THE BERMUDA CONNECTION
by
Robert Rapoza
Copyright © Robert Rapoza 2017
Cover Copyright © Ravenswood Publishing 2017
Published by Devil’s Tower
(An Imprint of Ravenswood Publishing)
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher and/or author.
Ravenswood Publishing
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Autryville, NC 28318
http://www.ravenswoodpublishing.com
Email: [email protected]
Paperback orders can be made through Createspace
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Printed in the United States of American
Second Edition
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN-13: 978-1975970741
ISBN-10: 1975970748
Thank you Jim, Jill and Laurie for being early supporters of my work and for your thoughtful input and edits, which transformed a rough draft into a polished work of fiction.
Chapter One
Hamilton, Bermuda
August 17, 2017
Jamie Edmunds knew something wasn’t right. The sensation of a million microscopic feet traversing her skin was an omen of something terrible about to happen.
She lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling of her second story apartment. The sound of her heart beating in her chest echoed through her mind like a jackhammer. The darkness of her room interrupted only by the bright glow from her bedside alarm clock. She stole a glance. 3:02 a.m. The coming day would be hell.
She brushed her long brown hair behind her ears and rolled onto her side, hoping a new sleeping position would help. It didn’t. Everyone she knew was asleep at this late hour. Except her. She was completely alone. Isolated in her bedroom away from the rest of the world.
She forced her eyes closed, and laid there in her nightshirt, willing herself to sleep. Her body shivered and she pulled the flower-patterned sheets and blanket up to her chin. But it wasn’t the cold causing her body to tremble. It was fear. Memories came flooding back of past nights when she couldn’t sleep and she remembered what happened next. Dread washed over Jamie like a wave smothering her in darkness.
The trembling grew worse. Her breathing fast and shallow.
There’s something in my room.
The words popped into Jamie’s mind. She tried to dismiss the thought as an overactive imagination.
I’m alone in my bedroom, I’m alone in my bedroom.
No matter how many times she repeated it, the words rang empty. The sense that someone, or something, was nearby overwhelmed her. She didn’t want to look, but had to know. She tilted her head to the side and saw … nothing. Her eyes drooped shut and she breathed a sigh of relief.
A soft clicking noise rose from the corner. Jamie’s eyes popped open. Her body went rigid as terror ripped through her. Sheets of perspiration trickled down her face and chest, her nightshirt clinging to her wet body. She slowly turned her head toward the sound. A figure lurked by her dresser, masked by the darkness that enveloped the room. It moved slowly, as if studying her from a distance. She sobbed.
No, please. Not again!
More movement, this time steady, calculated. The being moved from the shadows until it stood over her, its translucent skin gleaming in the moonlight. It peered at her with cold, dead eyes. She tried to scream, but couldn’t. The being controlled her now, her body under its influence. It moved closer, its bald, mouthless head tilted to one side as it examined her.
It drew back the sheets in a slow, mechanical fashion, exposing her nightshirt-clad body. It reached for her with long, slender, fingers. She wanted to cry, but tears wouldn’t come. The creature wouldn’t allow them. The fingers inched menacingly closer to her.
Nick Randall sat upright in his bed, torrents of sweat cascading down his body. Disoriented, he grabbed the bat he kept propped against the wall, his trembling hands bumping the nightstand. The bedside light nearly crashed to the ground, wobbling before settling again. He gripped the bat tightly, and scanned the room, ready to strike the creature.
He looked toward the corner where he had first seen it. Nothing there. His eyes darted around, adrenaline coursing through his body. He twitched at every sound that reached his ears. Slowly, sanity returned and he realized it had only been a nightmare. He set the bat across his lap.
Why do I keep having this dream and why am I always the same woman?
His pulse quickened at the thought of being alone in the apartment with the creature. In the dream, he had felt completely powerless and isolated, unable to keep the being at bay. He shivered at the thought of being violated by it. A mixture of despair and anger welled inside of him as he balled his fists.
He glanced at the clock: 3:05 a.m. He fell backward onto his bed, gulping large breaths. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it would rip free of him. There would be no more sleeping tonight. Fear would keep him from returning to the land of dreams.
Randall thought back to when these episodes had begun. The nightmares had started a couple of weeks after his trip to the jungles of Peru, searching for the lost city of Vilcabamba. The odd physical attributes of the tribe that led him to the ruins—enlarged heads with bulging eyes—was a minor footnote compared to the discovery of Vilcabamba … and its otherworldly inhabitants.
The discovery of the lost city had changed the way he viewed archaeology. Sadly, the eruption of El Misti, the volcano that powered Vilcabamba, had destroyed any proof of his discovery, and brought the entire episode to an end. Or so he had thought. The experience was now influencing his dreams.
Can this really be happening?
