Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) by Mark Wayne McGinnis
Authors: Mark Wayne McGinnis
Tags: paranormal thriller
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conference room.
I changed subjects: “What’s the latest on Pippa? Do we know where she is?”
“We know that she was in New York.” Baltimore then said, “Look, she is a trained operative. The truth is, she’s exactly where we want her to be, as difficult as that may be to hear. She’ll find a way to contact us and convey needed intel. Something’s happening, Chandler … something very big. I’ve heard the word cataclysmic batted about in the field. Whatever the Order is planning, we need to get in front of it. The best way to do that is to let Pippa do her job and for you to get chummy with Palmolive. Now can we get back to your mission?”
I nodded.
“The real Troy McAlister has been briefed and is actually on vacation in South America, at an undisclosed location. You’ll be made up to look like him, using the same cosmetic procedures we used for the Baden-Baden mission.”
As if on cue, Bridgett stuck her head in the door. “Is he ready for me?” She held up a glass beaker, half-filled with a clear liquid, and smiled at me. “Time for me to change the color of your hair—all over.”
* * *
Over the next three hours, my brown hair was dyed a dirty-blond color—thanks to Bridgett’s magic liquid. My features were altered, too, through a series of precise facial injections—enough for me to closely resemble the real Troy McAlister. Baltimore gave me a glossy, multi-page brochure to look over, describing Morning Hawk Ranch. Other than indicating the ranch resided at a high elevation—somewhere in the Colorado Rockies—no specific location was provided. I had to admit, the dude ranch looked like a lot of fun. Something about it reminded me of the old Yul Brynner movie Westworld .
Baltimore found me waiting in one of Bridgett’s lab compartments. I remarked, “This is an experiential, family-type environment. I’ll stick out like a sore thumb, going in there on my own.”
“You’re not going in alone. Carmen is going with you … as your wife.”
“Carmen?”
Baltimore used the conference room intercom to page her. Less than a minute later, a husky woman, with round, rosy cheeks entered the conference room. I’d seen Carmen before—though her face looked different.
“Seriously? She’s not a trained field agent. It’s far too dangerous.”
“Look around, Chandler … it’s slim pickings around here. Remember, SIFTR is virtually in lockdown. Anyway, she’s been made up to look like Loretta McAlister; she’ll be fine.”
“See, you didn’t even recognize me,” Carmen said, her hands on her ample hips.
“Uh huh. Well, okay,” I said, taking in her poofed-up chignon—reminiscent of hairstyles back in the sixties.
“I know, I look like a chubby Tammy Wynette.”
* * *
I’d stayed at SIFTR in the past, on another level, where the dorms are located. Although not optimal, tapping in was not a monumental issue. AC wall outlets provided both 110 and 220 volts—all over the facility—even in the dorm. I did have to carefully pick and choose the proper time to sit on the floor, my head resting against the wall, to avoid being noticed. So far, I’d always managed to schedule it just fine.
True to Baltimore’s word, my six-shooter coach was indeed a bit rough around the edges, and he looked ancient. His long white beard and old overalls made him look more like Elmer Fudd than Billy the Kid, but he knew old-West quick-draw routines like no one I’d ever come across. For three days, I worked with Howard Pleck, starting with the basics. In no time at all, I was pulling my holstered pistol as quickly as Baltimore had done. A quarter of our time was spent at the SIFTR indoor range. I found it one thing to simply draw fast, like a gunslinger, but it was altogether different to also actually hit what I was shooting at. Already a pretty good shot, I soon mastered that aspect as well. I was ready—as prepared as I was going to get in the brief timeframe of three
I changed subjects: “What’s the latest on Pippa? Do we know where she is?”
“We know that she was in New York.” Baltimore then said, “Look, she is a trained operative. The truth is, she’s exactly where we want her to be, as difficult as that may be to hear. She’ll find a way to contact us and convey needed intel. Something’s happening, Chandler … something very big. I’ve heard the word cataclysmic batted about in the field. Whatever the Order is planning, we need to get in front of it. The best way to do that is to let Pippa do her job and for you to get chummy with Palmolive. Now can we get back to your mission?”
I nodded.
“The real Troy McAlister has been briefed and is actually on vacation in South America, at an undisclosed location. You’ll be made up to look like him, using the same cosmetic procedures we used for the Baden-Baden mission.”
As if on cue, Bridgett stuck her head in the door. “Is he ready for me?” She held up a glass beaker, half-filled with a clear liquid, and smiled at me. “Time for me to change the color of your hair—all over.”
* * *
Over the next three hours, my brown hair was dyed a dirty-blond color—thanks to Bridgett’s magic liquid. My features were altered, too, through a series of precise facial injections—enough for me to closely resemble the real Troy McAlister. Baltimore gave me a glossy, multi-page brochure to look over, describing Morning Hawk Ranch. Other than indicating the ranch resided at a high elevation—somewhere in the Colorado Rockies—no specific location was provided. I had to admit, the dude ranch looked like a lot of fun. Something about it reminded me of the old Yul Brynner movie Westworld .
Baltimore found me waiting in one of Bridgett’s lab compartments. I remarked, “This is an experiential, family-type environment. I’ll stick out like a sore thumb, going in there on my own.”
“You’re not going in alone. Carmen is going with you … as your wife.”
“Carmen?”
Baltimore used the conference room intercom to page her. Less than a minute later, a husky woman, with round, rosy cheeks entered the conference room. I’d seen Carmen before—though her face looked different.
“Seriously? She’s not a trained field agent. It’s far too dangerous.”
“Look around, Chandler … it’s slim pickings around here. Remember, SIFTR is virtually in lockdown. Anyway, she’s been made up to look like Loretta McAlister; she’ll be fine.”
“See, you didn’t even recognize me,” Carmen said, her hands on her ample hips.
“Uh huh. Well, okay,” I said, taking in her poofed-up chignon—reminiscent of hairstyles back in the sixties.
“I know, I look like a chubby Tammy Wynette.”
* * *
I’d stayed at SIFTR in the past, on another level, where the dorms are located. Although not optimal, tapping in was not a monumental issue. AC wall outlets provided both 110 and 220 volts—all over the facility—even in the dorm. I did have to carefully pick and choose the proper time to sit on the floor, my head resting against the wall, to avoid being noticed. So far, I’d always managed to schedule it just fine.
True to Baltimore’s word, my six-shooter coach was indeed a bit rough around the edges, and he looked ancient. His long white beard and old overalls made him look more like Elmer Fudd than Billy the Kid, but he knew old-West quick-draw routines like no one I’d ever come across. For three days, I worked with Howard Pleck, starting with the basics. In no time at all, I was pulling my holstered pistol as quickly as Baltimore had done. A quarter of our time was spent at the SIFTR indoor range. I found it one thing to simply draw fast, like a gunslinger, but it was altogether different to also actually hit what I was shooting at. Already a pretty good shot, I soon mastered that aspect as well. I was ready—as prepared as I was going to get in the brief timeframe of three
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