The Cosega Sequence Box Set

by Brandt Legg

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  END OF BOOK TWO

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Hear More From the Author

  Also By Brandt Legg

  Acknowledgements

  Book Three – Cosega Shift

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Friday July 21st

  The shot rang deafeningly loud; an explosion of blood and flesh covered his chest and face. Rip’s last thought before he collapsed into the water was of the Eysen, and the incomplete Cosega Sequence.

  He flailed in the shallow water, coming up in a pool of blood. Suddenly, rough hands were on him, pulling his shirt, dragging him, and dropping him on the dusty shore. He rolled over and saw a shotgun pointed at his face; then looked into the eyes of the man who’d been dogging him every step since he’d found the Eysen.

  “I was beginning to think you might not really exist, Gaines.”

  Rip realized he hadn’t been hit. The blood and guts, now mostly washed off his body, were Leary’s, who lay dead a few feet away.

  “In case you haven’t guessed, I’m Special Agent Dixon Barbeau, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  Rip nodded and sighed; happy to be alive, and almost relieved it was finally finished.

  “For the world’s most wanted man, there wasn’t one reliable sighting of you until now,” Barbeau said. “Where’s the girl?”

  “I’ve got nothing to say,” Rip said. “Aren’t you going to read me my rights?”

  “You know, professor, there’s a lot I don’t understand about this case, but one thing I do know for sure is that if I arrest you, it’s the same as if I’d let Leary, over there, kill you . . . you’ll be dead before the end of the day.”

  Rip looked at Barbeau, confused.

  “I’m not saying I won’t still be after you; I’m just saying today isn’t the day I arrest you,” Barbeau said frowning.

  “You’re letting me go?”

  “First, I need to know more about what’s really happening.”

  “You’re letting me go?” Rip repeated, looking around.

  “This case isn’t about a self-important, paranoid, half-crazy archaeologist stealing an artifact from a National Forest.”

  “I know. I’m glad you understand that much, at least.”

  “Yeah, well, if I’m going to find out the truth, I need you alive. And, as I said, it’s too dangerous to arrest you.”

  “How are you going to explain him?” Rip asked, pointing at Leary.

  Barbeau glanced at the body with a disgusted look. “That bastard killed my partner. The scumbag is just paperwork now. There’ll be an inquiry, which may take me away for a day, allowing you to get a lead. You did okay with that much of a head start last time, but don’t blow it. And try not to get yourself killed. I’ve got another Vatican agent in custody, but more will be coming, and the NSA is your worst nightmare.”

  Rip stared at Barbeau, slowly getting to his feet. “But you’re letting me go?”

  Barbeau nodded.

  “Thanks . . . or whatever,” Rip said, looking for a long time into Barbeau’s eyes before starting to run toward the plane. Hopefully, his dad’s friend, Dyce, would still be there.

  “Hey, Gaines,” Barbeau called.

  “Yeah?” Rip stopped and turned back; thinking Barbeau had changed his mind.

  “Is that Eysen really worth all this?” He waved his gun towards Leary and Hall; the motion implying a dozen other deaths, or at least Rip took it that way.

  Rip looked directly at Barbeau. “It’s worth the whole world.”

  Chapter 2

  Jaeger, the senior NSA official, watched the large screen in a darkened room, about two hours south of Rip’s location. The NSA command center in Phoenix, Arizona, like most of their operations, was highly classified. Two other operatives were seated at the large table.

  “Barbeau let Gaines go,” Jaeger said.

  “Are you surprised?” an operative asked.

  “Pleasantly.” Jaeger almost smiled. “However, I’ve got less than three minutes to either have our people apprehend him or let him board that plane.” Jaeger drummed his fingers on the table, while viewing live footage of Gaines making his way to the landing strip. It wasn’t as if the NSA didn’t have significant reach outside the U.S., and they were particularly well represented in Mexico, Rip’s likely destination, but each hour Gaines remained free made the situation harder to control. The person troubling him wasn’t even Gaines; it was Booker Lipton. The report he’d just read on the President’s summit, where all the players seeking Gaines were in attendance, confirmed that Booker wasn’t playing ball.

  Jaeger believed he had the FBI and White House under control, and the Vatican worried him only a little, especially with one of the Vatican’s two lead agents dead, and the other agent in custody. But Booker knew how to evade the NSA better than anyone; mainly because his companies were the primary manufacturers and suppliers of most of the monitoring equipment and software used by the intelligence community, including the NSA.

  It made Jaeger nervous that many of Booker’s ex-employees were now on the NSA staff; others had trained large numbers of operatives on equipment use and countless former NSA, CIA, FBI, DIA, and DHS agents were working for Booker’s companies. “Too damned incestuous,” Jaeger had told his superiors more than once. If they let Gaines fly away on that plane, it would be increasingly difficult to prevent Booker from getting to him first.

