by David Meyer
Hiding a grin, I released the curtains and swung around. In the darkness, I spotted a familiar figure. “Are you sure about that? Because I could’ve sworn—”
“Cut the crap, Cy.” Keith Donovan, the newly appointed Senior Advisor to President Wade Walters, strode across the stage. He was tall and snively. Like a snooty rodent walking on hind legs with too-perfect posture. “Next time I tell you to do something, you’d damn well better do it.”
Ahh, here was the Donovan I’d come to know so well … stiff as steel and with all the charm of a cactus patch. “Or what?” I pursed my lips in mock horror. “You’ll revoke my fake award?”
“It’s not—” He paused, gritted his teeth. When he spoke again, it was in a harsh whisper. “It’s not fake. It’s real. There’s a medal and everything.”
“Yes, the Presidential Medal of National Heroism & Cultural Heritage.” I shook my head. “It just rolls right off the tongue.”
His face reddened. “It’s not like I had a lot of time, you know.”
The award, whether Donovan admitted it or not, was a farce. A ruse cooked up by a team of crisis managers in order to divert the world’s attention away from the recent Columbus Project scandal and on to the people who had narrowly averted the ensuing disaster and discovered a monumental treasure in the process. Namely, my team and I.
I would’ve preferred to share the credit with Dutch Graham and Beverly Ginger. Plus, a few other people, too. But none of them wanted anything to do with this. Frankly, I didn’t blame them.
I didn’t want anything to do with it either.
“I’ve got an idea,” I said. “I’ll go drinking and you can accept the award in my stead. How does that sound?”
“It sounds like you’re trying to piss me off.” His nostrils flared. “Listen up and listen good. You’re going to accept the award and watch the president’s televised speech. Then you’re going to read the notecards our speechwriters prepared for you. Afterward, you and I will pose for pictures and you’re going to smile like I’m the best goddamned friend you’ve ever had. And you know why?”
“Because you’re such a fun guy?”
“Because of the cameras. You’re a national hero now, Cy. Millions of people know what you did. They’ll be tuning in to see you tonight. If you screw around, you’ll only be hurting yourself.”
Without another word, he turned around. Back straight and soles clicking like the world’s worst soldier, he marched off stage and vanished behind one of the side curtains.
“How can you talk to that prick?” The words were spoken as if yelled through a mouthful of gravel.
I glanced to the opposite side of the stage and saw the shadowy silhouette of Dutch Graham step out from behind the burgundy curtains. “I talk to you, don’t I?”
“Touché.” He chuckled. “You know, I can remember a time when me spouting off like that would’ve embarrassed the hell out of you.”
“Oh, don’t worry. You’ve found all new ways to embarrass me.”
He put his hands on his hips. Leaned back and belched to the high heavens. Then he started toward me, weaving his way across the polished wood floorboards. Despite his erratic pattern, his steps were remarkably normal, so normal you’d never know he was moving with the assistance of a mechanical left leg.
Graham was a living legend at the Explorers Society, albeit the sort of legend the Society’s leadership would’ve preferred to forget. Kind of like an accomplished kooky uncle you like to brag about to your friends, but who you pray they never meet.
And why did the leadership feel that way? Well, he was the last of a dying breed of explorers. Scientific protocols? Rigorous methodology? Meticulous analysis of the smallest details? Who needed that? Certainly not Graham, who’d spent his youth exploring the darkest corners of the world, driven primarily by a thirst for adventure. And indeed, he’d had his fair share of excitement over the years. His mechanical left leg was proof of that.
So was the patch over his right eye.
He halted a few feet short of me. He wore a colorful Hawaiian shirt, tattered jeans, and heavily-scuffed dark brown boots. To say he was underdressed was putting it mildly.
“Nice threads,” I remarked. “You do know this is a black tie affair, right?”
“Come on. How long have you known me?”
He didn’t have to elaborate. Graham didn’t like putting on airs. The British Queen could’ve come a knockin’ and he still would’ve answered the door in his underwear.
