An Artifact of Death

by Anna Philpot

  Cici’s chest and legs cramped, but she didn’t stop pounding her feet forward. She didn’t let go of Anton’s hand. And this time, she didn’t look back.

  23

  Sam

  Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.― Confucius

  Getting the helicopter took too long, due to multiple added layers of red tape instituted by the morning’s events. Jeannette grumbled because the signatures and verbal approvals became necessary now that the fighter pilots engaged with known foreign agents on American soil earlier that morning. All the agencies insisted on hearing a direct accounting before committing to a full frontal assault.

  Sam tuned Jeannette out the fourth time she requested a combat-seasoned pilot. This appeared to be a query that had to climb the chain of NSA, CIA and who knew what other three-letter agencies before it could be turned over to the military base and its personnel for fulfillment. All of which took hours they didn’t have.

  Part of that time was spent when Sam and Jeannette drove up to the bomb site to catalog the blown bits of metal and wreckage from what had to have been the operatives’ main base. Little was left to salvage. They bagged up what they could and photographed the area before returning to the hotel room all the way back in Cuba to await their next move. Cici’s body wasn’t there.

  That was something—the best piece of evidence of her continued survival yet.

  Sam hated waiting.

  He wanted to be out there, on the mesa, searching for Cici now. But getting on the chopper remained his best chance of finding her. He just hadn’t expected it to take so stinking long to get the aircraft released.

  Now, once again, the day slid toward night. Sam wondered if they were already too late—if he’d be collecting nothing but what was left of Cici’s body. After seeing the twisted and melted shards of ammunition and firepower the men had out there, it was no longer an idle concern.

  They’d come prepared to do damage.

  He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. This wasn’t a line of thinking he could continue. He’d classified each piece of artillery he could, adding a detailed entry to a logline Jeannette asked him to fill out. That left hundreds of smaller items a forensics team would need to comb through and identify.

  After completing his task, Sam called his former boss in Denver to get more intel from the chatter coming in there. The news was bad. One group of men had landed in Albuquerque and another in Salt Lake City two days ago, before he and Jeannette arrived in Chaco. That meant those men—an additional five to twelve, depending on the accuracy of the descriptions, were either en route or already in the area.

  He told Jeannette, who grunted, her eyes dulling, before she tossed him three more numbers to call. Sam explained who he was and what he was working on, but like Jeannette, he was stonewalled until their contact at the NSA chose to sign off on their requests.

  Because he had nothing better to do while he waited, Sam pulled up another of Jeannette’s nifty connections to track Cici’s phone. He worried the Russians had it, but to do so, they’d have to get Cici’s phone number. Since he and Jeannette were monitoring any requests into Cici’s public and private data, he knew no such request had come through. Yet. Maybe the assassins expected the guy with Cici to destroy her phone. Sam probably would have. But he was thankful she still had it now so that he could keep an eye on her movements.

  A small red speck appeared on his screen, inching in tiny increments closer to the eastern edge of the plateau. Relief swept through him as he stared at the tiny dot, so thankful it continued to move forward. She was still alive.

  He had no idea in what shape he’d find her, but, for now, she was alive.

  Sam zoomed in as close as he could, which, thanks to satellite technology, was almost on top of Cici and the man she was with. Sam ran his hands through his shorn hair, wondering who the guy was—none of the agencies had, as of yet, been forthcoming enough to admit to an operative on the ground.

  From what Sam gleaned from the conversations he’d participated in and overheard in the last two days, the United States government had multiple clandestine groups and multiple operatives they pretended didn’t exist—at least outside the small group of people who authorized and ran their classified missions.

  Sam tried to imagine what type of person wanted that job. Jeannette picked up her ringing phone, listening with complete attention as she made notes. Well, her, for one.

  He’d never met anyone so married to her job. So dedicated to a cause.

  His phone rang. “Hey, Evan,” Sam said into the speaker, arranging the small device between his shoulder and ear.

  “Did you find Cici out there? You are in Chaco, right? There’s talk on the news about a training mission gone wrong on the mesa out there. What the hell is going on?”

  Sam swallowed. He didn’t have a story prepared. “No, I haven’t seen Cici,” Sam said.

  Evan cursed with words even Cici would never approve of. “You better find her, Sam. Something isn’t adding up. And I don’t like that Cici’s been offline for so long. She knows we’ll worry about her.”

  “I’m working on it,” Sam said, his voice sharpening with irritation.

  “Well, work harder,” Evan snapped.

  Sam drew himself up to attention, his eyes narrowing. “Why? Why do you care so much?”

  Evan blew out a breath that sounded like a mini hurricane passing through the phone. “Look, I know Anna Carmen and Cici are different people. Personality-wise, of course, and even their senses of humor. But they look the same. The idea of looking at Cici in a casket…. Shit,” Evan’s voice thickened with emotion. “Like losing Anna all over again.”

  “I’ll keep you posted,” Sam said, softening. At least Evan still loved Anna Carmen—his emotions firmly fixed on another woman. But should Evan make a pass at Cici….Well, that would be…difficult for Sam to handle.

