by A D Davies
Both Telah and Andre stared at him.
“Inter-gener-what-now?” Telah said.
“The Guardians,” Bridget answered. “Are you, or are you not, descended from the Guardians who protected people through the centuries? And are you still doing your bit by taking on the responsibility of protecting both African American and Native American culture by refusing development and—”
Andre said, “Girl, what are you smoking?” He laughed and slapped his knee. “Whatever it is, can I get some?”
“We know it’s true,” Jules said. “Come on, Bridget, we can wait for the others. Then publish our findings.”
Bridget had suggested they use that as a threat, but only as a last resort. She gave him a shove and addressed Andre. “I’m so sorry about my associate’s bad manners, sir. We don’t want to impose or suggest any impropriety, but the evidence is quite clear. You took on the Southern Spike to—”
“You’re a decent child,” Telah said. “I know you wouldn’t go public with anything just to spite us.”
“Telah, honey,” Andre said, reaching for her hand.
Telah pulled out of his reach. “They want the shield. Don’t you?”
Bridget literally gasped. She hadn’t expected anyone to be so forthright.
“It’s okay,” Telah went on. “They said someone would come, eventually. Didn’t know whether we’d still be around or if our grandchildren’d be the ones to send ‘em on their way.”
“Telah.” Andre took on a grave tone. Not quite a warning but urging caution.
“It don’t matter. They know. They figured it out.” She fixed Bridget with a serious glare. What had been a somewhat irreverent old lady before was now as firm and immovable as a sentry guarding a palace. “But you can’t have it. We swore to protect it, and we will not reveal its whereabouts. I’ll give you this warning, too. Even if you figure out where to look, it’s well-protected. Oh, yes, you won’t be leaving our property with nothing we don’t give you.”
Bridget crouched to Telah’s eye level. “Ma’am, we really need to see—”
“You got a nice house, right?” The old lady’s crows’ feet crinkled deeper.
“It’s… nice, yes.”
“Your family is rich because of mine, child. Because of the sweat off my ancestors’ backs. I’m old enough that my grandmother remembered her father working the fields under the whip, so please don’t give me that hogwash about it being a long, long time ago.”
Bridget lowered her gaze to the floor. Couldn’t summon the words from the pit of her stomach.
“But don’t think I hold that against you. We got plenty these days. We need money, we can get it. Thing is, what we promised to do, what Jacob Carr wrote into that dollar contract, it’s more than a business deal. It’s an oath.”
Andre again pawed at his wife. “Telah, please, they—”
“Oh, who they gonna tell? Who’ll believe them?” Telah leaned forward, her purple, flowery chair squeaking as the springs holding it in place stretched and contracted. She lifted Bridget’s chin, so they were face-to-face. “What we agreed to, it’s more important than wealth. More important than fancy houses and helicopters and jewels. We protect a heritage—our own, and those like us who’ve had it ripped away.” She sat back, the springs protesting, and held her husband’s hand. “We might not be warriors, but we know our job. And we do it well. If you have any respect for that whatsoever, please go. And do not tell anyone about this.”
“There are others,” Jules said. “People who won’t ask nicely like we are.”
“We can protect it,” Bridget added. “Let us help. Because they are coming. These others.”
Telah gave a sad shake of the head. “Then they will be disappointed too.”
Silence descended, the two older people watching Bridget and Jules.
Bridget straightened tightly. “Ma’am, if we could—”
Telah turned her chair to face the blank TV. Andre did likewise, searching for the remote. The conversation, it seemed, was over.
“Come on.” Jules touched Bridget’s elbow. “We’re done here.”
As she accompanied him out, pausing only to put their shoes back on, Bridget asked herself why she was feeling like absolute dirt. The imposition she’d caused, the fact she’d been left to run around seeking facts hidden in the museum, or the crack about how she lived in luxury while the Willises resided here… or simply that Telah Willis had dismissed her as a nuisance, the way one might a cold-calling insurance salesman, rather than a seeker of knowledge.
