An Artifact of Death

by Anna Philpot

  Anton didn’t speak, so Cici used the time to try to wrap her mind around how quickly he’d fired those shots. In the blink of her eye, he’d pulled the trigger seven times. From his grunt of satisfaction, from her brief glimpse at the crumpled, bloody bodies below, Cici assumed that in those few seconds, Anton took those three men’s lives.

  He told you he’d killed before. She swallowed again, hating the nausea that continued to plague her. He continued to move to the south, stopping at brief intervals to squint up at the sun to gauge their position.

  “How far can you shoot?” Cici asked when the silence became bigger than her fear of the answer.

  “A nine-millimeter bullet can travel up to eighteen hundred meters.”

  “That’s…” Cici tried to do the math in her head. “Almost a mile.”

  Anton nodded, once again casting her a calculating side-eye. “Total distance. I managed to pick those guys off at about a third of a mile.”

  “And you did, right?” Cici’s voice wobbled, even as she hated asking the question, hated that she wanted the relief of his assurance. “They aren’t going to bother us?”

  “Them? No.” He didn’t say more.

  She didn’t want to hear more. Cici wasn’t sure how to feel about those men’s possible deaths—and definite injuries.

  Guns, in her life, tended to wound many more people than they saved. Or helped.

  “There’ll be more,” Cici said, but it was more of a question. In that moment, as another cloud shadow passed in front of the sun, her body slumped in exhaustion. Maybe…maybe lying down would be best. Sure, she might die, but that looked likely anyway.

  “Drop the doomsday attitude,” Anton said with a quick glance back at her. “I can feel you giving up all the way over here. You quit wanting to live…that’s the fastest route to six-feet-under.”

  Cici sucked in a breath but kept her mouth shut. They hiked farther up the limestone outcropping.

  “So, since you refuse to tell me anything about your life history, will you at least tell me why you ended up at one of the Puebloan buildings at the back of a national park on a Monday afternoon?”

  Anton sighed. He glanced up at the darkening sky, clearly scouting for something.

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “Well, I’m tired and freaking out. So, give me something else to focus on, please.”

  He turned to face her fully. His gaze trailed her face as he smirked. “You’re freaking out?”

  Cici huffed out a breath but the release of air did nothing to reduce the tightness in her diaphragm. “You have no idea,” she muttered.

  “A silent freak out,” Anton murmured. “If I could always be this lucky.” He chuckled, his teeth and eyes glinting. Not for the first time, Cici thanked God for the thick dark clouds gathering in a bulwark to the north and east of the sun. Not only would they be more difficult to spot, but out here, the clouds held in some of the heat—retaining it closer to the earth, like an embrace.

  They wouldn’t freeze to death tonight.

  And maybe…possibly…if they lived through the dropped temperature this evening and the probability of the incoming storm, if Cici and Anton managed to dodge more bullets and the wildlife that wandered the area, then tomorrow, maybe they’d manage to leave the high mesa and get back to civilization.

  Back to police departments…Sam.

  Oh.

  Cici stumbled.

  Sam. Why was she just thinking of him?

  Sam, the obtuse jerk-face, had contacts across the entire state. He might be able to help her get away, from the Russians with guns and from Anton, whom Cici hoped was a good US spy who just happened to shoot people without blinking.

  She needed to contact Sam.

  Before she could pull out her phone, shots rang out behind them. Cici bolted forward, Anton a step ahead, as they ran to the right and away from the barrage of flying pieces of stone and debris.

  Anton’s heavier pack bounced against his back, no doubt sending supplies slamming against his skin, but he kept pushing forward. Every minute or so, he’d glance back to ensure Cici continued to keep up. She winced in sympathy when his booted toe caught the front of a cactus, flipping the small, sharp-spined pincers into Anton’s hand.

  He hissed a curse but continue to run. Much as Cici wanted to tell him not to shake the cholla loose—that caused some of the spines to dig deeper into his flesh, she was too out of breath to do so. He ran cursing low and shaking the stalk until it fell from his skin.