Randall shook his head, telling himself they were only nightmares. He sat on the edge of his king-size bed and glanced at the side where his wife Ann used to sleep. He wished she was with him, by his side, her warmth comforting him. His fear was suddenly replaced with deep sadness and longing. He turned to face the window and dropped his head into his hands.
What the hell is happening to me? Am I losing it?
He forced himself to his feet, feeling the hard wood floor beneath him. Shivering, he slid on his lamb-wool slippers and reached for his robe. He didn’t dare look at the thermometer; he knew that it wasn’t the temperature causing him to tremble.
He stumbled over to his desk, plopped down in his black leather chair, and flicked on his desk lamp. The sudden brightness caused him to wince. He sat motionless while his eyes adjusted, unsure of what to do next. Pressing the power button of his computer, he heard the hard drive whine to life. Research. That was the solution to his problem. He needed to learn why he was having these terrible dreams, and also needed coffee. Lots of it.
Chapter Two
Dr. Jacob Taylor swiped the hijacked keycard through the reader. The red denied button glowed.
Just relax and do it again. Smoothly this time.
He wiped the sweat from his temple with the back of his hand and took a deep breath. This time the green access button lit and the electronic lock popped open, allowing him access to his company’s restricted archives. He grimaced at the sound of the lock disengaging. It might as wel
l have been a gunshot. He glanced over his shoulder. No one there.
He didn’t have clearance to be in this section of the archives. If he was caught here, he’d never see the light day again, but he needed to know what his company was planning to do with his research. He and his research partner, John Randall, had worked too hard and for too long to be shut out now.
The problems had started months ago. First, there were unannounced visits by military personnel to their lab at Alpha Genetics. They had questioned Jacob and John about the memory blocking serum they were creating. Then came the unexplained removal of clearance to certain areas within the lab. Finally, they lost oversight of their research, the supervising scientist, Dr. Monroe, assuming full control over the project.
It had become clear to Jacob that the company had plans for their serum, but those plans didn’t include him. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to find out why he had been blackballed and what role the military had played in these developments.
The company had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to maintain secrecy, installing multiple layers of security to protect this information. As a result, Jacob had been forced to liberate Dr. Monroe’s security badge to access the archives.
He had chosen the evening shift, hoping that whoever monitored the security cameras was either dozing off, or simply didn’t realize who was allowed there. From his brief encounters with the muscle-headed security guards, they considered each scientist to be just another lab coat. As long as he didn’t look directly into the cameras, there was an excellent chance, no one would be able to identify him. He hoped.
He skulked over to the main workstation, taking a seat in front of the monitor. He slid Dr. Monroe’s badge into the computer’s card reader. The monitor blinked to life, a single green box on the screen asking for a password.
A creaking sound came from the door. Jacob popped up from the seat, and dove behind the desk, which partially shielded him from view. He held his breath, pressing his body against the metal file drawers to minimize his exposed profile.
He waited. Nothing.
Slowly, he slid along the side of the desk and peeked around the corner toward the door. No one was there. His body fell slack, his head pounding with each heartbeat.
He returned to the monitor and typed Dr. Monroe’s password into the system. He had attained it from Julie, one of the technicians, telling her he was in hot water with Monroe. He had lied, saying he couldn’t find a file on his computer and needed to pull it from the lead researcher’s system. At first, she had been hesitant, so Jacob had turned on the charm. The rumor had been that Julie had a thing for Jacob. The rumor had been true. A combination of Monroe’s legendary temper and Jacob’s good looks had done the trick.
She had even told Jacob about Monroe’s secondary password, explaining that the security system employed a dual layer of encryption.
Jacob hit enter and a message blinked on the screen.
Password does not match profile. Security protocol engaged.
To his horror, a timer appeared on the monitor. It was counting down from fifteen seconds.
What did I do?
His mind went blank.
The timer counted down, 14, 13, 12…
Jacob pulled a strip of paper from his pocket, re-reading the password. It matched what he had entered.
10, 9, 8…
He stared at the paper, then the screen.
It’s case sensitive!
Jacob re-typed the password, one button at a time.
5, 4, 3…
He hit enter. The timer froze at 2.
He nearly cried when the screen blinked, granting him access to the archives.
I’m such a dumbass!
He scanned the folders on the hard drive, finally finding the encrypted file for his research.
He clicked on it.
Another password request.
He carefully typed Monroe’s secondary password, this time making certain he made no errors.
I hope this is right.
He said a silent prayer and hit enter.
The system went quiet, a string of repeating dots filling the center of the screen.
Oh crap, what now?
The file popped open, revealing multiple documents.
Jacob searched the list of files, carefully choosing which to open and read. After twenty panic filled minutes of reviewing documents—his heart stopped each time he heard a sound—he found what he was looking for.
