Acton shook his head. “I doubt it, not unless he knows some Peruvian police or paramilitaries.” Acton moved to what had once been a hidden chamber in the floor and placed the case inside. “Give me a hand.” Together he and Robbie moved a large tile that had been pried away earlier in the day back over a hole in the floor. It had been discovered by accident when someone dropped a canteen, the hollow sound underneath demanding further exploration.
With the skull hidden to his satisfaction, Acton grabbed a pickaxe left on the floor then began looking for a hiding place for him and Robbie. There was another chamber beyond this one, exactly twice its size. They went in and crouched behind a large stone altar that stood in the middle, the only structure in the room. They turned off their flashlights and listened as the stench in the air made breathing difficult. Robbie’s breaths came faster and faster as panic set in.
Dawson and Mickey searched the cabin while two of the team stood watch outside. Dawson flipped over the cot as Mickey tipped the cabinet over to see if anything was underneath. A complete search for Professor Acton and the package yielded nothing. Dawson radioed his other men. “Bravo Team, Bravo One. Does anyone have eyes on the target, over?” A string of “negatives” replied. “Start rounding everyone up for interrogation and send video to Control. Bravo One out.”
He triggered his comm and switched channels. “Control, Bravo One. Come in, over.”
“Bravo One, Control. Go ahead, over.”
“Control, package and target not located. Do you have anything from the UAV, over?”
“Negative, Bravo One. UAV malfunctioned as op began, replacement has just arrived. All vehicles still accounted for and infrared shows nothing outside the camp. Your target is still onsite, over.”
Dawson kicked the cot again in frustration.
“Roger that, Control. Beginning interrogations, over.”
A different voice replied, his words sending shivers up and down Dawson’s spine. “Bravo One, Control Actual. Targets are confirmed on the Termination List. Eliminate when interrogations complete, over.”
Shit. This isn’t going to be pretty.
“Roger that, Control Actual. Bravo One, out.” Dawson stepped out of the cabin to begin the grim task ahead of him.
London, England
In a dimly lit, underground room on Fleet Street in downtown Old London, twelve people sat at a long, oval-shaped marble table. They faced a series of integrated eighty-inch plasma displays mounted on the wall at the foot of the table. Six high back leather chairs lined either side of the table with a thirteenth chair at the head. Behind that chair a large symbol had been carved into a slate wall—two thin horizontal lines on top of each other with a third, thicker and heavier line below, curved slightly upward.
In the chair at the end of the table sat Derrick Kennedy, a tall, lean man with silver hair. He calmly puffed on his 1937 Cuban La Carona cigar as he watched the operation unfold in front of him. The unique aroma of the tobacco from Cuba’s Veulta Abajo, a district that is to cigars what Bordeaux and Burgundy are to fine wines, filled the air. Eleven of the twelve other chairs were occupied with people in various levels of excitement.
“If they do recover it, what do we do?” one of them asked.
“You know what we do. We implement The Protocol once again,” answered another.
“The Protocol, isn’t that a little bit of an overreaction?” exclaimed the first.
“Maybe, but we’ve kept the plans current.”
“But we don’t know their intent!”
“What the hell are you talking about? Of course we know their intent! Remember who we’re dealing with! This is the same tosser—”
Kennedy leaned forward. “We are the Triarii!” his booming voice grabbing everyone’s attention, spinning them from the monitors. “Just as our forefathers did for generations, we swore an oath to do whatever it takes to prevent what may happen if they do successfully recover it. The Protocol may not have been executed in our memory, but if it is to be executed, then it shall be. No matter what the cost to us, or to those who get in our way!”
On the screen, one of those being interrogated fell to the ground, a green pool of infrared blood forming beside the body.
