Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two Read Free Page B

the cheek, and then hustling off to close the bathroom door.
    Dusty, with credit card on file at the front desk, wasted no time perusing the room service menu.

     
    Agent Shultz checked his reflection, the mirrored interior of the elevator revealing a filthy, disheveled man. It’s no wonder , he mused. One hell of a morning.  
    Were it not for the golden shield and official-looking photograph on the FBI credentials hanging around his neck, he doubted they would have let him in the hospital’s front door. He’d originally tried to enter via the emergency room, but that entrance was inundated with incoming ambulances, emergency vehicles, and utter chaos.
    The blue- haired ladies at the reception desk had kindly taken their time locating Agent Monroe’s room number. They had shown mercy and manners, not commenting on his appearance. Given the bedlam back in the ER, he wasn’t the only haggard-looking fellow walking the halls.
    Still, he straightened himself out as best he could, tucking in an errant shirttail and dislodging a streak of mud from his pants. He wanted to present the best possible image to the boss.
    He identified Monroe’s room without any problem, entering quietly lest he disturb some procedure or consultation. There was only an aide present, a middle-aged Latino woman who appeared to be more involved in housekeeping than any medical task.
    Hi s boss was connected to a multitude of tubes, wires, machines and other associated life-preserving devices. The low background of beeping and hissing noises disturbed the otherwise quiet environment. The patient was perched in the middle of the bed, lying very still with his eyes closed.
    Upon entering the room, Shultz stood and star ed at his co-worker, mesmerized by the plethora of machinery attached to his body, wondering if the senior FBI man had any idea of how lucky he’d been. They had found him in a pile of debris at the edge of the parking lot, nearly drowned and suffering numerous injuries after being swept away by the tidal wave of water rushing onshore.
    That entire sequence of events seemed like a lifetime ago. The pre-dawn assembly of the teams, the thrill of potentially apprehending the most wanted man in the world, the hope of finally being able to return home to College Station.
    And then everything had gone wrong.
    Strangers appeared in the midst of what was supposed to have been a relatively simple operation. Right in the middle of their takedown, a gunfight with unknown persons wearing FBI clothing convoluted the mission. In retrospect, that complication seemed like a minor annoyance once the military gunship collided with the tanker, followed by a Hellfire Missile exploding on the pier. Shultz could remember the radio waves being filled with excited, confused voices. And then the tanker heading directly for the bridge… a bridge full of snarled, gridlocked traffic.
    Something had happened. It was all so quick, shrouded like the fog of war. One second , he thought Durham Weathers had been killed in the Apache’s attack. A few moments later, a wall of water was sweeping away the converging law enforcement teams … the mass of twisted, nautical wreckage eventually resting on their crime scene.
    Shultz was beyond exhausted. He’d lost count of how many ambulances he had filled with co-workers and innocent bystanders. A mad scramble had ensued, the survivors rushing about to uncover the wounded and render aid. For over an hour, he’d dug through piles of debris and sloshed through muddy water, frantically rushing here and there, desperately searching for survivors of the tsunami.
    All the while, first responders were pouring in. Ex hausted, filthy and on the downslope of the adrenaline rush, Shultz had decided to stand back and let the professionals perform any remaining rescue work. He’d been loading colleagues into rescue units for what seemed like a lifetime when he realized the source of his own pounding headache was a rather large gash in