Outside, she couldn’t face Jules or Dan. It wasn’t until they got to the car that she pinpointed why she’d experienced such a sensation of nausea, of guilt and shame.
She said, “You know we have to ignore what they told us.”
“Can’t just respect their wishes?” Jules asked.
“With those other people coming after it, after us, do you think they’re going to ease off?”
“So, we’re stealing it to protect it?” Dan said.
“First we find it,” Jules said. “Then we figure out how to stop those other folks from getting it. If I’m stickin’ around for this, that’s the mission. That’s the goal. No stealing, no donatin’ it to the Pope. It belongs here. And it’ll stay here. Clear?”
Bridget thought it’d be a tough sell to Toby, given all Alfonse had invested, but theft wasn’t LORI’s reason for existing. It was knowledge. Understanding.
Truth.
And the truth was, if someone really hid this shield on the Southern Spike of the Willises’ land, it wasn’t anyone else’s to take. Bridget would make sure everyone understood that.
“Deal,” she said.
Chapter Thirteen
Southern California
Ah Dae-Sung allowed one of the American-Korean personnel to drive the RV that had been his home for the past two weeks, conversing with Pang Pyong-Ho in his mother tongue regarding the report their employer, Ryom Jung-Hwan—or rather Executive Ryom—demanded. Although the American and his co-pilot came recommended by people back in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, Dae-Sung did not trust them. Especially now three of their colleagues had perished during the botched extraction.
While the surviving Americans made excuses for their failure, Pang Pyong-Ho had offered to resign and return home in disgrace. There, he and his family would undergo extensive debriefing before a qualified expert assessed his worthiness to the country and whether his dip in performance might affect his sons’ potential in the military.
Dae-Sung had said no. He would not condemn his compatriot—a man who had become his friend—over a failure of intelligence. Not one report suggested the crusty English archaeologist would have firepower with him. Nor that the mongrel New Zealander was anything but a foreigner on a student visa.
Certainly, missing the New Zealander’s true status could be laid at the door of the Americans. Vetting had been their job.
Their loyalty to Dae-Sung’s people, Executive Ryom had assured him, was not in question, having delivered many favors over the past ten years. From information to assassination, they hated the United States, despite reveling in the money doled out in their direction in return for their services.
Information to assassination.
It sort of rhymed in English, but Dae-Sung had no time for frivolity. He cared only for the urgent business of protecting his country, under threat yet again from outside forces, as it had been since his birth.
“Are we secure?” he asked his second-in-command.
“Yes.” Pyong-Ho set up the laptop, which mimicked an American brand, but the guts were pure Korean workmanship. “If they intercept our signal, it will look like we are pirating a movie from 1992 starring Clint Eastwood.”
Dae-Sung smiled. The movie star was Pyong-Ho’s one weakness for western culture. Cowboy movies were a banned luxury in Korea, but as men whom the authorities trusted to venture beyond the country in order to strengthen its borders, Dae-Sung and Pyong-
Ho had permitted themselves that taboo. Dae-Sung was less enamored with the genre, and its leading man, but he tolerated it. And he was glad it made his friend happy for a couple of hours, especially in such dark times. In times when their very survival was in question.
The laptop screen remained blank while the speakers trilled, and then a box appeared in one corner showing Ah Dae-Sung’s angular face.
When did he get so old?
Not old like an old man, but at fifty he was no longer young. He was only ten years Pyong-Ho’s senior, but while he was fitter than most Americans half his age, that was damning with faint praise. After all, what Koreans weren’t fitter than the average American? That wasn’t his concern. Dae-Sung could see the lines creeping into the corners, the cheek bones that had once charmed many a lady now less prominent, while his eyes had sunk slightly.
Perhaps, should he find success here, he might permit himself to turn his attention to his own happiness. If he found a suitable woman, it wasn’t too late to start a family, to bring life into the new world that awaited them, and finally relax and cease thinking about how to defend from the next assault on Korea’s freedom.
