Chapter 23: This Train Is Bound for Glory, This Train...

The education of Eulalie Guidry continued — professors Ethan Dalton and Chase Windsor at the lectern. Eulalie lay on her tummy, ankles crossed in the air, chin resting on her fists. She was wearing a pink thong.

Marie smiled at Ethan, “Still enjoying the Cajun Bayous?”

“I am. Eulalie took Chase and me for a beer at the Cajun Bar and Bank. I’m learning to play bourré.” He nodded at Chase, “This guy already knew how.”

Marie, “Oh, really?”

Chase nodded, “It’s also played in the Greek Islands — well, one island, Psara. They call it Boureki there.”

Eulalie thought: Of course he would know that.

Ethan said, “Down here, I’m getting better at following conversations. I haven’t cracked the code, not entirely, but I can understand most of the chatter.”

Chase, “Technically, I guess that Bayou Cajun isn’t really a language since it doesn’t have its own rules of grammar.”

Ethan nodded in agreement, “You’re right; it’s a dialect.”

Chase nodded back, “Like the European code-dialect spoken by travelers and tinkers — Rotwelsch.”

Marie and Eulalie exchanged a glance. Eulalie thought: Fuck me.

Logan hung up, “That was Bull, he’s back at work. Up in Minneapolis.”

“So Ethan and Marie are on their own.”

Lacy held up a finger and answered her own phone, “Yes?”

She closed her eyes to concentrate; didn’t take notes even though the call lasted almost ten minutes. She said, “Thank you,” and turned to Logan.”

“Maxine?”

“No, my guy who had eyes on Gorman in Idaho.”

“They found the body?”

Lacy, “Nope, but he heard a bunker-rumor from one ticked-off militiaman from Michigan.”

“Okay.”

“Guy named Fabio; think it’s his real name?”

“Of course.”

“Fabio represents a consortium of militias that are funded by the Michigan Three Percenters.”

“Three Percenters?”

“Allegedly, that’s the percentage of colonists who fought in the American Revolution. Anyway, the Three Percenters are right-wing militias and paramilitary groups. Many of them are backed by the Meriwether brothers.”

“Got it.”

“Word is, this Fabio is also a retired sheriff and head of the Home Guardians.”

“Another Michigan militia?”

“Yeah. And they’re keeping up with current times. Commies and Jews have been supplanted by illegal immigrants and government overreach. And toss in the New World Order and 2nd Amendment threats as well.”

“Typical these days.”

“Yes, but Fabio adds more spice to the stew. He’s number two in the Constitutional Sheriffs Patrol.”

Logan groaned, “Posse Comitatus —power of the county.”

“Yep, common-law juries and the whole bit. And, it’s playing well in Michigan — urban Democrats, so many of them Black, versus rural Republicans. And they believe, the sheriffs believe, that they have power over state and federal law enforcement. The power to ignore laws they don’t like, and enforce ones they believe should be on the books.”

“Sweethearts. So how does Fabio affect us?”

“The Constitutional Sheriffs Patrol is looking for a host to stream their podcasts, recruitment videos, everyday chatter.”

“And they want anonymity so they can’t be interrupted or have their outreach messages distorted.”

“Right. So Fabio got wind of Bunker Boy, and apparently loved the idea. Which, symbolically, makes sense. The government is out to get them anyway, so a structured setting like a bunker makes some psychological sense.”

“Maybe Apache was on to something all along.”

“Maybe. But he turned Fabio down. And now the sheriff is up in Idaho bitching about it.”

Logan thought, “Supposedly, Apache does everything except kiddy porn and terrorism. I guess he could see a conflict between the U. S. military and the Sheriffs Patrol.”

Lacy smiled, “And Señor Fabio blurted out a location.”

“Eastern Oregon?”

“Eastern Oregon, north of Hines. There’s an old National Forest Road — 47 — that goes north and east. It was widened and partially paved back in the 50s. Bunker Boy is on the east side of 47, about seven miles in.”

As they packed, Lacy said, “What did Bull want?”

“He’s still an incurable gear-head. He knows we’re looking at the rural Northwest and he can get us access to a Mercedes Unimog.”

“God! Where?”

“Eugene.”

“We can cover that ugly fucker with a tarp and haul it to Hines.”

Logan closed his case and nodded, “Swing around and approach from the north, from Apache’s back side. I’ll have to see the place in person, but with those massive tires and ground clearance that Unimog can go just about anywhere.”

