Sean Wyatt Compilation Box Set

by Ernest Dempsey

  “Eric. Stop. Don’t move, Eric! Don’t do it!”

  As soon as the barrel was pressed against his skin, he squeezed the trigger.

  The loud pop was accompanied by burst of blood that splattered across the bed and wall. Starks turned her head at the sight.

  Jennings’s eyes stared ahead for a moment, his body wavering. Then he toppled over backward.

  Immediately, the door burst open, and special agents wearing bulletproof vests rushed into the room with guns drawn. When they saw the body on the floor, they lowered their weapons.

  Emily just stared down at the corpse for what seemed like an hour before being interrupted by one of the men from her team. “Orders, ma’am?” The young agent had stepped over the body and handed her a robe from the closet. She’d forgotten that she was still basically naked. She snapped out of her daze and returned to being the director she was. “Thank you,” she smiled at him briefly. “We will take care of this quietly. The news report will be that we discovered the body. He had financial problems, and they had become too overwhelming for him to bear.”

  The young agent nodded. His loose, blond hair shook when he did. “Yes, ma’am.” He immediately pressed a button on his earpiece and started sending out the orders as he turned and left the room.

  Emily tied the robe around her waist and sat down on the edge of the chair she’d previously occupied. A sickening stench of gun smoke and blood remained in the air.

  She’d hoped to take Jennings alive. Now whatever information he had about his employer was gone.

  Chapter 69

  Southwestern United States

  Alexander Lindsey made his way down a darkly lit hallway. Four large bodyguards accompanied him, following close behind. The corridor was lit with old candle sconces made from wrought iron. Unlike most sconces in the present day, the building’s purveyors used fresh, real candles every day. Lindsey liked that about the establishment. It gave the place a serene, almost haunted feel.

  The building they were visiting was called The Galleon, an elitist club that was named as tribute to the mighty ships of the Spanish Armada. Though its name hinted at an overall Spanish theme, the club actually paid honor to many different types of sailing vessels from years gone by. Near each sconce was an oil panting of a famous oceangoing vessel. Some belonged to great captains from history. Others were associated with less reputable seafarers.

  The Galleon was an oddity given that it was located in Salt Lake City, nowhere near an ocean. The founder had, no doubt, a love of the sea and history, so when he opened his club for Utah’s elite, he combined the two to create a unified theme.

  Lindsey had been there a few times for business meetings that would be better left out of the public eye. That was probably the greatest service that the establishment provided.

  On the outside, it seemed just like any other private club, a place where businessmen could have a drink or a cigar and unwind after their daily toils. The inside, though, was a facility full of secrets.

  Aside from the main lounge, there were ten smaller rooms, each featuring leather couches and chairs, mini-bars, restrooms, fireplaces, and even small tables for eating. It was rumored that hundreds of under-the-table deals had been made in the facility. Even two former presidents were members and had been said to visit the place when meeting with foreign heads of state or with high-level business officials. The floor was made from dark, worn oak planks that had been said to come from two old merchant vessels the owner had purchased for scrap. A narrow strip of dark red carpet ran along the center of the hall between each of the ten rooms.

  Lindsey and his escorts arrived at a door marked with the name Sir Francis Drake. He looked left to right at his bodyguards and then pulled the door handle.

  As the door eased open, Mornay and Carrol looked over from their seats near the fireplace. Their conversation had come to an abrupt halt.

  Alexander eyed both of them suspiciously. “Don’t let me interrupt you, gentlemen. It sounded like you were talking about something.” His tone was lathered in a condescending tone.

  The two men’s faces were awash with a combination of guilt and fear. The fire in the hearth crackled dramatically in the silence.

  “Alexander,” Carrol said with a stutter, “please, come join us.” He stood cautiously. “Would you like a brandy?” he offered, nearly stumbling over the coffee table as he headed toward the bar.