Andes Mountains, Peru
Mickey glanced at the crumpled body at his feet, his face revealing no emotion. My God he looks young! He looked away, turning his attention to the other prisoners. The rest of the team were redeployed to hold the perimeter leaving Red, Spaz, and himself to stand guard as Dawson interrogated the prisoners behind one of the cabins. Mickey had been on dozens of missions, killed probably as many terrorists during his short time with Delta, and many had probably been even younger than these students.
But this was the first time they were Americans.
He knew it shouldn’t make a difference, but it did. These were the very people they were supposed to be protecting, not killing. But domestic terrorism was a growing problem, mostly with Muslim converts, but Timothy McVeigh was American and Christian—and he hated his country enough to take 168 innocent souls.
He glanced at Spaz and could see he was troubled too. They all were, even Dawson. He could tell by the way he was talking that he hated what he was doing, and Mickey knew him well enough already to know that Dawson was doing the dirty work so none of them would have to live with it afterward.
He’ll suffer the nightmares, not his men.
But Mickey knew though Dawson might suffer the worst, the rest of them witnessing this massacre wouldn’t rest easily either. When they had taken the pictures of the prisoners and transmitted them to Control, he had been surprised by how quickly the orders had come back to eliminate them, almost as if they had already known who was here.
Or they didn’t care who was here, they just wanted them eliminated.
It had him wondering what the hell the item was that these terrorists had stolen, and how important it must be. Dawson was right to snap him back when he had asked what it was—it was none of his business. And if it were hush-hush enough to kill all these American terrorists without a trial, it was probably best that he didn’t know.
Dawson barked at another of the terrorists. “Where’s the professor?” he shouted at the next one who was crying and staring at her fallen friend. “Where is he?” He pressed his gun against her forehead.
“I don’t know! I don’t know!” she cried. “Please God, don’t let them kill me!” She fell to her knees and tried to hug Dawson’s legs. “Please! I have a son!” Dawson kicked her onto her back, straddled her and placed a bullet between her eyes.
Mickey looked away again, noticing Red and Spaz both had their backs to the proceedings, their eyes scanning the surrounding area. He wondered if their prisoners knew that they were dead regardless of whether or not they talked. He had to admire their dedication. To watch your friends die beside you, and still not answer the simple question of where their leader was hiding, showed a loyalty he had rarely seen. Loyalty to one’s God he had seen, but to a leader? It was rare. Even Osama’s men spilled pretty quickly for the most part.
“If someone doesn’t start talking, you’re all dead,” said Dawson calmly. Mickey turned back and Dawson pointed to the injured Peruvian. Mickey pulled him out of the group and shoved him to the ground at Dawson’s feet. “Where is the professor?” he asked firmly.
“I-I do not know!”
Dawson knelt down in front of the trembling man and put his hand on his shoulder. “What’s your name?”
“G-Garcia!”
“Tell me, Garcia, where could he be hiding?”
“I do not know, I swear to God I do not know! Dios mio salvame!”
“Kill him,” said Dawson as he rose to his feet, motioning to Mickey. Mickey had almost learned the hard way what could happen if he hesitated to carry out orders. When an order was given, there was no time to think it over, no debate in whether or not you should carry it out. An order should be followed immediately in combat situations where moment
s could mean the difference between life and death. If you trusted your commander, you had to trust that the orders were legal, and that they were in the best interest of the mission.
And he trusted Dawson implicitly.
He walked over to Garcia and raised his weapon, catching the look from Dawson indicating he wasn’t to shoot until actually ordered to.
“The cave!” yelled Garcia. Dawson spun back toward him and motioned Mickey to stop.
“What cave?”
“He could be in the cave!” stammered Garcia, pointing up the hill.
Mickey looked up to where he was pointing and could barely make out the entrance. Dawson motioned to him and Spaz. “Check it out.”
Acton tried to calm a hyperventilating Robbie who couldn’t stop muttering, “It’s my fault, it’s my fault,” when something echoed through the chamber, his heart joining the race Robbie’s was already in.
Footsteps.
“Quiet!” he said in a harsh whisper. “They’re coming!”
