Sean nodded. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch soon.” He turned and rushed out of the lab, bursting through the side door and into the hall.
Tommy watched his friend sprint to the end of the corridor and disappear through the door leading to their underground garage. The second the door slammed behind him, Tommy’s phone started ringing. He glanced at the screen. It was the receptionist upstairs.
He let out a long exhale through his nostrils and answered. He already knew what the call was for.
“Yeah?” he said, pushing the device to his ear.
“Mr. Schultz, I’m sorry to bother you, but there are some officers asking to see you and Sean.”
Tommy glanced over at the kids. Both Tara and Alex looked forlorn.
“I’ll be right up.”
8
Atlanta
Adriana tiptoed into the big kitchen and went straight to the coffee pot. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee spilled out of the kitchen and filled the entire house. The toasty warm scent had awakened her before the alarm on her phone went off, something she much preferred to the invasive and often surprisingly loud noises the device offered.
She reached into the cupboard, took a white mug with the words Rosemary Beach on it in teal, and set it on the counter next to the hot coffee carafe. She took the pot by the handle, poured the dark contents into the cup, and then placed the glass back in its holder. She made quick work of adding a half cup of milk from the fridge and then stirred it, turning the steaming dark liquid to a creamy brown.
Coffee ready and prepped, Adriana made her way around the kitchen island to the counter side where three black stools sat neatly arranged at an angle. She passed on the stools, opting for a chair at the table where she could see the small television mounted in the corner between two sets of windows looking out into the backyard.
Birds were chirping noisily, feasting on a pile of seeds Sean had put out on the platform feeder behind the center window of the breakfast nook. There was no snow outside, but she knew it was cold. The forecast had called for mid-thirties as a high, much colder than the area was accustomed to at this time of year. The weather, it seemed, was revolting against the whole global warming phenomenon.
Adriana reached across the table and drew the remote closer to her. She pressed the power button, and within a second the television’s screen blossomed to life. It was on ESPN, probably because Sean enjoyed watching the morning shows on SportsCenter before heading into the office at the IAA building. The last time he’d watched it in that room had to be more than a week ago. He’d left this morning before Adriana woke up. Sean was good about making sure she was taken care of, and the best way he could possibly take care of her was to prep and brew the coffee for her on his way out the door.
He’d set the brew time late enough that she could get some rest, though he’d briefly woken her with a peck on the cheek and a gentle “I love you” as he left the bedroom.
Adriana sipped the delicious brew and changed the channel to see what was going on in the world. She didn’t trust the media, another of the many things she and Sean had in common. They both believed that, most often, the mass media was there to promote fear and divisiveness, serving the self-interests of the highest bidders.
Still, she thought there was some merit to keeping up with what was going on around them. Adriana wasn’t going to put her head in the sand just because she had a mistrust of the press.
The second the channel changed, she caught something on the ticker at the bottom of the screen that immediately sent a chill through her body.
Her eyes shot up to the anchor and the headline in the top corner. It matched the Breaking News tag at the bottom. Both said the same thing, the message the clean-cut mid-forties man on the screen was conveying.
“President Dawkins abducted.”
Adriana unconsciously set the coffee down and watched with rapt attention as the anchor went over the details surrounding the abrupt and confusing kidnapping of former president John Dawkins.
“Reports are flooding in regarding a video the kidnappers sent in just hours after the abduction. We do need to warn you that this video is disturbing in nature. Please look away or change the channel for a moment if that sort of thing bothers you in any way.”
The anchor’s warning did nothing for Adriana. She leaned closer, picking up the mug and stealing another long sip from it.
The screen changed to a scene at a table with Dawkins tied to a chair, his mouth taped shut. A voice came through the recording, claiming to be Sean Wyatt. The man’s voice was altered, making it unrecognizable. Adriana knew right away that it wasn’t Sean, not just because of the voice distortion but because of the scene. John Dawkins was a trusted friend, and kidnapping in general wasn’t even on the map for Sean, be it the president or anyone else. The rest of the public, however, might not be clever enough to realize that.
The scene in the basement with the president transitioned back to the anchor. A new red digital box hovered over his shoulder, showing a picture of Sean with his name underneath it. Next to it was a word Adriana never believed she’d see associated with Sean.
Wanted.
“Sean Wyatt, once a trusted friend of the president, has abducted him and is holding him for what appears to be a ransom, though Wyatt has not asked for anything specific yet. He claims that another video will come out in one week. In the meantime, a nationwide manhunt is underway to try to apprehend Wyatt and rescue the president.”
The anchor went on to say that the authorities believed Sean was armed and extremely dangerous.
Adriana shook her head. She didn’t understand. Her mind raced. Confusion warred with anger; all while she tried to put the pieces together to comprehend what was going on.
Sean hadn’t been gone more than an hour or so. He would be at the IAA building downtown right now. She had to warn him. Adriana picked up her phone and called his number, but there was no answer. That wasn’t highly unusual. Most of the time their digital communication was by way of text messages rather than a phone call. His job often put him in places where cell service was hit or miss. Then there was the other fact that he sometimes simply didn’t feel the device vibrating because he was working, on the move, or occasionally in some kind of altercation.
