Objekt 825 (Tracie Tanner Thrillers Book 9), Allan Leverone [books to read for 13 year olds txt] 📗

most of the way toward a walking path encircling a small wooded area, when a voice came out of the darkness behind him.

“Hey! You there!”

Carson froze. The absurd notion of falling to the ground in a hail of gunfire flashed through his overstressed brain. Then he turned, slowly, to see the overnight security guard approaching. He’d apparently come around the rear corner of the lab at almost the same time Carson exited.

Christ. If it weren’t for shit luck you’d have no luck at all.

Over the course of his ten years at Marine Technix, Carson had gotten to know all the guards, at least well enough to say hello to, and some were friendlier than others. This was Tim Cripe, one of the more pleasant members of the security crew.

He forced down his mounting panic and tried to keep his voice from shaking. “Hey, Timmy, how are ya?”

“Great, Carson. Uhh…what’s up?” The guard’s face became visible under the glare of the sodium arc lamps as he approached, and his expression was one of confusion. Or was it suspicion?

But Cripe’s gun remained holstered at his side—for now—and Carson thanked his lucky stars he’d had the foresight to drape his jacket over the shoebox-sized possession in his arms. For now, the device was hidden from sight and would remain so unless the guard forced him to lift the jacket.

Cripe stopped maybe six feet away from Carson, and it occurred to Carson that a man with nothing to hide would answer the guard’s question, and without any hesitation.

He attempted his most sincere smile and hoped desperately it didn’t look as awkward as it felt. “Burning the midnight oil, my friend.”

Cripe looked unconvinced and Carson added, “Genius never sleeps,” with a staccato laugh.

“Working late on a Friday night? Who knew you were so dedicated?”

“That’s me,” Carson said, noting that the wariness in the guard’s posture seemed to have lessened, if not entirely disappeared. “Mr. Dedication.” He made a show of glancing at his watch and then said, “It’s great seeing you, Timmy, but man am I tired. I really need to get home to bed.”

“Of course,” Cripe said. “Have a good night.”

“You too.” Carson turned and had almost reached the walking path when the call came from behind him.

Again.

“Yo, Carson.”

For the second time in a matter of sixty seconds he swore to himself and turned. “Yes?”

“Where’s your car?”

“Oh, that.” Carson thought hard, suddenly wishing he hadn’t had quite so many sips out of his flask while waiting for everyone to exit the facility. “You know, I’m trying to get some exercise.”

“Turning over a new leaf?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Huh. Okay, take care, Carson.”

“You too, Tim.” He hit the walking path and to his relief, this time heard no more out of Tim Cripe.

3

 

June 13, 1988

11:05 p.m.

Marine Technix Corporation Research Facility parking lot

Norfolk, Virginia

Carson sat in his car, dripping sweat and trying not to pass out or puke from the stress. He was already late for his prearranged meeting with the silver-haired Russian, and hanging around in the visitor’s parking lot was an invitation to be seen again by goddamned Tim Cripe, but he needed a minute to get his shit together.

Or maybe a year.

He kept replaying the exchange with Cripe in his mind, wondering how suspicious he’d made the guard, and more importantly what the likelihood was that the man would put some kind of notation in his nightly log, or report the unusual incident to his superiors.

Don’t overthink it, Carson tried to tell himself. As long as he could avoid being seen when he returned to replace the device into the safe—he thought it was doable, the Marine Technix campus was huge and the company was too fucking cheap to pay two guards to work the overnight shift—he should be okay.

Even if the guard reported Carson for being at work after hours, as long as the device ended up back in the safe and nobody found out he’d taken it for a little road trip, what could they do to him? What had he even done wrong? Was it suddenly impermissible for an employee to do a little extra work on his own time?

I should put in for overtime as a way of bolstering my alibi, he thought, and snickered nervously. Hot stomach acid worked its way up his gullet when he did, and he choked it back down.

His breathing gradually returned to normal and the sweat stopped pouring off him like Niagara Falls. He’d had a close call, a really close call if he was being honest with himself, but that was all. He would be fine, but it was time to get moving or risk Boris Badenov leaving their meeting place and driving away with Carson’s fifteen grand in his pocket. Carson had demanded half his twenty thousand dollar bounty up front, but Andrei The Smooth-Talking Russian Capitalist had countered him down to a quarter, and he really wanted—no, he really needed—the rest.

He started his car and drove out of the lot, moving as fast as he dared.

***

Their agreed-upon meeting place was a Park and Ride carpool lot hard by Interstate 264. It was southeast of Norfolk, partway to Virginia Beach, and a pain in the ass to get to for Carson, since Marine Technix Corporation was located on the north side of the city, not far from the naval station.

But Andrei had assured Carson this particular parking lot was perfect for their little illicit photo session, quiet and out of the way, rarely patrolled by police. “It is the kind of place no one will pay attention to two cars parked together in the middle of the night,” he’d said, and how could Carson argue? This was all uncharted territory for him, and as long as he left the Park