  No more bullets zinged nearby. In fact, Cici couldn’t hear anything but her and Anton’s harsh breathing.

  “Can we…” She stopped talking to suck in a deep breath and to sidestep a large stone in her path. “Take a break?”

  Anton slowed, causing Cici to think he, too, neared exhaustion. Who knew what he’d been up to before finding her this afternoon. Nothing she’d find out—or probably wanted to know.

  Cici stopped running and dropped her hands to her knees as deep, painful pants caused her to wheeze in the hot, dry air. In fact, the air around her seemed to crackle, almost as if it came alive.

  She raised her head and sniffed the air. Ozone filled her nostrils.

  The clear, sharp tang of an impending thunderstorm built around them.

  Good. Any kind of rain would wash away their footprints and give them a slight advantage—if it rained hard enough to clear away and mask their movements.

  Thunder rumbled but not loud enough to ensure a storm here, in the area where they stood. Still, to Cici’s mind, their best course of action was to walk toward the roiling black mass pushing toward them.

  “I’ll get those spines out of your hand,” she panted.

  “Later,” Anton said, his breathing slowing enough to get the word out. “We need to keep moving.”

  Cici forced her leaden legs to move in that direction. “Did we lose them?”

  Anton continued to breathe slow and deep. He flexed his cactus-spine-embedded hand into a fist, then released it.

  “They never caught up in the first place,” Anton said. “They were firing a machine gun as far afield as possible.”

  “How do you know they couldn’t get to us?” Cici demanded. Her lungs no longer ached with the need for more oxygen. Not that she wanted to run again, but at least she knew she could if she must.

  “I think the better question is how many of them are out there, currently looking. And how many more will be looking within the next couple of hours.”

  “Any educated guesses?” Cici asked.

  Anton glared first at her, then at the sun passing behind a thin trail of cloud attached to a much thicker, darker piece of vapor and ice.

  “First rule of being a spy: never guess or assume.”

  “And if you don’t have facts? At least not all of them?” Cici asked, exasperation coloring her tone.

  Anton’s lips flipped up at her glare. “Guess or assume the worst case and work from there.”

  “So…a lot,” Cici muttered.

  “Yep.”

  They continued to walk over the hard, unforgiving rock. Cici wished for the shade of the Santa Fe National Forest. She refused to make the trip back up there since Anna Carmen’s murderer had tried to kill her on one of her favorite trails. But now…now she wanted to dip her toes in the clear winter stream at Big Tesuque or look up into the whispering aspens, their leaves dancing acid green above her head.

  She missed the cool, cleansing air of the mountains. So much more sustaining than the hot, dust-filled heavy misery of this arid place.

  But she had to admit, the beauty here was unparalleled. More ancient, more unforgiving than the mountaintop near Santa Fe she typically preferred to trek. Perhaps that’s why the native people chose this place. Its harshness kept away all but the heartiest—all but the fearless. Those willing to do whatever it took to survive.

  Cici swallowed hard.

  She wanted to survive. Because, in part, she wanted to return to her mountain and c
laim her right to walk it again. To reclaim the piece of herself she’d given over to fear all those weeks before.

  “You’re thinking awful hard again. Is that my lucky freak-out in all its glory?”

  “I’m not sure you should call this lucky,” Cici grumbled.

  “What do you think I should call it?” Anton asked.

  She thought it over for a long moment. Then she sighed, shoulders drooping in defeat. “Lucky for you.”

  His laugh remained quiet, and Cici couldn’t help but shake her head at his response.

  “Let’s find a place to stop for a few minutes. I need to get these spines out of my hand.”

  They found a rough limestone outcropping taller than the surrounding rocks. With deep sighs, they hunkered down in front of the pseudo-shelter. Cici inhaled a full breath. She took a sip of water.

