Heaven, INC: Chapter 45: ESCAPE ROUTES

INTERSTATE 8 EAST,
MISSION VALLEY/HOTEL CIRCLE
12:37 PM PDT

AFTER ESCAPING THE SUBURBANS, Sergei became preoccupied with learning the new vehicle’s controls while scanning the AM radio in search of some government warning about Russian fugitives. Or perhaps a claim of two bank-robbers or murderers used as a propaganda pretense. Surely something about two Russians who just so happened to be carrying the most important state secret since the atom bomb. Actually, it was little bit disappointing, that they should be so ignored. And why? For silly American celebrity.

Incredibly, every bandwidth was crowded with smallest minutia on the American singer, Bobby

Falcône and, listening to the radio, to Mona it seemed as if sex, celebrity and the specter of homosexuality wrapped in one single package had finally and completely overwhelmed the country’s decadent media machine. Of course, Mona suspected it was all a CIA plot, since rumors of Bobby Falcône’s deviancy had floated through the intelligence community for years, but still you never knew.


FOR MOST OF THE RIDE, Mona’s own thoughts were consumed by getting back to Boris and Lydia. And to Russia and Chelnikov with the serum, because failing Chelnikov now would be a most terrible thing. So terrible, in fact, that for one whole cigarette, Mona indulged herself in recollecting the fate of Fyodor Grobikov and his family, letting the panic take her amid the notion that her luck was shot and the net descending fast and that all was lost. Then that was that. A few minutes jitters while the Belomor was consumed, then Mona put her confidence back in order, once more firmly convicted of her own abilities and training. As Lizzy Peters said, Visualize Achievement, Maximize Potential.

Mona was still VAMPing when Sergei took the freeway off-ramp.

Sergei saying, “Do you see this sub-panel of switches here? Rocket launcher. Check.
Flamethrower. Check. Submarine-mode and cloaking device effect. Check check.” Sergei looked at Mona with a big smile. “Ah, jump jets. They put in the jump jets.”

“One billion rubles for this?” Mona shrugged. “What a waste of money.”

“Waste of money?” Sergei tapped the car’s dashboard radar-oscilloscope. “This tells us if helicopters are in the vicinity and this—” tapping another scope “— alerts us to anyone with an anti-cloaking device.” He grinned. “I cloaked that van that nearly ran us over. Right now, the world sees us a nondescript carpet cleaner’s van.” Sergei tapped the steering wheel. “This vehicle is the most amazing thing ever made.”

Mona frowned. “Yes, that may be. But at least they could have put in leather seats. What are these, velour?” Mona shifted in the uncomfortably sporty seat, her posterior sore from last night’s fall. “Are you sure the disguises will work? They are certain to be watching the airport.”

Sergei surveyed the surrounding cars. “This traffic is clearly a CIA plot to slow our movement. And on a holiday weekend? Truly an oppressive government.” Then said, “We are fine unless they have an anti-cloak. If they do, we will just shoot our way out. Trust me,” he said, smiling dangerously and tapping the wheel. “Besides, we have the car.”

Shrugging, Mona tossed the Belomor out the window. “I prefer something more like home,” she said, and from the bag, withdrew the Makarov to rack the slide. It wasn’t her beautiful K6-B, but at least it was Russian.