  “Do you know what’s going on?” Evan asked.

  “Some of it,” Sam conceded. “Nothing good.”

  Evan groaned. “I almost called you when she left,” he said, voice filled with regret.

  “Wish you had,” Sam said, his voice remaining just as soft.

  “I’ve got too many of these regrets,” Evan muttered.

  Me, too, buddy. Me, too.

  “Call me when you hear something,” Evan said. “Anything.”

  “Will do. And Evan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You were right. Earlier this summer when you said Cee deserves her happy ending.”

  Sam clicked off the call before Evan had a chance to respond. He went back to monitoring the dot that was Cici’s phone. If that tiny red spot kept moving, Cici must be okay. Jeannette continued to work through her contacts, occasionally slapping papers at Sam, who perused them with quick efficiency. He underlined the most pertinent information and handed them back to Jeannette, who spread all the papers across the nylon bedspread.

  The dot appeared to veer off course.

  “I need a team now, Commander,” Jeannette said in a voice that caused all of Sam’s hairs on his arms and the back of his neck to rise to attention.

  The dot picked up speed.

  “Now. They—and you—have the chance to bring in some of the most wanted operatives of our time. You fuck me over on this, and I’ll make sure it’s your name on the mea culpa letter to the director. You know he only answers to the Joint Chiefs and the President.”

  Sam rolled his eyes.

  Jeannette slammed down her phone with a strange sound. Sam glanced back to see Jeannette’s red-rimmed eyes. She swiped at her cheek and Sam turned away, not wanting her to know he’d seen her this upset.

  The red dot shifted forward in a large leap. Sam sat forward, his heart hammering. What the hell was happening out there?

  “The tactical team is assembling,” Jeannette said, flopping down on the bed, the papers underneath her crinkling. “They’ll fly out in the next hour so we can brief them.”

&nb
sp; Sam stood, grabbing his keys. “Where are we meeting them?”

  Jeannette gave him another stink eye. “Here. We don’t have a secure damn location in Chaco Cultural Historical National Park, do we?”

  Sam glanced out the window. The shadows thickened as the sun sank low in the sky. Almost dusk. The temperature had begun to drop, bringing a new set of worries about Cici getting hypothermia. So many opportunities for this situation to go south.

  With each moment passing, Sam worried they’d get a call—one that told him Cici was dead. He glanced back at the tiny red dot on the laptop screen and relaxed a little. She was still moving. That had to mean something good.

  Hang on, Cee. Please hang on.

  The red light blinked out.

  24

  Cici

  Behind every smile there’s teeth.― Confucius

  Cici sucked on the straw attached to her water. Her steps stuttered when the straw to her Camelbak bladder did the same. She couldn’t be out of water. In this heat, this arid climate, the moment her water ran out she began to lose strength...the ability to run.

  Cici caught a glint of metal and she fell in an instinctive move, her heart hammering. She rolled over, trying to form as tight a ball as possible. A light flashed as a pistol fired. One, two…maybe three shots all to her left.

  Her ears rang from the shots, making it impossible to hear any type of response. Anton grasped Cici under the elbows, hauling her to her feet. Dazed and dizzy, Cici stumbled along behind Anton, trying to maintain both her footing and continued vision.

  All she could think about was the explosion. Who was shooting? Had the person destroyed a part of the monument that had been here for thousands of years?

  Did she care?

  Her Camelbak pack slapped against her back, no doubt leaving bruises. Her bladder convulsed but she ignored it.

  She was out of water, and though the sun began to sink lower, bringing their second day on the mesa to a close, Cici wouldn’t make it too many hours without fluids. Especially in the current conditions.

  They veered southwest. Cici checked her phone again—just to be sure. No battery. No service. No help.

  She shoved it back into her pocket and sighed. Anton walked at a steady, fast clip. Cici kept up, thanks to her years of hiking through higher elevations. But after all these cumulative hours of sun and movement, her body started to shut down.

  She was thirsty.

  “Got any water?” she asked, unable to take the dryness a moment longer.

  Anton pulled a half-full liter bottle from the side of his pack. Cici uncapped it and drank in a deep mouthful, relishing the coolness on her tongue.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were out?” Anton demanded.

  “What good would it do?”

  He scowled but stopped long enough to unzip another compartment. “I have one more. Keep that one.”

  Cici nodded, not wanting to speak. They continued forward, but the lack of adequate hydration had already taken its toll. Cici sipped from the bottle at long intervals, but she must have already been into that two to three percent of overall body dehydration that so many hikers fell into when unused to the heat and dryness of the American Southwest. She knew from her search and rescue training that even that minor dip in water levels in the brain could impair thinking and other cognitive functions.

  Scowling, Cici drank deeper, trying to avoid the heat-related cramps many of the hikers she’d rescued had often complained about.

  She tripped over a broken cholla rib. Later she caught her ankle on the side of a rock. Anton looked back as she winced. He said, “We’ll look for some shelter. Get out of any direct line of assault.”

  Cici eyed the air, then the flat, open terrain around them. “Think they’ll follow?”

  “Yes.”