Adriana stood from her chair and hurried back to the bedroom upstairs. Time was her enemy, and she knew it with an overwhelming sixth sense that permeated her mind and body.
As she reached the bedroom door, she felt her phone vibrate and, for the briefest of moments, thought it might be Sean sending her a text. She pulled the device out of her pocket and glanced at it. The number was one she didn’t recognize. It was an Atlanta area code, but other than that the digits on her screen were unfamiliar.
The screen unlocked, and she quickly read the text message. It was easy to read, but difficult to understand. It only said, “Get out.”
Adriana frowned. There were no names attached to the message. No clues as to who might have sent the warning. While she’d already gotten the distinct impression that leaving the house was the best possible option at the moment, this cryptic note only reinforced it.
Her fingers flew across the keys on the screen as she typed out the words: “Who is this?”
Then Adriana set the device down and dressed as fast as she could, throwing on a pair of jeans, a long-sleeve Pearl Jam T-shirt, and a pair of black boots. She was nearly done, slipping into an overcoat, when she realized what she’d done.
She reached over the bed and picked up her phone once more. She tapped out a quick message to Sean and then snapped her head to the right, looking between the long, grayish-blue drapes and out the window. She caught a glimpse of something through the open window overlooking the property.
Sean’s home—now her home as well—was built at the top of a knoll in the Buckhead area of Atlanta. It was one of the few properties that had multiple acres, which meant they weren’t too close to the neighbors. Sean and Adriana both appreciated many of t
he amenities the flourishing city provided, but they also enjoyed their peace and quiet. This house was a rarity in that it allowed for both.
At the moment, she was even more grateful for the positioning of the home because the movement she detected at the main gate was from several police cars.
A chill shot through her. She counted four squad cars, none with lights on. A single, undeniable fact washed out all other thoughts in her head. They were here to arrest Sean or, at best, take her in for questioning. There were other scenarios that could have been possible, even likely. She knew Sean didn’t do what the media said he did. That was the undeniable truth. Sean was being set up, but by whom? Why would someone kidnap the former president and pin it on Sean?
Her mind raced. If she stayed, they would take her in for questioning. She knew what she had to do.
Adriana shoved her phone in her pocket, forgetting about Sean for the moment. A bell dinged downstairs. The cops were ringing the bell down at the gate. That was a good sign. They were at least being courteous. That would change when there was no response. They’d break through somehow and charge up the hill. Either the cops were there for her, Sean, or both. Either way, Adriana had no intention of being here when they came.
She’d spent the majority of her life on the run, hiding and changing her identity more times than she remembered. Deep down, she’d always been Adriana. Her father, Diego, had been sure to remind her of that during her training with the great ninja masters. He’d reinforced it later on in life when she was at university under an alias. The cops, more than likely, wouldn’t know who she really was. The design was for her protection as well as for her father’s. There were too many dangerous people out there who wanted the two of them dead, and if they ever discovered where they were—who they truly were—that would be the end.
Only trusted friends got to know the real Adriana, and that circle was extremely tight.
She rumbled down the stairs and turned the corner toward the kitchen, risking another short glance out the window as she ran by. The cops were still down at the gate, but there was no doubt their patience was growing thin. Another ding on the bell signaled their second attempt. After the third, she figured they would say screw it and open the gate on their own, one way or another.
Adriana zipped by the laundry room and stopped at the door leading downstairs to the basement. She flung it open and jumped into the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time until she reached the bottom. She pushed through the door into the lower level and stepped into the garage. Sean’s motorcycle collection lined the wall to the right. The row contained several older bikes and a couple of new ones, but she knew his favorites were the vintage ones: the Triumph Bonneville, the 1978 Suzuki cafe bike he’d rebuilt, and a few others from that era.
It was too cold to make her escape on one of those. Adriana loved riding, but even she had her limitations. She scooped a set of keys off the key ring next to the door and ran toward Sean’s new car, a black Audi S5 with matte black wheels and dark-tinted windows. She could have taken her own vehicle, but it was parked out in the front of the house. In retrospect, it was probably for the best that she was going to take Sean’s ride. It was faster than her SUV, and this little escape could call for some extra speed.
She skidded to a halt and opened the door. As she climbed in, her sense of smell was overwhelmed by the scent of black leather. It was stitched with white threads through the seams. The leather and stitching wrapped around the seat frame, enveloping her in the luxurious fabric. She pressed the ignition button, and the motor revved to life. The digital console behind the steering wheel bloomed and displayed the speedometer, tachometer, and mileage. She reached up and pressed the button on the garage door opener and watched as the gate slowly inched its way toward the ceiling. Every second felt like a year, and Adriana expected to see feet and legs revealed as the door climbed higher.
There were, thankfully, no policemen waiting outside. That wouldn’t be true much longer.
She threw the car into drive and stepped on the gas as the garage door reached a height that allowed her safe passage.
