The Solomon Key

by Shawn Hopkins

  A second later, a huge army bag was coming back over the dirt and into the room. And then another one. Scott’s head reappeared next, emerging from the dark womb, dirt streaked over his face, mixing with sweat. He crawled back over the pile of dirt and got to his knees before turning around and reaching back into the secret compartment. This time, it was a large metal box that he pulled into the candlelight. He handled it gently, setting it down in the dirt with awkward reverence. Flipping the two latches on the case, he swung the lid open.

  Edward leaned forward, shocked to see grenades and claymore mines stacked within the box. “Who are you?”

  Scott didn’t answer, just began opening the large duffle bags, pulling a huge M107 — the Army’s first semi-automatic .50 cal. sniper weapon system — out of the first one. He leaned it against the wall. “An oldie but a goodie. Effective on multiple targets up to 2,000 meters. But too loud for this.”

  “For this what?”

  Still ignoring his probing questions, Scott went back into the bag, this time retracting a fully assembled AS50 semi-automatic sniper rifle. “Another relic. Designed for Special Ops. Twenty-seven pounds dry weight. Fifty-three point nine inches long.”

  “I know what it is, Matthew. What are you planning on doing with it?”

  But next came an HK 417 assault rifle, a SAW, a few pistols, another M4, and a whole lot of ammo.

  “Guess the ATF would’ve had an issue with all this, huh?” Scott asked, still deflecting.

  Edward leaned back against the chair and sighed. “I’d really like to know what you’re thinking, Matthew.”

  To which Scott asked, “How you holding up?” He had camouflage for each season laid out on the floor. Selecting the digital bushland pattern, a four-color autumn palette, he began taking his jacket off.

  “Fine.”

  He watched Scott pull the camouflage pants on. “Are you going to tell me who you are or not?”

  He pulled his boots back on. “Who I was.”

  “Okay, who you were.”

  “CIA.”

  A pause. “Data entry?” Edward quipped, stealing another glance at the small arsenal just laid out before him.

  “Black Ops.”

  Edward thought about the answer. It would certainly explain a lot. “And the story?” he asked, trying to process this new revelation slowly.

  Scott stopped for a second and looked into Edward’s eyes, about to disclose the secret he’d kept from him over the last few years. And, after sighing in surrender, he finally nodded his consent. “I sold my soul to the flag just in time to realize that the flag didn’t really exist anymore.” He reached over and grabbed his backpack, taking out a canteen. After a gulp, he offered it to Edward. “It’s purified.”

  Edward accepted and drank, eager to hear the rest of Scott’s story.

  “I got to Iran in 2013.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I was captured and almost had my head sawn off. Wasn’t one of my favorite days. They offered to bring me home for a while, but I didn’t trust the people I’d be returning to, so I stayed put.” He watched his fingers working with the buttons on his jacket. “Then I heard that some of the guys I was involved with in the past were starting to turn up dead. Heart attacks, hit and runs, airplane disasters… someone was tying up loose ends.”

  “Loose ends?”

  “Something we were involved in before Iran. Anyway, they suddenly wanted to fly me home for ‘debriefing,’ but people like me aren’t allowed to retire, and I wasn’t looking to disappear on their terms. The base I was staying at was attacked by rockets and machine gun fire, and I managed to sneak out during the chaos.”

  “How’d you get back into the states?”

  “I knew some people who would take money without asking questions. Got a new identity and laid low, avoiding the places that were overly friendly with surveillance and police.”

  “When?”

  “2016 is when I got back stateside.”

  “Why Jamaica?” Edward asked while trying to erase the whole conception he once had of Mathew Scott.

  “Six hundred and eighty-eight feet above sea level and nine hundred and forty-six people in the county. The West River, the woods, mountains… I told you, the location was ideal for someone who might have to disappear in a hurry.”