  “Sit down, Jonathan.” The harsh order startled the already unsettled man, and he felt his way into a seat near where he was standing. Mornay was less eager to acquiesce to the request and stood up defiantly. “You too, Albert,” Alexander said with a tone that carried a warning.

  The narrow, sharp face of Mornay clenched angrily. “I think I’ll stand, Alexander. What are you doing here? It is against club policy to interrupt a room with closed doors.”

  Lindsey gave a quick nod to his escorts, who walked over to where Mornay was standing and forced him to sit down, splashing the whiskey he was holding all over the floor and his pants.

  “I said sit down,” Lindsey replied coldly. “And the club makes certain allowances for its more generous patrons.” He grinned slightly as he made his way across the room to where the two men were seated. The remaining bodyguards closed the door behind him and stood, staring lifelessly toward the fireplace.

  Mornay’s anger only heightened at the fact that two men pushed him into sitting in the deep leather couch. He hated being treated like a child. “What is this about?” he asked, incredulous.

  Carrol tried a different approach, perhaps thinking that being a little proactive would change the emotions of the room a bit. “How are things progressing with our project?” he asked sheepishly.

  Lindsey turned to the fleshy man whose three-piece suit protruded awkwardly around his rotund figure. “Ah. Our little project. Yes, Jonathan, it’s interesting that you should ask about that. Very interesting indeed.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mornay interrupted.

  “Things are progressing quite well, it seems. In fact, our lead operative has made an extremely valuable discovery.”

  “Another clue?” Carrol offered in vain hope.

  Lindsey snorted. “I guess you could call it that.” The old man stepped around the couch and eased into a leather chair facing both men.

  “You see, Agent Hastings ran into an interesting situation while in South America.” He paused momentarily and let the drama build along with the fear in his subordinates’ minds. Neither man dared look at the other, still clinging to hope that their treachery hadn’t been discovered. “It seems there was another player involved that I was previously unaware of.”

  “So,” Mornay said defiantly. “Did our operative handle the situation?”

  The old man let out a low chuckle and raised a finger toward Mornay. “Which operative are you talking about, Albert?” His tone had become almost playful, dangling his victims over the possibility of escape or doom.

  “Hastings. Did he get rid of the problem?”

  Even now, Mornay was still obstinate. Lindsey knew he would never bow, never be trustworthy. To complete the mission at hand, Lindsey would need men he could depend on, those who would do anything he said without question. The two men before him had not only proved themselves unreliable but had actually gone behind his back and tried to sabotage the mission. Had they succeeded, Lindsey feared everything would have been lost. They would have, no doubt, simply taken the treasure and quit there, happy to fill their coffers with more loot. Men like that only cared about money.

  Lindsey’s thoughts still lingered on the two betrayers. Mornay, especially, was infatuated with superficial power. He believed that money could buy power. Money could buy people and votes and material possessions, but a twenty-five-cent bullet could take all of that away in a second. Disease could destroy an entire life’s work and cut short everything a person had worked for. An idiot texting on the interstate could swerve over and crash your car along with theirs
, killing you without notice. No, money was not power. A greater power existed. And the two morons two whom the Prophet spoke had put the acquisition of that power at great risk. Their greed and foolish ambition could have ruined everything he had worked so diligently to attain.

  “He got rid of that part of the problem, yes.” Lindsey looked thoughtful for a moment. Mornay and Carrol gave each other a cautious sideways glance. They may have actually believed they would get away with it.

  “Good,” Carrol chimed in. “So things will continue to move forward?”

  He looked at Carrol then Mornay. “Come, gentlemen. I have convened a meeting of the Order and need you both to attend. We must leave at once.”

  The sudden request caught the other two off guard. They both looked at each other with a combined expression of confusion and relief. “Lead the way,” Carrol said as he stood simultaneously with Mornay.

  “You will ride with these men here,” Lindsey said flatly.

  “What about our cars?” Mornay protested.

