He poured some iodine over the wound, causing his patient to come to suddenly. The man began to struggle against his bonds and Acton pushed the man’s chest into the floor. “Take it easy, you’ve got quite the hole in your leg and a nasty gash on your head as well.”
“What happened?” asked the man, still confused as to the situation.
“I sealed the cave. Your friends are going to take a long time to get to you, Mickey is it?” He looked at the man’s ears. Must be. “Who are you and why are you here?” He was answered by a glare. “Not going to talk, eh? So be it.” He applied a pressure bandage to the leg wound then poured some more iodine on the head wound. Dressing it he decided against giving the man some pain killers. Let him suffer.
Finished, he searched for markings on the uniform. Nothing. He picked up the sidearm and removed the magazine. Fully loaded. Reinserting the mag, he cocked the weapon and pointed it at Mickey’s head. “Ready to talk now?”
Mickey remained silent.
“I’m not afraid to use this, and, yes, I know how. I was in the National Guard when I was younger, learned how to fire all kinds of neat toys.” He looked down at his prisoner. “No, you black ops boys don’t talk. Too bad.” He raised the gun and brought the butt down on Mickey’s head hard enough to knock him out cold again.
Now to find a way out of here.
He returned to the cave entrance and inspected the debris. It would take him hours to dig through, and he didn’t know what was on the other side. Time to Indiana Jones it. He picked the axe up off the floor and tore the sleeve off his shirt, wrapping it around the pick. Next he took a lighter from the soldier’s utility belt, lit the shirt and held it out in front of him. No fuel so it won’t last long. He went to the far end of the chamber and held the torch up to the wall. Carefully watching the flame for any movements from wind, he slowly made his way across the wall. Nothing. He came back along the bottom of the wall and halfway across the flame suddenly started to whip and crackle as it changed direction. He knew the only thing that could cause that was air blowing from somewhere under the floor.
He moved the torch along farther and it returned to normal. Sweeping the flame slowly around the stone seams, he didn’t see anything. Looking down at the floor, he saw a crack. He moved the flame over it and the flame sputtered again. Then it went out. Dammit! He reached into his belt and pulled out his flashlight. Turning it on, he shone it down at the crack. It must be another hollowed out floor section!
He ran back into the other chamber and grabbed the pry bar that had been used to remove the stone tile earlier in the day. Jamming it into the groove in the floor, he leaned on top of it. It took almost all of his weight to get it to lift, but once it did he was able to work the pry bar farther under the stone. He then knelt down on the bar. The stone rose up and he swung it out of place with his hands. Sweating, he collapsed backward on the floor, panting.
Shining the flashlight into the hole, he stuck his head in. Definitely not a hiding place. This is a tunnel! He took the pry bar, retrieved the case containing the skull and checked one last time on his prisoner. He’ll survive. Bastard. He then lowered himself into the tunnel, pulling the cover stone back in place should anyone decide to follow.
The tunnel was dank, dark, and grown over with centuries of roots. Lined with the same tiles as the chambers, some had collapsed in, forcing him to dig and tear his way through, pushing forward with the flashlight shoved out in front of him several feet at a time. After what felt like well over an hour, he came to a completely collapsed in section and paused.
What the hell do I do now?
He looked back and could see nothing, his entrance sealed, blocking any light, then looked forward again. He knew if the tunnel continued past the collapsed portion, then the tiles might just continue a foot or two beyond the blockage. And if the tunnel were to end, then it should end in another chamber, or perhaps even outside.
He shoved the pry bar through the damp soil and heard a noise that had him freeze. Cocking his ear, he tried to place the sound, but couldn’t. He pulled the pry bar out and for a split second he could have sworn he saw a shaft of light. He turned off his flashlight, drowning him in the pitch black of his potential tomb, then thrust the pry bar through again. He quickly pulled it out, his eye near the hole, and a grin spread across his face as indeed sunlight was momentarily visible until the soil collapsed in again.