  Chewing on the information, Edward finally asked a more personal question. “You have any family?” They’d never really talked about it before, though even if they had, whatever Scott decided to divulge would certainly have been a fabrication.

  Edward watched as his question sunk into Scott’s very being, making him pause, stunned. He had definitely found a soft spot, and if even for a moment, there was a flood of bottled up emotion that surfaced in Scott’s eyes.

  But just then a noise louder than thunder echoed off the cave walls and spilled dirt from the ceiling.

  “That’s my signal.” Scott tucked an ancient 9mm .45 cal. Beretta into the back of his pants, knelt over the open backpack, and quickly transferred the ammo, claymores, and grenades into it. “Stay here. I’ll come get you when it’s safe.” He positioned the sniper rifle and the M4 so that the straps were across his chest, the weapons against his back. Then he pulled the backpack on. “I’m leaving the SAW and the other M4 with you. You shouldn’t need them, but…”

  “You’re going out?” Edward asked, shocked. “There could be a hundred troops searching the woods.”

  He grabbed the HK 417. “Don’t worry.”

  “Don’t worry?”

  “Just stay here.”

  “What about the ring?” Edward was beginning to panic. Surely Scott wasn’t delusional, thinking he could go against an army all by himself…

  “What about it?” Scott’s attention was focused only on getting out of the cave.

  “If anything happens to me…”

  Scott moved past Edward, toward the entrance. “Nothing’s going to happen to you as long as you stay put. I’m working within a small window of opportunity here, Ed. Please...” And he left him alone with the moving shadows.

  Edward knew that as shocking as Scott’s story was, it had been incomplete — that he’d left out the biggest puzzle piece. He could only hope that his friend would live long enough to fill those pieces in one day, to divulge his true secret — the thing in his past that he was really hiding from out here in Vermont… whatever it was he had been involved in before Iran.

  Reaching into his pocket, Edward delicately removed the ring Melissa Strauss had sent to his son. Staring at it, he prayed for Matthew’s safety and for his own clarity within the vast ocean of insanity rising up all around him.

  9

  Sliding out of the cave on his stomach, Scott wiggled his way through the roots that were covering the entranceway. Once free of their clutches, he walked toward a nearby stream, stretching his back and rolling his neck. The rain was coming down in sheets, thunder sounding in the distance. Looking up to the sky, he welcomed the huge drops of water that pelted his face through the windows in the forest’s canopy. Rain was a good thing. It would provided more than enough cover for his movements, the brittle ground that would have crackled like burning wood under his feet now soft and quiet.

  His clothes already soaked and water dripping from his face, Scott loaded his weapons, the mechanical noises muted by the storm. Then, squatting over the stream’s bank, he thrust both his hands into the cold mud. After smearing the mud into a more applicable form, he began wiping it on his face.

  He headed back toward the cave.

  Reaching out and grabbing the large roots that were snaking down from the tree atop the steep hill, he pulled himself up until he was on top of it, Edward somewhere beneath his feet and waiting for his return.

  For a few seconds, Scott just stood there, his eyes slowly gliding back and forth scanning the woods. He was reaching for a certain mindset, the one he needed in order to complete what had to be done. He hadn’t done anything like this in a long time, and he needed to shut out any u
ncertainty that might hamper his reflexes. He needed to rediscover the audacity once ingrained into him, to feel invincible again. Needed to remember. Remember how to shut off the emotions, to become still, quiet, fearless… lethal.

  The explosion came as a result of someone trying to open the door of his Bronco, so he knew exactly where they were. And after fifty yards of walking had allowed more time for the ice to fill his veins, he began jogging. And then, after fifty more yards, he exploded into a full sprint through the cold rain.