It was right at two in the morning when they checked out, and neither one thought the departure time was the least bit strange.

As Lacy drove north, Logan glanced at her. Sometimes, just for a second or two, her face became faintly remote. As if she were hearing a barely audible whisper, “Lacy, Lacy, Lacy.”

Was it something from her past calling out to her? Or what lay ahead?

Quintin Apache called Gorman’s dedicated burner phone with increasing frequency and frustration. Finally, for the first time ever, he called his associate’s personal phone.

If there were a single unmelted molecule beneath four feet of mollisol and charred ashes, it didn’t respond.

Apache turned to the one person he and Gorman had both known — Web Stinson, proud proprietor of four meth labs, all within a hundred miles of Coeur d’Alene.

“Where the fuck is Goose-Step? He knows to answer my call immediately. He will not get back to me. This is near treason of the highest order.”

Stinson didn’t know Apache all that well; he had merely acted as a go-between. And he certainly wasn’t familiar with the odd emphasis on random words.

“Look, he does his own thing with that church. Maybe he’s on a retreat or something. Maybe they take a vow of silence, fuck do I know?”

Stinson hung up and blocked Apache from reaching him again.

Apache, muttering to himself, added Web Stinson to his list.

As they drove north through the night, Lacy said, “This Fabio, this Posse Comitatus, is supposedly inching toward an alliance with the Accelerationists.”

“Another reason for Apache to turn him down. Those fuckers are adding fuel to fire.”

Lacy glanced over at him and Logan laughed, “Sorry, Goose-Step, wrong analogy. But if you believe that Western governments are irreparably corrupt, the next logical step...”

“In their twisted minds, is to hurry the government’s demise by creating chaos. And that’s why actual killings instead of just protests are the flavor d’jour. They’re already talking about bagpipe funerals.”

“Yeah, and the Accelerationists creed is starting to appear in manifestos from mass-shooters.”

“And in more and more Nazi chatrooms and forums.”

Logan, “In his own twisted way, Apache is turning out to be a patriot of sorts.”

“Who kills people. He may not be deciding who should be yeeted for being black or undocumented or Jewish, but the people Apache does for money are just as dead.”

Lacy’s only reference to their tea with Laurel was an offhand aside as they crossed the California border north into Oregon, “We both have unique mothers.”

As Lacy and Logan approached Eugene, the morning rush hour was in full force. They’d driven eight hours, stopping only for gas. Lacy said, “Ever been here?”

“Nope.”

“Me either, we’ll let Ms. Google lead the way.”

“Okay. But first let’s equip ourselves. A surplus store or REI around here?”

They ended up with a two-person backpacking tent — the NEMO Dagger 2 — which Lacy observed, “More than we need for just one night. Not enough if we’re in it for a long haul.”

Logan selected The North Face Dolomite One Duo Sleeping Bag. Lacy, “Expecting to get laid tonight?”

“Absolutely.”

For nourishment, they agreed not to pack anything that required thawing, heating, or cooking, because they wouldn’t risk a fire. Trail mix, nuts, bars. Jerky and dried fruits. Lacy looked balefully at the meager repast and said, “I’ll stop at a deli. And a liquor store. Oh, apples and oranges and bananas. Ever see me eat a banana?”

Logan added a second backpack for Lacy — the Osprey Tempest 20 Pack.

Everything got stowed neatly away in the Navy manner, none finer. Lacy contributed a bottle of Knappogue Castle Single Malt 16 Year. “We’re lucky I found this.”

“Think you’re gonna get laid tonight?”

“Don’t care, not now. Let’s pick up Bull’s vehicle.”

“Google me.”

“The garage is in a neighborhood called ‘the Whiteaker’.” She scrolled, “It’s mostly blue collar residential ... north and west of downtown ... gentrifying of course ... a few craft breweries ... rebel artists.”

“Are there any other kinds?”

“Not in college towns. Ah, there we are — Hogan’s Garage. Between Joe’s and Alex’s. What’s our story?”

“Ask for Turk, mention Bull, and we’re good to go.”

Turk Hogan was a bookish looking gent, around 60. Shy and skinny and inordinately proud of his restoration business. The sign across the front read: ‘Hogan’s Garage’. And underneath: ‘Vintage Only’.

