The car crawled down northbound 680 between the rolling brown Sunol hills. Michael stared out the window. For the first time in his life, he was thankful for traffic.
"So, is he killing someone?" Stuart continued to chat nervously. He hadn't stopped since he'd sat down. "If he gets killed, do I have to stay within two hundred meters of his dead body? Or am I free to go?" Christine looked in the rearview mirror at Stuart then back to the highway without answering.
"Nobody's going to know if we talk in here. Where are we going anyway?" He asked again to no response. He turned to Michael, who was looking rather ill beside him. "There's a rule in The Company that you can't speak to anyone outside work. They're afraid we'll collaborate." He shrugged. When Michael didn't respond, he continued. "It's impossible for them to enforce, but I heard they get notified if our trackers show us near another member outside work."
"I'm allowed to talk to you," Christine spoke for the first time, "I just don't want to."
"Oh, she speaks!" Stuart exploded, "I was beginning to think you were a mute. I've seen you, you work up in the offices. What goes on up there?"
"I report directly to Mr. Morton." Christine acknowledged Stuart. "You've said a few things I'm going to have to report."
Stuart's face flushed. For the first time on the ride, he shut his mouth. After a minute, he couldn't help himself, "You know I was joking, right?" He tried to backtrack, "Earlier when I said that Mr. Morton must be compensated for something. That was a joke."
"Hopefully, he thinks so." Christine shrugged.
Stuart grumbled to himself but didn't speak.
A ship graveyard could be seen in the distance as the car drove across the Benicia bridge. The heavy winds shook the car as it descended the rear side to a fork exit that split left for Vallejo, right to Sacramento. They went left. They passed an empty horse track then a busy amusement park. Finally, they pulled off the freeway.
The scenery was a golden brown. A small run-down trailer park community was clustered on their left. The only other color came from a row of vineyards that stretched across the hills several miles to their front.
After a mile on the two-lane road, the car turned onto a freshly paved driveway towards the small private Napa County Airport. Christine pulled up to the security booth at the end of the road and pulled handed a lanyard to the gruff security guard in the box. After a quick glance, the security guard handed back the cord and pressed a button that caused the barbwire gate to slide open.
Christine drove through the gate and turned right, driving around the edge of a petite building that appeared more of an office than a terminal. They wheeled around the back, where a two-strip runway stretched a mile horizontally. A single silver jet was parked at the edge of the first strip. She parked on the rear of the building.
Two security guards came running from the building as they stepped from the car, "What do you think you're doing?" The cumbersome guard yelled as he waddled down the stairs. He had a thick mustache that covered his upper lip. His heavy eyebrows took up half his forehead.
Without saying a word, she pulled the lanyard from her neck and handed it to the overly excited guard. "And what does this have to do with me?" He stated, giving the lanyard to his partner. "I don't care—"
"I'm sorry, mam," the second guard interrupted. He grabbed the mustached man and turned him, so their backs faced Christine.
After a short scolding, the mustached man turned around, "I apologize, mam, could I please have your keys to park the car."
"No problem at all," Christine said, handing over the keys. The guards apologized again as they climbed into the car.
"Well," she said, turning towards the strip, "Our jet awaits."
Stuart gasped as they entered the jet. Its interior resembled a tiny living room. A long modern white couch with sharp edges stretched along the right wall. Above it, a long continuous window followed just above the couch's back. A short glass table that stood two feet off the ground sat in the center of the room. The left had an extensive entertainment system, with a huge flat screen in the center of a glossed display case. The color scheme of the interior was white and gold outlined in rich dark brown.
Stuart hopped on the couch, "This is surprisingly comfortable." He noted, "Michael, sit, sit, this is luxury." He stretched his arms across the top cushion and leaned his head against the backrest. "Incredible."
Michael took a seat at the far end. His mind was not on the luxury. He looked out the window at the overcast sky and wondered where he was going and what awaited his arrival.
Christine sat down in between the two men."There are buckles in the cushions," she stated, "Make sure you strap in."
Stuart stood from his seat, ignoring Christine entirely.
"Stuart, sit down."
"So you know my name," he said in a low voice.
He ran his hand across the cabinets. "Not a bit of dust." He slid open a small chest beneath the hanging screen. "It's a fridge!" He turned and frowned when he saw neither Michael nor Christine matched his enthusiasm.
He returned to the couch with three glasses and a bottle of champagne. There were four small upright clamps on the glass table that gripped the cups flawlessly. He poured a glass and turned to Michael, "Would you like a glass?"
"No." He replied.
"You need to cheer up. Do you really want to spend your last minutes on earth in a mood?" Stuart waited, "I'm joking. They're not going to kill you." he turned to Christine, "Are they going to kill him?" She didn't respond. "Would you like a glass of champagne?"
"No. Please latch your seatbelt."
Stuart shrugged his shoulders and took a sip. He raised his left hand to his lips. "This tastes expensive. It's terrible, but I know it's expensive."
"Put on your—"
"Seatbelt. I know." He clipped his seatbelt, "If this plane were to crash, this seatbelt would saw me in half. But you don't mind planning people's deaths, do you?" He used his head to nod at Michael.
The plane began to roll down the runway. Stuart's drink started to shake in the holder. Michael watched out the window as the vinyards became lines in the distance.
