The Milestone Protocol

by Ernest Dempsey

“How many?” Alex asked, trying to remain calm as Sean had trained him and his wife to do.

  “Six agents total,” Malcom replied almost instantly. “Three cars.” The AI switched to the interior cameras just as the six male agents entered through the front doors of IAA headquarters.”

  “Great,” Tara said. “I guess we know why they’re here.” She hurried to the computer and pressed a sequence of keys, then remembered she’d unplugged the machine. “Crap. The plug.” She slid under the table and plugged the computer in again.

  “Once it’s up and running, Malcom, wipe the hardware and drop all the data into our private off-site server.”

  “Of course, Tara,” Malcom said easily.

  “Make sure to encrypt it before you send the data dump,” Alex reminded. “Won’t do us much good if they’re tracking it and can easily intercept the information.”

  “I always encrypt sensitive data, Alex, but thank you for the reminder.”

  Alex shook his head. “Sometimes, I swear you’re a real person, Malcom.”

  “That’s because I am, sir.”

  “What?” Alex looked up into the air as if he might locate the source of the voice there.

  “Just kidding, Alex,” Malcom joked. “You did program me to have a sense of humor.”

  Alex pursed his lips, relieved for the moment that their creation hadn’t actually gone sentient.

  “Should you two head to the safe room?” the AI asked.

  “Yes,” Tara answered.

  A burst of air swished nearby. A wall around the corner of the L-shaped nook opened up with its metal shelf of research equipment still attached.

  The false wall stopped moving, leaving a gap of three feet between it and the frame.

  “Hide the sample, Malcom,” Alex said as he grabbed his backpack.

  “Already beginning the process, sir.”

  It wasn’t the first time they’d had to do this, and they’d also designed Malcolm for just such contingencies. The system had been modeled after the Library of Congress’ and the National Archives’ security setup, which dropped their most valuable documents down into a reinforced concrete tube. While the IAA system wasn’t as elaborate or expensive, it served them well when it came to sensitive materials or artifacts that needed a little more protection than the subterranean lab could offer.

  Tara watched as the FBI agents stalked across the lobby toward the reception desk. One of them was barking orders at Sarah, the receptionist, who pressed a red button under her desk that activated an alert on Tara’s and Alex’s smartwatches.

  Fortunately, Tara and Alex were way ahead of Sarah’s warning.

  “Would you like me to kill the power to the elevators?” Malcom asked.

  They’d connected the AI to nearly every system in the building, some of which even Tommy didn’t know about.

  “No,” Tara said. “We don’t want them to think something’s up. And they’re federal agents. Doing that might look hostile, and we do not want to give them that impression. We’ll get out through the tunnel. Send Sarah an email from my account. Date it fifteen minutes ago, if you can do that.”

  “I’m hurt,” Malcom said, feigning offense. “It would be nice if you could give me a challenge now and then.”

  Tara smiled at one of the cameras in the near corner. “You’re the best, Malcom,” she said.

  “Now you’re just being patronizing.”

  She shook her head and disappeared into the secret passage with Alex close behind. A second later, the door closed shut and a series of lights switched on along the concrete wall in the tunnel.

  Tara led the way, hurrying through the tunnel until they came to a left turn. She continued around the corner and kept moving through the long, straight corridor. The exodus seemed to take forever, but within two minutes the couple arrived at a nondescript gray door. She turned the two deadbolt locks, unlocked the floor stop wedged against the bottom of the door, and twisted the latch.

  Alex gripped the edge of the door for her and held it open as a rush of cool winter air, along with a burst of bright light, flooded the passage.

  The sounds and smells of the street filled the tunnel: engines, squeaky brakes, exhaust pluming out of trucks, and construction machines.

  Tara stepped out into the chilly air and looked around. The road overhead was propped up by massive concrete columns. Another street ran by in front of them. The parking deck for the Falcons/Atlanta United stadium to the left was mostly empty, save for a few cars from employees at the nearby CNN Center or surrounding businesses.

