The Diamond Dragon (Kip Keene Book 4)

by Erik, Nicholas

  “Let’s just hope he doesn’t find out you’ve been fired,” Keene said.

  “Don’t worry. Phones are down, remember?”

  Keene allowed the door to slam shut behind him. Locking it, he took one last glimpse at the empty street. Two police cars, headlights barely cutting through the after midnight rain, a wine store and an ice cream parlor. Just like any other town he’d ever visited.

  Yet nothing like them at all.

  Keene’s footsteps echoed off the polished steps.

  It was time to find out the fate of Box 462.

  And whether it really held the key to Shambhala after all.

  8 | Investigation

  “The suspect, James Mitchell, shot Mike cold, right here.” Duke formed a pistol with his fingers and mimed pulling the trigger. His hand cast shadows on the floor, making the demonstration resemble a premonition from an old noir movie. “Killed a good man.”

  “How’d you figure out his name?” Keene said.

  “He announced it to everyone,” Duke said. “Crazy son of a gun.”

  “You see him around before?” Duke gave a quick shake of the head. “And he just wanted the box? Nothing else?”

  “Took the box and we haven’t seen him since.”

  “What’s so special about this box, anyway?”

  Duke just shook his head and shrugged, but offered no explanation.

  Keene stared at the masking tape outline, its edges stained crimson. A forensic tech gathered yellow numbered cones and stacked them nearby. The bank manager leaned against the counter, speaking with a man dressed in a sheriff’s uniform.

  The bank had the feel of a structure from the Wild West, caught somewhere between this century and one long before. The bankers’ desks were arranged without cubicles, in a neat row running alongside two large windows. They were the type of desks that took three burly men to push along a carpet, six to lift.

  “Any reason for shooting him?” Keene said.

  “The guard—Mike—drew on Mitchell and tried to put him down. Didn’t work out.” Duke jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Put seven rounds in the walls and counter.”

  “Hit him, though, it looks like.” Keene nodded towards the red droplets smeared on the floor.

  “Oh, he got Mitchell pretty good.” Duke pointed at a blood trail that headed out the door. Smeared footprints were visible in the tacky pools.

  “You always contaminate the scene?” Strike said.

  “It’s our first murder in a while. We had an accident awhile back around ninety, ninety-one? Suicide, we think. Nothing like this. So we might’ve, uh, messed up the evidence.”

  “We need to see the vault,” Strike said.

  “I don’t know if I can swing that.”

  Strike gave a lackadaisical shrug. “That’s too bad. Storm’s almost over. Phones will be back soon.”

  “No, no.” Duke mustered up a large disingenuous smile. “That won’t be necessary.”

  He walked away and waited patiently while the sheriff finished his conversation with the bank manager. The lack of attention paid to Duke’s presence suggested that the sheriff was uninterested in what his sole detective had to say.

  Strike pulled Keene off into a corner, near the towering windows, where the forensic tech—who now appeared to be little more than a college intern with an interest in science—couldn’t hear. She sat down on one of the massive desks, her fingers tapping against the solid frame.

  “This is the most ridiculous scene I’ve ever been to.”

  “Thought you were fired by the FBI before you even caught an official case.”

  Strike’s nostrils flared. “They let us watch. Tag along at the academy. In-field experience. You see how friendly Duke got once he saw we were strangers?”

  “Completely different guy,” Keene said. His thoughts flashed back to the strange affectation that had washed over their driver Johnathan. He glanced towards the counter, where the bank manager had finally receded behind the cracked glass. Duke and his superior were engaged in a hushed but heated conversation.

  Probably about outsiders.

  The citizens of Tillus were stewards of this portal, guarding it from outsiders. In return, they received a root—which, judging from what Keene had seen, granted them freedom from ailments and ageless youth. So long as they guarded the portal’s key, their population would remain the same, their town intact.

  Now the ominous voicemail made sense. Even if you wanted to leave, you couldn’t. Not once you knew the town’s secret, had been ushered into its strange world. Perhaps some of the locals were okay with this arrangement. But others were trapped, unable to ever return to the real world.