Not that I was Mr. Stylish. Normally, my idea of formal attire was a clean shirt and wool sport coat matched with my best pair of cargo pants. The ones without holes or scuff marks. But for this particular evening, I’d gone all-out. My ensemble consisted of a stylish double-breasted tuxedo with matching patent leather shoes. Rented from one of Fifth Avenue’s premiere men’s clothing shops, it somehow managed to fit me perfectly yet feel utterly uncomfortable at the same time. But hell, at least it kept Donovan off my back.
Graham took a step closer and my nose wrinkled. He reeked of alcohol. Coupled with the other clues—the slight weave of his footsteps, his wily grin—and I knew he was tipsy. Fortunately, that was the extent of it. Graham was capable of reaching levels of drunkenness few mortals could ever hope to achieve. Those of us in the know had a special name for it.
Dutch-Drunk.
Dutch Graham was a remorseless boozer. And a womanizer. And a gambler. And a bunch of other –ers too. His more uptight colleagues, disgusted by his lifestyle, had long ago taken to calling him El Diablo. However, the nickname, which had been intended as an insult, backfired on them. Namely, because Graham was tickled pink about it.
When he wasn’t sinning, he split his time between CryoCare, a small business in the rapidly growing field of cryonics, and Salvage Force, my archaeological salvage company. On top of that, he was a relentless tinkerer, capable of fixing and repurposing broken-down machines as well as creating all-new technologies out of spare parts.
“That’s some interesting cologne you’ve got there.” I took a whiff. “Let me guess. Hamron’s Horror?”
“What else?”
Ahh, Hamron’s Horror, the real breakfast of champions. The very thought of that copper-colored, smoky scotch sent my taste buds into a frenzy.
Graham stared at me with that one eye of his, peering into my soul as only he could. Then he shrugged. “I’m going to get another drink before this nonsense begins. Maybe two. No, make that three. Or four. Want anything?”
I did. But Donovan’s words about being a role model rung in my ears. “Maybe later.”
As he weaved away, I twisted back to the front curtains, alone with my swirling thoughts. In terms of respectability, I’d come full circle. I’d started my career as a historical archaeologist, specializing in urban environments. But a tragic accident at my first dig had sent my life veering off-course. I’d abandoned my career and taken on the life of a treasure hunter, crisscrossing the globe in search of ancient artifacts. In the process, I got kicked out of the Explorers Society and became a pariah among my former colleagues.
But even then, the seeds of my redemption were beginning to sprout. The rigors of treasure hunting turned me into a salvage expert. And over time, I began to offer up my expertise to archaeological digs. Not ordinary digs, mind you, but extreme ones. Digs that were threatened by immediate dangers, such as war or natural disasters. With Beverly and Dutch at my side, I threw myself into those digs, fighting to save every last artifact and its surrounding context.
Now, I was back at the Explorers Society, new membership in hand. The whole world knew my name thanks to the Columbus Project scandal. It was everything a guy could want.
But all I wanted was a drink.
The dull buzz of the restless audience wafted into my ears and I took another look through the curtains. The auditorium was packed, as it always was for the annual Explorers Society Awards Night. But one reserved seat, right in the front row, remained empty.
Beads of sweat bubbled up on my forehead. My armpits felt damp beneath my tuxedo. The auditorium’s air conditioning was on Antarctica-mode, but it was more than outmatched by the broiling summer heat.
As I stared out at the audience, still searching for Beverly, I thought back to my childhood. About the many days and nights I’d spent at the Explorers Society, delving into its hidden corners and dreaming of exotic adventures.
My mom, an esteemed member, had encouraged my interest. Fake award or not, she would’ve been proud of me today. As for Dad, well, I wasn’t sure how he would’ve felt about it.
My gaze shifted to a large clock mounted on the back wall. The hands ticked by at high speed. They’d already passed 8:00 p.m. and were well on there way to 8:15.
My left coat pocket vibrated. Reaching inside, I extracted my satphone. Saw Beverly’s name flashing on the screen.