  Five minutes later, he jumped off a small ridge, landing on his feet and using his momentum to throw himself forward onto his stomach. He scurried over to his right, seeking cover from a tree and some dense undergrowth growing in its shadow. The remains of his Bronco were two hundred yards ahead. He could just make out its charred and smoldering frame. Maneuvering the AS50 semiautomatic sniper rifle from off his back and extending the bipod, he set it up in front of him. He peered through the high-powered scope, and the distance that separated him from the Bronco was instantly minimized. He could see a few badly burnt and dismembered bodies strewn around what was left of his vehicle. As he moved the scope over a bit, he picked up a nearby circle of troops, police loitering a few yards away from them. They were gesturing violently into the woods, angry and confused.

  Scott knew that it was impossible for him to be detected by the naked eye through the thick undergrowth and the distance of two football fields, and there was no sign of the dogs he had heard earlier, but still he tried not to move more than he had to. Continuing to scan the woods with the high-powered scope, crosshairs splitting his vision into four quadrants, he found more soldiers. Seven of them were fanning out through the woods, moving away from his position.

  The Bronco was resting down in the center of a low spot, trees scattered sparingly around it. But as the ground stretched out away from the natural depression and gradually elevated, the trees became denser. Whereas Scott had a clear line of sight to the Bronco, any eyes looking up from the crater would see only walls of trees in every direction. It was why he’d parked it there, why he’d created the small path leading to it.

  Scott knew that he had to sever communication with the outside, so he first moved the crosshairs away from the seven and placed them over a soldier holding a satphone to his ear.

  Then he lay still, allowing his heart rate to slow down.

  Two hundred yards wasn’t a great distance, and he didn’t need to worry about the geophysics of the shot, just needed his body to be still. Once his heart settled from the long sprint, he looked back through the scope. He adjusted the gun sight for the appropriate distance, took account for the wind, and held his breath.

  One. Two. Three. Four.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The shot rang out, raced through the park and reached all the way to Ball Mountain before echoing back. It could have been mistaken for thunder if it weren’t for the exploding flesh accompanying it.

  The group of soldiers stood there frozen with shock, blood splattered over their faces, staring in unbelief at the soldier lying dead at their feet.

  Scott moved the crosshairs slightly to the right, and another head was split into four sections by the data lines.

  He fired.

  In the blink of an eye, his new victim was gone from his sight, a red mist hovering in the rain where his head had been. Scott picked up another horrified and confused soldier in his sights and shot him, too.

  The remaining men finally took off running for cover, stumbling over rocks and slipping on wet leaves. They didn’t know where to go, which direction to flee from.

  Scott had a frightened soldier’s forehead lined up, ready to splash his brains all over the tree he was trying to hide behind. And then the crosshairs suddenly dipped, instead coming to rest on the guy’s knee.

  As the blast rang out, the soldier’s agony echoed with it as he dropped to the ground screaming, clutching his nearly severed leg.

  With only one shot left in the clip, Scott suddenly found himself hesitating, allowing the soldiers that were fanning out more time to hone in on his position. The ice in his veins had begun to melt.

  A crackle of machine gun fire burst out against the background of thunder as the tree he was nearby began spraying splinters and chunks of wood. He resisted the instinct to move, to seek cover as bullets flew past him. To move a muscle would be suicide. The soldiers were only spraying the woods blindly, firing in the general direction of the assault. Any significant amount of movement from him and he might separate himself from his backdrop, bringing their firepower to a concentration point. So he lay still, unmoving, holding his breath.

  After a few seconds of no return fire, the soldiers ceased shooting, searching the woods for any sign of movement. But Scott was still too far away — though the distance was closing fast.

  They were spreading out, using large trees for cover, walking toward him.

  Scott cursed himself for his hesitation. He should’ve fired his last shot and reloaded before the rest of the soldiers could fan out. Now that they were growing closer, the AS50 was useless. He’d have to reload at least three times to finish them off, and he’d be dead after the first. He rejected the thought of using claymores or grenades — the thick forest would protect most of the soldiers from the blast, and he’d have to get up and throw it anyway.