  Alexander waved a dismissive hand. “We will take care of them.” With that, he led the way back out the door and down the hall, followed closely by the two men. The bodyguards formed around the two as they exited the room.

  Carrol looked around nervously. There were no other people in sight. As they rounded the corner toward the lounge, they noticed that it, too, was completely vacant. He said nothing but became immediately concerned about the odd lack of patronage. That time of day was usually fairly busy for the club. The group made their way out a side door where many of The Galleon’s members entered and exited. It was another way the club provided anonymity to its valued clientele.

  Darkness had fallen on the city, and a cold chill burst through the doorway. Once through the heavy metal doors, the group was greeted by three black GMC Yukons. The first two vehicles had guards standing next to them. The back passenger doors of the SUVs were open, awaiting their passengers.

  As the group neared the parked convoy, Lindsey suddenly stopped and turned around, facing his two vice presidents. He said nothing for a few seconds, and the two men stood, wondering what the awkward moment was for. They never saw the guards come up from behind and yank the hoods down over their heads. Each man was grabbed by two guards, and their hands were bound quickly behind their backs. Before the unwitting adepts could even force a scream of protest they had been thrown into the back seats of the two vehicles.

  Lindsey nodded to the drivers, and as soon as a guard had closed the back doors the trucks took off and disappeared around the corner at the other end of the alley.

  Ten men sat silently in the small auditorium. The room was designed like a half circle, made from mountain stone. Walls were lit with weathered brass candle sconces. Most of the light, however, emanated from an iron chandelier that hung from the domed ceiling. Unlike the candles on the walls, it was powered by electricity. The seating area was much like a surgical observation deck, about seven or eight feet above the sand-covered floor below. All of the faces were as blank as the stone that surrounded them.

  Their leader, Alexander Lindsey, appeared in a doorway on the floor level and walked across the sand to the center of the room. He stood next to something that would seem odd in any facility save for the New York Stock exchange. A large bronze bull standing about six feet high and eight feet long was in the middle of the small auditorium. Underneath it, a pit of logs had been built, reaching just short of the figure’s belly.

  Lindsey looked around the room before he spoke. “Today,” he began, “we must do something that has not been done in a long time. It has been many decades since one of our own has betrayed us. Yet today I present to you two who have directly opposed our leadership and our mission.”

  As he finished the sentence, two guards in black hoods brought out the two prisoners.

  Their hands and feet had been shackled with chains, and their clothes had been stripped down to their underwear. Hoods covered the men’s heads, shielding their faces from view, but all those in attendance knew who they were. Carrol and Mornay were the two highest-ranking officials in the Order right beneath the Imperator himself. As adepts, they were charged with carrying out any directives the leader imposed. What they had done was treason, and everyone present knew the consequences. As Imperator, only Lindsey had the power to execute another member of the Order. In a savvy maneuver, he’d actually allowed the subject to be put to a vote to the other members of the council. The evidence had been compelling. The vote had been unanimous.

  Both subjects were positioned directly in front of the brass bull and their hoods removed.

  Carrol’s desperate eyes searched the small audience for some hint of mercy. “Please!” he begged. “You can’t do this! This is murder! Murder!” The faces in the observation area were unmoved. One of the guards jammed an elbow into the sobbing man’s kidneys, dropping him to his knees and ending the pleading.

  Lindsey stared at them. “You knew the consequences of your actions,” he said.

  For the first time, Mornay’s face was filled with terror. He dropped to his knees in front of Lindsey. “We made a mistake. But you don’t have to do this. I’ll do anything you say, Alex. Anything.”

  Desperation was in the man’s voice. As was his act of falling to his knees. Unmoved, Alexander turned and raised a hand, waving it dramatically to the council. “The council has spoken unanimously.” He paused for a moment. “So let it be done.”

