The third installment of the GREEN Team series is not yet finished. However, here is a short synopsis of the plot.
While Mack and the Team settle into their new headquarters in Tampa, Florida, out west a group of radical Native Americans is conspiring to reacquire their ancestral homelands by any means necessary. When he learns of this conspiracy, E.J. is conflicted; he does not condone what his people are doing, but he longs for the return of native lands too.
Faced with the prospect of losing everything he holds sacred, E.J. heads west to intervene.
Meanwhile, there are rumblings in the corporate world. A hostile takeover threatens to derail the mission of the GREEN Team from global emergency response leader, to insignificant domestic clean up team.
It is up to Mack and his estranged lover, Sully, the CEO of Carstairs Environmental Technologies - parent company in charge of the GREEN Team - to stop the takeover and find the mole in the company that is attempting to ruin over twenty-years of progress.
Here's a Sneak Peek at the third installment of the GREEN Team adventures:
Prologue
6:05 P.M.
In the lee of the Wasatch Mountain Range
Northeast Utah
Tuesday, August 10th, 1993
“Dammit!” Jason Devareaux exclaimed and tossed the map into the passenger seat in irritation, then reached up and slid his sunglasses back into position to cut down on the glare from the setting sun. Squinting through the bug-splattered windshield at the road stretching out before him he redoubled his efforts to find his next turn. He had checked the map again, out of habit more than to be sure he was going the right way…he knew he was, but now he was sure he had missed the turn. He had been driving this particular leg of the trip far enough and should have seen his next turn by now. As he approached mile marker 13, with frustration threatening to overwhelm him, Jason jerked the wheel to the right and jammed on the brakes, stopping the car on the shoulder of the road. As the resultant dust cloud drifted past the car, momentarily shading him from the intense rays of the setting sun, he snatched up the map from the seat on his right and stared at it malevolently, as if the legal-sized piece of paper was deliberately withholding vital information. It was a copy of a hundred-year-old map of Utah, and neighboring Wyoming. Of course, on this map there were no highways or major roadways. Instead, where Interstate 80 and Highway 89 should have been, they had been drawn in with pencil. The brief directions penciled in the margins, while cryptic, were simple enough: Hwy 89/16 N from Evanston; 39 S at Woodruff; Rt JP 12 MM; then take DRd N 5.2 mi. In addition to the directions, the intriguing phrase, “Bear River Land Trust Revocation Project,” printed across the top of the page was what initially caught his attention and instigated this trip. His company had recently purchased a sizeable tract of land from the Bear River Land Trust. In fact, that purchase included the road he was now driving on and a majority of the open land on both sides of the highway.
Jason, a short, overweight, fifty-seven-year-old civil engineer from Cheyenne, sat in his Mercedes SL450 and wiped the gathering sweat from his receding hairline with the pocket square from his suit jacket. While he was very interested in making the hastily arranged meeting with the anonymous man who contacted him with the curious map and a request to meet at six P.M. today, he was also suspicious. The phone call that followed the arrival of the map had not shed much light on the reason for the meeting. The man had promised that Jason would “receive invaluable information” regarding certain aspects of their land holdings.
Since Jason was to report to his board of directors later in the week, he figured the meeting, and any subsequent information, would benefit their upcoming development plans. And, ever since the strange disappearance of one of his board members last week, Jason figured a dose of good news regarding their upcoming project would be like a shot-in-the-arm for the company. There was still no word of where Henry was, or what had happened to him. The police had questioned everyone in the office, that included him and the other board members, but the police confided that they had no leads in Henry’s disappearance.
With his company’s best interest in mind, he decided to make the meeting without consulting with the board and had departed Cheyenne this morning. Upon leaving Evanston, Wyoming, he had driven into Utah, where less than sixty miles later he made the turn at Woodruff. That had been easy enough; but, now he was looking for the dirt road just past the twelve-mile marker. He had driven between mile markers twelve and thirteen four times now, and had yet to see any damned dirt road intersecting the highway that would take him north. There had been one dirt road on the south side of the highway, but that had been a private driveway and not an access road. Besides, the directions had been simple and straightforward to this point.
He read the instructions aloud, thinking that hearing them would help. “Take a right just past mile marker twelve, then take dirt road north five point two miles.”
He turned around and looked behind him. There was a paved road intersecting the highway about two hundred yards back. He took another look at the map, then glanced in the rearview mirror. “What the hell,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. After checking for traffic, he pulled the Mercedes back onto the highway and made a U-turn.