“Don’t work on nothing made after the Korean War.” Turk had ‘Vintage Only’ stitched in red onto the chest of his white overalls. Each of the cars he was working on was parked on paper floor-mats and had its own large placard in front to announce its provenance.

There were four ‘patients’ inside the pristine garage with its spotless concrete floor:

> A green 1938 Buick Y Job with a tan convertible top.

> A beige Humber Super Snipe, the 1946 Mark II edition.

> A bright red 1933 Pontiac Eight Convertible.

> A gleaming black 1930 Lincoln K Dual Cowl Sport Phaeton.

Then Turk led them to a private room with an elaborate keypad. Inside, he carefully, and ceremoniously, removed a car cover made from chamois cloth. He revealed a breathtaking silver 1950 Abarth 205-A Berlinetta.

Turk spoke reverently, “This concours car ... the coachwork ... the aluminum body was designed by Giovanni Michelotti and hammered by Vignale.”

Lacy said exactly the right thing, “Breathtaking. I feel like I’m going to cum.”

Turk beamed. Like a lot of people who dedicated their lives to one esoteric obsession, he was in his heaven. He gave Lacy a car-by-car history, performance, and price overview.

Finally he turned to Logan, “I know Bull’s father. Pretty good man. Your ride is ‘round back.”

While it looked like a poor cousin compared with the older cars, the Mercedes-Benz Unimog was still one impressive-looking vehicle. Its metallic blue paint glistened in the misty daylight. It was aggressively stubby, with four doors and a very short truck bed. It rode so high on its massive tires that even Logan had trouble climbing up and in. The ground clearance was more than he had seen in anything else other than outrageously souped-up custom jobs.

Turk had to help him adjust the tow bar to link to the Denali. Then he loaned them a tarp to cover the head-turning Unimog. Turk said, “Full tank, try to bring this monster back if you can.”

Once they were on 20, heading east, Lacy said, “About six hours. What’s the plan?”

“It won’t be dark until 9 or so. We’ll drive past the National Forest Road without stopping. What number is it?”

“47 — thank you, Fabio. Then we’ll look for a place to ditch the Denali and approach the bunker from the north?”

“Yep. I’ll stow the backpacks and check out how the Blue Beast handles.”

“I’ll be driving it, Logan.”

“Of course you will.”

Marie and Eulalie were sharing a cheeseburger and shoestring fries at Contrary Mary’s. With those two in the house, the young Cajun waitresses were slightly more conscientious — a little less bantering and flirting with the customers. Both sisters knew the scene would return to normal once they left the building.

But that was hardly a concern. The joint had been profitable for years and years. Besides, both of them felt that their lives were changing, changing in some yet unknown way. Ever since Logan Kelly had entered their orbit ... well, Marie and Eulalie had a sense of an expanding world, a new world, one that was opening up before them.

They were sitting in the last booth on the left, the one on permanent Reserve. Marie, with seniority, sat facing the front door. She smiled, “You wearing perfume, chere?”

Eulalie grinned, “From Himself.”

Marie gestured with her hand, and Eulalie held out her inner wrist. Marie leaned forward, “Nice. Subtle. Smells like rain.” She smiled at her sister, “Chase has you in his sights.”

Big grin, “I know. The other day he told me I had a lapsarian smile.”

“And you faked it, right?”

“Sure. But he knew I didn’t have the foggiest.”

“So you looked it up later.”

“Yep.”

“And?”

“It means I’m contributing to the downfall of mankind.”

Marie gave her sister a look of deadpan amusement, “Who better?”

Lacy grinned as she eased the Unimog through streams, over logs and small boulders; glided through mud. She was going out of her way to drive through obstacle after obstacle. However, she was going slow — two or three miles an hour.

As the clock neared midnight, Logan was leaning out the passenger side window, aiming his Home Depot flashlight through the ground mist. When she stopped the Blue Beast he nodded, “We’re about two miles north of the bunker.”

They replaced the tarp to prevent any reflections when the sun came up.

Lacy checked that her Glock G43 Single Stack 9mm Pistol was snug in her shoulder holster. She gave Logan a thumbs up and started walking to her left, to the east.

Logan set off in the opposite direction, packing both his SIG Sauer P320 and the custom knife presented to him by Senior Chief Petty Officer Horace Maytubby.

They’d approach the bunker, staying well out of sight, from opposite directions. A recon foray only.

An hour later, back at the Blue Beast, Lacy and Logan compared photos. She whispered, “You had the better angle; let’s set up there before the sun comes up.”