  The NSA had people who could attempt to understand the Eysen, but it was no ordinary computer, and it required more than technical know-how. Data intercepted from the Vatican made it clear that only Gaines could unlock its secrets. The NSA profile on the famed archaeologist made it abundantly clear that he would not help them. All along, Jaeger had worked to change that by having Gaines cooperate, unknowingly.

  “We have to let him go . . . again,” Jaeger said, pulling his drumming fingers into a fist and knocking twice on the table, as the screen showed an image of Gaines nearing the plane.

  “What about taking Booker into custody?” the operative asked.

  “I considered it, when we had him at the White House, but he’d be out in hours.”

  “What if we eliminated him?”

  “That plan is already in place; should the need arise,” Jaeger said.

  “No easy task with his private army of spies, mercenaries, and trained agents.”

  “Far from guaranteed. And, let us not forget, Booker’s plans may include the same for us.”

  Jaeger turned his attention to another screen and watched news coverage of Gaines’ death. “Famed archaeologist, Ripley Gaines, was killed today in a shootout with federal law enforcement. The bizarre case began ten days ago in Virginia with the professor’s disappearance; he allegedly stole important artifacts that had been unearthed in the Jefferson National Forest. Gaines was subsequently charged with the murder of a lab worker, but those charges
were later dropped. Viewers, please use discretion, the following footage contains graphic images of violence which some may find disturbing.” He mouthed the words as the anchor said them. Jaeger had written the copy two days earlier. The footage had been prepared by the same NSA lab that did the film of Gaines viewing photos of Josh Stadler’s body and paying off the killers. Those images that Jaeger had shown to Sean Stadler, on the way to Asheville.

  “It’s amazing, people go to the movies and watch Superman fly, dinosaurs eat people, and all kinds of murder and death, as realistic as if it happened in front of their eyes, and yet they never question what they see on the TV news,” Jaeger said.

  “TV news is a oxymoron.” One of the others laughed.

  Jaeger nodded, smiling, then flipped a switch; a previously dark monitor came to life, showing a live feed of a sleepy motel outside Flagstaff, Arizona. Agents were already there, waiting for Gale to make a move.

  “Gaines ditched his tracking device, but apparently neglected to tell his girlfriend,” Jaeger said. “Or she’s playing it smart.”

  “Has she called Senator Monroe?” an operative asked.

  “Not yet. Gale Asher has only made one phone call . . . to the last person you’d expect.”

  Chapter 3

  Booker stood holding a customized Kreighoff K80 shotgun; as the clay pigeon zoomed far above his head. Skeet shooting helped him release anger, but he’d already said “pull” three times and had yet to fire a shot. He knew the news reports of Rip’s death were false, but for all practical purposes; he might as well be dead. Booker had learned too late that the NSA had used his planned extraction site to undermine his relationship with Rip. The NSA operatives masquerading as FBI agents finalized the increasing mistrust between the two old friends. Rip might not give him another chance, and Booker had already used the Larsen surprise, his best hope. “Pull,” he repeated. This time he shot, blowing the target to dust.

  The NSA had many advantages. They “owned” the President, and Attorney General; therefore the FBI. And, for the moment, they knew where Rip was and he did not. Booker’s best guess was that Rip’s father was helping him get into Mexico. The NSA had neutralized the FBI and would allow him to “escape”; then watch every move. Booker and the NSA were locked in a chess match, with the winner taking the Eysen, and all of its promised power. There was one remaining bright spot; if all went well, Booker might soon have a very surprising new asset in the game.

  “Pull!” Another disc was obliterated.

  He got off three more perfect shots, before his scrambled satphone buzzed. Booker looked up to the stratosphere, as if trying to spot the spy satellites that he knew were up there. Then, he answered the phone.

  “Gale, thank you for putting up with all these annoying nuisances.”

  “I understand the precautions,” she responded. Gale had called ninety minutes earlier, but not on a direct number, and it took a while to get the call transferred through channels. After that, arrangements needed to be made for a secure line.

  “It’s not easy to make an unmonitored call, when the NSA is watching your every move,” Booker said. “Wherever you are at the moment, they are there also.”

  “Rip is dead. Why would I still be under surveillance?”

  Booker had anticipated this part of the conversation and debated the best way to play it. On one hand, he could deliver the good news, which she would eventually learn anyway; however, in spite of Larsen’s assurances to the contrary, she was likely assisting the Vatican and/or the NSA. Gale’s connection to his two competitors, through her former lover and current friend, Senator Monroe, was too coincidental not to be an indication of a conspiracy. And if she knew that Rip was alive, Gale might not have a reason to continue communications with Booker.

  “It’s a complex and messy business, and there are many moving parts to all of this. Your relationships with Rip, Larsen, and Senator Monroe make you a person of interest, to say the least.”

  “You’re a hypocrite,” Gale blasted. “You turned Rip against me because my friendship with Monroe scares you. What about your relationship with Monroe? If we were to judge people solely by the company they keep, you’d be in prison!”

  “I don’t hide my relationships from those closest to me,” Booker countered.