I clicked it and a text message appeared. Let’s play a game, I read softly.
A wicked smile spread across my lips as my fingers danced across the virtual keyboard. Does it involve a deck of cards and us taking our clothes off?
A small image appeared. I clicked it and a grainy video of Beverly Ginger opened up on the screen. Her eyes, bloodshot and dry, were pried open. Her jaw was gagged with thick rope. A large welt, black and purplish, marred her temple.
The camera zoomed out and I saw her body, stripped down to her undergarments. She sat slumped in a metal folding chair, her arms and legs encased in chains. It was difficult to see details in the grainy video. But I caught glimpses of enormous bruises on her legs and deep cuts on her torso.
My fingers curled tighter and tighter around the satphone. The video faded away and a new message took its place. The game is called Do or Die, I read. Do as I say …
… or she dies.
CHAPTER 4
“Get over here,” Keith Donovan hissed from behind the side curtains. “We’re about to begin.”
Ignoring him, I reread the message. Then I played the video again, tracing her face with the tip of my finger. God, if anything happened to her …
A memory from the previous night played in my mind. I remembered touching her tanned face. Staring into her violet eyes. The ripples running through her wavy chestnut hair. The sweat glistening on her curvy body. The feel of her legs wrapped around my waist. The animal magnetism evident in her every movement.
I saw none of that in the video. She just looked, well, different. And not just on the surface. No, it was in her pupils. There was something there. Something unsettling.
Fear.
And not just ordinary fear. This was holy-crap-I can’t-think-straight type of fear. Which threw me for a loop. I couldn’t recall the last time—if ever—I’d seen fear in her eyes.
Who had taken her? Why? And how? She wasn’t some easy mark. She was a battle-hardened warrior who’d fought to the death in some of the toughest terrain on Earth.
Head down, I walked to the side curtains. Tapping the screen, I wrote out a new message: Do anything to her and YOU will die.
But I didn’t send it. Instead, I deleted the message and started to write a new one, designed to glean as much information as possible about the situation.
A new message appeared on my screen. Do anything to her and I’ll die, huh? I like that. Nice and snappy. But don’t flatter yourself. You’ll never find me.
I clenched my jaw. Well, how about that? My little texting buddy had read my unsent message.
Which meant my satphone had been hacked.
Another message appeared: Nice tux, by the way. But you’ve got a loose thread on your back, just below your left shoulder.
I reached behind me and felt around. Indeed, there was a thread just as the message had indicated. I pulled it off and let it drop to the floor.
Another message: Much better.
The implication was clear. Beverly’s kidnapper had eyes on me. Maybe ears, too.
I scanned the ceiling and nearest wall for cameras. I didn’t see any, but I noticed plenty of people around me, immersed in their smartphones. Was the kidnapper among them? Or had he or she hijacked their phones in order to commandeer their cameras?
I get it … you’re in control, I wrote. So, who are you?
Another message popped up almost as soon as I hit the Enter key. Just a girl with a good computer.
Or a guy impersonating a girl.
Would you believe me if I wrote OMG and LOLZ and told you how much I ADORE shoes?
I frowned. Got a name, computer girl?
Malware.
Cute, I replied.
Yes, I am. Now, I need something from you.
Sorry. I’m a one-woman kind of guy.
That’s because you haven’t met me yet. But until then, I need you to conduct an excavation. Proceed directly to 1199 Madison Avenue, at the corner of 75th.
An excavation? Like an archaeological excavation?
Yes, she replied. And don’t worry about tools. You’ll find plenty where you’re going. Oh, and Cy?
Yeah?
You have one hour to get there. Or she dies.
CHAPTER 5
Muffled shouts, tense and raw, rang in my ears. Outside the front curtains, shoes and high heels shuffled against ornate carpet. A dull cacophony of murmurs and whispers arose from the auditorium.
I checked the time on my satphone. 8:20 p.m. on the dot. That meant I had until 9:20 p.m. to reach 1199 Madison Avenue. Which was, come to think of it, rather odd. Even at a leisurely pace, it would only take five to ten minutes to cover the distance. So, why had Malware given me so much time?
