Hunt for the Lost Sanctum

by Wyatt Liam Anderson

  Hunt of the lost Sanctum

  Knighted Felons #2

  Wyatt Liam Anderson

  Editing and Proofreading by

  Angela Walker & James Barnett

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  21. Chapter Twenty-One

  22. Chapter Twenty-Two

  23. Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Gaza Strip

  February 2009

  Who would believe that this war-torn district once bubbled with lives and the serenity of common men? Average men and women, most of them that resided in the district and toiled night and day to support their families before the war, claimed everything. The large local bakery, now in bits and pieces, used to be a haven for hardworking men that came early after their morning prayers. The streets had become shadows of themselves, with important structures flattened out by rocket bombs. The only medical facility in the area was jam-packed with injured victims. Life suddenly became meaningless to the survivors. The loved ones that gave them reasons to live had become the cost of the Israeli-Hamas mindless bouts.

  The lucky ones, after burying their dead, shook off the grief and took to the streets again in search of livelihood. Others who could afford to travel migrated to areas that were considered safe. Some mosques were turned into temporary shelters. One or two philanthropists did the best they could to feed the survivors and institutionalize those orphaned by the war.

  Of course, the philanthropic gestures could only relieve a few. Muktar, a 25-year-old man, was among the survivors that were rendered homeless by the war. He had tried to join the large number of people that applied as casual workers at the wharf, but after three attempts, he gave up. When he went for evening prayer, he overheard two elderly men whispering about some valuables that were discovered at the British cemetery. The cemetery also suffered its fair share of rocket hits. So, raiders took advantage of the opportunity to exhume whatever they could find.

  That night, Muktar covered his head with a black scarf and quietly left his colleagues at the shelter. He armed himself with a sizable flashlight that his pocket could contain. He walked almost a hundred miles to the British property to ascertain if the rumors were true. The night concealed him so well that he managed to evade the two men he saw standing guard at the gate of the cemetery. With stealth in the silence of the night, he found his way toward the other side of the cemetery, where the moonlight unveiled the expanse of the ravages. But even with the moonlight, his vision needed a little help. One mistake around the open graves, and he might just find himself lying side by side with the bones of the British veterans.

  “Salaam Alaikum,” a voice greeted from behind him, startling the daredevilry out of him.

  Muktar staggered into a tomb, managing to avoid hitting his head on the rocks scattered inside the tomb. As for his hands, the sharp pains he felt left him no doubt about the bruises he had sustained. Thievery wasn’t the proudest profession among his people, much less stealing from the dead. Even the thought of being stoned in front of the central mosque numbed the pain on his fingers. It would be a shame to have survived the war only to be sent to the grave for robbing the grave. Suddenly, he realized he wasn’t that helpless; he could still use his feet. He scrambled up, staggered along the way, but before he could find a smooth path for his escape, he felt restrained by two strong arms.

  “Shush.”

  Before Muktar could plead or say anything in his defence, another arm had covered his mouth. He had no idea what would happen next. He imagined different things at once. The upbeat in his chest did less to drown his wild instinct.

  “Are you crazy? Can’t you wait for Jeradeh’s men to retire first?”

  Muktar was very new to this information or the act of robbing the grave or robbing, generally speaking. He did detect some fright in the voice of the huge man that held him. It seemed reassuring. He was among thieving comrades. In the safe hands of fellow tomb-raiders, he began to listen to their plans in hushed voices. He also learned about items to look out for, starting from wristwatches, copper coins, soles of their boots, and nickels. There was a Polish businessman at Salah al-Din Road that paid for these items, especially for the copper coins and nickels.

  They hung around at the corner of the fence undetected until midnight. Not much was found in the raid that night, despite their resilience. Muktar spent the night with them at another shelter and was part of the few that went to deliver the leather scraps and wristwatches they found. Jakub was as sincere as they get. It was probably the reason they preferred to take their findings to him instead of other pawn shops around.

  That day, Muktar didn’t bother to return to his shelter. He spent the day with his new friends, scavenging some collapsed buildings and other ruins of the war-torn city. At night, they shifted their search to the tomb once more. Sadly, they learned that the paths they were used to had been closed during the day. If they had listened to the news, they would have learned of the compensation offered by the Israeli government for the repairs. Now six in number, two had declined to join them after the minimal success from the previous night, they debated amongst themselves if they should retire for the night or risk being caught in the newly renovated property. Hussein, the leader, suggested they go round the fence to search for the most unguarded area.

  While Hussein was trying to scale a fence, the ground caved in where he stood. The leader of the tomb thieves found himself a few feet under. Muktar and another fellow were quick on their heels. The bold leader cried out for help, but none came.

  It wasn’t until another fifteen minutes that someone pointed a flashlight into the hole and said, “Alhamdulillah,” and then he chuckled.