  “We were running for our lives; Rip didn’t want me along, and I wasn’t about to give him another reason not to take me.”

  “Just what is your interest in all this?” Booker asked, trying to avoid making her angrier.

  “I’m the reporter, I get to ask the questions.”

  “Gale, you aren’t ever going to write this story,” Booker said calmly. “Maybe you should stop looking for the facts and start searching for the truth.”

  “Facts and truth aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  “More often than not; they are.”

  “I didn’t call you to debate philosophy. I need your help.”

  “I’m glad you contacted me, but I’m also curious; why aren’t you talking to Senator Monroe instead?”

  “Because the Senator is in more trouble than I am.”

  Chapter 4

  Rip had a clear view of the plane and, more importantly, the pilot. It was definitely his dad’s buddy, Dyce. No one else seemed to be there. He looked over his shoulder for the hundredth time – no sign of Barbeau or anyone else – and darted toward the plane.

  “Rip!” Dyce shouted as he approached. “Damn, I was ‘bout ready to give up on you, son. Then I heard shots, figured you were close, or dead. Just decided to give you three more minutes, then planned on hightailing it outta here. Didn’t want to get the plane, or myself, shot up. Are you okay?”

  “Where’s my dad?”

  “They’re watching him too close. He didn’t want to risk it.”

  “Who?”

  “Beats me. Don’t you know?”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Was when I saw him last.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  As they were strapping into the four-seater, Dyce’s cell phone beeped. “Damn, it’s your dad; said he wouldn’t call unless there was trouble,” Dyce said, looking worried.

  “Answer it.”

  “Yeah,” Dyce said into the phone. “Then he looks pretty good for a dead man. Yeah, I’m sure. He’s sitting right here, if you want to talk to him.”

  Dyce handed Rip the phone and then started the engine.

  “Dad?”

  “Rip, the news is running a story that you were killed in a shootout with the feds.”

  “That’s probably what they were planning, but I’m fine.”

  “Then I just blew your cover, they probably know where you are now. Sorry. I never would have called if . . . ”

  “Don’t worry about it, we’re moving. I’m disconnecting.”

  “God speed, Rip.”

  Seconds later, they were airborne. Jaeger saw it happen live on his big screen and hoped he had made the right decision. Barbeau watched from the ground; hoping the same thing.

  Rip took the battery out of Dyce’s phone, unaware that the NSA already knew his exact location. The plane’s model number, fuel capacity, range, and numerous other factors were fed into an NSA computer that calculated potential flight paths and destinations; the results automatically updated each time the pilot made a turn. Jaeger already had teams scrambling in Mexico.

  Barbeau waited twenty-five minutes before calling in. He would have liked to give Gaines more time to get away, but with an agent killed; he couldn’t afford the risk. Already the details would need to be fudged and an entire story created, since Nanski would be a material witness. Nanski, apprehended and locked in the car since before Hall or Leary were killed, could testify as to times of shots and the plane taking off. Normally, it would be Barbeau’s word against his, but eventually Nanski would be talking to the Attorney General who would most likely side with the Vatican agent.

  Without thinking, Barbeau pulled the folded evidence bag from
his pocket containing the dirt from Chimayó. Kneeling over Hall’s body, he sprinkled the contents on his dead colleague. Then the hardened FBI agent stared, anticipating something to happen, but knowing the sacred soil was powerless against a force as great as death. A simple lead bullet had stolen another life. “How hard a life is to live and so easy to end,” Barbeau whispered.

  His sense of loss and grief took him by surprise. He didn’t even think he liked Hall, but realized he had. Hall was like Barbeau, both dedicated agents working way beyond what was required. But somehow, Hall had done it right, and managed some semblance of a life outside the Bureau. Barbeau hadn’t been envious of that; he respected it, admired Hall for it. He’d have to call Hall’s girlfriend and tell her the god damned awful news. He’d say something nice that she wouldn’t hear, but would always remember.

  Barbeau looked over at Leary’s bloody body, wishing he could resurrect the bastard, just so he could punch his face a few times before shooting him all over again. He reached for invisible cigarettes, long ago given up, or was it for a flask. Damn, it wasn’t there anymore either.

  Chapter 5

  They landed on a remote runway, far better than the one they had lifted off from in Arizona. Dyce explained that American tourists flying their own planes to Mexico for vacations had once used the strip, but in recent years drug smugglers had taken it over and made improvements.

  A driver waited, smoking a cigarette. Rip noticed a pile of butts by the car. “You’re late,” the old Mexican said in perfect English.

  “I’ll double your pay, if you stop complaining now,” Dyce said.

  “Shoooot, you don’t have enough to pay me half of what I’m worth. Probably expecting me to buy dinner, too.” The driver laughed.

  He reminded Rip of Grinley, the old drug dealer who had helped them escape in Taos. For a moment, Rip thought of asking the driver if he knew him.

  “Rip,” Dyce began. “This is Elpate the Great, a very old and trusted friend.”