Of Blood and Stone

by Howard Upton

  His meetings with the Buddhist priest in Chinatown had also capitulated worthwhile information regarding incantations and spells used in China. All the research his covert team had conducted in documenting a Chinese migration through the Americas, coupled with the other information, made him feel more than marginally lucky.

  He had made a great living following his gut instincts. Whether those instincts told him to move forward with a mission or not, whether to deal with certain individuals or something as simple as not setting foot in a particular place, they had assured his survivability and prosperity over the course of his lifetime.

  “Hell, I may just be the smartest man in the world, and if I pull this thing off, I’ll be the most powerful man too,” chuckled to himself.

  After a couple of moments his computer finished booting up. He double clicked the security firewall he had installed to keep prying cyber-sleuths from seeing what he was doing. The NSA had made spying on people their modus operandi and he would be a fool to presume he wasn’t on their watch list. A young NYU graduate student working on a master’s degree in IT security had developed the firewall he was using. He had paid the kid handsomely, but Dugan knew he was worth his weight in gold.

  Dugan typed the bank’s URL into the computer’s web browser and watched the page load. He entered his user name and password, clicked “go,” then waited while the bank’s server verified his log-on credentials. A few seconds later his account window opened and he was staring at the largest amount of money he had ever scored on one mission. An enormous smile spread across his face while he closed the browser and purged his browser history.

  Buddy sat on the foot of his hotel bed and stared down at the floor. His hand was wrapped around a Styrofoam cup filled with hotel coffee. Small spirals of steam puffed from the uncovered cup.

  The conversation with Dugan the previous night kept replaying in his head. He had dealt with the man off and on for just over thirty years and knew Dugan was no fool. It was beyond reason to assume he only had one plan too. Dugan was much more than a simple gun runner. Planning and organizing multi-layered missions was one of his strengths and was a testament to his cognitive skills. That’s what bothered Buddy the most about everything that had transpired over the last week or two.

  There was no way Dugan would double cross the United States government and not turn over the cartouche and Terracotta Army and risk having the wrath of it come down on him. So, what then? What was the extra play he had up his sleeve?

  And then there was Young Buck. Dugan had taken a tremendous interest in the warrior, giving him significant cause for concern. Now he wanted nothing more than to kill him and was determined to follow through with it.

  Killing Evers was never on the table when they entered into the agreement. Evers was a backup plan to assure Dugan’s asset didn’t bolt with the cartouche. Now Dugan perceived Young Buck as a threat to him. None of this was adding up in Buddy’s head.

  He thought of every conceivable way to talk Dugan out of killing Evers, but knew that once Dugan was intent on following through with something, there would be no stopping him. Not having a firearm made the situation worse. He had no idea how he would get his friend out of this situation. His pulse quickened as the stress mounted.

  The link between the cartouche, the Terracotta Army and Evers was lost on him. Why is he so adamant that Evers die? Just doesn’t make a bit of sense to me, he thought. He ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair then arched his back to relieve a little tension. A couple of vertebrae popped and a sigh of relief pushed over his teeth.

  Dugan’s revelation that Evers was having nightmares was also disturbing. He had known many a good soldier who suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder and it didn’t typically end well for most of them. Dealing with the realities of war and death always made it hard on a man with a conscious. How a person compartmentalized and separated himself from his job is what kept him from going insane.

  Evers, he knew, had never been a heartless soldier, and didn’t necessarily kill without remorse, but when called upon to kill he did so efficiently and effectively. That was the primary reason Buddy had employed him after his tours in the Middle East. And as much as he hated to admit that Dugan might be right, if Evers was suffering from PTSD he could be a huge liability. He hoped that Evers would still trust him enough after this mission was completed to allow him to help, that was, if they both made it out alive, which was looking less and less likely.

  He lifted the hot coffee to his lips and took a large sip. Scorching heat tore across his upper lip causing him to jump, which resulted in a splash of coffee hitting his hand and lap.