  Alex let the door close behind him and relocked it. A red sign hung on the door that said Authorized Access Only in white letters.

  “Malcom,” Tara said, holding her phone up so she could see the screen. “Switch camera view to my phone, please.”

  “With pleasure,” the voice said through her device’s speakers.

  “Smart idea, connecting him to our phones,” Alex said.

  “Thanks.” She winked at him as he led the way down the sidewalk toward the IAA backup car. Tara watched the screen as she followed her husband. The lab was still empty, and the only sign that they’d been there was the coffee pot she’d just started. She cursed herself for leaving it on. It was one of the few pieces of equipment Malcom wasn’t connected to. The FBI agents would either think something was amiss, or they would assume the young couple would be returning shortly. Either way, the outcome wasn’t good.

  Alex stopped at a metal roll-up garage door and pressed a button on a key fob. The door clattered as the opener started rolling it up to reveal a hidden garage within. Once the bottom of the garage door was over his head, Alex circled around to the driver’s side of a black 1969 Camaro and unlocked the door.

  “Why do you get to drive?” Tara asked.

  “Because I had the keys,” Alex defended with a fiendish flash of his teeth.

  “Fine. But I get to next time.”

  The vintage muscle car was the emergency getaway vehicle of choice because, for one, it wasn’t connected to any kind of electronics that could be tracked like so many of the newer automobiles, and two, because it was awesome.

  Alex turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, much to the couple’s satisfaction. Tara groaned in longing. “Come on,” she said. “Let me do it.”

  “Tell you what,” he conceded, “I’ll drive us halfway to the McElroys’ place. We’ll need to take some backroads on the way and maybe make a pit stop.”

  Her frown flipped, and she looked through the windshield, petting the dash with her fingers.

  Alex shook his head and shifted into gear. He stepped on the gas, and they felt the push against their chests as the rear wheels bit into the concrete and thrust the car out onto the street. It fishtailed slightly, and after Alex corrected, he looked over at his wife and shared a pleased grin.

  20

  Atlanta

  Desmond peered through the forest. Birds chirped and sang, some probably desperate for a handout of seed or breadcrumbs. During this part of the year, seeds were hard to come by, and for the winged creatures who fed on worms, things were even more desperate.

  Clouds of breath puffed out of Desmond’s nose and mouth in the cold afternoon air. There was no snow on the ground. Getting any kind of decent accumulation of the white stuff almost never happened before Christmas in Atlanta, though there’d been a dusting once when he was an infant. He only knew that because of the pictures his parents had showed him, insisting that sometimes even things that seem impossible can still happen.

  He stepped cautiously, though not cautiously enough, as the sole of his shoe pressed down on a twig and snapped it. Dry leaves rustled underfoot, too, and with every sound he cringed for fear of giving away his position. If they knew where he was, that he was coming, he’d lose the advantage. The last thing he wanted to do was spook his quarry, at least not yet.

  Desmond paused next to the trunk of a tulip poplar and scanned his surroundings once more.
There was no sign of them. A shiver trickled up his spine as the icy breeze cut across his face. Dark, foreboding clouds churned overhead.

  He sensed something to his left and whipped around, but only found a leaf fluttering through the air, tumbling and circling until it crashed to the ground with millions of others like it. Desmond inwardly grunted in disappointment, then heard a faint noise directly behind him. It was the unmistakable sound of a sniffle.

  Grinning with satisfaction, Desmond maneuvered through the rows of tree oak, maple, poplar, and pine until he reached a wide-trunk cedar. He shifted his weight onto his right foot and then jumped around to the other side. The grin left his face. No one was there.

  Then a laugh erupted from above him, and he tilted his head back to find Diego straddling a thick branch twelve feet above the ground.

  “Clever,” Desmond said.

  “I thought so,” Diego chimed.

  “How did you get up there?” Desmond searched for lower branches but only found a few small stubs where limbs had broken off sometime in the past.