  And now the population had suddenly become 1,461. No wonder everyone had been so happy to see him and Strike. One of them was going to become a permanent resident. The other might be disposable.

  The only way to save themselves was to go to Shambhala. But first they had to find James Mitchell. And that damn box.

  Which meant they needed to split up.

  Keene gulped.

  “You look kind of pale there, buddy,” Strike said.

  Keene shivered and was about to open his mouth, but could only manage to say, “I’ll explain everything in a minute,” as the sheriff and Detective Duke made good time across the room.

  The sheriff tipped his hat as he approached, his boots clacking against the floor. “Not every day we get Federals around here.”

  “We need to see the vault,” Strike said. “Now.”

  “Whoa ma’am, we ain’t even been acquainted yet.” The well-built man extended a hand. “Sheriff Dale Hendricks.”

  After an awkward pause, Keene grabbed the man’s hand, Strike following his lead. No one seemed particularly enthused about the meeting. Introductions made, the sheriff indicated he had already been briefed on the particulars by his young, inexperienced detective.

  “What I don’t understand is, a man is murdered, and the FBI is worried about a couple bearer bonds.” Sheriff Hendricks folded his thick forearms over his khaki shirt. The bronze star pinned above his breast pocket rattled. “Seems a little inconsiderate. Cold, even.”

  “We all know that’s not what’s in Box 462, Sheriff,” Keene said.

  Sheriff Hendricks gave a low whistle and raised his eyebrow. Duke didn’t say anything. He stood frozen in place, his fingers balling up the cuffs of his blazer, like he wasn’t sure what his next move should be.

  “A good man was murdered, if you recall,” Keene said. “We’re just trying to help.”

  “That so, now, is it?”

  “We’re looking for motive. Who Mitchell works for, what he plans to do with whatever’s inside that box. National security, you see.”

  The sheriff’s veins pulsated in his arms. A tenuous silence held in the air. Keene wondered, briefly, if he had pushed too hard. After all, they were outnumbered 1,461 to 2. Keene didn’t particularly like those odds.

  But then Hendricks’ demeanor softened. A smile—not happy, but not grim, either—flashed across his weather-beaten face. “Follow me.”

  “Just Agent Strike,” Keene said. He turned towards Strike. Unspoken questions flashed in her eyes. “I have another lead to follow up on.”

  He could see that she wanted to desperately ask him, what lead—perhaps with a string of expletives attached to indicate her displeasure about being kept in the dark. But instead, she nodded, and said, “I can handle this. I’m the real agent, anyway.”

  “And who is Mr. Keene, then?” Sherriff Hendricks asked.

  “My sidekick,” Strike said as she followed him away from the desks. “Like Duke.”

  “Speaking of which,” Hendricks said, nodding towards the junior detective, “Mr. Keene could use some company. So that he doesn’t get lost in our fine town.” Strike and the sheriff disappeared into a room behind the teller window, leaving Detective Duke and Keene alone.

  “Where’re we headed, then?” Duke waited for a minute, then said, “S
ir?”

  “Back into the storm,” Keene said, finally looking away from the glass. He took the stairs two at a time, thoughts swirling.

  He knew exactly how he could track down James Mitchell.

  But first, he would have to cut ties with his anchor.

  9 | Sunnyside Up

  Wade Linus navigated to the root folder of his smartphone to edit the operating system’s files. He attempted to send another message, but the phone spit back the same reply.

  TEXT MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED

  “Damnit.” He put his face in his hands, staring at the warm glow of the streetlamps through his fingers. Some tech guru he was—he couldn’t even get a simple two-line text through to Keene. Almost half a day without any contact. The jet’s GPS signal had just disappeared into oblivion, like it’d been devoured by a black hole.

  Problem was, Linus had a theory about the journal Keene really needed to hear.