When he reached the paved road, he signaled and made the left onto the asphalt road. He followed this as it wound around the low hills that marched west toward the mountains. As he rounded a sharp right-hand turn the road surface changed suddenly and he found himself on a dirt road. Jason stopped the car and stepped out into the late afternoon sun. As he stood facing the direction his car was pointed, he realized that the sun was on his left and the dirt road stretched before him in a nearly straight line. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he swore softly. Getting back into the car, he reset the trip odometer and began driving north.
When he had gone five miles, he noticed something farther ahead on the right. At first glance, a distorted view through the shimmering mirage above the road, it appeared to be a tent, but as he got closer he saw it was more of a domed structure, probably ten-feet in diameter and at least seven or eight feet tall. It appeared to be fashioned out of thin birch poles that were curved and tied off at their apex to form a roof. Except for the large entrance, the dome was covered with a richly decorated canvas-type fabric. The structure was set on a low rise near the road.
As he approached a turnout on the road, Jason could see a man sitting at the entrance of the domed structure, gazing out at the western sky. Jason parked the car and stepped out into the waning sunlight. He expected the man to acknowledge his arrival, but was mistaken; the man continued to gaze into the west. There was no mistaking who the man was, for Jason recognized him at once as the eminent, tenured professor of Indian Studies at Utah’s State University in Salt Lake.
Jason walked toward the shelter, which he now recognized as an Indian Wikiup, and appraised the man seated cross-legged on the woven rug laid out on the ground. He was tall – even seated as he was, it was easy to tell – at least six-feet-three, and lean; Jason could not see any of the bulging fat or sagging skin that one would normally expect from a man of sixty-odd years old. This man sat, rigid-backed and strong, his hands folded together in his lap. His hair, long and gray was braided with two feathers, which lay against his back. His skin was darkly tanned and wrinkled with age but retained a healthy appearance nonetheless. Whereas Jason was wearing dark sunglasses to keep from having to squint in the bright sunlight, the Professor sat staring out at the western horizon, his flinty gray eyes unprotected.
“Thank you for agreeing to this meeting, Mr. Devareaux,” the Professor said without turning to look at Jason. “Please, come in out of the sun and join me.”
Jason stepped into the relative cool of the wikiup and sat as the Indian bade him. Eventually, his curiosity got the better of him and he asked, “Why have you asked to see me?” He looked out at the seemingly barren land all around him and continued, “And why way out here?”
The Professor did not immediately answer, but reached over and lifted a cup from the low table next to him. After drinking a bit of the contents and returning the cup, he addressed the impatient businessman seated on his left.
“You are the President of Big West Development, I understand.” It was not a question.
“That’s correct,” Jason confirmed. “What’s that got to do…”
“It has everything to do with why you are here,” the Professor answered. He sighed heavily, got to his feet and stepped out into the waning daylight.
“This was once all ours,” he said with a sweep of his hands; a note of seriousness in his voice. “However, it was stolen from us by the white man in 1863 after coercing my ancestors to sign their useless Treaty of Ruby Valley. And now, after one-hundred-thirty-years you want to build a subdivision and shopping center on our ancestral lands.” At this, he spat on the ground in disgust.
“Well, that was then and this is now,” he said cryptically as he turned to face Devareaux.
“I want you to stop the development and arrange for the sale of this land to me.”
“What?” Jason asked. He began to rise as he spoke. “Are you mad? I can’t stop the development, even if I wanted to. Besides, there’s over ten thousand acres in this parcel. How can you possibly think you can afford to buy it from us?”
The Professor smiled and returned to the shade house for another drink from the cup. “Mr. Devareaux, I’m fully aware the size of Big West’s project; remember, this was once our land like I said. As for the cost…I’m not concerned with that. You see, I’ve no intention to pay what you might call the ‘going rate’ for the land. Actually, I believe you are going to sell it to me for just one dollar.” At this, he finished his cup and sat it back on the low table before facing his guest.
“You’re mad,” Devareaux said cautiously and took a small step back from the tall Indian. “What possible reason would we sell this valuable land to you for a single dollar? Why, the mineral rights alone are worth millions. Once the development is complete, the value will skyrocket. It’s impossible, what you ask.”
“Ah, but I’m not really asking you, Mr. Devareaux,” the Professor said, his voice steady and calm. From inside his jacket he withdrew a thick envelope and handed it to Devareaux. “You are going to sell it…willingly.”
“What’s this?” Devareaux asked as he took the envelope.
“All the reason you need to sell this land back to the rightful owners.”
Devareaux turned away as he opened the package and began to read its contents. When he realized what it was he was reading, he spun around and lashed out at the Indian.
“You can’t be serious. This is not possible. We’ve already done these tests.” Devareaux waved the papers in the Indian’s face. “This is bullshit! These results are bogus; you’ll never get away with it.”