He turned the flashlight back on and began to dig at the dirt, pushing it to his sides as he inched forward, pulling the case with the skull on one side, the flashlight and pry bar on the other. Reaching forward with his hands, he pulled fistfuls of dirt and roots, there no evidence of tiles here to support the narrow passage. Finally he broke through with his right hand, the immediate sensation of fresh cool mountain air on his damp, dirt covered hand was instantly recognizable.
With his heart pounding in excitement and exhaustion, he rapidly clawed the final two feet, shoving the case out the hole, then pushing his head out into the sunlight. His ears filled with the sounds of nature so devoid in his confined space, the only other sounds that of the rocks and dirt tumbling down the side of the hill toward the camp below. He froze, realizing their attackers might still be nearby. Scanning the area, he saw no movement, so pulled himself forward the final few feet. The slope was loose and with a yelp he spilled down the steep grade, head over feet, finally sliding the final dozen feet on his back, feet first.
He froze, knowing full well anyone within several hundred feet would have heard his descent. A slight breeze swept across the camp, gently swaying the low brush, the only sounds the chirping of the birds and the flapping of the canvas on the tents. If their attackers were here, they were hidden and quiet.
Dusting himself off, he made his way into the eerily silent camp. The bodies of five of his grad students lay in the center of the camp along with Garcia. Each had a bullet in the head. His chest tightened and the muscles in his body slackened, his hands dropping the forgotten case and pry bar.
My God, what have I done?
He collapsed to his knees and sobbed, covering his face, then grabbing the back of his head as he doubled over, fighting the urge to vomit. This was his fault, of that there was no doubt. His Dean and best friend, Gregory Milton, had told him it was too dangerous an area, but Acton had convinced him he was wrong, that the area was too remote for there to be trouble. Milton had given in as he usually did, not out of weakness, but out of trust for his friend.
This time Milton had been right.
I was too pigheaded to listen! I should never have brought them here!
The gnashing of gears and the roar of a diesel engine caused Acton to leap to his feet and run for cover. He looked to the far end of the camp and watched the supply lorry lumber around the bend of the only road that led to civilization. When the driver came into sight he honked his horn several times and waved out of the window as he did twice a week.
Acton emerged from behind the cabin and ran to the body of his oldest grad student, Jason. He pulled his wallet out of his pants, grabbed the case with the skull, then ran to the truck as it pulled to a stop.
“Good morning, Professor,” hailed the driver, opening his door. “Sorry I am late.”
“Don’t get out!” yelled Acton as he ran to the truck. The driver stopped halfway out of the cab as Acton rounded the truck and jumped in the other side. “Let’s go, now!”
“Si, señor,” said the confused driver as he returned to his seat and closed the door, putting the still running truck back into gear. “What is wrong, Professor?”
“They’re all dead,” muttered Acton. “They killed them all.”
“Who?” The driver’s face clouded in fear as his gaze darted to his rearview mirror to see if they were being followed.
“I don’t know. Rebels probably,” lied Acton. He knew damned well who had done it.
But why would my own government kill for an ancient artifact?
Mickey had propped himself
up against the altar when he came to. The batteries powering the floodlights were failing, the light gradually dimming as the hours passed. The sharp pain in his leg had eased to a dull throb. Now he had no feeling at all. The bleeding appeared to have stopped thanks to the professor. Every fifteen minutes he tried his radio again, to no avail. The hole in the floor the professor had used to escape was only ten feet away, the tile slightly out of alignment, but he was too weak to make the attempt. He knew his team wouldn’t leave him behind; it would just be a matter of time before they came for him.
In the meantime, he had plenty of time to think. At first it had been spent looking at his surroundings, trying to figure out if he could go out the same way the professor had appeared to. The fact he hadn’t returned suggested he had escaped successfully. He was of mixed feelings on the matter. If it wasn’t for the professor having attacked him, he wouldn’t be where he was. However if it wasn’t for the professor, he’d be dead now. The professor had treated his wound quite expertly, which was probably what had stopped the bleeding. The guys will pick him up outside.