Acton heard Robbie slap his hands over his mouth to quiet himself, Acton’s own heart pounding so hard he was sure anyone listening carefully would hear it. He peered around the altar, trying to see who was coming, and spotted a shaft of light from a rifle mounted tactical flashlight as it shone into the room. The attacker entered the chamber cautiously, aiming his weapon as he looked for them. All of a sudden Robbie jumped out from behind the altar before Acton could stop him.
“I surrender!”
The man aimed his weapon at him, training the light on his face. “Where’s the professor?”
Robbie gulped. “H-he’s not here. He left for Lima when he heard you coming.”
“Bullshit!” was the barked reply. “All of the vehicles are accounted for. Where is he?”
Robbie held his hands up in front of him, trying to shield his eyes from the light as Acton desperately tried to think of some way to rescue his foolish but brave pupil.
“He didn’t take a Jeep, he took one of the horses!” he cried as the man pointed the gun to his head and Robbie fell to his knees.
There was a pause, then the cold reply. “You don’t have any horses.” Another pause then a sharp report of a single shot roared through the confined space. Robbie crumpled to the floor, his head hitting the ground, facing Acton, the tactical light shining on his head revealing his still open eyes as they stared at his professor, his protector, blood trickling from the head wound.
Rage surged through Acton. Knowing he was going to die, he gripped the pickaxe tightly and came out from behind the altar with a roar. He swung the axe high around as he did, and before his target could react the axe had buried itself deep in his thigh. The man screamed out in pain and collapsed. Acton used his foot to push him away from the blade so he could remove it for another swing. He swung again, this time at the man’s head, but as he did his opponent turned to avoid the blow, the axe instead broadsided him, knocking him out cold, leaving a panting Acton straddling his opponent’s body.
“Mickey!”
Acton jerked his head toward the voice. Someone else was running toward the chamber. Grabbing the now prone man’s weapon, he ran to the entrance of the room. As soon as he saw the man’s partner he opened fire, hitting him in the stomach. He went down immediately. There’ll be more. He knew death awaited him if he tried to leave the cave so he made a split-second decision.
He snatched two grenades off the belt of the unconscious man and ran to the entrance of the chamber. Lights were moving at the mouth of the cave now. Pulling the pins, he threw them toward the entrance then ran back behind the altar and waited.
The resulting explosion rocked the room. Acton had covered his ears, but hadn’t been prepared for the volume resulting from the confined space. He was disoriented momentarily then slowly regained his bearings, struggling to his feet. He stumbled back to the entrance and looked down the shaft. It was completely blocked, the cave having collapsed. He was safe.
Until the oxygen runs out.
Dawson heard the explosion and spun around in time to see a puff of debris spew out of the cave entrance. He must be in there. He activated his comm as he redirected the rest of his team to the cave.
“Control, Bravo One, come in, over.”
“Bravo One, Control here, go ahead, over.”
“Control, we believe the subject is either terminated or trapped inside a cave. It will take some time to clear through the debris to confirm. We have two men missing, presumed on the other side of the debris. Request permission to begin rescue operation, over.”
“Negative, Bravo One. A supply truck is due at the camp in an hour and we can’t risk you being seen by the locals. The package will be safe in the cave if the professor does indeed have it with him. Once the area is clear again we will send in a properly equipped team, over.”
Dawson was about to object when another voice cut in over the comm.
“To hell with the locals!”
Dawson recognized it as Control Actual, the real man behind the mission, the other voice merely somebody in an ops center. This was the man who had ordered the deaths of the terrorists now at his feet, several more awaiting their fate. The calmer voice responded.
“Sir, with all due respect, if our guys are caught there it could create an international incident. Right now they will execute their orders and make it look like a rebel raid. Nothing will point back to us.”
There was a pause as Dawson kept his expression free of the shock he was feeling. To hear this type of argument over the comm was almost unheard of. It was clear to him that Control Actual was obviously not in the same room as the Ops people, and also had no experience in proper comm procedure.