First, they worked silently, erecting the tent, placing the sleeping bag inside, over the ground sheet. They dug into ham & cheddar on rye with spicy mustard. Munched on apples. Lacy said, “Oranges and bananas for breakfast.”

“On site.”

“Of course.”

She poured dollops of Irish whiskey into Bormioli glasses that Logan hadn’t seen her pack, but their presence didn’t surprise him. Later, as they tidied up, she said, “What’s a broad have to do to get laid around here? Or are you waiting for your Amazon undies?”

“And socks.”

“Keep telling yourself that. Undie Boy.”

“Sunrise is 6:41.”

Lacy, “We should be in place ... when?”

“By 5:41.”

Four hours sleep, but neither one complained. They weren’t on an adrenaline high with its spikes and valleys. There was simply an amplified sense of physical and mental alertness ... a measured surge of energy tempered with an understanding of the need to pace themselves.

Although they didn’t know the specific details, Lacy and Logan were each aware that the other had engaged in hazardous ventures in the past. And that was valuable intel. The less they worried about each other, the sharper the mission focus.

As they waited for the sun to come up, both seemed rested and relaxed. Ready for whatever lay ahead. Lacy and Logan ate orange wedges and bananas, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Tactically, Logan would have preferred to be on the other side of the bunker, with the sun at their back. But this was simply a better vantage point, a higher one. They’d be conscientious not to let any reflections from the lenses reveal their presence.

Each carried a handgun, and each had a backpack/trauma kit strapped on. Logan’s was outfitted in the Navy way, none finer; Lacy’s, from her time spent training in Israel, none finer.

They were in a copse of chokeberry trees, around 20 to 25 feet tall. The small fruits were surrounded by oval-shaped leaves. As the light grew slowly brighter, they spotted several deer, and further out, a small herd of elk.

They were situated on a small rise, looking down at the bunker, which was a large rectangle with concrete walls that Logan knew had to be thick. There was a three-bar iron railing that defined the roof area — which was overgrown with grass, wildflowers, small bushes, and what appeared to be poison ivy.

Both Logan and Lacy used binoculars to scan the structure. She whispered, “There’s a funny patch, about 9 o’clock on the roof.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

It was a barren section, a rectangle six feet long or so without any plant life. Odd.

As they glassed the property, they saw an abandoned gatehouse at the driveway that led to the National Forest Road. Three other outbuildings appeared to have fallen into disuse as well.

In front of the bunker, in the center of a gravel drive, an empty flagpole, at least 50 feet high, was set in concrete and ringed by stones that had recently been painted white. The polyester rope was attached to a pulley and truck at the top, and a cleat near the bottom. A light breeze caused the rope to thump gently against the pole. It was a background thrum to the incessant bird calls as the region came awake.

The underground bunker they were watching dated to the 1950s and probably had been constructed to withstand a nuclear attack. At one point, it would have had an airlock at the entrance. Plus a large cache of food and water for Army staff and civilian contractors. Probably a backup generator.

No way to determine how much of the original infrastructure was still being used. But, one thing for certain, the bunker itself was still solid, still substantial ... it would have easily weathered however many decades of human neglect there had been.

At three minutes before seven, an olive drab, open-bodied Jeep CJ pulled into the drive, past the gatehouse, and parked on the gravel lot to the right of the bunker entrance. The old Jeep had a five-gallon jerrycan of gas mounted on each side. They were camo-painted, complementing the military look.

Three men got out; each was wearing an Army uniform. A private first class, a corporal, and a sergeant E-5.

They assembled, more or less in a straight line, and saluted as Lieutenant Colonel Quintin Apache, with his polished silver oak leaf, marched out of the bunker and stood at rigid attention.

A scratchy recording of Reveille blared out, and the two youngest men — the private and corporal — attached a huge Stars and Stripes to the rope. They raised the flag slowly, in an almost stately manner, as Apache and the sergeant saluted and followed its upward path with their eyes.

After the brief ceremony, Apache talked with the sergeant for eleven minutes while the young men — boys almost — went inside the bunker. The sergeant joined them later as Apache drove away in the Jeep.

Logan whispered, “Want to stay for Taps?”

“I never cared for bugles. Let’s head back to camp; I have an idea.”

After a remarkably strenuous session in Chase’s bed, Eulalie lay sideways with her head on his left arm, her palm on his chest. By now she was familiar with his pranayamic breathing as she felt his heart rate slow down.

