The Sean Wyatt Series Box Set 4

by Ernest Dempsey

  Sean knew better than to ask questions. These guys wouldn't say anything. Their hardened expressions told him everything he needed to know. Well, not everything. He would like to know who they worked for, why they were going to kill him, but those questions wouldn't be answered. Not by these men.

  Sean's only hope was clutched in the palm of his hand. It was in the shape of a small, black disk: a gift from a friend at DARPA.

  When the hit squad nabbed Sean in Auburn, New York, he'd seen them coming. Sensing trouble before the men made their move, Sean grabbed one of the disks from a little pouch on his belt and kept it in his hand. There was no point in trying to fight the men off—not yet anyway. When he saw them approaching with their weapons drawn, he'd surrendered without a fight. Sean's pistol had been left in the car. He figured there was no reason to make the museum curator uncomfortable if there was no need.

  Very few crazy things happened in the quiet little western New York town.

  Sean should have known better.

  It was always when one least expected something bad to happen when things started to go south.

  He'd been all over New England from Massachusetts and Connecticut to Vermont, New Hampshire, and even southern Maine. In the end, his search brought him back to where he began this particular quest—at the home of Abraham Lincoln's Secretary of State, William Seward.

  The initial reason Sean went to Auburn was at the request of his friend, President Dawkins. Sean and Tommy had been instrumental in helping the president with issues on more than one occasion. In fact, the leader of the free world had called so often over the last few years that Sean wondered if Dawkins had memorized his phone number.

  In this case, Dawkins had come across a peculiar letter from former Secretary of State William Seward. It was written to Lincoln in 1864.

  Sean asked the president how he'd come by the letter. Dawkins was happy to explain that he'd been looking through an old book in the White House when the letter fell out from amid the other pages. It was only later that Dawkins realized that the book was a first edition from the early nineteenth century and had been in the White House for over 160 years.

  "Keep this between you and me," Dawkins said when he handed Sean the letter. "I don't know exactly what this means, but if anyone can figure it out, it's you and Tommy."

  "I'll do my best, sir," Sean said.

  Now, months later, he'd been unable to find anything.

  The cryptic letter was pretty vague, a fact Sean had made known to the president. Dawkins had insisted that Sean at least give a look around the Seward estate. And when the president of the United States insisted that someone do something, they usually did it.

  Tommy was busy back in Atlanta, showing his parents the entire operation at the International Archaeological Agency. For nearly two decades, Sean's best friend, Tommy Schultz, had believed his parents to be dead. He'd used his inheritance to establish the IAA in their honor to continue the search for lost artifacts in hopes of exposing new and genuine history to the world. His parents certainly had a lot of catching up to do. For nearly 20 years they'd been imprisoned by North Korea's Chairman, otherwise known as the Dear Leader. When he died and his son took over, one of the head generals continued to keep Tommy's parents hostage, demanding they unravel a mystery that would lead to what the general believed was an ancient power that would make his military unstoppable.

  Now they were safe, back home in Atlanta with their son.

  That gave Sean plenty of time to take a look into the matter with the president's letter. He'd read it so many times, Sean nearly had the whole thing memorized.

  "Dear Mr. President,

  I write this correspondence to you with the utmost urgency.

  I recently received word from my men in the Denali region. The anomaly they reported discovering before is, apparently, extremely dangerous. Our head geologist recommends we bury the anomaly so that no one else will be hurt by it. One of our men tried to touch the strange device and was instantly struck dead. None of the physicians or researchers on the team know what happened to him, only that there was a bright blueish light that sparked over his head before he died.

  As your Secretary of State, I recommend the following actions be taken, both for national security and to continue in the steps of Manifest Destiny as set forth by our forefathers.

  One, we must close off the mountain where the anomaly was found.

  Two, I recommend we make an offer to the Czar to purchase the territory west of Yukon.

  This land will provide numerous resources for our nation, and by owning the land, we can monitor it to make sure no one strays into the mountain and finds what I can only assume was meant to never be discovered by mere mortals.

  I believe the Russians will accept a sum of around seven million, but we may try for less. I know that the war has taken a great toll on our finances; however, I deeply believe this is necessary.

  Sincerely,

  William Seward

  Secretary of State

  United States of America

  What had Seward's men discovered in Alaska that caused him to be so afraid? According to the letter, one of the men died in what sounded like some kind of electrocution accident.

  There was no way to know without seeing the anomaly in person.

  The driver turned off the main road, and Sean snapped back to the present. His wandering thoughts about the last few months hadn't been productive. In fact, all the time he'd spent on the project had produced almost no results, except for one.

  He discovered a note that appeared to be written in Seward's handwriting, albeit somewhat rushed. The note was short with no formal heading or footer denoting who it was from or who might be the recipient.

  It had said, "The KGC are aware of the oddity and are preparing an expedition. Proceed with Operation Iron Horse."

  Sean had no idea what Operation Iron Horse was, but he knew exactly what the KGC was. It was an acronym for the Knights of the Golden Circle, a "secret society" of Confederate supporters who often worked behind the scenes—and sometimes in full view—to help the efforts of the rebellion.