  Probably should give it up, he thought, maybe head back to Boston. But that was too cold, now, after experiencing SoCal. And the chicks weren’t nearly as hot. Basically, on a metaphorical scale, the girls out here were like the first Star Wars trilogy. Life changing. And the chicks back home…second trilogy material.

  Definitely not trying to go back to that.

  Linus’ shoulders slumped further. Even the thought of babes couldn’t cheer him up. Keene and Strike were walking into disaster, and they were doing it blind. In between searching for Carmen all day, he’d done a little research on Tillus—none of it good, even for someone skeptical of internet conspiracy nonsense.

  “Hey stalker.”

  Linus jumped off the park bench with a start, dropping his phone. It bounced off the concrete, its case splintering. Caught between two simultaneous problems, Linus found himself wishing he was a supercomputer. That way he could multitask.

  Instead of doing any task, he turned and started walking the other way.

  “Really?” Carmen cut him off before he could hightail it across the beach. “You know I can kick your ass.”

  “Sorry,” Linus said through a mouthful of his shirt collar, which for some reason he had chosen to start chewing on like some sort of schizoid dog. His mind was yelling instructions of the James Bond variety, but they were being translated into gibberish and then executed in sub-amateur fashion.

  Linus made an awkward attempt to spin around her, but he tripped on her outstretched foot and landed flat against the pavement. Tears sprouted at the corner of his eyes.

  “I kind of liked you before, but you’re losing points at an astonishing rate here.”

  Linus squeezed the tears from his eyes and looked up. “You liked me?”

  “Sure, nerd. I’m almost impressed you tracked me down. How’d you do it?”

  “Hacked the security cams,” Linus said, getting on his knees. He felt his teeth with his tongue, checking for loose fillings. He glanced up. It felt like he was either praying or begging for forgiveness at an altar of endless legs. “Ran my facial recognition software through it.”

  Legs that could kick his ass. Focus, Linus. Don’t forget the stunt she pulled earlier.

  “Big Brother, huh?” She offered him a hand, which he took. “Or skinny little hacker boy. One or the other.”

  “I wasn’t following you.”

  “Oh, you just accidentally found me on my evening run, which I switch up every day?”

  “I mean, I was, but not—not in a creepy way.”

  She gave him a smile. “Of course not. Here to apologize?”

  Linus gave her a funny look and shook his head quickly. “You tried to rob us.” He was suddenly aware that he was out here alone, with only the ocean and the dying sunset around to watch.

  “I did,” she said with a small shrug. “That it? You could’ve called about that.”

  “Face to face is better,” he said, his voice gaining a little conviction. “What were you doing?”

  “Aww, the tech wizard likes human contact. The irony.” Then the smile disappeared in a flash, darkening her beautiful face. Linus felt his heart leap out of his chest and run away towards the sea, ready to drown itself. “But I was actually running over to your place.”

  “You were?” A surge of euphoria ran through his body. Then his brow furrowed. “You still haven’t told me what you were doing in the cellar.”

  “Your friends are in trouble,” Carmen said. “Serious trouble. I tried to warn them.”

  Linus took a step back, getting a better look at the slender woman bathed in the warm glow of stars and streetlamps. Keene and Strike had been right to give him shit. Maybe he’d led a lion right into their den.

  Carmen walked over to the park bench and knelt down to pick up the shattered phone. Despite his swirl of mixed emotions and general confusion, Linus felt his eyes drawn to the bottom of her body, where her sweatpants slid down.

  Come on, Linus, focus here. This chick is gonna snap your neck if you don’t run.

  She slipped a small cable out of her pocket and jacked it into the bottom port. The cracked screen flashed. Then she unplugged the cord and tossed the device to Linus, who almost missed it in his stunned stupor.

  “Cell traffic is down in Tillus. No shot at getting through,” Carmen said.

  Linus glanced between his phone and the girl, unsure whether to be excited, terrified or embarrassed at his complete idiocy. Unable to decide, he settled on mouth agape silence.

