A Covenant of Thieves

by Christian Velguth

  He nodded consolingly. “We’re doing what we can. But, Director Lyle, they didn’t take the Koh-I-Noor.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “The thieves, they didn’t take the diamond. They took the, ah –” He brought up the manifest on his lenses again. “MH. Whatever that is.”

  “Oh. Oh.” Deputy Director Lyle let out a shuddering breath, then gave a laugh that didn’t sound entirely stable. “I really wish you had led with that.”

  Booker glanced at the Detective, who looked as bewildered as he felt by her reaction. “I’m guessing MH was less of a headache to get on loan?”

  “Yes. Well, no, I mean – it’s a valuable piece, and of course I’m still devastated, but…” She laughed again, running a hand through her hair. “It’s not a giant fucking diamond, is it?”

  Booker smiled. “So what is it?”

  “The Mitchell-Hedges skull.”

  Hollis coughed. “A skull?”

  “Yes.” Lyle nodded, then glanced between the two of them. “Oh, not a real skull. It’s an artifact, carved from a single block of crystal quartzite.”

  “A crystal skull,” Booker said slowly, already searching the ACT’s database for a profile.

  “A remarkable piece, really. Anatomically it’s almost a perfect replica, and the method by which it was created still hasn’t been entirely determined.” She shrugged. “Of course, it’s almost certainly a fake. A hoax, I mean. Frederick Albert Mitchell-Hedges claimed to have found it the jungles of Belize in the early 1900s, but that’s never really been validated. And then there’s the curse, of course.”

  Booker pulled up a 3D model. It looked exactly as the Director had described: a skull of clear, shimmering quartz, remarkable in its anatomical accuracy.

  “Curse?” Hollis echoed.

  Lyle flapped a hand. “Stories. Supposedly the skull showed visions of the future, predicted the deaths of celebrities, JFK and the like. Superstition, but that’s what made it so perfect for the Modern Myths exhibit. Not our usual fare, I’ll admit, but the public is less interested in history today than ever before. Nobody cares about the past when we’ve got a climatic paradigm shift on our hands, so the museum needs a hook. Something exciting that to reinvigorate our patrons. We’ve tried immersive VR environments, animatronics, even those genetic monsters Radical Dynamics has been breeding.” She sounded defensive, almost guilty, and Booker got the impression she had given some variation of this speech countless times before. “The skull is just the sort of…well, nonsense that captures the public imagination. And the thieves stole it?”

  “It would appear so,” Booker said. “This skull, is it valuable?”

  She shrugged. “To some, I suppose. The Mitchell-Hedges estate will certainly consider it a loss, but…well, I have to admit I’m relieved. We still have the Koh-I-Noor!” She put on a stern expression. “Though I still expect you to pursue the thieves to the fullest extent of your capabilities.”

  “Of course, Director.” Booker switched from the model of the skull to the shipping manifest. “And what’s in the third case, marked OI?”

  “One of the cipher stones from Oak Island,” Lyle said at once. “Not much better than the Mitchell-Hedges skull, honestly. But again, there’s a curse attached, so it fits.”

  “Is the diamond cursed too?” Hollis seemed to be trying not to smile.

  Lyle’s gaze narrowed on him. “Yes. According to the legend, only a woman can own it without suffering terrible misfortune.”

  Hollis only looked more amused by this.

  “Can you think of any reason why the thieves would have targeted the Mitchell-Hedges skull and not the other pieces?” Booker asked.

  She looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook her head. “My only guess is that they didn’t know about the Koh-I-Noor and didn’t care about the cipher stone. From a monetary standpoint, obviously, the Koh-I-Noor is the real prize. Half my staff had never even heard of the skull before we started putting this exhibition together.”

  After securing further assurances from Booker and Hollis that they would hunt the thieves to the ends of the Earth, the Operations Director excused herself to “go put out a mountain of fires.”

  “There’s no way the perps didn’t know about the diamond,” Hollis said firmly.

  “I agree. They did their research; they knew exactly when to hit the shipment. At the very least, they had a copy of the manifest. This job was too well-planned for that sort of oversight.”