Jacob pulled a flash drive from his coat pocket and inserted it into the USB port, copying the files he wanted. Finished, he unplugged the drive and stashed it back into his pocket. Next, he removed Monroe’s card from the computer.
I’ve got to get the hell out of here!
He crept toward the door. His footsteps sounded like thunderclaps.
Jesus, someone’s going to hear me!
He pressed his ear to the door, straining to hear if there was noise on the other side. The only sound was his deep and shallow breathing. He cracked open the door and looked through.
All clear.
He pushed it open, wincing as it creaked on its hinges. Finally satisfied that no one was in the hallway, he slid out of the archives.
Both terrified and exhilarated, Jacob allowed his imagination to run wild knowing that what he had done here today was worthy of a Robert Ludlum novel. But he wasn’t home free yet. He still needed to escape the building and get somewhere safe to read the contents of the flash drive. He took the stairs down to the parking level, occasionally glancing upward to make sure he wasn’t being followed.
Finally reaching level P4, he paused, placing his hand on the metal handle. It was icy in his grip, his fear amplifying every sensation. He pushed the door open and strode into the garage, trying his best to appear natural.
Jacob walked briskly through the gray concrete parking structure, the sound of his footfalls the only thing to keep him company.
Just a little farther and I’m home free.
He reached into his pocket and fumbled his keys, nearly dropping them. His hands shook violently, his legs like jelly. It was hard to walk, but he willed himself forward.
“Working late today, Dr. Taylor?”
Jacob froze a moment, then spun on his heel to face the voice that had addressed him. Three men in suits stood there, the one in the middle wearing a sickening grin. He was flanked by two larger men. They were armed.
“Um, yes … just wrapping up a project,” Jacob’s voice cracked.
“I believe you have something that doesn’t belong to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Either way, you’re not leaving with that drive.”
“Wait, I can explain…”
Chapter Three
Randall walked along M Street in Georgetown, past the small shops that resembled small cottages more than businesses. Crowds strolled by him, enjoying a quick bite to eat or a sweet treat at one of the many small food shops that lined the popular avenue. Lost in thought, he barely noticed them. Having just played twenty questions with his old friend Peter over lunch, he shook his head and sighed. His friend, noting the bags under his eyes, had tried to pry an explanation for his ragged condition. Randall had simply shrugged it off, saying it was just a bad night’s sleep and nothing more. He shuffled slowly down the street like an old man one step removed from using a walker. Normally full of energy, Randall felt exceptionally old, the lack of sleep sapping him of his strength.
His phone rang. It was Peter.
“Yeah Pete.”
“Nick, you gotta tell me what’s wrong.”
“Like I said, just a couple bad nights’ sleep.”
“Save that shit for someone else.”
“Pete, I’m telling you, I’m fine. Just insomnia.”
“Look, if you won’t tell me, then I’ll just have to call John.”
Randall frowned. The last thing he wanted was his son worrying about him. �
�That’s not necessary.”
“Then tell me what’s going on!”
His mind in a fog, Randall didn’t notice the sound of an engine roaring to full power. He continued walking, then heard a commotion on the sidewalk behind him. He spun around. A black Cadillac Escalade had hopped the curb and was bearing down on him. Pedestrians jumped off the sidewalk and into the doors of local businesses to avoid being crushed. The driver steered the vehicle directly at Randall.
Shit! “Pete, I have to go.” He clicked his phone off and started running, straining to stay ahead of the charging SUV. The vehicle ran over vendor signs, sending shards of metal, glass, and wood raining down on the sidewalk. Randall looked ahead for any sort of shelter. He saw entryways into shops. No good. If he went into one, whoever was trying to kill him would get out of the car and follow him in. There was only one option. Run.
The Cadillac continued to plow over everything in its way. It was gaining on him. Randall’s mind raced wildly. He glanced over his shoulder, the huge vehicle looming ever closer. Its grille and headlights looked like the evil grin of some maniacal beast, smirking at Randall’s impending doom. Randall cursed at the sight, barely able to make a sound as he raced along breathlessly, slowing as his oxygen-depleted body could no longer maintain a dead sprint.
He could feel the heat of the engine now, the vehicle mere feet away. At the last possible moment, he spotted an alley and, buoyed by a potential escape route, found a sudden burst of energy. He rounded the corner just as the Escalade flew by, scraping the brick façade, generating a shower of sparks.
Randall doubled over, feeling like his lunch was about to join him in the alley. He tried desperately to catch his breath. The gunning of the engine grew louder again. In an exhausted stupor, Randall looked to the far end of the alley. He was horrified to see the dark SUV round the corner, once again bearing down on him, its driver hell-bent on making Randall a bloody hood ornament. His eyes darted around the alley, desperately searching for an escape.
The Bermuda Connection (A Nick Randall Novel Book 2) Page 1