The Sean Wyatt Series Box Set 4

by Ernest Dempsey

  “All I’m saying is that something changed Charlemagne’s DNA. And like you said, that could account for his incredible success as a warrior.”

  “Yes, but he died.”

  Heimrich raised a finger. “Aha. I had the same thought.” He maneuvered the mouse and clicked it a few times to zoom in on the image. “You see here how some components are somewhat smaller than the regular pieces of code?”

  “Yeah…”

  “It appears they deteriorated, probably over time.”

  “So what does that mean, exactly?”

  Heimrich fell back in his chair and put his thumb to his chin once more. “I’m afraid I have no idea.”

  They lapsed into silence as Michael considered the doctor’s theory. “All of the samples had this same result?”

  “Every single one,” Heimrich said, nodding. “They’re all consistent. The mutation happened throughout the entire code. What I wouldn’t give to have taken a blood sample from Charlemagne himself. Then we could have confirmed what was going on.”

  Michael sidetracked the conversation to public relations. “Are you going to announce this discovery?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes, of course. We’ll set up a press conference, get all the appropriate people involved. The scientific journals will be extremely interested in this find. Obviously, it will stir up a good amount of wild theories, but that is to be expected. At least the officials who gave us access to the remains will be glad to see something incredible came out of it.”

  Michael listened, keeping his face emotionless, like stone. When Heimrich finished, Michael crossed his arms and gave a nod. “I’m sure you’ll be world famous as a result of this find, Doctor. This is going to be huge.”

  Heimrich blushed. “Well, thank you, Michael. I don’t seek to be famous, although some of the money that may come with fame would be nice. Have to pay the bills. But yes, I should think the news of this discovery will go far and wide.”

  Michael unfolded his arms and in doing so revealed a black pistol with a lengthened round barrel.

  Heimrich frowned at the sight of the weapon.

  Michael spoke before the doctor could say anything. “We can’t have the world knowing about this little secret, now can we, Doctor?”

  The muzzle flashed four times, brightening the laboratory for a half second with each squeeze of the trigger. Michael lowered the weapon and stared at his handiwork. Three rounds to the chest and one to the head made sure Heimrich was dead.

  Michael glanced back into the corner near the door. He’d disabled the camera earlier. The little red light on the side no longer glowed. There would be no evidence, no witnesses as to what just happened.

  Hurriedly, he put away his gun and set about collecting the samples of mutated DNA. He found a medical cooler he’d placed in the room under one of the tables and put the samples inside. It was still very cold in the box, which would protect the DNA long enough for him to get to the drop-off point.

  Next, he deleted all the computer files that contained anything about the Charlemagne DNA. The last thing he needed was for the police to accidentally find what the doctor had been investigating.

  Satisfied the information was secure and all the samples taken, he grabbed the cooler and strolled out the door into the hallway. All the cameras in that wing of the building had been disabled so he’d have a clear path to his getaway car.

  Soon, he would return to North Korea a hero.

  3

  Venice, Italy

  A small section of the building’s corner exploded in a burst of debris and dust as the bullet smashed into the decades-old brick. Sean ducked his head and jumped into the alley as his pursuer fired another round—this one sailing wide of the corner and into the façade of the building next door.

  He drove his legs harder, pounding the concrete with the balls of his feet as he approached the next intersection of the sidewalks.

  Sean had visited Venice several times in the past. That didn’t change the fact that the mazes of causeways, sidewalks, and canals were extremely confusing—even for Venetians. Based on his previous tack, another canal would be up ahead on the right. That or he’d find himself—quite literally—in a dead end.

  He clutched the brown paper package tight in his right hand and tucked it under his armpit like a football as he darted toward the next turn.

  The gunman behind him fired again. The bullet ricocheted loudly off the concrete close to Sean’s right foot. Another bounced off the windowsill near his left elbow.

  He reached the turn and ran ahead, finding a bridge that spanned one of the old city’s many canals. A few tourists stood on it with their elbows on the railing, probably talking about how romantic the city was or how they’d like to stay another day if they could.

  Other than for its historical value, Sean didn’t feel the same way about the old city on the water. It smelled in the morning and—as mentioned before—was extraordinarily confusing to navigate. He didn’t particularly care for the people either, noting that the Italians farther to the south seemed to be much friendlier.

  Maybe he’d just been to Venice for the wrong reasons. Like the one under his arm.

  He cut to the left and found himself staring at steps that descended into the water. No sidewalks lined this canal.

  “Crap.”

  He heard the footsteps of the gunman approaching the bridge. The guy was running at a furious pace.

  Sean stuffed the package into his jacket pocket and pressed his back against the building nearest him, and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. As soon as Sean felt the pursuer was close enough, he spun around the corner, extended his arm, and clotheslined the guy squarely across the throat.

  The gunman flipped 90 degrees, his face smacking the ground as he landed. His weapon tumbled through the air, struck one of the steps leading into the water, and plopped into the murky liquid.

  Disoriented and desperate, the gunman grasped at his throat. Sean knew he’d crushed the man’s larynx. Without immediate medical attention, he would be dead in less than ninety seconds.

