Page 151 of The Fourth Option
He started in plumbing. PVC pipe, two-inch diameter. He selectedthree lengths, cut to size. Then end caps, threaded and smooth. A roll of Teflon tape.
Next, electrical, where he added wire, switches, zip ties, and a pair of battery-powered timers. He added a spool of copper wire and a pack of crimp connectors.
In hardware, he found nails, nuts, bolts, and a small pry bar.
In outdoor power equipment he picked up jerry cans.
In doors and windows he picked up the most inexpensive garage door openers he could find.
Then came the chemicals.
He moved to the garden section, where bags of fertilizer lined the shelves like sandbags. He scanned the labels, found what he was looking for, and added two fifty-pound bags to his cart. Then, from the paint aisle, he added a canister of aluminum powder, which was marketed as a metallic pigment. While in the paint section he picked up a roll of plastic meant to be used as a floor covering for interior house painting.
Finally, he turned into seasonal clearance. A bin of Christmas lights sat near the endcap, tangled and dusty. He picked out a jumbo string of two hundred bulbs, multicolored and deeply discounted.
He pushed his cart to the assisted self-checkout line, scanned his items, and then used the pay cash option, peeling off well-circulated twenties from Dupuis’s stash and giving them to the plump young woman who monitored the self-checkout area to assist with transactions and provide change to anyone paying in cash. She was oblivious to the fact that everything in his cart was dual use, components to make a bomb.
Outside, the sun was low, casting long shadows across the parking lot. He loaded the supplies into the Eagle, scanning for any signs of surveillance.
His next stop was Cabela’s.
It was ten miles north, just off the highway, its façade lit like a lodge, antlers and camouflage in every direction. Walker moved quickly. His first stop was the shoe department. They did not carry his favored Iron Rangers, but he found a pair of black Merrell Nova 3 boots that would do the trick. Next, he grabbed multiple layers of Cabela’s branded camouflage and 5.11 Tactical clothing, nylon belt, and Benchmade Anonimus fixed-blade knife. Then it was camouflage netting, a sleeping bag and tent, headlamp, carabiners, webbing, freeze-dried food, cooler, dive mask, fins,snorkel, wet suit, dry bags, and a Nautica Navigator Seascooter. He paid cash again, declined the loyalty program, and packed up the Eagle.
He quickly ducked into a mini-mart across the street for a couple gallons of milk before hitting the road.
By the time he reached Chalmette, the sun had dipped below the horizon. The national battlefield memorial was quiet, the visitor center closed, and the last of the tourists had long gone. Sprawled along the east bank of the river, Chalmette was more than a hundred acres of preserved woods, fields, and eroded berms. It was here that Andrew Jackson had taken his Tennessee Volunteers to fight off the British in the War of 1812. Weeks after setting fire to the White House, the British had sailed south, intending to lay claim to the Mississippi and envelop the young United States, taking back the land Napoleon had sold to Jefferson. They hadn’t counted on Old Hickory lying in wait.
Walker turned off the main road and followed a narrow gravel path that skirted the edge of the park. Beyond the visitor center, the manicured lawns gave way to a stand of oak, cypress, and willow thick enough to swallow sound and shadow. He eased the AMC into the woods, tires rolling softly over fallen leaves, and drove until he found a natural depression behind a thicket of oaks and parked beneath a canopy of moss-draped branches.
It was time to set up his combat outpost.
He draped the camo netting over the Eagle, anchoring the edges with tent stakes and lengths of rope. He adjusted the angles until the vehicle vanished into the terrain.
He set up the stove and boiled water, poured it into a pouch of freeze-dried chili, and sat on a log, watching steam curl into the night.
Nearby, a weathered sign caught his eye. It was half-hidden behind a vine-choked fence post, its lettering faded but legible in the twilight:U.S. Government Property. No Trespassing. Violators Will Be Prosecuted.
He had killed and bled for his country, buried friends under its flag. And now, here he was, trespassing on a battlefield, setting up a hide site and preparing for war.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
His council of inner philosophers had been silent most of the day, but now they started asking questions again. He thought of Heraclitus, who argued that no matter how much a man’s circumstances might change,his nature would always draw him back to the same conflict. That idea led him to think about the eternal return and Nietzsche’s ideas about the inevitability of repeated behavior as a cause of fate. Though his edition ofTwilight of the Idolswas now at the bottom of the Mississippi, one of its quotes and concepts was indelibly printed on his soul:He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
SIX MILES UPRIVERfrom Walker’s forward operating base, Walt Kimbel and Carloyn Boyle prepped Derek Matheson on the particulars of his upcoming speaking engagement at the BioFrontiers Summit in Dallas. With the heat on operations in New Orleans, Kimbel would stay behind on damage control while Matheson and his EVP of marketing handled the event in Texas.
“Remember,” Carolyn said, “this is a victory lap. Everyone in that room wants to be you.”
“There will be jealous parties,” Kimbel interjected, “but that just means your success and that of Genyra Pharmaceuticals has eclipsed all competitors. Enjoy it. This is your time.”
Kimbel’s phone buzzed and he glanced at the caller ID.
Matheson noticed that it was his burner phone.
“Excuse me,” Kimbel said. “I need to take this.”
He moved into the next room while Matheson and Carolyn continued to go over the attendee list. When he returned, his face was lacking the color of moments earlier.
