Lewis Perdue: Perfect killer

Tyrone and Jasmine connected the auxiliary wires and quickly got the first small aircraft off the ground. With her eyes on the small plane and her hands on the control joysticks, Jasmine sidled back to the cab of the truck.

"Now get the camera that looks out the window," Jasmine said. "The one which almost showed us." She looked up at the small aircraft. "Let me know when you see the airplane on the camera, then guide me in." Tyrone scrambled back into the cab.

"Oh, hell," Tyrone said when be got back behind the keyboard. "You are not going to believe what Braxton just did!"

Dressed in a tuxedo and patent-leather shoes that threw off light like a mirror, Clark Braxton's face twisted itself deep and red with a fury rolling off him like a shock wave. His hands trembled at his side as he surveyed the enological carnage.

Braxton's big security chief stood at his side, silhouetted against the last orange hues of the smoke-stained sunset bleeding through the distant window. I had no doubt he and Braxton would use this as the escape attempt they needed as an excuse to kill us.

Braxton's fists and arms trembled as he surveyed the wreckage. His eyes passed through anger and fury, then began to reflect light in a manner that grew truly frightening.

Unaware of his boss's gathering rage, the big security chief barked orders at his men. At the corner of my eye, I saw Rex duck around the corner of the wine rack,

"Stop!" The security chief yelled after Rex and directed two of his men to pursue him. As the other troops fanned out and took our weapons, I heard Rex and Harper.

"Come on!" Rex said "Quick."

"No. You go."

"Move, Doc!"

"I'm too slow. You go."

"Hell!"

I heard the report of Rex's 9mm pistol followed by a three-round burst from one of the M16s, Then another 9mm shot.

"Damn! I'm hit," cried a voice. Not Rex's.

The security chief directed another man toward the action. "It's okay," called the wounded man. "My vest caught it."

Then another voice: "There's a hole in the wall. Shall I pursue?"

"Negative!" yelled the security chief. "It leads to the barrel cellar. We've got a man posted there. Stay here; make sure nobody comes out."

"Sir!"

Braxton knelt on one knee to examine a broken wine bottle as a guard dragged Frank Harper around the corner. Braxton stood slowly, looking at the broken wine bottle like a mother holding her dead child. His entire body pulsed with barely restrained power. Then he dropped the bottle and leveled a killing gaze at Harper.

"You lame, worthless, feeble piece of dog shit." Braxton's voice started faint and low like the preamble to a prayer, then rose in pitch and volume as Harper and his captor grew closer. "You traitorous old fool!"

"Yes, I am an old fool," Harper said. Braxton nodded and the guard halted next to the wine rack. "And I am a traitor for saving your life."

Braxton flew apart. "You damned fool! Look at the damage you have done!" The General swept an outstretched arm around the cellar. He turned then and pulled his security chief's sidearm from its holster.

The guard holding Harper leaped to the side as Braxton shot the old man in the face, slamming him back against the wine racks. The crack-shot former general shot Harper again as he slumped toward the tile. Harper died before he hit the floor.

Shock and disapproval registered in the eyes of the SWAT-clad men holding the rest of us. Killing innocent people was not part of a professional soldier's charter. The grip on my arm loosened.

"And you!" Braxton stepped away from his big security chief and leveled the man's own gun at his chest. "You were supposed to prevent this!" Dried spittle stuck like cotton to one corner of Braxton's mouth.

"But you let these amateurs ruin the perfection of the world's greatest wine collection! Just look at it now! It was complete and now… " Braxton trembled. Around the room, the security troops were stunned by the sight of the General and the security chief locked in mortal combat. Their training had never prepared them for this

"You ruined it, ruined it!"

When Braxton shot his security chief, Gabriel, Kilgore, and I broke for the hole in the wall. As we turned the corner, the two guards who had not seen the shootings raised their weapons. We ducked back around the end of the wine racks and saw Braxton standing over the head of his security detail as the man struggled to sit up.

Two of the guards moved toward the General as he aimed the gun down at the fallen man's head and pulled the trigger again. Behind us, we heard one of the guards move away from the hole in the wall, his boots crunching on the broken glass.

Then, from beyond the window, out where the sun had begun surrendering to darkness, a toy airplane bobbed toward us. I turned and took shelter at the base of the wine rack along with Gabriel and Kilgore.

The explosion rocked the cellar and filled the enclosed space with glass and wine.

"Okaaay, there went the security cam," Tyrone said as he and Jasmine raced to launch a second radio-controlled airplane.

"We'll put this and the other two in about the same area," she said. "If Brad's still alive, he'll be heading away from there. Maybe we can pull security to where he isn't anymore."

She paused.

"Then we get the hell out of here."

The cellar noise receded quickly as we stumbled down the dark stairwell. "What took you so long, kemo sabe?"

Rex appeared out of the darkness with a small, bright LED light. "Lead the way, Tonto," Kilgore replied.

"Right this way asshole."

At the bottom, we found no guard in the barrel cave and none in the tunnels or on the loading docks. We did hear another explosion faintly as we made our way to the wine delivery truck, gridlocked in a panicked tangle of traffic.

"You gentlemen up for a jog?" Gabriel said. "I know a nice trail to the road."

"I'm allergic to running," Rex said. "But not as allergic as I am to lead."

Outside the service area and beyond the beautiful green curtain that kept it from blighting the visions of important people, we found chaos like the last helicopter out of Saigon. Guests in evening dress came off the aerial gondola and were hustled by their own security people to waiting limousines, all of which jammed the driveway out.

We followed Gabriel in the shadows of the trees. At first, we walked to avoid attracting attention, then ran swiftly through the trees toward Silverado Trail.

We had walked through a shallow stream and were crawling up the bank when Rex asked us to stop for a moment.

"You finally going to quit smoking now?" I asked him.

"You can be a true asshole," he said only half-joking. "I have half a mind to tell your lady here"-he tapped at the walkie-talkie-"tell her you didn't make it… and see to it myself that I ain't lying."

He pulled the earbud and lavalier from his ear. "But I promised y'mama, you know."

He handed me the earbud and the walkie-talkie.

It was Jasmine.

A score of postdoctoral and medical school students jammed themselves around a long, elliptical plastic-laminate table, took notes, and sipped coffee when I paused and listened to me with an embarrassing degree of intensity as I shuffled my way toward the last pages of my notes.

Around the perimeter of the windowless room stood a collection of people who would be my classroom students in the fall, and a sprinkling of faculty members I vaguely recognized but whose names I could not recall.

"I realize its a big shock for many, but the theoretical and practical successes of quantum theory expose classical physics as a primitive tool. For the purposes of studying consciousness, it's like using a muzzle-loading cannon when you really need a particle accelerator. Regardless, the classically misled consciousness establishment remains mired in the seventeenth century wearing Sir Isaac Newton about their necks like an albatross." I glanced hopefully at the door for an instant, then back to my notes. "This stubborn refusal to relinquish obsolete ideas has damaged our ability to understand consciousness and to examine and discuss the existence of free will."