  “Climbed.” Diego flashed a mischievous expression, one that said he would never give up the secret.

  “Okay, smart guy. Where’s your sister?”

  Diego leaned to the right and pointed at a small rise about ninety feet away. “I think she’s hiding in that hump of leaves over there. Between the two oaks.”

  Desmond had to change his stance to see through the tree trunks, but he saw the mound Diego indicated and shook his head. “Okay, Corin!” he shouted. “You can come out. I found Diego first.”

  “Pfft. If I hadn’t laughed at you, I doubt you would have found me,” Diego charged.

  “I heard you sniffle,” Desmond defended. “Gave away your position. Would have only been a matter of seconds before I looked up.”

  “Okay, whatever.”

  The pile of leaves moved, and then, like a monster rising from the earth, Corin stood up, shedding the dried camouflage. The leaves dumped onto the ground around her. She brushed off the ones that still clung to her coat and jeans. Beaming at the two boys, she trotted through the woods to where they stood, slowing to a stop six feet from them.

  “I can’t believe you covered yourself in leaves and sticks,” Desmond mused. He looked at her like her clothes were made of lava.

  She chuckled. “Why? You know I don’t mind getting a little dirty. That’s why the other girls call me a tomboy.”

  “They do?” Desmond joked, pretending he’d never heard the phrase that no fewer than ten other girls had used for her.

  She cocked her head to the side and put her hands on her hips, giving him the I know better than that look.

  “Okay, maybe a few times.” He resisted his urge to smile but couldn’t fight it off long enough. Within four seconds he was laughing with the other two.

  The three settled down after a minute, and Corin turned to her stepbrother. “Have you heard anything back from Tommy yet?”

  Diego shook his head. “No, not yet.” He retrieved the phone from his jeans pocket and checked the screen to confirm. “Nope. Still nothing.”

  “I wonder what’s taking him so long.”

  “He’s a pretty busy guy,” Desmond hedged. “I mean, he does run a big operation with the IAA, and he’s overseas right now. What time is it in Sweden?”

  She rolled her shoulders, admitting she had no idea. “I guess you’re right,” she conceded. “I just wish we knew what happened. I hope no one was hurt.” She felt like she’d said that a million times already.

  The mood shifted on the breeze, from one of childlike laughter and fun to adult concern.

  An alarm went off in Desmond’s pocket and he jolted, startled. He pressed one of the buttons through his jeans, and the alarm went silent. “I guess it’s getting close to time for us to go back,” he said.

  “Yeah. Our parents are going to start wondering where we are with it getting dark so early now.”

  The three began marching back toward their neighborhood, which wrapped around the tree park on three sides. Beyond the far boundary—the only place there were no houses—the forest path eventually led to the middle school the three kids attended.

  They told jokes as they ambled through the woods, occasionally kicking a loose pile of leaves—though one contained a surface root that Diego nearly tripped over. As the homes of their subdivision came into view through the narrowing stands of trees, Desmond noticed something odd and slowed his pace.

  “What’s the matter, Dez?” Diego asked, turning toward his friend.

  “I guess my parents are having some people over for an early dinner,” Desmond answered.

  Drawing closer to the street at a slower pace than before, three black SUVs came into full view, all parked in a line along the curb in front of the Ellerbys’ home.

  Desmond stopped moving, halting in his tracks. His eyes remained locked on the Chevy Tahoe in the back of the line.

  “What’s with you?” Corin asked. “Are they friends or—” Then she realized the problem. All the vehicles were the same make and model, which she’d failed to really consider. But beyond that, the one in the rear displayed a government-issued license plate.

  “Are those FBI trucks?” Diego asked, keeping his voice just a shade above a whisper.

  “I don’t know,” Desmond managed. “If they are, why would they be at my house? My parents haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Have you?” Corin chuckled. Her smile vanished when Desmond issued a warning with a finger to his lips.