  “No. No!” Carrol screamed as one of the executioners opened the door on the side of the bull and pulled out a mask attached to a metal tube. His screams became muffled momentarily as the mask was slipped over the squirming man’s face and the harness tightened around the back of his head. Carrol was then shoved through the door of the beast onto a metal rack. His screams now transformed into an eerie, haunting sound coming from the mouth of the bull.

  Mornay shook his head violently as the other executioner pushed him toward the device. The hooded man grabbed him by the neck and forced his head to stop moving as he slipped the mask over Albert’s nose and mouth. Satisfied that the harness was tight enough, he began to shove Mornay into the belly of the bull.

  Lindsey held up his hand, stopping the executioner momentarily. He stepped close to his former adept and stared into the man’s wide, horror-filled eyes. “I told you not to call me Alex,” he whispered and then stepped back. A slow nod told the executioner what to do.

  Mornay’s screams soon joined Carrol’s as they filtered through the pipes and out of the bull’s mouth.

  The guards closed the side door and locked it tight, concealing the victims inside the device.

  Within, the men could be heard wiggling around as their chains clanked against the inner walls. The guards then stepped to opposite sides of the fire pit and got down on one knee. Simultaneously, they reached down and picked up a long lighter from the ground and pressed the button, igniting the flame. A few seconds later, the kindling at the bottom of the pit had begun to flicker. As the logs began to catch fire, the screams became louder from the mouth of the bull until the eerie sounds echoed around the chamber.

  The inside of the brazen bull had not really even begun to heat up yet. The victims were placed on a sort of shelf on the inside so that the hot sides and bottom wouldn’t burn them immediately. It was more devious to prevent such searing. The dying men’s screams would become louder as the hours progressed. Only near the end would their cries cease. It was an excruciating way to die.

  Lindsey watched for a few minutes with a disturbing grin on his face. Satisfied that the job was done, he turned to the council and nodded. Then he exited through the dark door where he had entered. The others proceeded to file out of the above exits as well, leaving the executioners alone to tend the fire—with the screams.

  Chapter 70

  Atlanta

  Sean sat at a table with Emily Starks in a secluded corner of the Buckhead Coffee House. She’d come to Atlanta to help Sean tie up some of the loose
ends from the events of the previous week. The shop was a nice change from some of the busier coffee places in the area. They did good business, but it never seemed like it was a corporate gathering hole for wannabe freelancers and consultants. Outside, people walked by, looking in the windows occasionally but usually continuing on to one of the boutiques that surrounded the café. The décor of the place was clever. It felt more like a log cabin than anything else. There were wood appointments and tables that went perfectly with the wood-paneled walls. Sean likened it to a Cracker Barrel that specialized in coffee and tea. Typical noises of a coffee shop filled the air and mingled with the scents of espresso, house blends, and foamy lattes. His eyes scanned the scene as he sipped his mocha. Returning his focus to Emily, he set the cup down.

  “So Jennings was working for the Order?” Sean asked as he lowered his cup coffee.

  She nodded. “Apparently. And all this time I thought Townsend was the dirty one. Turns out Jennings murdered him and tried to frame some other guy, though we aren’t sure why just yet. We are assuming it is because Townsend was getting too close to discovering Jennings’s dealings.”

  “Any leads?”

  “No,” she shook her head. “Nothing that we can use. This man that is running Golden Dawn remains a mystery, at least for now.”

  “He’ll turn up eventually.” Sean took another sip of his coffee.

  She changed the subject. “I know you had a question for me before, about a woman who called herself Allison Webster.”

  “Yeah,” Sean’s facial expression remained stoic as he lowered the cup.

  “She isn’t one of mine,” Emily said flatly.

  His demeanor still didn’t change. “Then who is she?”

  “We think some rogue working out of London. She hasn’t done anything to threaten us, so, right now, we are leaving her alone.”

  Sean smiled at the information but stared down at his coffee. “She’s a treasure hunter,” he said finally, more to himself than to Emily. “A thief, to be more precise.”