For the first few hours he had stared at the corpse of the professor’s partner. The eyes were still opened, and from his position against the altar, they looked like they were staring at him. He had finally tired of this at one point and struggled over to where the body lay and closed the eyes. This effort had exhausted him and he had been forced to lie beside the body for some time while he caught his breath. This was just a kid.
He realized that didn’t mean much nowadays. Kids were just as likely to be terrorists, and this kid wasn’t much younger than he was. And if the professor was such a bad guy, why had he bothered with saving the life of his supposed enemy? Something wasn’t ringing true here. When he was in the camp, the only weapons he saw were on the two guards that Niner had taken out, and they looked like local hires. Shouldn’t the students have been armed? Shouldn’t they have at least had weapons in their tents? And why when they exited the helicopter had they been jumping through what looked like some sort of archeological dig site?
If this was a terrorist training camp, it was the worst equipped one he had ever seen.
But if these weren’t terrorists, then why were they on the Termination List? That list was one of the most carefully vetted lists the country had. It was one of the few that actually authorized agents of the government to kill on sight, no questions asked.
And he had been on missions where they had indeed done just that.
And they had all left him with a feeling of satisfaction.
But not this time.
This time something wasn’t right, and during the hours of waiting, a pit formed in his stomach as he became convinced they had made a terrible mistake.
His comm crackled. He squawked his comm three times and waited. He heard three squawks come back at him. They’re close! About ten minutes later he heard the scraping of shovels at the cave entrance.
“Anybody in there?”
“Just me!” he tried to yell, only now realizing how parched he was.
“Identify yourself!” commanded the voice.
He tried to reply but couldn’t. A few minutes later, somebody broke through and entered the chamber. He didn’t have his weapon, the professor had taken it or hidden it somewhere. A flashlight shone in his face and he squinted to see who was behind it. A moment later Red grabbed his shoulder.
“Good to see you, man. We thought you were a goner!” He held a canteen up to Mickey’s lips. He drank as much as he could without coughing. When he had enough he pushed the canteen away.
“Spaz?”
Red shook his head. “Dead. We found his body under the rubble. He was shot.” Red cut his bindings then helped him up, slinging Mickey’s arm over his shoulders. “The target?”
“Not here, he escaped out that tunnel hours ago,” Mickey said, pointing to the shifted tile. “You didn’t get him?”
“No. But we will.”
Mickey nodded, his previous doubts forgotten as he thought of his friend Spaz, dead.
You will be avenged, my friend.
St. Paul’s University, Maryland
Gregory Milton’s pen tapped on his desk rapidly as his mind raced. He had been Dean of St. Paul’s University for four years and though he enjoyed his job, what he was working on now was one of the lesser enjoyable aspects of the job. As he sat in his high-back leather chair, his head against the sumptuous leather, he stared at the oak beam casings in the ceiling, his mind sifting through endless permutations on how to start yet another speech at an alumni dinner without it sounding like all the others.
I hate speeches.
It wasn’t that he was scared to talk to a group of people, it was simply that he found it a waste of time. Any information he could convey could also be done in an email, saving untold dollars hosting people just to try and get even more dollars out of their wallets.
But alumni, with checkbooks, expected to be wined and dined and made to feel important. Which unfortunately they were. Without the alumni, their small university would be far more humble than it already was.
So he soldiered on, trying to pick a clean joke from his head, his preferred rude jokes came out instead. They’ll kick me out of the state for some of those. He pulled at his thinning hair in frustration when he jumped at the buzzing of the intercom.
“Yes, Rita?”
“Two men here to see you, sir.”
“Send them in.” More damned alumni. Time to kiss some ass.
He rose to his feet as his two guests entered. He covered his surprise with a smile. Both were clearly government. Dark suits, ties, shoes and glasses. Suits and shoes too cheap to be alumni. He offered his hand.
“Hello, gentlemen, I’m Dean Milton. Call me Greg.” The first agent shook his hand, the other hung back at the door.