  Rumors about the KGC being involved with the assassination of Abraham Lincoln had been floating around since the late 1800s. Most of the information was hearsay or hypothesis. There was rarely anything substantial, as was usually the case when it came to secret societies. They were called secret for a reason, and Sean knew it wasn't because they took their rules and guidelines lightly.

  The KGC stepped deeper back into the shadows in the years following the American Civil War. Maybe they ceased operations. Or perhaps they just took on a new position from which to manipulate events.

  Sean shook the thoughts from his mind. The SUV was slowing down as they approached a clearing. Another SUV was already parked off to the side of snow-covered side road. It appeared to be nothing more than a trail with two ruts, most likely used by people with four-wheel-drive who liked to get out on the weekends and do a little off-roading.

  As he looked through the windshield, Sean could see two men standing by a pile of dirt. Shovels were lying atop the mound.

  "At least you took the courtesy of not making me dig my own grave. I appreciate that," Sean said.

  No one in the vehicle said anything to his smart-aleck comment.

  The driver turned the wheel to the right, maneuvering the SUV off to the opposite side of the other. Snow crunched under the tires as it plowed into fresh unpacked drifts. He stopped the vehicle and got out. The men in the back with Sean didn't need to be told what to do. They immediately opened the doors and motioned for the prisoner to exit.

  Sean obeyed, knowing there was no point in delaying things further. No cavalry was on the way to help him. If he was going to get out of this situation, he'd need a miracle. That or a little improvisation.

  He noted the H&K submachine guns dangling from the shoulders of the men by the grave. The guys who'd been in the back of the SUV with Sean had similar weapons. The ma
n in charge—or so Sean figured—was carrying a SIG 9mm he'd tucked in a holster.

  Sean stepped down into the snow and squinted. The sun peeked through the clouds above, shining brightly off the white blanket of this time of year. His guards winced as well, but their sunglasses kept away most of the glare. Sean kept his fist clenched tight to make sure none of the men saw what was in his hand.

  The smell of fresh snow and evergreen trees filled the air. Snowflakes fluttered from the clouds above, adding to the serenity of the moment. It was a calm Sean knew would either end in a bullet to the head or a chaotic escape. He was hoping for the latter.

  One of the guards put his hand on Sean's shoulder and ushered him forward, toward the grave.

  The snow crunched with every step. Sean's shoes sank deep into the white powder. He was thankful to be wearing a winter coat. The SUV had been too warm. Stepping out into the fresh air was a welcome change, except for the fact he was about to be executed.

  He stopped by the big hole in the ground, and the driver motioned with a nod to one of the guys behind Sean. Immediately, the guard pressed Sean down to his knees. Sean looked around at the partially covered faces. The men didn't need to hide their identities. After all, a dead witness was a silent one.

  Sean felt the cold of a muzzle press against the back of his skull. It was something he'd felt before. It made him squeamish every time, though no one could tell from looking at him.

  The man in charge stood right in front of Sean with hands folded across his belt line.

  "So, Sean, this is where I ask you why you were snooping around the Seward estate. Then you tell me where I can shove my questions, and then I tell you it's your last chance before you die. Of course, you won't tell me what I want to know, which will result in me having my associate behind you put a bullet through your knee. That may or may not get you to talk, so we'll continue torturing you until you either pass out—at which point we shoot you in the head—or you tell us what we need to know, which will also result in a bullet to the head."

  The man stared down at Sean with a look colder than the icicles on the trees around them.

  "So, should I have him go ahead and begin, or do you want to skip all that pain and just tell me what you were doing looking around the museum?"

  Sean drew a long, icy breath through his nose. He returned the stoic glare to the man in charge. "Drew Porter, is it?" he asked. Before the man could answer, Sean went on. "I thought that was you. CIA if I recall correctly. You were a good agent. Showed a lot of promise, from what I remember. Emily considered you for Axis at one point. Said your psychological didn't check out. That's a bummer. What was it? Oh, that's right. I remember now. The shrink said you had a problem with authority, that you would probably break the rules."

  "Don't believe everything you hear from a shrink," Drew said.

  "Hey, I don't judge it. I've been known to break a few rules myself. Shame it didn't work out with Axis. I can tell you're a real swell guy. Most people would have made me dig the grave myself. Not you, though." Sean looked over at the guys by the dirt mound. "Thanks to you two, by the way. I imagine digging that must have taken a while, what with the dirt being frozen and all. Hope you didn't blister your fingers."

  Sean's comment was received with a hard backhand across his cheek. The frigid air made it sting more than normal, and he cringed for a second until the pain subsided.

  "Answer the question, Sean, or I have him take out your kneecap."

  Sean shook his head slowly. He was out of time. These guys wouldn't give him the chance to stall. The only reason they hadn't killed him yet was because they wanted information. How they were CIA and didn't already know the answers puzzled him.

  There were more questions, too. What were they trying to cover up at the Seward estate? Why was the CIA involved? He didn't have to wonder how they knew he was snooping around. The CIA was good at keeping watch of important things. He'd probably been under surveillance for some time, though he wondered why they hadn't apprehended him sooner.

