by David Meyer
Two thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars.
Kolen felt sick to his stomach. He was violating his principles, selling his soul for two thousand measly dollars. But he didn’t have a choice. He needed money to pay off his gambling debts. Either he did the job or he’d lose his life. It was that simple.
That complicated.
Adopting a quick pace, Kolen strode through the tunnel. After a few moments, Adcock fell in behind him. Together, they walked through a couple of maintenance tunnels before finally arriving at the IRT Lexington Avenue Line.
The four-track line stretched from 125th Street in Harlem to downtown Brooklyn. It served more passengers than any other subway line in the United States. In fact, it served more passengers on a daily basis than both Boston’s and San Francisco’s rapid transit systems put together.
Adcock reached into his pocket and removed a wadded up piece of paper. Unfolding it, he stuck it against the closest wall. “We’re here.” He jabbed a finger at the paper. “And we’re going here.”
Kolen watched Adcock’s finger trace a winding path that encompassed Grand Central Terminal, Union Square, and Penn Station. “How many miles is that?”
“How should I know?”
“Guess.”
Adcock folded up the map and placed it back into his pocket. “We’re covering a couple of lines here so maybe ten to fifteen miles. Of course, that doesn’t include non-revenue tracks.”
“That’s a lot of walking.”
He smirked. “Are you giving up already?”
“No, I’m just saying that we’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”
“It could be much larger you know. There’s about six hundred and sixty miles of passenger tracks under New York. Adding in non-revenue tracks, that number rises to eight hundred and forty.”
“What’s our strategy for staying safe down here?”
Adcock shrugged. “I wouldn’t touch the third rail if I were you. Other than that, we should be fine. Whoever’s pulling the strings on this little operation managed to temporarily shut down service in this area. So, we won’t have to worry about running into any trains.”
Kolen followed Adcock into the tunnel. They walked south for a short while and eventually reached the 42nd Street station. Two girls, young and drunk, milled about the area in their skimpiest clothes, waiting for the next train. When they saw Kolen and Adcock, their jaws dropped open. Kolen felt like telling them that they had a long wait ahead of them. But instead, he kept his mouth shut.
As he entered the next section of tunnel, Kolen felt a pebble work its way into his boot. “Hold up. I need a second.”
Adcock sighed loudly but pulled to a stop. Then he began to look around, studying the walls with his light.
Kolen knelt down and untied his laces. “You know, this job would be a lot easier if there were video cameras down here.”
“There are cameras down here. They just don’t work very well.”
“Sounds useful.”
Adcock shrugged. “Your taxpayer dollars at work.”
“I’m surprised Jack Chase hasn’t tried to modernize it. He’s got the dough.”
“He’s not going to spend his own money fixing up a public system. And besides, he’s just the acting MTA Chairman. He won’t be around forever.”
“How does one become an acting Chairman anyway?”
“In his case, someone had to die.”
“Forget I asked.”
Adcock clucked impatiently. “Are you almost done?”
“Just a second.”
“We’re on a pretty tight time schedule. If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to go on ahead.”
“Fine.”
Adcock started to walk south, the light from his headlamp diminishing with each step. Soon he was nothing more than a speck in the eerie darkness. As Kolen watched him leave, he continued to wrestle with his feelings. He wasn’t sure what he disliked more…Adcock or the assignment.
Two thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars.
Kolen’s hand shook as he took off his boot. He tried to ignore them, but his instincts told him that something was wrong. Shoving the thought from his mind, he removed the pebble, stuck the boot back on his foot, and retied it. Then he focused his eyes on the dim light cast by Adcock’s headlamp and began walking again.
He shuffled forward for a block and then another one. Gradually, his mind shifted to other things…the leftovers waiting for him back in his apartment…his little niece’s dance recital…next week’s poker game.
It promised to be a good week, maybe even a great week. That is, assuming he paid off his debts before it was over.
A loud crashing noise broke his train of thought. The light in front of him vaporized and pure darkness settled over the tunnel. Kolen chuckled. Adcock must’ve fallen face-first onto the tracks.
Served him right.
He waited a few seconds, listening as more crashing noises followed the first one. A troubled feeling formed in the pit of his stomach. He lifted his head and turned his helmet, but the headlamp didn’t detect any movement.
“Hey Dan,” Kolen shouted into the darkness. “Are you okay?”
There was no response. Just more noises. They sounded like fleshy material pounding against concrete.
“Dan, can you hear me?”
Kolen heard a strange, tearing noise, like a garment being ripped in two. And then…
“Help me…help…”
Kolen sprinted forward, pumping his arms as he ran. He forgot everything else around him. He forgot his location, forgot his problems. He even forgot his dislike for Adcock.
After no more than a hundred feet, he spotted the man lying on the ground, motionless. His eyes tightened and his body tensed.
Kolen slid to a halt next to Adcock. Reaching down, he grabbed the man by his belt. Adcock seemed light for his size.
“Dan, what happened? Are you okay?” Kolen froze. A helpless, frightening feeling crept over him.
Adcock wasn’t okay. He was dead. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Half of his body was missing.
Something had ripped him in half. Something that was, in all likelihood, still in the area.
