“Which never happened.”
“But that doesn’t mean something couldn’t have happened.” For an instant, Caplan’s mind snapped back to the Vallerio Forest. To five months ago. To that part of him that no longer existed. “If something goes wrong, a little preparation just might save your life.”
Exhaling softly, Caplan shifted his gaze to the other students. “Now, let’s talk about what you can expect from this class. Urban Survival Basics isn’t meant to prepare you for a minor terrorist attack or a measles outbreak. It’s in case something truly bad happens. Something that destroys civilization.”
The heavyset guy smirked. “How often does that happen?”
“More often than you think,” Caplan replied smoothly. “Think of the Anasazi, the Mayas, the Khmer Empire, the Roman Empire, the Soviet Union.”
“And yet, here we are, more civilized than ever,” the dude said, finding his tongue. “Those people didn’t need bug out bags or canned goods to survive disasters. They just picked up the pieces and moved on with their lives.”
God, he hated the cynics. Why didn’t they just let him teach his classes in peace? “Not all of them. Many people — the ones who didn’t see it coming — perished. Modern civilization is built on the backs of those who were prepared.” Caplan smiled. “The survivalists.”
The dude exchanged frustrated looks with the guy. Together, they ambled away from the group.
Caplan turned his attention back to the students. “So—”
“I’ve got one more question for you.” The dude whirled around. “You’re a survival expert, right?”
Caplan nodded.
“Then how come you only teach urban stuff? How come you don’t teach wilderness skills?”
Caplan’s mouth moved, but no words came out.
A grin creased the dude’s lips. Whirling around, he and the guy hiked across the Great Lawn, chortling loudly with glee.
Caplan’s blood rushed to his head. It wasn’t the questions that bothered him so much as the thoughts they provoked in his head. About his career at Hatcher Station, deep within the Vallerio Forest. About the life he’d left behind.
His hands formed into fists. He was sorely tempted to chase after the dude, to beat the man senseless. But he forced himself to breathe slowly. To allow his anger to ebb. You’ve got a class to teach, he reminded himself. Money to earn, rent to pay.
Caplan took another breath. “Urban Survival Basics isn’t about growing urban gardens or installing solar panels. On the other hand, it’s not about fighting off hordes of enemies with your fists and feet. It’s about two things, evasion and escape. Evasion from authorities, terrorists, criminals, zombies, you name it. Escape from captivity, escape from the city.”
He paused, allowing his words to register with the students. “Let’s face it… New York sucks.” A few half-hearted chuckles rang out. “If the shit ever hits the fan, this is probably the worst place you could find yourself. It’s overcrowded and under-resourced. Urban Survival Basics will teach you how to handle that. Over the next eight weeks, we’ll cover a variety of topics. The building and planting of supply caches. The creation of fake papers and IDs. Stealth movements, including buildering and parkour. Checkpoint crossing via disguises and the aforementioned false documents. You’ll learn how to pick locks, break zip ties, and bust out of temporary urban prisons. And you’ll learn how to steal an abandoned car and start it without keys.”
He noted the excitement, the enthusiasm amongst the students. He wasn’t surprised. His students were, by and large, rich urbanites. They bored easily and were always on the lookout for a new experience. His classes promised that and a whole lot more.
“After seven weeks of training, you’ll be given the opportunity to show what you know,” Caplan continued. “The last class will consist of a real-world scenario. All of you will be restrained and locked down somewhere in New York City during a mock disaster. You’ll have to break out, gather resources, evade agents trying to recapture you, and escape the city. And you’ll do it all without the use of cell phones or computers.”
The students’ excitement level jumped a few notches. If there was one thing urbanites loved more than unique experiences, it was an excuse to temporarily escape the drudgery of social media and constant connectivity.
Caplan wiped his hand across his brow, relieving it of sweat. The temperature, a balmy seventy-four degrees Fahrenheit, didn’t bother him. What bothered him was the lack of shade, the lack of trees.
He sniffed the air, but was unable to get a good whiff of anything. The grass barely registered in his nostrils. The few surviving trees, the ones that had so far avoided the recent die out, were seemingly odorless. He missed the smells of the outdoors. The real outdoors, not the well-groomed artifice of Central Park.
“Today’s session will focus on knowledge-gathering and prep work,” Caplan said. “We’re going to discuss recent riots and large-scale terrorist attacks. We’ll look at how authorities work, how they lockdown cities and establish checkpoints. Then we’ll move on to caches. I’ll show—”
“Is this session full?” The voice was familiar, but somehow tougher, stronger. Like it was packed full of nails. “Or have you got room for another student?”
Whirling around, Caplan fixed his gaze at the old man from the fake mugging. His fingers curled into fists. He forgot the students, forgot the session. “You little—”
“The student’s name is Amanda Morgan.”
Caplan’s brow cinched tight. Amanda? His Amanda?
“She’s always getting herself into trouble. So, I’d like to sign her up for your class.” The old man inhaled deeply. “I think you’re the only one who can help her.”
Chapter 6
“Spill it.” Caplan pushed the old man away from his students. “Now.”
The old man turned around and rubbed his bruised jaw. Then he smoothed down his gray sport coat and tailored white shirt. “Take it easy, son.”
Caplan wasn’t in the mood to take it easy. Grabbing the man by the collar, he pulled him close. “How do you know Amanda?”
“She works for me.”
“Liar.” Caplan shook the man hard. “You staged that mugging. Then one of your cronies followed me back to my apartment. That’s the only way you could’ve found out about Amanda.”
“You’re right about one thing. The mugging was staged. But it was also necessary. I needed to vet you, to see you in action.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
With surprising strength, the old man broke free of Caplan’s grip. “Let’s start over. My name is James Corbotch.”
“And I’m Leonardo da Vinci.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you’re a con artist.”
James Corbotch, the elderly patriarch of the Corbotch family, was one of the most enigmatic people in the entire world. His vast holdings, known to most people as the Corbotch Empire, had its origins in the family’s seventeenth century banking business. Over the years, it had spread its wings across the globe, gobbling up countless enterprises along the way.
Little was known about James. Some said he lived in the French Alps, wiling away his years with a bevy of buxom beauties. Others thought he owned a chain of private South Pacific islands from which he hosted island-hopping fetish parties for the rich and famous. Still others believed he lived like a hermit, moving from hovel to hovel, doing everything in his power to keep a low profile.
Personally, Caplan wasn’t sure what to believe. Maybe all those things were right. Or maybe they were all wrong. All he knew was that the man in front of him was not James Corbotch.