“Bravo One, Control Actual. Execute the terrorists then return to base, over.”
“Roger that, Control, Bravo One out.”
As he turned to fulfill his final orders, Control Actual’s voice erupted from his earpiece as if the man were whispering heavily into the mike. “All these years of searching. We’re closer than we’ve ever been, and now we’re stopped by a supply truck?”
Dawson turned his back to the prisoners, his eyes narrowing. “Control, Bravo One. I didn’t copy that, over?”
“Shit!” was the response. “Disregard that, just follow your orders. Control, out.”
There’s definitely something I’m not being told.
He turned back to the prisoners, their eyes looking up at him, pleading. He shoved the emotions aside, the heart shouting at him to not follow through, but he knew his disciplined mind would win out. It always did. The orders were legal, the Termination List valid, the targets on it, these innocent looking students actually domestic terrorists training to kill his—and their—fellow Americans.
He quickly placed a single bullet in the heads of the remaining prisoners and radioed his men to rendezvous at the rally point for pick up. Red ran up to him and came to a stop, staring at the crumpled bodies. Dawson looked his old friend in the eyes. “Control gave the orders. They were all on the list.”
Red nodded, saying nothing, the look on his friend’s face mirroring the confusion swirling through his own mind.
These kids didn’t seem like enemy combatants.
The team, less Niner and Jimmy still on station, and Mickey and Spaz still trapped in the cave, boarded the chopper in silence. Minutes later the sniper team was retrieved and they were racing toward the coast and their ship sitting in international waters. Nobody was speaking, nobody was making eye contact with anyone else. Dawson knew they were all disturbed by what had happened, but also about leaving their comrades behind.
“There’s a civilian supply truck arriving in less than an hour so we were ordered out,” he said to the group, none privy to his conversation with Control. “We’ll be heading back with the proper equipment as soon as the area is clear. We’ll dig them out and get them home in no time.”
His words were meant to be reassuring, but he knew that Mickey and Spaz were only part of what wa
s troubling the men. It was the same thing troubling him. The kids? Terrorists? Students? He didn’t know what to call them. All he knew was they hadn’t acted like terrorists; they had acted like scared, innocent children.
But Control had said they were on the Termination List, so he had followed his orders. There was no reason to not do so, and with the explosion in the cave and loss of communication with two of his men, it certainly suggested somebody was willing to fight back.
Perhaps Professor Acton was the only real terrorist?
It pissed him off that the bastard responsible for all these young deaths was probably the only one to survive their assault.
If I ever get my hands on you, you’re dead.
Andes Mountains, Peru
Acton aimed the tactical light on the liberated weapon around the chamber, settling on one of the portable battery-powered floodlights that had been used earlier when exploring. Flipping the power switch, the chamber flooded with light, momentarily blinding him. Blinking rapidly, his eyes slowly adjusted then he checked to see if the soldier was still unconscious before stripping him of his weapons and communications gear. He bound the man’s hands and feet with plastic ties he found in the soldier’s utility belt, then inspected the leg wound, beginning to treat it with the man’s med kit.
As he tore open the man’s pants to gain access to the wound, he had mixed feelings. He had heard shots before he collapsed the cave, and he knew his students were most likely dead. This man had killed Robbie in cold blood—unarmed, surrendering.
Why? All because of that stupid skull?
But the man, clearly a soldier, had asked for him.
“Where’s the professor?”
If they were truly after the sculpture, wouldn’t he have asked, “Where’s the skull?” or “Where is it?”
No, for some reason they were after him. But that made no sense. He wasn’t special, wasn’t worth any money to ransom, and had been here for weeks. It was no coincidence these soldiers had arrived after the skull had been found.
But why? Why kill kids over a crystal sculpture?
The Protocol (A James Acton Thriller, Book #1) Page 5