This is it, he thought. His mind wandered to Adriana, the woman he loved. She was back in Madrid, visiting relatives. He didn't think that when she left for the airport it would be the last time he saw her. Then his thoughts drifted to Tommy, his lifelong friend. Tommy wouldn't know what happened either. Sean's body would be covered up and left for time to forget.
Suddenly, another weapon fired from somewhere behind the grave.
It was a hunting rifle based on the sound. Sean struggled to breathe; the pain in his chest felt like two knives were jammed into his lungs.
The new weapon fired again.
Then he heard the SUV's engine rev to life. The sounds of the vehicle speeding away through the snow echoed down into the shallow hole.
Sean's vision started to blur, and a chill began creeping into his bones. He felt the cold metal of the pistol in his hand, and he held it up to defend himself from whoever was still on the ground above.
"Hello?" a gruff voice shouted. "You in the grave. You still alive?"
Sean tried to answer, but all he could muster was a faint squeak. He could feel warmth spreading across his chest as blood leaked from his body.
Just before he lost consciousness, he saw a silhouette of a man in a long black coat standing over him. Then everything went dark.
Sean's eyes cracked open. He didn't feel cold anymore. Instead, his body was embraced by a strange warmth. He coughed and closed his eyes again. The pain in his chest wasn't as bad as before. He tried to turn his head, but the movement caused his vision to spin for a second.
"Where...where am I?" he whispered through cracked lips.
His nostrils filled with the smell of smoke. A dim orange light flickered from the corner of his eye, and he realized wherever he was had a fireplace. He tried to open his eyes wider, but the lids felt caked together. He raised his right hand and rubbed his eyes for a moment until his sight cleared.
Sean surveyed the room, taking in his surroundings. He was in an old log cabin, lying on a sofa. The fire crackled in the hearth on the opposite side of the living room—about twelve feet away. He could see the kitchen off to the right. There was a doorway nearby, just behind his head, though he couldn't maneuver enough to see what else was there. He looked down and noticed the IV in his wrist. A stand with a bag of clear liquid hanging from it was propped up next to the couch.
"Whose cabin is this?" he asked himself. "Doctor Quinn?"
"Not hardly," a man's voice answered from the shadows.
Startled, Sean attempted to sit up, but vertigo took hold once more and forced him to keep his head on the pillow.
"Who are you? Where am I? What do you want with me?"
The gravelly voice chuckled. "You sure do ask a lot of questions for a dead guy."
Sean knew he wasn't dead. That didn't change the fact he had zero ideas as to where he was.
Before he could say anything, his host spoke up again.
"You're lucky I came around. Those guys were bent on killing you." The voice had a Southern draw to it—definitely out of place in this part of the country. "So how's about you answer my questions first. That is, if you're feeling up to it."
Sean's body still felt heavy. He was too weak to move or protest.
"What do you want to know?"
"That's more like it. The name's Jack. Jack Scoggins. What's your name?"
Sean sighed. "Wyatt. Sean Wyatt. I work for—"
"Now hold your horses, Son. I didn't ask who you worked for. Truth is I don't rightly care. What I do care about is why those men wanted you dead. You a criminal? Was this some kind of Mafia hit?"
A chuckle escaped Sean's lips. The brief spat of laughter sent a fresh jolt of pain through his chest and turned to coughing.
"No," he said finally. "I'm not a criminal. Like I was saying, I work for the International Archaeological Agency in Atlanta."
"Okay. Pardon me for being a bit skeptical, but why on earth would a group of men armed like those fellas want to execute an archaeologist? Did you have some sort of treasure they wanted?"
Sean struggled to keep from laughing again. "No. Nothing like that. And I'm not technically an archaeologist. I just enjoy history. My job is research and security. I find lost relics and bring them in for further study, stuff like that."
Jack didn't respond for a moment. Sean figured he was assessing the explanation.
"What brings you to this part of the country? Kind of remote out here. I can't imagine there's much in the way of archaeology going on around these parts."