“Would you teach me that Hatha stuff?”

“Sure — it’s simple. Just close your eyes, fill your lungs, push your breath out with your diaphragm.”

Eulalie felt her own pulse rate slow as she grew calmer, felt more centered.

A few minutes later she said, “You’re pretty good to me.”

“Do you know how the Marine Corps trains its war dogs?”

Of course Chase knew that she didn’t. But Eulalie didn’t mind — she was fascinated by the conversational byways that he led her down.

“No idea.”

“These magnificent animals — the Military Working Dogs — will, literally, give up their lives to save their partner. And the very best dog training is based on a system of praise and compensation. The key is not to punish a German Shepherd for making a mistake. Instead, you reward him for doing the right thing.”

“Or her.”

“Or her.”

“Is it always a Shepherd?”

“No, the Belgian Malinois makes an excellent war dog too. It’s a little smaller than a Shepherd, but its bite is so ferocious, they’re sometimes called Maligators.”

Eulalie smiled to herself and called up a word from her personal vocabulary studies, “Tenacious.”

“Exactly. And war dogs are bred, trained, and praised to lead patrols into enemy territory, to sniff out explosives.”

“They have a good ... an acute sense of smell?”

Chase patted her shoulder, “That’s an understatement. A full eighth of his brain is devoted to his nose. He has over two hundred million scent receptors. His sense of smell is more precise than any scientific instrument ever invented.”

“Example?”

He patted her shoulder again, “If he were taught to recognize you — the smell of your skin, your hair, breath, underarms, crotch — he could identify you in a thousand different ways.”

“Like?”

“Dilute a single drop of your urine in an Olympic-sized swimming pool. A war dog would be able to pick out your scent. He would draw the air over a certain shelf in his nose. Into a specific cavity where scent molecules are collected.”

Eulalie knew that Chase was talking about dogs, but also ... life. She frowned as she thought the matter through.

“So that’s what you did with Lacy. Trained her to be a war dog.” She was thinking: And that’s what he’s planning to do with me.

“That’s an oversimplification, but ... yes, that’s essentially correct. I developed and encouraged her natural talents, her magnificent inner resources. She was born to be successful in the Life.”

Eulalie grinned, “A Maligator.”

“Precisely.”

Eulalie, eyes still closed, concentrated on her breathing while she imagined a new life for herself. A completely different life.

After packing up, as Logan drove west, back towards Eugene, Lacy was working her crypto phone, the re-engineered Blackberry. Logan glanced back in the mirror; he’d be glad to return the Blue Beast. It had served its purpose, but had been overkill. The terrain just hadn’t been that rugged.

Lacy said, “Thank you,” and disconnected.

Logan, “We on?”

“We’re on. I’ll meet her at a truck stop — TA at two. No need for you to be there.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

“Don’t fish.”

“I’ll drop you, return the Beast.”

“Grab a bite somewhere too; I’ll call you when we’re finished.”

“I’ll get us a room, any preferences?”

“Hyatt Place, according to Ms. Google.”

“It’s a chain; against your religion.”

“Best we can do. We’ll eat at the Sky Bar.”

“Yes ma’am.”

That night, in their Hyatt bed, Logan twitted Lacy, “What happened to my ambush predator? Seem like you’re on the hunt now.”

“Ever watch a leopard hunt?”

Logan chuckled, “No, have you?”

“Sure, on Planet Earth.“

“Okay.”

“Mr. Leopard doesn’t chase prey like cheetahs. And he doesn’t stalk them like lions. He sets up camp near a waterhole, high up in a tree and just waits. He’s patient, Mr. Leopard; he can lie perfectly still on a branch for days. And, he’s cunning — he knows Mr. Warthog needs water and will show up sooner or later.”

“What about our own Mr. Warthog?”

“I’m out of patience. We’re gonna stalk, chase, and devour Quintin Apache. Fucker.”

The next morning, as they headed east out of Eugene, Lacy said, “Maxine updated me on Apache’s server farm.”

“Oh?”

“It’s looking dirtier and dirtier. It’s just rumors at this stage, but word is that he’s hosting a massive spam e-mail operation for phishing sites.”

“Which means someone is stealing credit card info.”

“Yeah. And — hearsay again — he’s sharing movies, music, porn, and other copyrighted content. Plus doorways, dating sites, VPNs, blogs, money orders, and tools for spreading spam.”