  “You gotta be fucking kidding me! If this is any indication of how my day is going to go, I might as well find a gun and eat a bullet now,” he drawled a little too loudly.

  Rafael finished showering. He put clean clothes on a frame that had shrunk several sizes over a two week period. The blue jeans he wore hung on him like two stove pipes covering a pair of pencils. His light green, button-down shirt fit him like a sail borrowed from one of the boats he would sometimes see in the Caribbean in his hometown of Cancun. Like a zombie, he sat in the chair behind the small desk in his hotel room and put his shoes on, his eyes never leaving the cartouche that sat upon the table, unaware and uncaring about his appearance.

  Even his shoes felt looser and his belt was cinched to the last notch. Like his eyes, his cheeks were sunken and sallow. With some difficulty he avoided looking at a mirror because he didn’t recognize the fleshly skeleton that stared back at him.

  His hand slid across the table and over the top of the talisman. Almost immediately the thrum and reverberation of the jewel began pulsating through his body releasing endorphins. His shallow, dark brown eyes rolled back into his skull and the chanting began again.

  “Hua, shi...hua, shi...yong. Hua, shi...hua, shi...yong.” He repeated these strange words over and over, the phrases rhythmic and melodic. None of it made sense to him but he didn’t question it. In his mind’s eye he saw strange men in ancient dress with swords, spears and long bows. Their features were oddly familiar. In fact, their eyes and hair looked much the same as that of his family.

  He was sure he was viewing the world through another person’s eyes. Strangely enough he could hear this imaginary person breathing heavily as he watched the battle unfold before him. Throngs of similarly dressed warriors plowed forward through a multitude of men on both horseback and foot. Although vastly outnumbered and overmatched, he saw the opposing army charge headlong into their foes’ line of defense.

  “Hua, shi...hua, shi...yong. Hua, shi...hua, shi...yong.” As he chanted, he saw one of the men draw a sword and cut diagonally through another man’s neck. The man’s face was forever frozen in stark terror as his head rolled off his shoulders.

  Rafael was only vaguely aware of the euphoria he was experiencing as he held the charm. Its energy engulfed him, eating at his soul, altering him physically and mentally. Something gnawed at his mind. The vision of the battlefield faded away as new, fresh images began coming to him.

  An earthen pyramid and a modern city he didn’t recognize appeared to him. And while he knew he had never personally laid eyes on the place and things he was envisioning, a familiarity and longing to see them touched his spirit. Rafael felt a warm tear roll down his gaunt face and find its way into the corner of dry, cracked lips. His tongue flicked it and he could taste its saltiness.

  His vision revealed bustling streets with large buses filled to capacity. Sharing the streets with the buses were hundreds of people riding bicycles. The bicycle riders didn’t give him the impression of people out for a nice ride hoping to get in a little exercise. On the contrary, they all seemed intent on a final destination, presumably where they worked.

  The air was a hazy gray and white, not the way he had seen fog roll into a valley but the way he had seen Mexico City and other metropolitan areas that lacked emission controls. Many of the people wore masks
like surgeons do as they enter an operating room.

  Lazy green canals flowed silently through the city in stark contrast to the garish sounds of car horns and heavy construction equipment. In his head he could hear and smell everything about this place, a place that no longer felt foreign or strange. His heart longed to see this land and its people – his people.

  After what seemed an eternity, Rafael managed to put the cartouche down and finish getting ready for his rendezvous with Haden. How he loathed the man! He had come to grips with the fact that there was no way he would be able to release the jewel to the brash American. Rafael needed the money from this job, and planned to get it, and eliminate Haden at the same time. His hand jammed the relic into his pants pocket then reached for his Ruger and shoved it into his shoulder holster. He pushed his arms through the openings in his dinner jacket and walked out the door.