  “So they know about the diamond, but they target this skull. Which, according to Director Lyle, isn’t worth its weight in cheese.” The detective matched Booker’s thoughtful stance for a few moments before sighing in exasperation. “None of this makes a bit of sense to me.”

  “My guess? Our thieves were hired to lift the skull by a third party interested in it specifically, with explicit instructions not to touch anything else. Maybe they hoped the, ah, niche nature of the skull would keep efforts to retrieve it at a minimum.”

  “But that only passes the buck. Why would anyone go through the trouble? Even Lyle talked like she only added it to the exhibit as an afterthought.”

  “You’d be surprised what people place value in, Detective. There’s a definite pattern here. Every item in the Modern Myths exhibition has some folklore attached to it. That draws a specific type of collector, with a specific type of fanaticism.”

  “Hey,” Hollis said suddenly. “What about a cult?”

  Booker gave him a blank stare. “A cult.”

  “Yeah. She said the skull was cursed, right? Maybe the third party is a doomsday cult or something, and the skull is, like, their idol. Ever run into anything like that before?”

  “No, Detective, I can’t say that I have. But, by all means, have your people look into it. And let me know if you find any temples of doom.”

  Two

  Houston

  Texas, Coastal Destabilized Zone 9

  Hurricane Ilse, Category 5, was not the first of its kind to slam into Galveston Bay and wreak havoc on coastal Texas. But it was, according to some, the last.

  “The Storm that Drowned Texas,” as it later came to be known, was only one in a long line of monstrous hurricanes that had contributed to the formation of the Coastal Destabilized Zones. It hit the Bay with thirty-foot surges and pushed directly into the heart of Houston. The flooding alone was unparalleled, yet it was nothing compared to the damage to come. Porous limestone – already weakened by decades of flooding and urban development – gave way to seven sinkholes that swallowed up portions of Pasadena, Galena Park, Jacinto City, and Midtown. This, in turn, destabilized the surrounding geology, leading to a period of tectonic unrest and minor collapses that endured for just shy of five months.

  When the dust finally settled, Galveston Island was gone and the Bay had been extended almost three miles inland. Houston, once a symbol of Texan resilience in the face of turbulent times, had been reduced to a swampy abscess occupied only by ruthless gangs and the desperate survivors that they preyed upon.

  Rick Álvarez had been ten years old at the time. Now, seventeen years later, he was only mildly surprised to find that nothing had really changed.

  “Holy mother of Christ. I thought I smelled something foul. Someone fetch Pequin and have him drag his useless ass down to the tunnels, because it looks like the sewers have backed up again.”

  Rick grinned through the hot blood filling his mouth. “I knew you’d missed me, Augustus –”

  “He fuckin ask you t’ speak?” The young woman holding a gun to his spine drove her boot into the back of his knee, sending Rick down to the smooth, cool floor of the museum’s atrium.

  In its heyday, the atrium of the Houston Museum of Fine Arts had been an open-air space filled with diffused white light and some of the oldest pieces on display. Post-Hurricane Ilsa, it had filled with survivors of the storm seeking refuge as the city collapsed around them -- Rick included. Since then Augustus Chilton had converted it into a throne
room.

  Lit only by lanterns scattered amidst the artifacts that had been too large for looting – a massive marble sarcophagus, the headless torso of a nude female sculpture, defaced and defiled with obscene graffiti – Chilton lounged on a curving bench of steel and white canvas stretched taut by his weight. About two dozen of his goons were scattered throughout the room like court attendants, dressed in the grey fatigues of Chilton’s gang, muttering and hefting their weapons threateningly.

  Rick tried to pick himself up, but his guard shoved him back down with the barrel of her rifle. Chilton raised a hand lazily. “Easy, Maria. Don’t want to treat our guest too rough. Don’t you know who he is?”

  “Said he was government,” the bundle of bad attitude named Maria hissed. “Some sort of assassin.”

  Chilton broke into laughter that ended with a series of hacking coughs. Carefully Rick raised his gaze from the floor. The man’s hair had gone from thick blonde to thinning grey and his neck descended into the wide-open collar of a crimson kimono in a series of folds. A delicate gold necklace glittered through wiry chest hair. “You’re looking old, Augustus. Fat, too.”