“What kind of tools?”

“XRUMER and ZENNOPOSTER.”

“Anything else?”

“The bunker also contains a specialized server for denial-of-services attacks.”

Neither one mentioned that Maxine’s update didn’t really mean much. They weren’t concerned with illegal business practices; Apache himself was the target.

Logan said, “It cost some money for Apache to rent the bunker, refurbish it enough to accommodate a server farm. And then buy all the equipment he needed.”

“Assassinations must pay pretty well.”

“Tax free, too.”

“The government paved the road from Highway 20 and buried all the utilities, so the basic infrastructure was already in place.”

“And it wasn’t like there’s a huge market demand for bunkers. No natural light, no windows. The billionaires are building their escape pods in New Zealand.”

“I read about a bunker the West German Army built in the seventies. It’s five stories deep, but outlived its usefulness. They were trying to unload it for 350,000 euros. No takers even at that low price.”

“Huh.”

“If Apache is holed up in his bunker, he has a three-dimensional advantage over us — length, width, height.”

Logan smiled; he knew what was coming.

“But battles are fought in four dimensions and we’ll push Apache on the timing.” She grinned, “People forget that time has weight.”

Lacy pulled into a rest stop 70 miles west of where 20 intersected with 47. She and Logan carefully attached a magnetic sign to the front doors on each side of the Denali:

Oregon Water Resources Department.

They hung lanyards around their necks — IDs identifying them as Senior Regional Inspectors for surface and groundwater management. Each credential had a blurry photo, which would have to do. Lacy and Logan also had long plastic billfolds with a silver, six-pointed star in a glassine-covered slot. Backup certification that probably wouldn’t be needed.

The billfold was attached to a belt clamp on the right side. Each wore 20-25 keys on a large brass ring on the left.

Logan said, “The sergeant looked about 30, maybe 35.”

“Yeah, he’ll be the man; just ignore the boys.”

“And you want me to do the talking.”

“That’s what Sarge will expect. I’m just along to fetch coffee and suck cock.”

For this appearance, Lacy looked around 40, a little pudgy, but with some distractive cleavage when she undid a couple of buttons.

They both had a handgun tucked under the back of their white short-sleeve shirts.

There was no longer an airlock, just a heavy steel door that pulled open without much resistance. The private jumped to his feet, started to salute, stopped himself. “This is private property, Sir. Ma’am.”

Logan tapped his clipboard with a slight show of impatience, “Is the owner in?”

“Lemme get the sergeant.”

The NCO bustled in. “Hep you?” He was burly and beetle-browed, a downward-turned mouth hinting at disappointed parents or rotten luck. Maybe both. His name tag said: Perkins.

Lacy took everything in while Logan did the spiel. Temperature was a comfortable 70 degrees. White-painted concrete walls that were cleaner than the ones outside. The room they were in looked to be soundproof and transmission-shielded. No natural light. The air felt stale and a little heavy.

Logan, “The Oregon Water Resources Department is charged with maintaining corporate compliance with designated state and federal regulations.”

“Don’t know nothing about that. The colonel takes care of the paperwork.”

Logan made a note, “Colonel... ?”

“Overton. Ain’t here, you’ll have to come back.”

“When do you expect him?”

Perkins got a crafty look, “No regular schedule. He’s the boss, comes and goes as he pleases.”

Logan turned to Lacy, “We’ll do a quick Schedule D Survey, Miss Holloway.”

“Yes sir.”

“Who’s going to guide us? Perkins?’

“You can’t just waltz in and...”

Logan squared his shoulders, leaned forward, “This is merely a preliminary examination. We can keep it friendly, or I can return with a warrant and the Oregon State Police. I have Lieutenant Rochester on speed dial.”

The meandering inspection took just over an hour. The bunker had three levels — two of them underground — that were individually painted white, blue, and yellow. Every room on every floor was symmetrical, the same exact size. It seemed to be a simple layout, but it was disorienting. Even Perkins got confused in the maze.

This heavily-fortified facility was far more infrastructure than actually needed by any server farm. But Lacy and Logan agreed that the bulwark would look impressive to prospective clients. Their secrets would seem to be as well-protected as the equipment that routed their messages.

There was one glassed-in area, the size of a large conference room. Three young men in sweats and backward baseball caps stared at monitors, tapped at keyboards, adjusted dials.