  “Ibrahim?” the leader cried. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me. I thought we lost you.”

  The rest of the team gradually found their way back to the spot and were a bit relieved to see that Hussein was surprisingly unscathed. There was something different about the hole. It wasn’t like other tombs they’d exhumed. It was about eight feet in depth with a width that didn’t stretch beyond 50 centimeters. There wasn’t a single bone or a sign to show that a soldier was ever buried there.

  When Hussein adjusted his feet, pointing his flashlight to get a full view inside, he stepped on something. It sounded like a metal chest. Their curiosity was aroused each time Hussein’s feet stepped on the metal chest. Someone handed him a rod. Two of the raiders positioned themselves on the lookout for any incoming intrusion while their leader dug around the object. Hussein would have requested an extra hand if the hole had enough room to contain two persons. Soon, the rectangular surface of the object began to appear as Hussein continued to dig the earth around it. He gripped his fingers around and carefully pulled the chest out of the earth. They made a rope with their shirts and dropped it for Hussein when he was ready. Overcome by curiosity, the man holding the chest shook it from side to side.

  “Careful,” one of them warned. “What if it’s a bomb?”

  Everyone above
the hole stepped back as the last statement hit home. Five flashlights pointed instantly toward the chest as the carrier gently dropped it with trembling fingers. Having been laughed at once, Hussein wanted to regain his confidence as the leader. He picked up another iron rod on the ground and got as close as he could.

  “Lights,” he said.

  Someone pointed his flashlight at the chest. Hussein noticed the rusted lock by the side. He could already sense that it was a bad idea, but he broke it with the rod anyway. There were more flashlights and inquisitive eyes behind Hussein as he tried to lift the lid with his iron rod. As soon as he opened the chest, the light and the repelling force that emitted from the chest threw the tomb raiders off.

  The tomb thieves were dazed for half an hour. Everyone landed awkwardly, but Hussein had it worse. While they all regained consciousness, Hussein lost his sight.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Ibrahim, the second-in-command, yelled as he helped Hussein back on his feet. “It’s an accursed treasure if there’s any treasure at all.”

  “What are you saying?” Hussein asked in a stern voice. “I can’t lose my sight for nothing. Pick it up! The Polish man might make a trade.”

  Disabled or not, no one dared question Hussein when he was in that mood.

  “You heard the man!” Ibrahim yelled back at the others. The sly second-in-command had known Hussein all his life, unlike the others that joined the team in the quest to alleviate hunger.

  Muktar pointed his flashlight at the open chest. The sight before them looked nothing like the same discovery that had blown them away and taken the sight of their courageous leader.

  Muktar put one toe in front and then the other. Another lanky fellow did the same, following after Muktar as they advanced toward the chest. They found various kinds of relics inside the old dusty chest. A rusty metal shaped like keys, a fragile blank paper, a golden doll shaped in the form of an idol, and some coins.

  Muktar and the others mumbled prayers of thanksgiving. Hussein asked various questions at once, trying to know what thanksgiving was for.

  “I think we’ve got company,” Muktar warned.

  They quickly turned off their flashlights as they sighted a bright light from a hundred yards. Suddenly, the light doubled and advanced in their direction. They could hear the sound of the motor engine. They quickly dispersed in different directions. Ibrahim held on to the chest they’d found while Hussein stumbled through the rough gravesite into a plain road. Even without his sight, Hussein put up a good race. The sound of the approaching vehicle fired his spirit and would have given him the momentum he needed to scale the fence that was two meters away. He collided into the wall and fell with a broken nose. He picked himself up in a blink and tried to find the top of the fence. The leader of the tomb thieves still had a fighting spirit in him. His hand caught the top of the fence on the second leap. With every effort he could summon, he climbed up the wall, resting his weight on it. His head had made it, but before the rest of his body could join him, one-two-four 17 caliber bullets drilled holes in his back. He succeeded in getting himself over to the other side, but he bled out within minutes.

  Ibrahim and the others went to see the Polish businessman the following day. The money they received from Jakub Stilinski was enough to set them up for a while. Even Jakub tried to advise them to end their tomb-raid activities for their good. Jakub was only interested in the coins, but Ibrahim sweet-talked him into paying a few more shekels for other items in the chest.

  Right after they were gone, Jakub stopped pretending like he wasn’t curious about the weird rusty key, the old pile of parchments, and most especially, the idol relics in the chest. He hid the items under his bed when he got home.

  Later in the night, Sofia, Jakub’s wife, witnessed an unusual behavior in bed. Jakub raised his feet in the air, kicking and sweating profusely. She woke him up with a shove. The same scenario repeated twice before the break of dawn.