  Setting his sights on the closest soldier, now about a hundred and fifty yards away, he could see the man’s face clearly — even the water drops running over his smooth skin. Brown eyes, high cheekbones, thinly pressed lips... maybe twenty years old. He was dipping below the intersecting data lines and then coming back up between them as he moved across the uneven terrain. Scott’s last shot went through the kid’s neck.

  Jumping to his feet, Scott spun toward the tree, leaning his back against it. Throwing the AS50 over his shoulder, he replaced it with the M4. He could hear the soldiers’ voices and the confusion in them as they shouted to one another. They weren’t well-trained, just warm bodies with guns. Scott moved away from the tree and began running away from the dozen or so men that were now quickly closing in on his trail. He would circle around and come up behind them.

  After satisfied with how far he’d gone, he crouched down and tried to catch his breath, absorbing the world around him.

  A helicopter passed by overheard, searching like a hawk for its prey. But Scott chose to ignore it. Springing to his feet, he began doubling back, intent on attacking his pursuers’ flank.

  ****

  He was actually staring at their backs, having double-backed too far. They were fanned out in a crescent formation, eyes locked intently ahead of them, their weapons held ready. Scott could wait for them to get further away and use the sniper rifle again, but preserving time was vital. More troops would be filling the park soon.

  They were about to walk through a dense part of the park, a myriad of huge trees waiting to hide them from his view. They would find plenty of cover there, able to turn and mow him down with ease. He had to do this now. Scanning the terrain in front of him, his mind prepared a route through the natural maze. Judging by the continent of North America making up the seal on their shoulders, the five soldiers to his right were NAU. The two to his left were actually UN, and there was a lonely police officer straight ahead. All in all, they were stretched out over the length of a football field. He’d have to use the trees between them for cover.

  A deep breath. Another. The ice started forming in his veins again, encasing his heart.

  And then he charged.

  Careful to keep his footing on the wet leaves, he easily approached the soldiers at the end of the line without detection. The M4 split the silence, and the soldier furthest on the end dropped to the ground.

  Scott spun behind a tree and waited for a response. And, once the shouting began, quickly darted from his cover, moving to a closer tree.

  Another breath.

  Leaning away from the tree, he fired off a few shots at the next c
losest soldier, striking him in the arm and stomach. But this time he was spotted, drawing fire his way.

  Scott ignored the splinters of wood flying through the air around him and waited for the firing to stop. He removed the HK 417, AS50, and the backpack from around his shoulders, resting them on the ground in front of him. Without looking, he fired some more shots around the tree and sent the converging soldiers diving for cover.

  Opening the backpack, he removed two grenades. He stuck one in his pocket, then he zipped the bag, threw it back over his shoulder, and stepped out from behind the tree. Though bullets were being sprayed in his direction, they were without careful aim, the ones falling short splashing dirt up at his face. He fired back from his hip, making them duck behind trees for cover. Tossing the AS50, he slung the HK 417 over his back and ran out from behind the tree, emptying the M4 in the direction of the soldiers.

  Bullets exploded into the trees around him as he ran a zigzag pattern through the forest, trying to position himself so that there weren’t as many trees between them. Once he gained such a position, he pulled the pin on the grenade, stepped out into the open, and threw it high into the air.

  The soldiers stopped firing.

  They could hear the grenade in the trees above them, bouncing off branches, knocking leaves loose. Their attention was focused on trying to catch a glimpse of the ticking time bomb before it was too late. But without knowing where to run for cover, all they could do was hope it didn’t land close by.

  Scott used the few seconds of distraction to switch from the M4 to the 417 and ran as fast as he could toward a large fallen tree lying nearby. He dove behind it just as the explosion rocked the park, the screams that followed reporting an affective strike.

  Getting up, he approached the injured and confused soldiers. Some of them spotted him coming and fired shots at him, but they were lying on the ground, recovering from the blast, and weren’t taking the time to aim, their anxious shots never coming close. As Scott narrowed the distance between them, he effortlessly took them out, one by one.