The TV came to life, and a deep man's voice boomed through the cabin's speakers, "Welcome to Morton Airlines Harvey Sinclair."
The screen displayed a photo of a bald man sitting on a porch swing wearing a Notre Dame sweatshirt smiling straight into the camera. His smile was genuine, his eyes were lively. He looked completely content.
"Claude Groger grew up in a large family on a small farm on the outskirts of Akron, Indiana." The voice narrated.
An old black and white family photo appeared on the screen. Ten children were huddled together in front of a rustic barn. A young Claude was circled in the bottom left of the screen with a bowl cut hanging just above his eyebrows. The parents stood in the center of the photo. The father wore jean overalls holding a large, exuberant golden retriever in his arms.
"Claude's father was a farmer. His grandfather was a farmer. His great grandfather was a farmer. But Claude had other dreams. He dreamt of the business world. He dreamt of big cities and fast-paced living. The day he turned Eighteen, he packed his bags and headed off to the great Notre Dame University."
The photo changed to a new young adult Claude smiling big outside a magnificent gothic cathedral holding a small handbag in his right hand.
"He started business school and excelled. The hard work of his childhood carried to his studies, and he found himself rising to the top of his class. College had other surprises for him. His senior year, he met Emily, the love of his life. A year later, they were married. A year after that, they had their first child, Luke."
The screen showed Claude holding his newborn boy in his arms. He was smiling wide with tears in his eyes.
"A year later, they had another son they named Brian. A year after that, they had their first girl Annabelle."
Another picture in a hospital room with a proud three-year-old Luke looking over baby Annabelle.
"But then tragedy struck."
Soft music began to play in the background.
"Emily became sick. Her body became weak. She was taken to the hospital in an ambulance. The doctor's discovered a brain tumor. Due to the size of the tumor, they were shocked it had taken this long for Emily's body to react. Over the next few days, Emily got worse. She couldn't remember names, she couldn't remember who she was. She couldn't even remember her own children. A week after the diagnosis, Emily passed away, leaving Claude on his own with three toddlers that would never remember their mother."
The music switched again to a somber, uplifting tune.
"He was about to move back to the farm when The Company found him. We took him in and helped him back to his feet. We gave him a sizeable paycheck and a twenty-four-hour nanny to help with the kids."
A grainy family video began to play, showing Claude playing catch with Luke.
"In his off times, Claude coaches Luke's Little League baseball games and takes Annabelle to piano lessons."
A video played of a five-year-old Annabelle clunking through a loud rendition of "Marry had a Little Lamb."
"Claude is currently on a plane headed to Maine. This plane is headed to Alaska. You are both set to arrive at the same time."
A graphic showed a map of the U.S. With red dots showing the planes, with red circles at landing locations on opposite coasts.
"Under your seat, there is a briefcase containing a disposable camera and a Company-issued tracker. This is not enough to accomplish your task. The Company values creativity."
Michael shifted in his seat.
"As soon as the plane touches the ground, you have 72 hours to kill Claude Groger and take a picture of his dead body for confirmation. If neither one of you is dead at the end of the time, a hit will be placed on both of you as well as Claude's three kids. If one of you is dead, the kids will live. Goodluck"
The screen froze with a backdrop of Claude's kids wearing matching striped pajamas gathered on the family couch. Their right hands were held up, waving in unison with bright, innocent smiles beaming at the camera.
"This is disgusting," Stuart stated, "The kids have nothing to do with it. This isn't right." He walked to the mini-fridge and pulled a second bottle of champaign and filled his glass to the brim. "This isn't right," he muttered, sitting back down. "You should be ashamed of yourself," pointing at Christine.
Christine slouched forward, placing her elbows on her knees. She pressed her palms to her cheekbones but said nothing as Stuart continued to sling accusations.
Michael ignored the scolding beside him. He reached below himself and grabbed a small brown briefcase from the beneath the couch. He popped the buckles and opened the briefcase. It had a foam interior with two cutouts hugging the content in place. He pulled out the disposable camera and shoved it into his jacket pocket. It made a small clinking noise as it hit the phone Gary had given him. He then held up the small rectangular device and pulled it up for closer observation.
The device had no logos or any standout design at all. It was was a thin black rectangle. Michael flipped the machine on it's back, then to its side to find a single button halfway down the bottom of the body. He pressed it.
The screen lit up black as a map, outlined in green, flickered onto the screen. The bottom of the screen had a still timer that read 72:00:00. There was a large green dot in the center of the screen. The dot was moving fast. He placed a finger on the screen and found if he slid his finger up, the map would zoom out, when he slid it down, it'd zoom back in. He zoomed out until he recognized the location. It was the eastern edge of New Hampshire, just about to cross the border into Maine.
"I'm assuming he has your location as well," Stuart whispered in Michael's ear, causing him to jump. "This is wrong." He repeated as he turned to berate Christine some more.
Michael looked back up at the frozen television screen. The smiling three kids waved back at him. He tried to control his breathing, but his heart continued to skip every other beat. A tension headache squeezed his skull from all sides. Letting the children die was not an option. He wasn't sure who it would be, but in a little over seventy-two hours, someone was going to die.