  His mind raced with the possibilities. What had he learned in the last few days that would have triggered this kind of response from the CIA? And were these men rogue or acting on orders from their official chain of command?

  He wouldn't get the answers right now, but he would eventually. That is, if he managed to escape.

  Sean decided to play the ultimate trump card and see what would happen. It might give him at least a few of the answers he needed.

  "The president sent me here," he said. The blunt response did little to change the demeanor of Porter and his men.

  "And why did the president send you here?"

  Sean shrugged. "I don't know. He wanted me to take a look at some historical stuff at Seward's mansion. You know I work for an archaeological agency, right? I mean, we do this sort of thing all the time."

  "So, the president knows about Denali," Porter said. "Very well. I suppose he will have to die, too."

  Sean's eyebrows cinched together. What did that guy just say? Kill the president? Not what Sean expected.

  "Whoa, take it easy there, Drew. Dawkins has nothing to do with this. And I don't know what you're talking about with Denali."

  "Oh, but you just said he sent you here to investigate something. Now, what was it he wanted you to look into?"

  "He didn't say. All he told me was that he wanted me to talk to the museum curator and ask to see the archives. I've been on this project for a few months now and haven't found anything useful." He hoped they bought the lie.

  "You mean, in regards to the letter?" Porter held up the letter the president had given Sean.

  Well, it was worth a try, Sean thought, considering his effort at misdirection.

  Porter and his men must have seized it from Sean's room. He'd hidden it away in a tattered folder. Apparently, he hadn't done a good enough job of concealing the secret document.

  Sean raised an eyebrow. "Yes, that's the one." He made the faux confession with a broad, exaggerated grin. "I guess I forgot...That letter mentions Denali, doesn't it? My mistake."

  "Not a problem," Porter said. "You won't be around long enough to meddle anymore. And neither will your friend in the White House."

  Porter looked up at the man holding Sean at gunpoint and gave a nod. Sean saw Porter take a step back and knew the man was moving out of the splash radius.

  Sean squeezed the little black disk in his palm and let it dangle from his fingers.

  "If you're going to kill me," he said, "the least you can do is look me in the eyes, Drew."

  Porter stopped and crossed his arms. "Oh, I intend to."

  The patch of clear sky above gave way to another front of dark gray clouds, an ominous sign from the heavens.

  Sean didn't have a moment to lose. He dropped the device into the snow behind his feet and closed his eyes tight. He felt the gun press harder into his skull for a second and then pull away as the gunman was about to fire.

  A loud pop came from behind Sean's back.

  2

  Upstate New York

  Sean felt a surge of heat rush past his legs and up his back as his eyelids brightened for a second from the flash of light the device gave off.

  The gunman behind him screamed. Porter yelled something unintelligible. Sean fell to his side just as the gunman blindly squeezed the trigger. The weapon fired, sending a round plunging into the snow beyond where Sean's head had been a second before.

  Sean rolled onto his knees, wrapped his hands around the weapon, and twisted while jamming his elbow into the man's forearm. The gunman yelped, bending down on one knee as Sean continued to wrench the appendage until he heard the bone break. Then the screaming grew louder.

  As the gunman craned his neck back, Sean rose from his knees and chopped the bridge of his hand into the man's throat. The yelling stopped instantly, and the guy fell face-first into the snow, clutching his neck as he desperately gasped for air that would not come.

  Sean raised the weapon to ai
m it at Porter, but the head man had managed to stumble over to the SUV and take cover behind the hood. Sean spun around and whipped his leg out to sweep the other guard's ankles. The top of his foot struck the man on the lower calf. Combined with the temporary blindness, the sudden blow knocked him off balance.

  The guard fell hard onto his back and scrambled to get up. Sean spun to his feet and pounced, driving his knee into the guard's temple. The man collapsed to the snow, unconscious...possibly dead. Sean didn't have time to check.

  The two men near the shovels were the first to recover from the flash bang. Being several yards away kept them at a safe enough distance that the sudden bright light only blinded them for a few seconds.

  Sean grabbed the dead gunman from the snow and propped him up as a human shield as he fired over the man's shoulder. The first two rounds missed, exploding in the snow around the two shooters' feet. The third caught one guy in the thigh and dropped him to the ground.

  The other opened fire, peppering Sean's human shield with a dozen rounds before he had to reload.

  Sean dropped the body back into the snow and stood up, raising his weapon to eye level. He took a menacing step forward and fired a single shot. The bullet thumped into the shooter's chest. He wavered for a second, still holding his new magazine, and then toppled backward.

  Another gunshot rang out from the SUV.

  Porter and his last henchmen were tucked behind the truck's open doors. Sean whipped around and took aim. His first two shots plunked into white car paint. The shooters kept firing. Sean was out in the open, an easy target for expert marksmen, even from forty feet away.

  Sean took a step back as he aimed for Porter's feet that were exposed under the door. As he was about to squeeze the trigger, a bullet caught him in the upper right part of his chest. His weapon fired as he staggered backward, losing his balance.

  He hit the bottom of the grave with a jarring thud. The impact increased the burning pain in his chest for a second. He winced and clutched one of the wounds. His body reacted by forcing a cough.