“Thanks, Cindy,” I tell her as we get off the plane in Omaha.
Evan and I took all the precautions to make it hard to track where we had flown to, but just in case Jeff somehow has access to our destination, we picked a city far enough off that he wouldn’t think we had been able to track him. We take a cab from the airport out past the south edge of town, not wanting to attract too much attention when we suit up and fly. The driver gives us a funny look as he lets us out in what looks like the literal middle of nowhere.
We hike a quarter mile out from the highway, past some grass and into some trees. We suit up and lift off, skimming just above the treeline, hopefully where no one will see us in the dark. The flight suit made of bots cradles me as it carries me south, past orchards and farms. I’m pretty sure a few people can see us as we cross over the broad Platte River, but there isn’t much we could do about that without taking a big detour. I don’t want to spend any more time traveling than we have to. We’ve got too much to do.
From Evan: How can anywhere be this flat? Where are the mountains?
It takes me a second to realize that Evan has never been to the midwest before. Everywhere he’s ever been that wasn’t open ocean has had something on the horizon. Even on our trips to Africa and Asia there was always something tall looming off in the distance. Here, there’s not a thing to see but trees and cornfields between us and forever. I think I’ve been here before, or someplace like it. I search through my index, finding a stored memory from an old photo that Grammy and Gramps had kept. Mom and I in front of a Welcome to South Dakota sign. We had taken a road trip to Mt. Rushmore the summer before she died.
To Evan: You think this is bad, you should try driving through it on the freeway. With the corn at full height lining the roads, you see nothing but walls of green for hours on end. At least this way we’re up high enough to see over the tops of the crops.
From Evan: Sounds terrifying. How do you even know which direction you’re going?
To Evan: You trust the street signs, or look at where the sun is and what time it is.
From Evan: Weird.
I’m tempted to mention the weirdness of growing up on the campus of the Butler Institute, but decide not to. The growing cornfields look like massive lawns of grass from up here, and we pass more acres of them than I could count without the implant interface tracking them for me. Finally, the farms start to give way to suburbs, and we set down.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Topeka looks exactly like I’d expect a mid-sized midwestern city to look. A modest skyline, a good amount of green space, and lots of suburbs. Plenty of great places for a single young man with a van full of stolen gear to disappear into. I put in the earpiece, connect it to my phone, and dial Lin.
“Hey, Noah,” she answers.
“Hey, Lin. We made it here. What leads have you been able to dig up?”
“I’ve got satellite imagery in twelve places that could be potential matches for Jeff’s van,” she says. “There were a bunch more, but I was able to rule them out using traffic cam footage. Alan thought you’ll probably want your own car for this part. That will make you less conspicuous than flying around town and you won’t have to wait for taxis. He found a cheap used one you can buy with cash right near your location so there won’t be any electronic trail in case your quarry or his benefactors are watching the financial systems. He’s sending the address to your phone now.”
My phone beeps and sure enough, the address from Alan is there. It’s just over two miles away. Just about right to stretch our legs out after a long flight. The house at the address is a nondescript house in the suburbs with an old, dented, green Ford pickup parked at the curb with a For Sale sign on it. We walk up the path and knock on the door.
“You John Anderson?” asks the friendly, middle-aged man who answers the door.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Here for the car. Sorry for the short notice.”
He shakes his head. “Nothing to worry about. You need a test drive? I’ll tell you, she runs all right, but she’s not much to look at.”
“No sir,” I reassure him. “We’re all set to pay and go.”
“Alrighty, then,” he says with a smile. “Three thousand five hundred. Your friend said you’d have cash.”
“That’s right, sir.”
I count out the bills, crisp hundreds from an envelope that Alan had provided, thinning my cash on hand significantly. He signs over the title.
“And you wanted to keep the plates until you get it registered?” he asks amiably.
“If you wouldn’t mind, that would be great,” I reply. Good thinking, Lin. Or Alan. Whichever. Having license plates with someone else’s name hooked to them would be helpful in case we need to do anything that might be a little bit illegal. Man, people are trusting here.
“Sure thing. Just mail them back to me when you get her to the County Treasurer’s office. I need them to get the refund on my registration.”
“Will do, sir,” I say as I take the keys. “Thanks again.”
I add a task to my electronic brain to make sure that Alan handles the car once we’re done here. I know he’ll probably take care of it on his own, but this guy is so nice that I want to make sure we don’t leave him hanging.
“Thank you, son,” he says. “I’ve been trying to get someone to take that old thing off my hands for a good bit now. Hope she works out for you.”
He shakes hands with Evan and me and says goodbye, then closes the door. We climb into the pickup. As promised, it’s beat up and ugly but runs fine and gets us to our motel. The place isn’t great, but they don’t ask for ID, so it suits us just fine for tonight.