The screen flickered and turned gray. “I’m here.”
Executive Ryom’s voice flowed thick and steady, as it always did. The man was both a genius and a true patriot, and his standing in both business and the Party was as high as anyone outside the military or the leaders’ family DNA could ascend. His calm, measured tone projected assurance in himself, and hearing it imbibed that same confidence. But it also hid those times his anger boiled over, making it difficult to assess his mood.
“Executive Ryom, please forgive us,” Dae-Sung commenced. “I should have monitored the Americans more closely. We had not expected such resistance from a college—”
“Do not make excuses.” This was the same timbre he used to order coffee or close a business deal. Not robotic or absent emotion, just complete truth. “You are the only agents in the field, so I cannot replace you. As long as I can be sure you have learned from the experience.”
“I will not fail again.” Ah Dae-Sung bowed his head, unsure if the Executive could see him. He met the inbuilt webcam’s unblinking eye. “Now we know who Tane Wiremu really is, we will not underestimate our quarry. You have my word.”
“Update, then. What is your current status?”
Pang Pyong-Ho sat off-camera, his face as unemotional as the Executive’s voice.
“We are still using the recreational vehicle,” Dae-Sung said. “We altered the license plates as a precaution, but this is excellent camouflage.”
It wasn’t quite a laugh, but Executive Ryom’s voice seemed to shave a sliver of humor into its tone. “Only in a country like America could a giant rolling house be considered ‘camouflage.’ What are your next steps?”
“We have determined the Englishman and his people have other associates working in a different state. Because of their presence here, we are convinced we are on the correct path, and will dedicate all resources to Alabama.”
Alabama. Dae-Sung had played with the word several times, tossing it around his mouth like a rubber ball. He and Pyong-Ho found it amusing, almost ticklish the way the English syllables seemed to bounce.
Al-a-bam-ah!
“There’s only one site in Alabama on Professor Sally’s computer,” Dae-Sung said. “They must have intelligence we lack. As they did in Mexico.”
No reply from the laptop, but an audible shifting of weight told Dae-Sung the Executive was considering his response. After uncountable numbers of conversations like this, he knew when to keep his mouth shut.
“This is sensible,” came the answer at last. “Do you need more resources?”
“We will require transport from the same airfield in Nevada. We are on our way there now.”
Dae-Sung glanced at the RV’s cockpit. The driver held his eyes on the road but the man beside him, who had shown himself to be shaky and irritable, quick to anger and eager to use lethal force, kept glancing back.
Perhaps he spoke more of his genetic homeland’s tongue than he’d let on.
Dae-Sung used a code instead. “We have two adequate men, but we would like additional hands, plus a bonus package.”
Adequate men meant liabilities. Additional hands translated as replacement personnel. And bonus package was code for disposal of bodies.
“Are there additional obstacles?” Executive Ryom asked. “Police?”
Dae-Sung looked to Pyong-Ho who continued to monitor law enforcement transmissions. He shook his head.
“Negative,” Dae-Sung said. “They are sweeping for what they call an ‘active shooter’ in the area. We left Mohammedan leaflets in the vicinity as planned, but they have not released details of who they are hunting yet.”
“‘Active shooter’,” Executive Ryom repeated. “Americans and their phrases. No matter. I will arrange what you asked. But time is running out, Commander Ah. You must acquire either the woman and her research, or the item itself. Am I clear?”
Ah Dae-Sung braced against the shiver cascading down his back. Despite the volume and manner of the Executive’s voice remaining constant, he rarely used Dae-Sung’s official title.
Commander Ah.
“We will track her via satellite,” Dae-Sung said.
“And if you cannot take her without bloodshed, do not await orders from me. Move immediately to the next phase.”