  Apparently, the gunman didn’t care.

  He kicked his leg and caught Sean off guard, squarely in the ankle. Sean fell to one knee. Alertly, he sensed the next attack and raised his elbow in time to deflect the man’s downward punch. The momentum brought the attacker too close. Sean instantly twisted his body, getting as much force behind the counter as possible, and drove his fist into the man’s gut.

  The two tourists on the bridge stood in awe for a moment and then took off running in the other direction, the woman yelling something in Serbian.

  Sean rose quickly and swung with his right fist. His target was hunched over yet still managed to deflect the first punch. He couldn’t stop the second one. Sean’s left fist snapped like lightning, striking the man’s jaw. His head rocked back, and he staggered toward the bridge rail. Sean pressed the attack, landing a second and third blow until the man could barely stand.

  Sean stared at him for a second with fists still up and ready. The guy’s nose bled, his right eye already swelling. He wavered—gasping for breath—and then collapsed, prostrate, onto the sidewalk.

  A nudge with his shoe against the man’s side told Sean the guy was dead. Sean took in a deep breath and sighed. He picked up the object he’d dropped during the fight and stared at the wrapping.

  He considered opening it but knew he should wait.

  Sudden movement in the corner of his eye confirmed his caution. He ducked back for cover as another pursuer fired a pistol. The bullet thumped into the building on the left across the bridge.

  “These guys just don’t give up.”

  He drew his weapon and whipped around the corner. His finger squeezed the trigger three times, unleashing a deadly metallic volley at the second gunman. Sean didn’t wait for the man to return fire. The second he saw the guy duck for cover, Sean sprinted across the bridge and into the next alley.

  More gunfire erupted behind him, but th
e shooter was too far away to be accurate. No doubt the man was trying to chase while shooting, which would only make it worse.

  Sirens whined from somewhere beyond the buildings. The tourists must have alerted the police. Of course, it could have been the gunshots that alerted the citizenry to trouble.

  Either way, Sean had no desire to deal with the authorities. He had to get away.

  He ducked down a pathway running alongside one of the canals and then turned right into another parallel alley. He didn’t need to check what time it was. Sean knew he was at least five minutes late. Fortunately, there was no way his ride was going to leave him.

  He burst through one of the archways of Saint Mark’s Square and into the crowded plaza. Dozens of pigeons sprang to life, startled by his sudden appearance. The flocks of birds flapped their wings furiously as they climbed into the air and swirled over the piazza.

  Sean kept running, now leery of an attack from above and behind.

  Tourists pointed at the mass of birds as they took flight. But some continued taking pictures or drinking their morning coffee. Only one or two people noticed the American running at full stretch as he turned toward the harbor.

  Another gunshot echoed from the square as Sean cleared the last pillars and crossed over the main thoroughfare on the edge of the city. A woman screamed from behind him, but he didn’t turn around to see what happened. His focus was straight ahead, on a brown speedboat waiting at one of the docks.

  A man off to his left yelled something in Italian. Sean knew what the word meant, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to stop. His eyes stayed locked on the boat less than forty yards away. He sensed the police rushing toward him. Fortunately, the gunman fired again, and their attention immediately turned his way.

  Sean didn’t see the bullet strike an innocent tourist in the leg just a few feet away from him. With the police now on his side, Sean pumped his muscles faster.

  The tapping of his feet on concrete and stone changed to thumping as his shoes repeatedly pounded on the wooden dock. In the boat, he could see Adriana was looking his way.

  “Start the boat!” he yelled.

  She didn’t need to be told twice. Adriana twisted the key in the ignition and the motor roared to life. She’d only tied off the back end. She stepped over and loosened the rope, dropping it on the deck. Then she stepped back to the wheel and wrapped her fingers around the knob to the side.

  The sirens grew louder. Sean noted the police boats splashing through the waves as they drew close to the docks. The spotters were pointing at the crowd of people near the piazza.

  He took two last steps and then dove from the dock into the boat, rolling to a crashing halt against the gunwale.

  Adriana didn’t wait for an order. She shifted the knob forward and eased the boat out of its slip. The motor groaned and lifted the bow several feet. Adriana guided the craft out into the open water, keeping her eyes forward just in case the police had noticed her escape. Looking casual was the first step in remaining anonymous.

  Her dark brown hair was pulled back tight into a ponytail, but a few loose strands had pulled free and flapped around in the wind.

  When they were clear of the busy channels, she turned the wheel and steered toward the backside of the nearest island across the way. She glanced down at Sean and flashed him a bright smile.

  “Had some trouble back there?” she asked in her Spanish accent.

  Sean was still catching his breath. He sat up enough to look out behind them at the chaos surrounding San Marco Square. “A little. It wasn’t easy; I’ll say that.”

  “Is it ever?”

  He shook his head. “Almost never.”

  She gazed out over the water as the bow rose and fell in the two-foot swells. “I’m assuming it’s in your jacket. That or you dropped it in your mad dash for the boat.”

  Sean chuckled and reached into his jacket. He produced the object, still wrapped in its brown paper. He held it up triumphantly and shook it with a flick of the wrist.