“I suggest you consider your next move carefully, Mr. Devareaux. Why don’t you take this new information back to the board and convince them to sell now before they lose too much of their investment.”
“Are you threatening me, Professor?”
“Threats are not necessary to achieve my goals, Mr. Devareaux.”
“Well, I’m not staying here one minute longer.” He crumpled the report between his two hands and carried it back to his car. He tossed it into the passenger seat as he climbed in and shut the door.
“He’s certifiable,” Jason said to himself as he started the car and turned south onto the dirt road. As he was pulling away, he cast a last glance at the tall Indian standing just inside the wikiup. He seemed to be talking to someone on a radio.
With the wikiup shrinking in the distance, Devareaux looked ahead to his return trip. This had been a waste of time. When he returned to Cheyenne he would notify the remaining board members about his meeting and what the crazy Indian was attempting. There was no way he would get away with this, he was sure.
As he was passing through a cut between two hills, he noticed something on the ridge above him. He slowed the car and glanced up through the windshield and saw what it was: a lone rider on a horse. Jason continued at a slow speed and watched as the rider came into focus. It was an Indian in full costume, complete with headdress and war paint. He was riding a pale horse bareback and holding a long lance or spear. “What the hell!”
It was then that he felt the front tire go flat and the steering wheel pull violently to the left. His attention was dragged away from the rider as he fought the wheel and tried to keep the car on the road. As the car slid to a stop, it careened off the road and into the shallow ditch along the shoulder. Fortunately, he had only been going twenty miles an hour or so before hitting the brakes, so there was minimal impact when the car stopped. Devareaux exhaled loudly and sat back in his seat. “Great,” he cried. He was not looking forward to changing a tire out here in the heat.
As he was reaching to open the door, he felt something hard and cold pressed against his right temple.
“Why don’t you stay in the car, sir,” a deep voice said quietly.
Jason felt his bowels turn to water as fear swept over him. “What do you want?”
“Pick up the report and hold it in your left hand,” the voice commanded softly.
“What?”
He felt the barrel of the gun pressed harder against his head, and heard the serious tone of the man holding the weapon.
“I will not ask you again, sir.”
Devareaux complied and chanced a look in the rearview mirror for his assailant. He could not see anyone behind him. He must be crouching behind the seat. That’s why I didn’t notice him before, he thought.
“Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you want? Just tell me.”
In the conditioned air of the Mercedes’ cabin he could smell his fear and the cloying scent of gun oil on the metal of the weapon.
“Just sit still a moment.”
Devareaux heard the sound of a radio being keyed.
“One, this is Three, over.”
“Go ahead, Three,” came the reply. Devareaux felt a chill down his spine at the sound of the voice. He knew who it was at once.
“Orders, sir, over,” the voice with the gun asked.
After a brief pause, Devareaux heard the radio crackle with the answer.
“I’m sorry, but you leave me no choice, Mr. Devareaux,” the Professor’s voice said. “It was the same with Mr. Reynolds last week. He was as stubborn as you.”
“Henry?” Jason felt his bladder release its contents at the sudden realization of what he heard.
Then, after a long pause he heard, “Do it.”
“Roger, out.”
“Do what,” Jason asked, panic rising within him. He heard the click of the weapon’s hammer being pulled back, and felt it transmitted through the metal being pressed against his skull. He stared out the windshield and saw the horse and its rider stepping into the road. The shirtless rider stared at him with hate-filled eyes. Jason’s last thoughts were to wonder what had made the man so mad at him; then, he closed his eyes and with his final words he asked, “Is it going to hurt?”
He received the answer. There was no pain, as the perception of pain requires a memory, and Jason Devareaux instantly lost the ability to create new memories. If, however he had, he would have felt an intense burning as the nine-millimeter slug passed through his skull, ruining his brain and the Mercedes’ side window when it exited his left ear.
The authorities found him two days later, or what was left of him after being in the car in the high desert for nearly forty-eight hours, at the mercy of the elements and various scavengers. It was ruled a suicide, given the evidence discovered with the body. There was the gun cradled in his lap, his right hand gripping it tightly. Then, there was what the authorities determined was the probable reason for the suicide: a laboratory water and soil analysis showing gross contamination of the area now under development by Big West. In the final report it was determined that Mr. Devareaux killed himself after finding out that his development company was trying to cover up contamination at their proposed construction site.
In the days that followed, a local newspaper published a short environmental piece about an anonymous benefactor that had just bought the contaminated land, once owned by Big West Development, with the intention of conducting a major clean up before restoring the land to the Native American tribes that once dwelt here.