  She put her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowing. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “You want to save their asses? Or you just want to keep staring at mine?”

  Linus flushed. Carmen didn’t miss a thing. But the question remained.

  Who the hell was Carmen, exactly?

  Strike took the stairs down to the vault three at a time, her short boots banging against the steps. Behind her, Sheriff Hendricks talked in a low murmur into his radio. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, and it sounded like he didn’t want her to.

  She could’ve sworn she caught the phrase prep the room, but maybe that was just paranoia.

  “Who you talking to?”

  “No one important.” Hendricks said. The radio went silent. “In a hurry?” She could feel his gaze burning into her back. Nothing more than an unpleasant feeling, but he was too cagey.

  “Sooner I get down, the sooner I can get up.” Strike strode into the open vault. “You always leave the goods out with an engraved invitation?”

  “The people here know better than to steal. Only outsiders are a problem.”

  Strike shrugged and leaned against the plan metal viewing table in the center of the room. The place was more like a jail cell than a vault, with thick iron bars running from floor to ceiling. Its gate was wide-open, the bars pushed aside for the investigation. A single wall of security boxes lined the back.

  “Not exactly Fort Knox.”

  “It did quite all right until today.”

  “Everything’s all right until it isn’t.” Strike strode over to the wall and ran her fingers to the only opening in the wall. She pushed aside Box 462’s door, feeling the raised numbers with her hands. The slot was empty.

  “You know who owned it?”

  “As you know, Agent Strike, the purpose of such a box is to keep the contents secure. And secret.”

  Strike smirked and examined the rest of the room. She drummed a finger against one of the locked boxes. A hollow ringing noise responded. Strike tried another.

  “These are all empty.”

  “I doubt that very much, Agent Strike.”

  “I’d like to take a look.”

  “That’s not possible,” Sheriff Hendricks said with a steely glare. “Privacy.”

  “Who has the keys?”

  “The bank employees have access to the safety deposit boxes, as do the customers.”

  “Seems a little unusual,” Strike said. “Being private and all.”

  “For exigent circumstances. Such as today.”

 
“Whatever you say.”

  Strike pointed towards the stairs, indicating that Sheriff Hendricks could lead the way out. One box, one specific number. Nothing else taken. No cash, no jewels. Maybe because there was nothing of value in this town except the contents of box 462.

  Hopefully Keene would have better luck tracking down Mitchell. The sooner they got that damn talisman, the sooner they could run far away from Tillus. A hasty exit suited Strike just fine.

  She reached the top of the stairs and soon she was staring out the ruined glass, from the teller’s vantage point. Strike tried to consider what was going through the woman’s mind as Mitchell demanded the box.

  Probably just fear.

  Strike watched the sheriff head into the lobby. A new man in a deputy’s uniform stood near the tape outline. She exited the counter and approached.

  He flashed a quick smile.

  Then he brought an aerosol can out from his shirt pocket. Strike heard a whoosh as something was sprayed into her eyes.

  Then the world went dark.

  “So,” Keene said, his mind searching for topics of discussion, but finding scarce few of interest, “you like your job?”

  “It’s all right,” Duke said. His hands had disappeared inside the oversized blazer. That made Keene nervous. Strike’s instincts were wearing off on him.

  Keene brushed his hands along the worn brick. The alley was no more than five feet wide, the walls so close together that Keene could reach out and touch them both at the same time with ease. He followed the blood, his neural implants picking up the faint bio matter trail.

  It’d been a long shot, with the rain and twelve hours passing. With the standard issue neural implants he’d received back on his home planet of Apollus, 200,000 years ago, tracking Mitchell would have been an impossibility. But the USB firmware upgrades Fox had left behind before his time travelling exploits into the nineteenth century had dramatically improved the basic feature set. The new neural operation system—nOS 4.32—was pretty nifty.

  And so, after fiddling around during the three months that he’d been catching sun and sleep in his beachside villa, he’d found out that his thermal sensor now included a scanning mechanism for biological matter.