  Jakub had to take the chest to his pawnshop that morning. Out of curiosity, he opened the chest, examined it, but couldn’t make any sense out of the parchments or the other items. The dreams he had felt so real. He had tried to explain to his wife that it could be work-related, but his wife attached it to some religious assumptions that he didn’t agree with it. So, he decided to consult with his Israeli friend, Cyrus.

  Cyrus had some basic knowledge of lithography. For the better part of three hours, it looked like Jakub’s trip to Sederot was in vain until the old man found some letters on the parchment. He peered through his lens and scribbled what he found on a note.

  “The man in your dreams, you said he looked like, em, royalty?”

  Jakub nodded. “Yeah. I mean, he dressed like one, like a Slavian king of some sort,” he added.

  “Come and take a look,” Cyrus said. He handed the lens in his hand to Jakub.

  “Mez-go-rai,” Jakub read out loud. “What language is that?”

  “It’s Mezhgorye,” Cyrus corrected. “It’s an ancient underground city, and if those raiders found these parchments at that gravesite as you said, then this proves that it wasn’t a myth after all.”

  “What myth? What city?”

  Cyrus was mute for a while. He reclined into his chair and looked at his friend with grave concern.

  “Did you tell anyone that you’re coming to see me?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Okay, that’s good. So, it’s you and the scavengers that know about this then.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Jakub nodded in agreement.

  “This is trouble, Jakub. And if I were you, I would keep those parchments and whatever collection you said you found in the chest as far away as possible. I would have suggested you take it to Hedeon Granta. He should know what to do with it. But even that is a long shot.”

  “Wait,” Jakub interrupted. “Who’s Hedeon Granta? Where can I find him?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. He goes by a different name now. And if you can’t find him, just keep it as far away as possible. Those are not antiques for a pawn shop. This is bigger than the both of us.”

  Chapter One

  New York City

  April 2011

  A loud V8 engine announced itself from a mile away. Luckily for the driver, there was still a parking slot in front of the magnificent structure in the least populated area in the city. A lot of private meetings have been known to be scheduled in the same building. It wasn’t as famous as the Thermal Club or Club 33, but its anonymity made it a favorite amongst big spenders that intended to keep their program restricted to their close circles.

  A bald, slightly bearded man in sunshade, white polo covered with a leather jacket, and blue jean pants came out of the wheels of the untainted Hellcat that just pulled up. He went over to the other side and opened the door for a lady that was a few inches taller than he was, even without her stiletto heels. She also wore a sunshade as they walked leisurely toward the entrance of the building.

  The guards at the entrance were more concerned about the man than his elegantly dressed partner. One of them intercepted him, touched him a few times with his metal detector before he granted him access. The guest rejoined his female partner at the door as they went in together. As soon as they entered, they were engulfed by the noise of loud pop music. The cops were particularly interested in someone in the party that seemed to be a little difficult to spot from the crowd of people at the various sections of the hall. Soon, they split up with the lady going to the bar section while the man went toward the second floor of the building.

  “My eyes are on Dean,” the lady spoke into her comm while she was receiving her order.

  “Any visuals on Miles?” a voice echoed on the comm.

  “Negative,” the lady responded.

  “Miles is anywhere else but here,” the bald colleague answered on his comm as he descended the stairs.

  Their colleagues in a surveillance van stationed a few blocks from the building quickly dispatched a few
SWAT teams. Even though Dean Bowen was less of the two evils that were on the feds’ watch, they knew it wouldn’t be easy taking down the con artist in his territory with bodyguards around him.

  Hand in hand, the bald guy with his fake female partner approached the VIP section where Dean and his friends were seated. One of the guards concealed in the darkness stepped in immediately.

  “Call off your dogs, Carlo!” the bald guy yelled.

  A stout man in a colorful suit waved his hands, and the guard stepped away. The fake couple took their seats at the round, red leather chair. Discussions had paused, and eyes were fixated on them. The man known as Carlo was the first to speak.

  “How may I help you, lady and gentleman?”

  The bald guy smiled at him. “Jeez, you guys are too serious over here. Why don’t you get me a drink first, then I’ll share something with you—a proposal that I know you’d like.”

  “You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” Carlo said.

  “Oh, my bad. I’m Trey Havertz, and this is my girl and business partner.”

  “Mr. Havertz, this is my party. I don’t know how you got the card that got you and your business partner in here and made you feel you can walk straight to my section to talk to me. Well, I’m not available for any business proposal, at least not today. So, my boys will escort you out.”

  “Your boys don’t need to. We know our way out. And hey, red hair, you’re looking good today.”

  Immediately after the bald guy said that, he and his partner walked out of the section. Dean wasn’t fooled by the compliment. He stood up from the chair and made to take a back door. His instinct wasn’t right. The SWAT team had been positioned at all exit points, waiting for the agents to give them the go-signal, which was “looking good today.” Part of the mission was to ensure that there was no use of firearms, and they succeeded in capturing Dean in the most tranquil way possible.