeles, California... at least, that’s what my map program told me. It also said that it would take twenty-seven hours, which doesn’t count eating, sleeping, or taking other necessary bio-breaks.

When I am totally on my own for weeks at a time– which occasionally happens for personal or business reasons– I tend to revert to my natural sleep rhythm of awake four hours, asleep two. When force-driving long distances, that becomes awake three hours, asleep one. I can do that because I can fall asleep almost instantly anywhere, anytime.

I possibly could have done the whole twenty-seven hours in one giant, caffeine-fueled step, but I would be too zombified to be effective for much on the other end. So I decided to three-one it to Las Vegas, rest up there, change vehicles and identities, and then make the four-hour jump to LA.

Having been in Vegas many times, I knew several good hotels at reasonable rates– for Las Vegas– that had good beds and excellent wifi. I would need the bed to catch up on sleep and be my best for whatever was happening in LA. I would need the wifi to make full use of my techno-nerds Boris and Natasha, who were probably getting less sleep than me as they searched for anything they could find out about The Blue Deuce and Wyatt’s brothers, Walter, Weston, and Woody.

As I was driving, Boris would occasionally update me on important things they had found, which wasn’t much. His voice sounded tinny and almost insect-like in my bluetooth earpiece as I drove down the road. I was past Salt Lake City and heading for Vegas when he finally started talking about The Blue Deuce. According to him, it appeared to be a legitimate exotic club catering to the BDSM community. He rated their data and system security as “damn good,” meaning neither he, nor Natasha, could hack into it.

His voice took on some excitement as he described the club’s four-level membership system which was openly advertised on their website. The first level, called “First Floor,” was public with performances and displays by members and by paid professionals. The second level, “Second Floor,” was semi-private. Again there were performances and displays, but you had to be a verified member to join that level and had to be a member or guest of a member to attend anything going on there. “Third Floor” was all private, invitation-only rooms. And “Fourth Floor” was... ... Boris had no idea what Fourth Floor was.

He actually used those exact words. “I assume the levels correspond to different floors in the building the Club is in,” Boris said in disgust, “but I have no idea what in the hell Fourth Floor membership is.” It really irritated him when there was something that was truly hidden from his investigative talents.

“So,” I said, “the Fourth Floor must be a super secret, invitation-only portion of the Club. I’ll just have to figure out a way to sneak up there from the Third Floor.”

“I would love to see that,” Natasha said with a laugh.

“Why?” I asked, trying to hide any anger or frustration in my voice.

“Because, W,” Boris said firmly, “there are only three floors to the building that The Blue Deuce is in.”

“Oh?” I said. I didn’t bother trying to hide my surprise. “I’m almost at motel one,” I said flatly. “I’ll check with you by wire in a few hours.”

I was actually approaching a somewhat run down Motel Six in a less desirable part of town where I checked in using the same identity that I had used in Davenport. I paid for a month and said that I would be in and out a lot so they shouldn’t worry if I was not in my room for several days at a time. I then sanitized my keys, IDs, credit cards, and driver’s license. Once I was sure they bore no fingerprints or DNA, I left them in the little safe in the hotel room.