“Of course. If necessary, blood will be spilled. As much as it takes.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Southern Spike, Alabama
Having utilized another favor from the Carson household to borrow a flatbed truck and some essential equipment stashed on the rear, Jules, Bridget, and Dan rumbled up to the dirt track rendezvous and parked on the grassy lay-by somewhat later than Charlie and her group. Toby had flown them all in the previous night and opted for a hotel midway between the Alabama Freedom Museum and the airport, while Dan and Jules bedded down at Bridget’s place. Better to remain separate in case the Koreans tracked one or the other.
Jules and Dan got the shiny side of that deal.
Excited at having houseguests, Bridget’s mom, Audrey—as instrumental a part of the corporation as Roger—dismissed the small number of staff in order to cook up a feast herself, one comprising fried chicken, pulled pork, spicy vegetables, and various carbohydrates, followed by a ton of dessert. Bloated in the cooling evening, when offered alcohol, Dan and Bridget had opted for beer while Jules surprised them both by accepting a fine whisky—a single malt that Mr. Carson was delighted to share. “Don’t get many opportunities to indulge with a fellow aficionado of the Scottish liquor. It’s mostly bourbon around these parts, which is fulfilling on the right occasions…”
Jules had pretended not to be bored by the man’s enthusiasm as he added the desirable amount of ice and found the drink smoother and more pleasing than the spirit back in New York. He was sensible enough to turn down a second, too, given the early start—and the day’s heat.
Seemingly unaffected by either the rising temperature or the dawn alarm call, Charlie manned a portable workstation alongside Harpal out the back of a hired 4x4 while Toby and a gray-haired woman dressed like someone cosplaying a Victorian archaeologist shielded their eyes from the rising sun as they looked over acres of fields. Once Dan parked and the trio disembarked, Toby strode over to the truck, shadowed by the woman.
Bridget called, “Hey, Harps, how’s your arm?”
Harpal rotated his shoulder. “Good to see you, Bridge. It’s stiff, but Charlie’s patched it tight. Full movement. She makes a cracking nurse.”
“It was a scratch,” Charlie said. “I’ve dealt with worse injuries when Alexander fell off his first bike.”
A door opened at the front of the 4x4 and a figure as tall as Dan stepped out—bigger than Dan too, although a lot of his bulk appeared natural rather than ripped via a gym.
“Well, well!” the woman exclaimed. “Two more strapping men to he
lp find our prize.”
“Let me introduce you,” Toby said with the enthusiasm of a drunk uncle at a wedding, hoping to pair Jules off with his single daughter. “This is—”
“Tane Wiremu,” Jules said, pointing lazily at the Maori in his short-sleeved top and linen shirt that half-covered the gun in his shoulder holster. “And Professor Sally Garcia. I ain’t deaf and I can read the updates Phil sends through.”
“Right, right.” Toby faked amusement at Jules’s intentional rudeness. “Everyone, this is Jules, he’s our… expert in…” He was lost for a label to pin on Jules.
“I’m the one who works stuff out and memorizes whatever’s needed. Oh yeah, and my magic DNA can make rocks sparkle and activate magnetic orbs.”
Tane either already knew all about Jules or he took it as sarcasm. Jules assumed the latter but wouldn’t write off the former. The man surveyed the landscape with concentration, as someone who knew what he was looking for, not simply for something to do. “And not a bad thief, by all accounts.”
“But that ain’t why I’m here.”
“No? Because from what we’ve talked about since flying in, we don’t have permission to step over that boundary.”
“Sure.” Jules brushed past the security agent, preferring Dan and Bridget performed the time-wasting but necessary getting to know you nonsense, and watched Charlie work instead.
“You got a drone up there?” Jules asked.
“Correct.” Charlie was working the controls using haptic gloves, the image on the screen split between real-time imaging rolling beneath the camera and a globular overlay lit up in greens, reds, and blues.
“Before I left, you customized that from some games console.” Jules watched as she guided the camera with movements akin to playing piano in midair. “It works now?”
Charlie concentrated on the task, unable to draw away from the computer screen. “Games console uses gestures rather than a handheld controller. I haven’t got that far yet, but yes. It’s better than our old joystick model. And I minimized the puck, too.”