A rush of movement came from the west.
Kolen whirled toward it. His headlamp caught a frenzy of activity. He tried to move but the sight of the horrible beast shocked him into stillness.
Powerful jaws clamped down on his leg and he felt himself dragged to the ground. He wanted to scream but his throat didn’t work.
He tried to move, tried to stand up, tried to fight.
But it was too late.
He felt a wrenching pain in his waist.
Then he felt nothing at all.
Chapter 2
September 5
Hoisting myself up, I grabbed onto another handhold, desperately trying to maintain my concentration. After three years, I knew the warning signs. I knew all too well the headaches, the sensitivity to the sun, the mental haziness, and the sudden rush of intense, conflicting emotions.
The precariousness of the situation didn’t escape me. I was nine thousand feet above sea level, surrounded by early morning light, and alone.
Completely, utterly alone.
Now, an episode was coming. It was inevitable, unavoidable.
And unless I reached the plateau in time, it would be lethal as well.
Along with my trusty self-belay device, I’d solo climbed plenty of peaks over the last three years. I knew the routine. It was engrained in my skull.
Set the anchor, lead the pitch, and fix the ropes. Rappel the pitch, clean the pitch, and haul the bags.
Rinse and repeat.
Over and over again.
Ordinarily, I found mountain climbing exhilarating yet mind-numbing. I hardly ever found it stressful. But this was no ordinary climb.
I climbed faster, my hands and feet scrabbling for holds on the schist. And ever so slowly, I moved up the sun-kissed rock face.
I could almost feel the flashback as it hurtled to the surface. The fallout, like always, was impossible to predict. I could black out. I could scream, alerting Standish’s people to my presence. I could even rip away my climbing protection in a fit of temporary insanity.
The plateau grew larger, dominating my field of vision. It was so close. Just a few more feet.
Suddenly, violent colors erupted in my eyes. I felt a stinging, debilitating pain in my forehead.
Not now. Please not now.
My brain seemed to separate from my body. I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t do anything. Vaguely, I felt my arms reach out, stretching across the plateau. Then, my boots kicked to the side, landing on top of the rock.
I stood in lower Manhattan, hands on hips, soaking in the moment. The previous day, I’d made the find of the century. A find that would revolutionize the way historians viewed early Manhattan.
A find that would make my career.
Of course, I wouldn’t take all the credit for myself. There was plenty to go around. But deep down, I knew the truth. Without me, none of it would’ve been possible. I was the one who found it. Me. No one else.
A loud shout caught my attention. Turning my head, I saw someone running toward me.
“Cyclone! Come quick! There’s been an accident.”
I frowned. “An accident?”
My headache vanished. The colorful sparks in my eyes died. My head cleared. My emotions dissipated.
I breathed heavily, giving myself time to return to normal. I hated the episodes with every ounce of my being. But that was the price I paid for my sins. It struck me that the experience, although shorter than usual, had been unexpectedly intense. I wondered what it meant. Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
Lifting my head, I examined myself for wounds. Seeing none, I propped myself up on my elbows. I ran a hand through my tousled hair and looked around. I lay on a patch of thin soil, covered with grass. Glancing to the side, I noticed that I’d rolled twenty yards away from the cliff.
At least I didn’t roll the other way.
Noises and voices reached my ears. Twisting around, I saw a small camp about a hundred yards away and at a lower elevation. Large trenches zigzagged across a cleared-out field. More than twenty people, wearing hardhats and carrying hand tools, milled about the trenches performing archaeological work.
At least, that’s what they thought they were doing.
Quickly, I stood up and took cover behind a large rock. After removing my climbing gear, I stowed it out of sight. Then, I checked my own tools.
Satchel? Check.
Machete? Check.
M1911A1 pistol? Check.
Reaching to my shoulder holster, I unsnapped the leather strap securing my gun. I wasn’t eager to use it. But with what I intended to do, I was certain to attract unwanted attention. And if someone attacked me, well, all bets were off.
I performed reconnaissance for a few minutes. I didn’t see Ryan Standish’s massive frame anywhere. Nor did I recognize any of the workers. That wasn’t terribly surprising though. Standish preferred to use local help for his dirty work. It made it so much easier to screw them over after he found what he wanted.
The workers appeared diligent but unskilled. The former archaeologist in me grimaced every time one of them picked up something from the ground. They were like kids in an antique store.
An antique store filled with irreplaceable artifacts.
Crouching low, I darted down a short slope. As quietly as possible, I penetrated a small tree grove and skirted my way around the edge of a cloud forest until I reached the rear of the dig site.
A dome-like structure, ten feet tall and thirty feet in diameter, stood before me. It was supported by heavy-duty PVC piping and covered with hefty green canvas. Four smaller domes sprouted out of the ground on either side of the main one.
I grabbed my machete from its sheath. Sneaking forward, I cut a small hole into the large dome’s canvas and peered inside.
Hundreds of artifacts were scattered about the interior, spread out across dozens of tables. Tags dangled from most of the objects. However, they were noticeably missing from the largest and most impressive finds.