I ran to the front curtains. Shifting the fabric, I made my way out onto the stage. Then I stopped. Did a double-take.
Attendees and members of the media, clad in their finest attire, were streaming out of the rows, joining gathering throngs near the three double-door exits. It was a major bottleneck situation, made worse by frantic pushing and shoving.
“What’s this all about?” Graham appeared at my side, clutching a tumbler full of copper-colored liquid in his hand. “Wait, let me guess. Is someone giving away grants for useless research in the Great Hall?”
“Come on.” I jumped off the stage and landed softly on the thick carpet. “I need to get outside.”
He downed his scotch. Then he tossed the tumbler. As it crashed to the floorboards, shattering into a million tiny pieces, he slid off the stage and joined me in the main aisle. Then he veered ahead, bellowing bloody oaths and pushing people out of his way.
I loved that about Graham. He didn’t waste time asking questions or demanding explanations. When push came to shove, he just shoved back twice as hard.
I followed at his heels, wading through the crowd, pushing my way toward the front. Along the way, I noticed some of the people who’d badmouthed me over the years. I made sure to push them extra hard.
A couple of security guards stood at the double doors, holding back the crowd. One of them, a thick-bodied man named Cody Webster, lifted his voice. “Everything is fine, folks. Please exit the aisle and return to your seats. Tonight’s program will begin momentarily.”
But this crowd, this gathering of hotshot explorers and media-types, had become unnerved. Like herds of cattle, they stampeded their way past the guards and through the doors. Instantly, the built-up bottleneck pressure released and I found myself shot out of the auditorium and into the Great Hall.
Ahh, the Great Hall. The beating heart of the Explorers Society. Even now, even after all this time, I still found myself gawking at its tall ornamental columns, its soaring arches, and its mixture of dark wood paneling and crisp, colorful carpets.
“Damn, that was fun.” Graham, red-faced and sporting a wicked grin, clapped my back. “Let’s go again.”
“This ride’s not over yet.” Walking quickly, I made a beeline to a pair of heavy oak doors, passing by mounted stuffed heads of long-extinct animals along with dozens of wood and glass display cases.
The closer I drew to the d
oors, the more noises I heard. Harsh noises and not too distant. Stuff like breaking glass, crunching metal, screams and chants, and were those … crackling flames?
Donovan appeared at the edge of my vision. With large steps, he hiked to the oak doors.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.
“Get out of my way, Keith.”
“Please return to your seats, ladies and gentlemen.” Cody Webster’s booming voice filled the room. The crowd, now gathered in small clumps within the Great Hall, turned to look at him.
“What’s going on?” Betsy Reese, the world famous mountaineer, brushed hair from her eyes. “It sounds like a warzone out there.”
“I’ll tell you what I know. But only after you return to your seats.”
The crowd lingered for a moment. Whispers and murmurs started up again.
Reese gave Webster a hard look. Then she walked back into the auditorium. Her action had a ripple effect and before long, the rest of the crowd had regained sheep-status, following her back to their seats.
“That includes the two of you.” Donovan looked at Graham and I. “Get back in there.”
“I’m leaving,” I said.
“And I’m going with him,” Graham added.
“Remember what I said before, Cy? About you being a national hero? Well, act like it.”
With one quick yank, I sent him sprawling to the floor. Then I released the bolt mechanism, twisted the left knob, and pulled the door open.
My eyebrows rocketed to the top of my skull. What I’d seen in the auditorium wasn’t chaos. No, this was chaos.
Everywhere I looked, I saw people. Some hustled down the sidewalks, their arms full of television sets, computer tablets, racks of clothing, and whatever else they could carry. Others wielded pipes, wrenches, and heavy flashlights, which they used to reign havoc on windows, metal grilles and gates, the occasional parked car, anything really. Still others lofted Molotov cocktails, chucking them toward buildings, trees, and even crowds of people. It was a full-blown riot, big enough to explode the senses.