  “Aww, that was nice of you to gift wrap it for him.”

  “I thought he’d think it was a nice touch,” Sean said, continuing her sarcasm. “A brown bag was the best I could do. Thought it might help to disguise it.”

  “Did it?”

  “Not even close.”

  Adriana snorted. “Well, Tommy should be happy. I imagine he’ll get a good amount of press for this one. Not to mention some powerful friends.”

  “Yeah. And enemies.”

  4

  Pyongyang, North Korea

  Han-Jae Pak strode through the dark corridor, wearing the smile of a triumphant warrior. He carried a small metallic case in his right hand, locked to his wrist by a thin chain and cuff.

  None of the soldiers saluted as he walked by. He wasn’t an officer, not that they knew of. Pak’s job was entirely undercover, only known to the highest of officials in the North Korean government. Not even the Chairman knew who he was or what he did.

  His boss made sure of that.

  Pak stopped at the pair of elevators and pressed the button. It didn’t surprise him that the door to the right opened immediately. Due to the lateness of the hour, he doubted anyone would be out and about. Curfews made certain that the city’s citizens were off the streets well before midnight.

  After a slow ride up to the penthouse, Pak stepped off and turned to his left. One of the guards—a low-level soldier in the North Korean army—greeted him with a nod and moved aside to allow Pak to pass.

  Pak recognized the man but didn’t say anything to him. There was no time for chitchat. He had something of extreme importance to share.

  At the last door on the right, Pak stopped and knocked three times. A moment later, an older man in a gray shirt and pants opened the door. His black hair was slicked back. The cheeks below his eyes were slightly swollen and his neck a tad pudgy.

  Pak wasn’t surprised. The only people in the country who tended to eat well were the ones who ran it. General Ku Min-Woo was one of those. When the general had first approached Pak about a secret mission, the younger man had been wary. After a little convincing, however, Pak started to see things the general’s way.

  What they were doing wasn’t some piddly little thing, either. It was clear-cut treason. If the Chairman found out about it, they’d both be dead men, along with at least a dozen or so others who’d been in on the conspiracy. For most of those involved, it was worth it, including Han-Jae Pak.

  He’d worked as a spy for nearly a decade. The general knew he was one of their best operatives, but that wasn’t the only reason he’d chosen Pak. He knew that Pak had a desperate family who was—at this very moment—probably starving to death. A promise of extra rations would make people do things they’d normally scoff at. Especially in North Korea. The rules here were different.

  Since Dear Leader had done nothing to assist Pak’s family, he figured it didn’t matter if what he was doing was treason or not. In reality, the Chairman had betrayed his people. Now it was time to set things straight.

  Han-Jae wasn’t anti-government. He was proud of his heritage and believed North Korea should assert its power on a global stage, but in the pursuit of vainglory, the government had forgotten its most important responsibility: its people.

  “You’ve done well,” the general said. He moved aside and motioned for Pak to enter.

  Once he was inside, the general closed the door and led the way to a dining room table in a corner just beyond the kitchen. The condo was minimally decorated, as were those of most officials who worked in government. General Min-Woo, however, had a much larger living space than the average citizen. The condo featured three bedrooms, two baths, and a living room that was the size of most apartments in Pyongyang.

  Pak set the metal case on the table and pulled a small key out of his right pocket. He loosened the cuff from his wrist first and then inserted the key into the hole on top of the case.

  “There’s nothing dangerous in there, co
rrect?”

  “Of course not, sir. All of the samples are currently in our labs under safe watch.”

  Min-Woo gave an approving nod.

  Pak flipped the snaps holding the two halves of the case together and lifted the top. Inside was a stack of printed images and papers.

  “The reports you asked for,” Pak said. “Along with images of the DNA samples, straight from the German’s lab.”

  Min-Woo picked up the documents and pored over them. He set them down after a rudimentary glance and pinched the corner of one of the images. He held it up to the light and stared at the genetic sequence.

  “The mutated blocks are smaller than the others.”

  “Just as you predicted, sir. Your theory about the source of the mutation fits perfectly with this evidence.”

  Min-Woo’s head rocked back and forth absentmindedly. He was mesmerized by the picture. “I knew it. And even so, I couldn’t believe it was real until now, having seen it with my own eyes.”

  “This will make us a world superpower, General. No one will be able to stand in our way.”

  “In time, Han-Jae. In time. There is much work to be done before that can happen. And we must operate with the utmost secrecy. If the Chairman were to find out about our clandestine operations, he would have us both shot.”

  No other person in the city would dare speak of performing secret operations outside the scope of the Chairman’s knowledge. But Min-Woo was not an average citizen. He personally swept his condo for bugs every other day, making sure no one was listening in on his schemes. Of course, he’d found devices. It was easy enough to remove them, place them somewhere quiet when he needed to, and then put them back where he found them. That way, whoever put them there would find them upon checking in every now and then.

  He knew exactly how things worked. After all, he’d been running similar operations to catch traitors for nearly thirty years. It wasn’t his primary job, but it was certainly part of it. Because of that, Pak trusted the general implicitly and knew better than to ask whether the room was clean or not.