After confirming the dome was empty, I snuck inside. Looking around, I saw potsherds, carved greenstone rocks, flint arrowheads, and broken staffs. My eyes swept to the opposite end of the dome, passing by stacks of empty cardboard boxes and giant piles of various packing materials.
A two-foot tall artifact stood alone on a small table. Its golden edges gleamed in the few rays of light that managed to poke their way into the dome. I strode over to the table and picked up the relic.
My heart pounded as I studied the cacique, or pendant, cast from gold. It was heavy, yet felt light in my hands. It appeared to depict an important man, perhaps a chief. He stood with his hands on his hips and a fierce look across his face. Regardless of his place in the Tairona society, he was clearly a great warrior.
I turned it over, marveling at the craftsmanship. Every inch of the cacique featured rich detailing and underlying meaning. The scope of the work took my breath away. The Tairona people were, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the most spectacular gold workers of pre-Columbian America.
“Hello, Cyclone. Good to see you again.”
I whirled around, still clutching the cacique. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood in the middle of the tent. He was clearly athletic, with rippled muscles showing through his tight t-shirt. His hair, wiry and black, was long and tied into a ponytail. His facial features, including a pair of sharp, grey eyes, were strong and distinct.
My muscles tensed. “It’s Cy. And I wish I could say the same thing about you, Ryan. But frankly, I don’t like you. Never have, never will.”
Standish walked forward, taking long strides and swinging his powerful arms. At the same time, three brawny men stepped out from the shadows and formed a loose semicircle around me.
“You have excellent taste.” He nodded at the cacique. “That’s the prize of the dig. It should fetch at least a quarter of a million at auction.”
“It doesn’t belong to you.”
“I found it, I keep it.”
“You didn’t find it. You didn’t find any of this stuff. You paid off some local officials to let you hijack a pre-existing dig.”
He shrugged. “It’s business.”
“It’s theft.”
“You should talk. You’re not an archaeologist, not anymore. You’re just a treasure hunter.”
“And you’re an asshole.”
He held out his hand. “Although I’d love to keep this up, I have work to do. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like my cacique back.”
I stepped backward toward the canvas. My free hand brushed against something hard and slightly sharp on another table. It felt like an arrowhead and I quickly palmed it. “I found it, I keep it.”
“You’re on an isolated plateau in the middle of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. You’re surrounded by my employees. You have nowhere to go and no one to save you.”
“You’re right.”
He looked at me suspiciously. “Then you’re going to give it back?”
I held out the cacique. “I want free passage off this mountain.”
“Of course.”
I wanted to punch him and his magnanimous smile. He had no intention of letting me live.
Then again, I had no intention of giving him the cacique.
I tossed the artifact over Standish’s head. His eyes widened and he dove to the ground to catch it. The other three men, distracted by the action, looked toward him.
Spinning around, I grabbed my machete. Sweeping the flint arrowhead across its back, I sent a shower of sparks flying into a nearby pile of foam peanuts. Small flames formed and grew in size, quickly igniting the canvas tent. Before I knew it, a wall of fire rose high into the air.
I shifted my attention back to Standish. He lay on the ground, holding the cacique, his attentio
n diverted from the ensuing disaster.
“¡Rápido!,” he shouted. “Obtener los –”
I stepped forward and kicked him in the jaw, cutting him off. Then I reached down, grabbed the cacique from his outstretched hands, and darted into the blaze.
Tremendous heat engulfed me. It singed my shirt and burnt my jeans. It leapt at my throat, stealing my oxygen. It was hell, pure and simple.
And then a split-second later, I was free.
I sprinted toward the cliff, passing a series of stunned, frozen workers. Behind me, I heard shouts and orders.
At the bottom of the hill, I glanced over my shoulder. Every single worker, male and female alike, raced after me. It was a strange, disconcerting sight, like being chased by an army of angry lemmings.
I sprinted uphill and grabbed my climbing equipment. As I slipped into the harness and secured my weapons, I snuck another look behind me. The workers were right on my tail. I didn’t have much time.
I didn’t have any time.
I stuffed the cacique into my satchel and ran forward to where my climbing rope was still anchored to the boulders below. With a savage cry, I leapt off the cliff. As my feet left the ground, a single thought raced through my mind.
What the hell am I doing?
I soared through the air and twisted my body, taking one last look at the workers. They returned my grin with shocked expressions. I shot them a quick salute and then, like a cartoon character, dropped like a rock.
Wind rushed into my face and ruffled my hair. I fell, praying to God that my multi-directional anchors would hold. They had to.
So, why am I still falling?
Abruptly, the rope jerked and my body jolted. I swung to the side, bashing my back against the hard schist. Looking up, I saw that the jutting cliff blocked me from view.
I was safe.
I was alive.
At least for the moment.
Chapter 3
Although exhausted and jittery, I still stopped to check my appearance in the cracked, dusty mirror. My face, covered with dried grime, looked worn and tired. My body sagged and my neck and shoulders sported numerous abrasions.
I tried to wipe away the dirt but merely succeeded in spreading it across my face. Next, I fiddled with my hair, turning it from a mess into an even bigger mess. I breathed rapidly through my nose, highly annoyed at myself.