  “The hazards of being on top,” Chilton said cheerily. “No, Maria, this man is nothing of the sort. He’s far worse. An orphan of Ilse, a rat who found his way out of the sewer. Behold, children!” His voice rose dramatically, echoing in the atrium. “The Two Little Shits of Houston have come home! Though I see only one squatting on my floor.”

  Chuckles moved through the room like a soft breeze. Rick supposed he probably did smell like shit, after his crawl through the tunnels that traveled beneath the museum. He shrugged. “Kai and I parted ways a long time ago. You should probably be thankful for that.”

  “Oh, I am. The brute would have made a fine foot soldier, if he weren’t too stupid to see the benefit of entering into my service. Still –” Chilton waved over one of his soldiers. “Get outside and start making the rounds. I don’t believe for a second this man came here alone.”

  “Right. Uh – who are we looking for?”

  “A walking gorilla. Trust me, you’ll know when you see him.”

  The soldier gathered three of his fellows and they filed out of the atrium. Chilton sat up with some difficulty, the piece of modern art serving as his throne squealing dangerously. He propped his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his hands. “Now, Richard Álvarez – what the hell are you doing in my city?”

  Rick opened his mouth, but his escort spoke first. “He was sneaking around the basement. I think he did something to Bama, sir. I can’t find him anywhere.”

  Chilton cocked an eyebrow. “And where was Bama?”

  “He was – he was on duty. Downstairs.”

  “Jerking off in the closet, you mean.” Chilton frowned thoughtfully, then slapped his knee. “Damn. The tunnels! That’s how you got in, isn’t it? Then and now.”

  “Nothing slips past you, does it, Augustus? It’s only been, what, twelve years?”

  Maria slapped the back of his head. Chilton leaned back, a musing look on his face. “I was not unaware of their existence. My people surveyed them once your old sanctuary came into my possession. I was told any way in or out had become impassable.”

  “Sir,” Maria said. “Bama –”

  “Yes, yes. Álvarez?”

  “I left him in the tunnels,” Rick said. He’d come across the guard on his way into the museum: a kid barely older than he had been when he left Houston behind. “He’s alive, but with a splitting headache. If he’s smart, he’s halfway across town by now.”

  “Hmm. You never were a killer, were you? That was left to the big one.”

  Rick felt Maria’s presence leave his back. “I’ll go get Bama –”

  “No. Let him find his own way out. Teach him to screw around on the job. If he doesn’t come back by dawn, I’ll send out the raiders.”

  “I – yes, sir.”

  Chiton nodded, the business settled. He heaved himself off the bench and approached Rick, the hem of his kimono trailing behind like a pool of blood. “So really, Richard. Why the hell are you here?”

  At a nod from Chilton, Rick was allowed to get to his feet. Despite the years, he still stood a head shorter than Chilton. Though he was nowhere near as frightened of the man as he’d once been. “I left some things behind. Personal items, of no value to you. Thought I’d come back for them.”

  “My people swept the museum, roof to root. There were no personal items. Just squatter’s trash.” He extended a hand. “The bag.”

  Moving with visible reluctance, Rick shrugged out of the strap and handed his satchel over. Chilton opened it and peered inside. Rick clenched his jaw as Chilton removed the bundle of impact foam. The old man’s eyebrows jumped like two surprised caterpillars as he gingerly unwrapped it to reveal a delicate ivory gunpowder flask. “The archives?”

  “Hell of a mess down there,” Rick growled. “You don’t deserve this place.”

  Chilton laughed, holding up the flask for all in the room to see. The ivory tusk was carved with reliefs of natural imagery: a leaping deer, a crouching leopard, an unsuspecting goat. It was an exquisite artifact of the Mughal Dynasty, circa 1600 -- and it was also the key to a hundred grand in untraceable crypto, courtesy of the client that had hired Rick to retrieve it.

  Or at least it would have been, were it not for the crack that ran from the tip of the flask to its gilded root.