  Buddy walked into the hotel lobby, his hair clean but looking like it had been in a fight with a comb. His Levi’s and t-shirt were a wrinkled mess and his dusty sneakers gave the impression that he wasn’t overly concerned with others’ opinions of him. His demeanor was calm and his face was shadowed in two day beard stubble.

  The sun shone vividly through the hotel windows and doors, and should have given Buddy the feeling that the day was going to be a good one. But the hard truth was the day might turn out to be the worst he had had in a long time, and possibly finish with Young Buck’s death. If he wasn’t careful he could wind up just as dead, but he had lead a good life and had outlived most in the craft, so his demise was, at worst, trivial. Making certain he got his hands on the cartouche and away from Dugan was all that mattered to him right now.

  He walked to the entrance of the hotel restaurant and found the free coffee pot. The smell of the rich Arabica blend coalesced with the scent of breakfast foods cooked in the restaurant. The aromas brought him a modicum of cheer. His hand reached for the thermal insulator and placed it over the cup. Afterward, he added some creamer to lighten his dark roasted java. Buddy snapped a lid down on the cup then raised it to his mouth and sipped lightly.

  Forever having the resigned face of an old warrior, he couldn’t help but allow a look of satisfaction creep over him as he sipped a very good cup of coffee. He glanced around the lobby looking for Dugan who hadn’t shown up yet. That nasty bastard is probably in his room jerking off while he looks at his bank account.

  Small squeaks echoed in the lobby from Buddy’s sneakers as he walked across the polished stone floor in search of a free chair on which to sit while he waited. A young Mexican girl around four years old pointed and laughed at the sounds. He gave the youngster a smile and a wink.

  Buddy lifted the coffee cup to his lips again as he sat. He crossed his legs and tried to keep a worry free appearance even though his concern was ever present. He thought about his youth when he misbehaved, and knew there would be hell to pay when his dad got home. A whipping with a belt was the usual punishment meted out by his old man, but it was the waiting and apprehension that was the worst part of the ordeal. As the old adage went, “anticipation of death is worse than death itself.”

  After twenty minutes passed, the familiar ding of the elevator sounded and Dugan stepped out, as usual, his dress was fashionable. His khaki pants were pressed in a tight crease as was his white button down shirt. The black dress shoes looked as though he had just spit shined them. He glanced around the lobby and spotted Smith sitting in a chair drinking his coffee.

  “I trust you slept well, Mr. Smith?” Dugan asked cordially.

  Buddy shook his head as he sighed audibly. “You are quite the sombitch, Dugan,” he said as he stood. He looked Dugan in the face.

  “You hold the key to the balance of power for the entire fucking world, you’ve taken a good man hostage and plan to kill him, and you’re talking to me about how well I slept, you sick fuck,” he stated.

  “Now, now, Mr. Smith, need I remind you of the civil pact we struck last night? I understand that your operator is also a friend, but don’t forget two things – A. he’s stained, and B. you and the American government entered into a contract with me. Animosity will not win the day, my old friend,” Dugan smirked. “Shall we proceed to the meeting location, sir?”

  Buddy nodded his head reluctantly. He followed Dugan outside to his rental car where he stopped long enough to look around. The morning air was already hot and the day promised to get much hotter.

  “It really is a beautiful country, Mr. Smith. It’s a shame they haven’t figured out how to exploit their natural resources to help move them toward prosperity,” Dugan observed. “As for me, I say fuck ‘em. Business is good.” He opened his car door and slid into his seat. Buddy’s jaws clenched as he did the same.

  He watched as buildings and cars passed by while they drove toward the airport. He wanted desperately to ask where they were going, but held his tongue instead. Patience, old man. You’ve been entirely too wired up and have been taking things personally on this assignment. If you aren’t careful you’re going to let your emotions get the best of you and that’ll be dangerous for you and Buck. Get your head out of your ass.

  The mental pep talk seemed to calm his nerves only moderately. He took another sip of his hot coffee, continuing to savor its robust flavor and aroma. Buddy thought that engaging Dugan in a conversation might be of more value than allowing him to think he had a mental edge over him.