“Dean Milton, I’m Special Agent Jasper and this is Agent Lambert,” said the first agent. “We’re from the State Department.”
“State Department?” Milton motioned toward the chairs in front of his desk as he felt his chest tighten. State Department meant something foreign. Which meant something must have happened to one of his students while out of the country. Jim? His mind was racing to conclusions without any facts. Stay calm!. “To what do I owe this honor?” he managed, keeping his voice steady.
“It’s about the archeological team you have in Peru,” said Jasper as he sat down. “I’m afraid there’s been an incident.”
“Incident?” Milton froze behind his desk, hovering over his chair, his fingers spread across the blotting pad there more for decoration or the occasional scratch pad for numbers rather than its original purpose. Incident. Not accident. His stomach churned and his mouth began to fill with bile. He swallowed. “Are they okay?”
Jasper took a deep breath. “I’m afraid not, sir, they’re all dead.”
“They’re dead?” Milton collapsed into his chair, his mind reeling at the news as flashes of his best friend and their years together consumed him, and the few but recent memories of the excited students he took with him on the expedition—an expedition he had said was too dangerous to go on. Oh Jim! Why did I let you convince me! He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “All of them? How? How did it happen? When? Who did it?”
“It appears that there was a rebel attack on the camp. There were no survivors however Professor James Acton is missing. Have you heard from him?”
“They’re all dead?” Milton shook his head, trying to come to grips with what he had just heard. “All of them?”
“Except the professor, sir. Have you heard from him?”
Milton took a moment to compose himself as the Agent’s words echoed through his head. His students were dead. His best friend was missing, and probably dead as well. No, the agent hadn’t said that last part, but that interpretation of events was all he could think of. Jim! His eyes glassed over and he removed a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing them dry. He sucked in a deep breath and nodded
. “Yes, just last week, his regular weekly check in. He sent me a Blackberry message from Lima once a week. It was cheaper than a phone call. There was no service where their dig was so he drove into the city once a week. The expedition was on a shoe-string budget so there was no money for a satellite phone.”
“Did he mention anything unusual in his last message?” asked Jasper.
“No, he said the dig was going well and that there were some interesting finds, ancient Incan I believe.”
“Anything in particular?”
“No, nothing.” Milton’s blood pressure was rising as his frustration level reached critical. What’s with all the damned questions? “What does any of this have to do with their deaths? I thought you said rebels did this?”
“Just routine questions, sir. Perhaps if the rebels had thought they had found something of value it may explain why they raided the camp. As it is, they took all the supplies and vehicles, but not before killing everyone.”
Milton placed his forehead in the palm of his hand and massaged his temples. “The families. Have they been notified?”
“Not yet, sir. We can take care of the notifications for you,” replied Jasper.
Milton shook his head, a lump unlike anything he had ever felt before pushing up his throat at the thought of what was to come over the next hours. “No. They were all students here, it should fall on me. The bodies?”
“They’ll be arriving in Houston this afternoon. We’ll coordinate with the families to have the bodies sent to the appropriate locations.” Jasper rose from his seat. “Here’s my card, sir. If you hear from Professor Acton please contact us immediately.”
“Yes, yes I will.” Milton shook his head in disbelief. Jasper placed the card on his desk, then he and his partner left. Milton pushed the button on the intercom.
“Yes, sir?”
“No calls, and cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day.”
“Yes, sir. What reason shall I give?”
“J-just do it, Rita!” cried Milton as he turned off the intercom, his head hitting the blotter as tears burst forward, creating tiny puddles on the paper while his shoulders heaved. He pushed his head up from the desk and looked at the two photos he kept on the corner. One, he with his wife and daughter, the second with his best friend of almost twenty years, arms around each other’s shoulders as they crossed the finish line of the New York Marathon years ago. As the memories of that day flooded out today’s nightmare, he half cried, half laughed, as he remembered Acton coming back for him and helping him the last few miles, he having grossly overestimated his own fitness level.
The Protocol (A James Acton Thriller, Book #1) Page 6