  Anton, his lips pressed in a tight, thin line, systematically pulled the cactus spines from his hand. Cici offered to wrap it but he shook his head.

  “It’s fine. And I’ll need it to shoot.”

  Cici dropped her eyes to the ground but didn’t try to stifle the shiver of revulsion and fear at his matter-of-fact words. She grabbed her phone from her pocket and opened the text app. Like most of New Mexico, texts had a better chance of reaching another device than a call—especially from this remote, unpopulated locale. The signal was weak, and she wasn’t sure her message went through. Anton continued to curse, using more colorful language than Cici knew existed, with each tiny needle-sharp barb pulled from his skin.

  He then took all the items out of the SAR pack to sort them. He began collecting the items from the pack he wanted. That meant pretty much all of them minus some all-weather pants and coat in bright orange. Yeah, Cici decided, not a good idea when trying to be inconspicuous.

  Cici took it upon herself to shove those as far into the crevice in the rock as possible. After that, she collected some rocks and built a cairn in front to cover the bits of orange that were still visible.

  Anton stood, silent, to the side as she worked. After a second, then third layer of rocks, Cici stood back dusting her hands.

  “Interesting use of your energy,” Anton said, his voice dry.

  “I’m assuming you don’t want to make finding us any easier,” Cici replied.

  “True.”

  “Or let them know that we have a professional SAR pack.”

  Anton nodded.

  “Then we cover up those clothes. Because the orange is an unnatural color in the area—a beacon over great distances. This will keep the animals out for a while, too.”

  Hopefully, until after Cici and Anton made it off the mesa.

  Anton nodded, his eyes narrowing a little as he reconsidered Cici. “You were an outdoorsy kid,” he decided.

  “I had my moments.”

  “Camping?”

  Cici turned away, not wanting him to see how the question hurt. Cici and her mother liked to camp together. That was their special activity—just the two of them—until her mom became too sick from the chemo and the cancer to continue.

  “Some,” she said.

  A loud explosion rent through the air, lifting Cici from her feet and causing her to yelp as she scrambled for balance against the rock wall. A chunk of loose slag rolled down the edges and Cici jumped forward, tripping over Anton and sending them both sprawling.

  She sat up with a wince, he with a curse.

  “What was that?” she asked, breathless.

  Anton handed Cici the binoculars he’d found in the pack and pointed them toward a large plume of black smoke.

  “They blew up your car.”

  An ache built in Cici’s chest as a thick, noxious plume of gasoline and who knew what else poured its nastiness up into the sky.

  “It’s a warning, too,” Cici said the words slowly, trying to understand the enormity of the danger she was in. “To you and me. No mercy. When they find us.”

  “Smart lady,” Anton said, but his voice held a mocking note.

  “Fine,” she said. She managed to swallow and firm her jaw in time to keep it from trembling. “Then why do you think they blew up my car?”

  “For a couple of reasons, I’d guess,” Anton said, his mouth still set in a firm, unforgiving line. “One, it’ll take authorities longer to find out who the vehicle is registered to if there’s no license plate or VIN. Two, authorities will have to search for bodies or body parts in the outlying wreckage.”

  “None of that brings the good guys racing to our rescue,” Cici said, her faint glimmer of hope in Sam and the local police department fading.

  She jerked, bobbling the apple she’d decided to eat, when her cell chirped. She shoved her apple into her mouth and pulled the phone from her pocket with shaking fingers. A text. She nearly wept when she read the words on her screen.

  Are you okay? What do you need? Where are you?

  Sam. He’d gotten her text saying she needed help.

  No. Being chased across the mesa in CC. They have guns. She’d pressed “Send,” planning to continue writing more when Anton snatched her phone from her hand.

  He squinted at her screen while she said, “Hey!” This time her apple did fall. Into her lap, not the ground. Small favors.

  “I needed to see all communications.”

  “No, you don’t,” Cici shot back.