  “No. I don’t think so. Nothing the feds would want to know about.”

  “The feds?” Diego hissed with derision. “Since when do we call them that?”

  “Since we started seventh grade?” Corin breathed.

  “No,” Desmond whispered. “Since we became friends with the team at IAA. I overheard Sean say it a few times when we were last there.”

  Corin rolled her eyes but said nothing.

  Desmond crept closer to the edge of the forest, careful to stay out of view by using the larger trees for cover.

  He stopped at a particularly wide oak and peeked around the corner. Two men stood outside the house, just short of the front porch. They both wore aviator sunglasses and were chatting about something. The three kids were too far away to hear any details, but it was apparent that the two men were stationed as guards at the front of the house.

  “Guards,” Diego said.

  “But what are they guarding?” Desmond wondered.

  “Yeah,” Corin agreed. “Are they trying to keep people out? Or keep people in?”

  The question sent another shiver up Desmond’s spine. His skin pebbled under his coat sleeves at the thought.

  For thirty seconds, no one said anything as they watched the two men speaking to each other in professional, but matter-of-fact mannerisms. As suspected, big yellow letters—FBI—gleamed off the back of the nearest man’s dark blue windbreaker.

  “Whoa,” Diego said, noticing the bright letters, too. “It really is the FBI.”

  Desmond ran the possibilities through his mind. If his parents hadn’t done anything wrong, and he was certain that to be the case, then that meant he was the guilty party. Except he hadn’t broken any laws that he knew of. Besides, he was a kid. What could he have done that would warrant a visit from the FBI, much less three SUVs’ worth of agents?

  The answer struck him almost immediately. “The phone,” he realized.

  The other two looked at him curiously.

  “What about it?” Diego asked.

  “My text to Tommy. Do you think—”

  “They tracked it?” Corin’s eyelids opened wide, the epiphany striking her too.

  Desmond instantly reached for the phone in his pocket. He clumsily fumbled it as he pulled it out, nearly dropping it. He pressed the power button on the side and then swiped the screen to do a manual shutoff of the device. Within seconds, the screen went black. His heart raced and his breathing sped up. He co
uld see the same nerves were causing similar reactions in his two friends.

  “We need to get out of their line of sight,” Corin said, even as she began withdrawing silently into the shadows of the forest.

  “Yeah,” Diego agreed and retreated as well.

  Desmond followed suit, sliding backward and away from the two men at the front of his home.

  The three didn’t say anything until they were well within the confines of the woods, and even then they spoke in hushed tones.

  Once the last of the homes was out of view, the group finally stood up straight and picked up their pace as they continued away from the neighborhood.

  “If they are here because of what I sent Tommy,” Desmond said, panting, “that means the FBI is tracking Tommy’s phone, too.”

  “But he’s on the other side of the world,” Diego argued, surprisingly not out of breath.

  “Maybe that doesn’t matter,” Corin offered. “My concern is why the”—she hesitated to say it and again rolled her eyes at the thought—“feds would be tracking his phone. He doesn’t break any laws.”

  “Maybe he has something the government wants,” Diego theorized. “Who knows what kind of artifacts they keep down in their basement?”

  “We do,” Desmond and Corin countered at the same time.

  “We’ve been there a few times before,” Desmond added on his own.

  “That’s true,” Diego admitted. “But we’ve all heard the stories. About how they keep mummies down there and maybe alien stuff.”

  “They’re called urban legends for a reason, Diego.”

  “I didn’t say I believed them.” Diego sounded hurt, but only slightly. “Besides, it’s possible they have another vault or lab we don’t know about. There’s no telling how deep the IAA building goes underground, and they didn’t show anything to us of the upper levels. Tommy claims only a handful of people work there. Then why do they need that much space, and in a prime spot in downtown Atlanta?”

  Corin and Desmond snickered uncomfortably.

  “It’s a fair point,” Corin offered. “It would make sense that they keep other artifacts somewhere else in the building with all that space.”