  “Dan,” he started, using Dugan’s given name, “what the hell happened to you? You used to be a good soldier.”

  “Mr. Smith, being a good soldier pays shit. And if you haven’t figured it out yet, your government and country doesn’t give one damn about you or me. I have learned over the years that one man’s evil is another’s prosperity. You, of all people, know this to be true. Many may consider me evil, but I like to think that I’m a business man who provides a service to those who seek me out. In some cases I provide weapons to those desiring freedom from oppression, other times they prefer those illicit drugs that take them away from a brutal reality they would rather not have to deal with. And in your case I provide an army to combat other governments who would pose a threat to your way of life. Does that sound so evil, Mr. Smith?” he finished.

  “So you justify misery, death and despair by supply and demand? I realize there are those who want what you sell, Dan, but that doesn’t mean you have to do it,” Buddy tried to reason.

  “And what would you have me do, Mr. Smith? Work in some factory for a bunch of rich assholes who don’t give a shit about me one way or the other? Perhaps I could start my own small business back home and struggle my entire life to put food on my table. No thank you, sir, I like my chosen profession just fine,” he said with some emphasis.

  “I will say this one last thing, though, Mr. Smith, there are some things in this world beyond our control, but many that aren’t. In my line of work I often seek that which many thought lost or beyond measure and make it mine. I have plans that include much more than just the monetary, you see,” he said.

  Buddy shook his head but decided reasoning with the man wasn’t helping the situation. Something about what he said struck him as odd. He knew men like Dugan always had complex plans and he was certain that his dealings with this dangerous individual were nothing more than one of those complexities. What the rest of his plans were he had no idea, but he hoped to figure it out quickly. It sounded to him like money was secondary and meant much less to him than he previously imagined.

  His heart began racing when Dugan hit the turn signal. A speeding car whipped past them before Dugan turned into the airport. Eyes narrowed, he looked at a large airplane hangar whose roll up door was rising as they approached.

  Dugan tapped his breaks then eased the rental into the hangar. Although there were windows around the building and the lights were on, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to their new environment. He maneuvered around the Camaro and saw one of his guys standing over a naked man who lay shackled on the floor. Buddy s
at up in his seat at the sight of his friend.

  Both men stepped from the car, Buddy a little slower than Dugan. Fancy Shirt nodded at Dugan and handed him a blue United States passport. He opened the document as the man lying on the floor strained to see who stood behind him. A sneer crossed Dugan’s face as he looked at the document and walked around in Roper’s direct line of sight.

  “Well, Mr. Roper is it?” he asked. “Why don’t we cut through the shit and be real with each other,” he stated more than asked.

  “Yeah, I’m not exactly in a position to dance anyway, Dugan,” came Roper’s reply.

  “Right,” Dugan agreed. “So, Mr. Evers,” he began as he tore the passport up and threw it in a trashcan next to his car, “I would say now is a good time to wish Kevin Roper adieu.”

  The man who had been Kevin Roper for seven days was now officially Bill Evers again. Trying to see who else was with Dugan proved fruitless, as the shackles and his battered ribs prevented him from moving too far. He had heard two car doors close so he knew there had been someone else in the car.

  “Who else is here,” Evers demanded. “I know someone else is here. If your plans include killing me at least be man enough to let me see you!”

  Dugan smiled and said, “Ah, yes, of course you should see your judge, jury and executioner.” He motioned for someone to step next to him. Footsteps materialized into feet and legs. Evers looked up and couldn’t believe what his eyes revealed.

  “Buddy! You son of a bitch! You double crossing cocksucker. Go ahead and kill me now because if I ever get out of here, YOU’RE A FUCKING DEAD MAN! Do you understand me,” Evers screamed! He coughed and panted as his rage grew.

  Buddy’s eyes dropped to the floor as Dugan laughed. “Sorry, Buck. Sometimes it’s just about the mission,” he stated.