  “Who’s Sam?” Anton asked.

  “My friend.”

  “A friend that’s useful to us or a friend that sleeps over? Don’t waste your battery on the second. We need reinforcements.”

  “Sam’s a detective at SFPD. He can get resources directed toward rescuing us.”

  Anton tossed back her phone. “Samuel Chastain,” he murmured. “The man who helped crack open the drug cartel?”

  “How do you know his name?”

  “I told you. I read about that case. You do realize it was an international story?”

  At Cici’s nod, he continued. “Right. Well, carry on messaging then. But we don’t need rescuing. You do.” He looked over Cici’s shoulder and tensed.

  “I thought you said the police would get hurt if they come in here.”

  “If they meet the Bratva they will. If they get in and get you out…soon,” he muttered. “Getting you out of here soon would be very, very good.”

  Cici turned in time to see a large, dark shadow prowl closer, its powerful shoulders slunk low to the ground as its long tail—adding at least two additional feet to its length—raised even with its body.

  9

  Sam

  Never give a sword to a man who can’t dance.― Confucius

  Those little dots bubbled up under the message Sam had sent her, meaning Cici had read his message and was about to reply. A burst of hope and something protective exploded in his chest, causing Sam to wonder if he’d overreacted to Evan’s message that morning—then Cici’s saying she needed help just moments before.

  Then, Cici’s response came through.

  No. Being chased across the mesa in CC. They have guns.

  Sam punched the “Talk” button on his phone, but once again his call went to Cici’s voicemail. Dread built in his stomach, bigger than a volcano and twice as active.

  They have guns. Who were they?

  CC was Chaco Canyon, but which mesa? And why the mesa?

  Before Sam could wonder more about the situation, Jeannette settled on the edge of his desk. Her trim thigh was encased in old jeans that bore a small rip under the knee. She dropped a sheaf of papers next to her denim-clad hip.

  “I thought we were meeting for drinks at six,” Sam said, forcing his gaze upward, away from his phone.

  “You’re going to want to see this,” Jeannette said, her voice tight with tension. “Came through while I was talking to your chief.”

  “About?”

  She hesitated for a moment then shook her head, once, like a dog clearing excess water from its coat. “You.”

  “Jeannette,” Sam said, his voice low and fill
ed with some of the irritation she deserved for going behind his back—yet again.

  Jeannette made a hacking motion with her hand. “Look. My reasons for schmoozing your chief don’t matter right now. This does.”

  She pressed a button on her phone and laid it flat on the desk in front of Sam.

  On the screen, Sam saw three large men gathered around a white Subaru parked near a rocky outcropping. He caught the last two numbers in the license plate. One of the men raised…Sam’s stomach knotted hard…what looked an awful damn lot like an AK-47. Another of the men fired into the backend of the car until the gas tank exploded.

  The video became shaky, and Sam assumed whoever was recording was knocked back by the blast. “Anton Vasiliev, that is your only warning. We know you are working with the woman.”

  They have guns, Cici had said. If these were the guys following her, they had serious firepower, and there were at least four of them.

  The man speaking stopped, picked up what looked like a driver’s insurance policy. Sam’s stomach clenched and icy sweat built on the back of his neck, a rivulet forming to run down his spine.

  “You’re with Cecilia M. Gurule,” the man said as the video continued shakily panning over the fiery car and surrounding sparse landscape including two intersecting mesas. Sam’s mouth dropped open. They have guns. “When we catch you, you will die.”

  “That’s from the dark web,” Jeannette said as her phone screen went black.

  Sam reached forward, planning to press the replay but Jeannette snatched up her phone and shoved it into the pocket of her jeans.

  “We’ll get back to that. First, you need to see these.”

  “No, first I need to figure out who the operative is and how dangerous he is to Cici’s continued survival.”

  “Very dangerous,” Jeannette snapped. “But he’s probably keeping her alive. Now, will you look at this so we can start developing a plan?”