The vehicle lurched forward, and she steered it out and around toward the secret entrance in the back. They didn’t use it very often, only when the need arose. And right now, it had arisen.
She was careful not to drive too fast, wary that the tires might squeal and alert the encroaching authorities to her getaway. When she was two hundred feet from the hidden back gate, she pressed another button on a separate garage door opener.
The fence wrapping around Sean’s property was wrought iron, most of it covered in dense ivy. Some of the ivy had wisteria intertwined with it. One section of the fence, however, was fake. The vines and leaves were made to look like the rest of the plants, but they were plastic, designed to keep up appearances.
That section of the fence started moving the second Adriana pressed the button. The gate slid sideways, overlapping behind another section on well-hidden tracks. The driveway came to an end on a patch of grass that merged with the street beyond. Adriana carefully slowed the vehicle as it crossed the grass, rolled over the curb, and onto the road. She glanced both ways, but there were no cops to be seen. They’d put all their forces at the front of the property, at the main gate. They obviously didn’t know about this way in and out.
Adriana was thankful for that. She’d taken a gamble, and apparently, it was paying off. She wasn’t out of the woods yet, though, and getting away from Atlanta was going to be tricky. The city had gotten so big over the years that it seemed there were people everywhere.
There were, however, some subtle differences about Atlanta that made it easier to hide in than many other large cities.
Outside of downtown, Atlanta and its bedroom communities such as Chamblee, Dunwoody, Buckhead, and others were designed to keep the area looking more natural despite the presence of millions of people.
That meant many homes weren’t tightly packed together. There were large lots, rolling forests everywhere, as well as back roads she could take to disappear. The topography could play to her advantage. Of course, that also depended heavily on the traffic.
The population of Atlanta had exploded over the last few decades, and a lack of decent public transportation had resulted in more cars on the roads. There were only a few hours in the day that you wouldn’t encounter heavy traffic somewhere in the city.
Fortunately for Adriana—she hoped—this was one of those times.
She steered the car down the quiet residential street, peering out the windshield, looking for any sign of trouble. She also checked the rearview mirror every five or ten seconds to make sure she wasn’t being followed by someone else, someone who wasn’t with the authorities.
The car swooped through the rolling hills. Barren old oak trees dotted the huge lawns in front of lavish mansions, leaves long gone for the winter. The morning sun poked rays through the scraggly canopy above, sending darts of sunlight through Adriana’s windows. Her eyes flinched at every beam. That didn’t keep her from constantly checking her surroundings. At every turn, she expected to find a roadblock or checkpoint. As she continued out of the city, though, the way remained clear.
After fifteen minutes that felt more like a thousand, she found the interstate and merged into the moderate traffic going north. She knew the interstate would be free of roadblocks. Car chases happened, but it was exceedingly rare for the authorities to block off entire sections of interstates. And Interstate 75 was even less likely to play host to something like that. Being one of the most traveled roads in America, it was an essential thoroughfare between Michigan and South Florida and all points in between.
The only problem she might have would be stopping for gas. Cops would have received information on all the vehicles registered under Sean’s name. That meant they’d be on the lookout for the car she was driving.
Luckily, she wouldn’t be in it long. Adriana had a plan. She just had to make it a little farther north.
&n
bsp; 9
Cartersville, Georgia
Adriana arrived at the exit for Cartersville, a small town about thirty minutes north of Atlanta. She’d been there before to visit the Etowah Indian Mounds, a state park and historical landmark where many huge earthen mounds dotted the area.
It had once been an important place to the Cherokee Nation, a place of worship, trade, and government. Sean had spent a good amount of time there with Tommy. Many people didn’t realize that underneath the earthen structures, immense pyramids had been constructed by the natives. While the Cherokee certainly occupied the area, including the fifty-four-acre property, they hadn’t arrived until the nineteenth century. Most historians placed the construction of the temples and other buildings around the time of the Early Mississippian era, or 1000 AD.
There were some, however, who believed it to be even older. Sean was one of those people.
But Adriana wasn’t there to visit the mounds. She merged onto the exit and turned right instead of left, driving away from the little city and toward the outskirts of town that rimmed dense forests and foothills leading toward the Blue Ridge Mountains.
She’d turned off her phone, knowing that every tower it pinged could lead the authorities straight to her. The entire drive north had been one filled with an overwhelming sense of concern bordering on paranoia, but she’d stayed focused. It was part of her nature now. It had been since she was a child, after her first year of training with the master.
Ninjas never let fear get the best of them. Instead, they used it, harnessed it, let it drive them to their goal with an unrelenting force. It fueled her and—more often than not—had saved her life.
She’d wanted to call ahead and give a heads-up that she was on the way, but Adriana knew that was too risky. Whoever was on the investigation—she imagined federal agents along with local and regional law enforcement—would trace the call. She could use her burner phone and had considered doing so but decided against that, too. While the cops wouldn’t know about that particular device—no records, registration, or paper trail—she was fairly confident the people on the other end of the line would be monitored for calls from Sean or any of his associates. That list included his wife.
The Omega Project Page 8