  Chilton’s army echoed his laughter. “You came back to Houston,” he chortled, “trespassed on my territory, for this. A prehistoric ashtray. Why?”

  “It’s not prehistoric, you illiterate –”

  The doors to the atrium burst open, and one of the soldiers who had departed minutes ago hurried back inside. “Sir! He’s here – someone – I’m not sure who, but Holder’s gone missing.”

  “Separate ways,” Chilton muttered, shooting Rick a wounded look. He turned to address the room. “I want every one of you out there and hunting for this man. He’s big as a fucking brick wall and hits twice as hard, so don’t be stingy with your bullets. You see him, you put one right between his eyes.”

  “Sir,” the reporting soldier said carefully, “Holder?”

  “If he’s dead and gone, it’s his own damn fault for letting these two shits sneak up on him. Now go.”

  The man scampered from the room, followed by the other gang members. Only Rick, Chilton, and Maria were left in the atrium. Chilton leveled his gaze at Maria. “And why are you still standing there?”

  “I thought – to guard the prisoner –”

  “Do I look like I fear this man? You took his weapons, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then get yourself the fuck gone. Don’t think, Maria, that’s how you lose fingers.”

  She was gone without another word, leaving Rick unarmed and alone with Chilton. The old man fumed under his breath for a second. Rick took the opportunity to surreptitiously open his palm behind his back, activating his wristband’s projected keyboard. With the fingers of the same hand typed out a quick text. Five minutes.

  Hopefully Kai was in place and out of sight. He’d always been able to handle himself against stacked odds, but the full might of Chilton’s army was beyond even Kai’s singular capabilities.

  The golden necklace glinted in the soft lamplight as Chilton turned back to Rick. He regarded him through lowered brows, then glanced down at the flask in his hand. “No more subterfuge, now. If you don’t want to die piece by piece, then you’ll tell me why you’re really here. Did someone hire you to slit my throat? Who was it, the Blood Skulls? Undertow? Beso de Muerto?”

  His voice was dangerously low. Rick shrugged. “You’re holding the reason in your hand, Augustus. There’s a client willing to pay a lot for that flask.”

  Chilton didn’t seem to want to believe it. “For this? The world is drowning in its own shit, and some blue-blooded asshole is still trying to collect trinkets?”

  “Glass houses, A
ugustus.”

  He gestured sharply at Rick, holding the flask like a dagger. “I am so God damned sick of that tongue. I’ll tear it out before this is done, like I should have done years ago.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.” Rick glanced at his wristband, checking the time. “Hey, where’d you get the tank?”

  Chilton had been inspecting the flask again, but now he looked up sharply. “What?”

  “The lawn ornament outside. ATCV 1303, right? Definitely wasn’t there when Kai and I were here last time. Where’d it come from?”

  “New Rangers salvaged it from Ellington,” Chilton said carefully. “I took it from them when I fucked their operation into the ground and routed them from the museum, two months back. It makes a nice trophy, but it doesn’t work.” He said this as if putting an end to a long-running argument.

  “Mmm.”

  “It doesn’t work, Álvarez. Treads are locked up, and it’s got a –”

  “A dead battery, right? You know, they’re pretty easy to recharge if you read the manual. Even a commercial charging pad will do the trick.”

  Sharp cracks began to sound outside. Gunshots. Chilton’s face paled. “Oh, hell.” He fumbled in his robe for something. Rick saw a glint of gunmetal.

  His wristband buzzed. He covered his head and ducked.

  * * *

  Kaipo Villeneuve was not a small man. In all the previous stages of his life, not once would he have been considered small, or even average. His mother, he knew, had struggled mightily to bring all twelve pounds of him into the world, cursing his father’s hearty Kanaka Maoli genes the entire time. When he met Rick at age eleven he had been about as big as the smallest member of the Houston Texans. The trend had continued, unhindered by the nutritional shortcomings of a childhood spent in the CDZ, and it had served them both well as a point in favor of their survival. By the time he was getting ready to return to Houston for this job, Kai towered at six-foot seven and weighed in at roughly a fucking lot, most of which was muscle.