  Anton shoved an orange into her hand. The skin remained tight against the fruit, desiccated from the heat—much like Cici felt—but she peeled it as she walked, making sure to hold on to the peel so no one could use it to track them.

  She savored the first piece, thankful for the refreshing burst of flavor.

  “Thanks,” she murmured. Her limbs loosened enough for her to walk with longer strides and the slight muzziness in her head cleared enough for her to better take in her surroundings.

  “Don’t be stupid about water again,” Anton grumbled.

  “We don’t have much left,” she murmured.

  Anton whirled toward her, his eyes narrowing and causing faint white lines to develop in the sunburned skin. “A lot of people die with water still in their packs. Don’t be stupid. Drink while you can—as much as you need. Stay in top shape as long as you can. That’s our best shot for getting out of here alive.”

  Anger shot through her chest, but Cici tamped it down. “Got it,” she muttered.

  Anton led her to another large outcropping of limestone. Once he walked around it, testing the edges and ensuring it was clean of critters and snakes, he settled his pack against one of the walls and leaned back against it. He sighed but didn’t tip his head back or shut his eyes.

  “I’m trying to help you,” he said.

  Shame crept up her neck, prickly and unpleasant. “I know. I just…” She thought again of the story of the gambler. Of the history here, of the past two days. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep going? I mean, I get they want me dead, but why? I don’t have anything they want. I don’t even know what they want, really.” In frustration, she clamped her jaw shut and turned away.

  “I know you want explanations, I would to,” Anton said on a sigh. “But if you’re captured—they can…no, they will drag any possible scraps of knowledge out of you.”

  “I’ve spent…what? Thirty or so hours running across northern New Mexico with you, buddy. We’re close to running out of water. If the Russians don’t get us in the next twelve to twenty-four, thirst will.”

  “Fine,” Anton said. He sighed again, his eyes sliding closed almost as a defense mechanism. “But understand I don’t want to tell you. I’d prefer to keep you safe.”

  “In the dark.”

  “Safe,” Anton shot back. “Safe.” This time his voice was quiet.

  “As an educated woman who came into this impromptu forced march with a better set of survival supplies, we do not agree on what safe means. You dragged me into this mess when you stepped into my car.”

  “I had a plan.”

  Cici gritted her teeth, trying hard not to let the resentment she felt toward Anton spill out. “You changed it.”

  Yeah, the resentment spewed forth. Anton didn’t flinch, but he did drop his gaze. Interesting. This spy felt shame for his actions. Not that he’d tell her why he’d gotten in her car—she’d hounded him before without luck.

  She settled back against the rock wall with a heavy sigh. “Do me the real courtesy of reducing my ignorance and helping me understand what is going on here.”

  Anton hesitated for another moment. “How about a little bedtime story?”

  “I’ll take the details any way you wish to deliver them,” Cici responded.

  Anton exhaled in a long gusty breath. “I took this assignment because it was supposed to be a suicide mission.”

  Cici glanced up at him, her heart pounding but without any real shock. “Because of Rebecca.”

  Anton dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I miss her. I’ll always miss her.”

  While Cici could sympathize, that didn’t explain the mission here or why foreign spies decided to stir up trouble between the tribes and the American government.

  “But…why?”

  Anton gritted his teeth. “Get this through your pretty, thick head! The bad guys want the artifact to start an incident between the American government and the native tribes. Navajo, Pueblo. Better still if they can drag in the Hopis, the Sioux, the Cherokee…you following?”

  Cici’s mouth fell open in an O. Her brain began racing, sifting through the news she’d read over the past few months.
>
  “The Russians want us fighting among ourselves. What better way to do that than to have the American government stealing sacred items from natives’ graves? Better yet—have the items ‘found’ at auction thousands of miles away. Because then—then—there’s only the United States to blame for losing these sacred objects on protected lands.”

  “Are you telling me this has happened before?” Cici asked, her voice barely audible. She grabbed her water and took another small sip, hoping to ease the dryness building in her mouth.

  “Of course. Open your eyes, Cecilia! This is one of the ways governments try to get the leg up on each other. If the United States government is fighting not just about certain divisive political issues but also fighting the native governments within its own borders, it cannot allocate as many resources to police the actions of countries looking to…say…annex more than Crimea.”

  Cici’s lips numbed as her face iced. “That’s always the goal. Not cooperation but undermining.”

  Anton nodded, his face haggard. “The machinations are deep and disgusting. They’ve gone out of their way to exploit all our weaknesses. And we’ve handed them over thanks to our free press and social media. All our divisions became starker as social media grew, and those divisions are easy to exploit. Hell, last report I saw, the workers at the troll farms in Russia were fighting with each other’s American avatars on these sites, blowing up the arguments in the hundreds, thousands of posts, on all our hot-button issues just to increase social unrest here. And it’s working.”

  Cici grunted. She’d seen the results even among her parishioners. “The goal is chaos.”

  Anton brought his knees upward and laid his forearms across them. “The greater the chaos, the less time we have to focus on other tasks, human rights abuses, or king-building. On stopping wars and starting peace-keeping missions. On genocide, poverty.”