"Looking...for a clue," Sean said, struggling to get the words out. He was so weak, even the act of talking took a concerted effort.
"Clue?"
"Yeah. I'm on a mission from the president. He found a letter in the White House that had to do with William Seward. I thought I'd poke around the Seward museum and estate to see what I could find."
"Looks like what you found was trouble," Jack said.
"So it would seem."
Sean heard the wooden floor creak under slow, heavy footsteps. A man with a thick gray beard appeared in the light of the fireplace, standing five feet from the couch. His eyes were lively and green, seemingly out of place in the older man's face.
"Nice to meet you," Sean said. He glanced down at the IV in his wrist. "I guess you have some kind of medical training. This is a clean line."
"You could say that," Jack said. "Before I came out here, I was a doctor."
Sean's eyebrows shot up. "A doctor? What kind of doctor?"
"Surgeon. That was a long time ago." There was a twinge of sadness in his voice.
"So, you retired and came up here to get away from everything?"
"Something like that. Let's just say I didn't have anything else keeping me in that line of work."
Sean immediately figured the man was a widower. That or he went through some other major tragedy. People didn't usually just pick up and move out to the frozen wilderness unless they wanted a big life change. That desire was typically driven by sadness in one form or another.
Jack pointed at Sean's chest. Two white bandages were taped to his skin, stained a brownish red. "You lost a lot of blood. Wasn't sure you were going to make it. Been giving you some pain meds and saline for the last two days. For a minute, I thought I was going to have to take you back to that grave those guys dug for you."
"Wait. Two days? I've been here for two days?"
"Yeah. And you're lucky it's not a permanent stay. Whatever you did to those men, they wanted to make sure you didn't do it again."
Sean tried to push himself up from the couch. His arms gave out, and he collapsed.
"Just take it easy, Son. You're safe here. My cabin is a half mile from where they tried to kill you."
"They'll be back. I have to get out of here. You won't be safe until I'm gone."
Jack stepped forward and put his finger to Sean's forehead, pushing him back to the pillow.
"I said you need to take it easy. I tell you what, back when I was a surgeon, I had the same problem with patients. No one ever wants to listen to the doc. You're going to be here a few more days, Sean. High time you get used to that idea. And if you think those men will be back looking for you, I doubt it."
"What...what makes you say that?" Sean said in a feeble tone.
"Because I've been keeping an eye out for them. If they haven't come back in the last forty-eight hours, I doubt they will now. My guess is they think you're dead. You're very fortunate those bullets didn't do any permanent damage. If I were you, I'd take the good doctor's advice and get some rest. When you're feeling a bit stronger, you can get up and move around."
Sean gave a weak nod. "Okay, Doc. I'll do what you say."
"That's better. Now, here's some water. I'm sure you're thirsty even though that thing is pumping fluids in you."
He set a cup with a straw next to Sean on a little end table. Sean picked it up and took a sip. The water was cold and had a slight taste of iron to it, but he didn't care. He was
thirsty.
"Thanks for saving my life," Sean said as he set the cup back down on the table. "I'd be dead if not for you."
"Yep. You probably would." The curt answer almost caused Sean to start laughing again, but he fought it off. "And you're more than welcome. I took the bullets out. Saved them in a bowl in the kitchen in case you wanted to keep them. One was pretty close to your heart. You're lucky. I guess it wasn't your time yet."
Sean wriggled into the sheets and stared at the ceiling. Too many things were running through his head. Questions about who had attacked him and why were some of the more pervasive. He also realized he'd need to get in contact with his people. "Jack, I need you to do me a favor."
"Name it."
"I'm going to give you a phone number. I need you to call it and ask for a woman named Emily Starks. Tell her it's from Sean and it's urgent. They'll ask for a security code. It's three, seven, four, eight, six."
"Ain't got no phones here, but there's a diner a few miles away on the main road. If you need to make a call, you can do it from there when you feel better or I can go into town tomorrow morning and do it for you."
No phones? Not even a cell phone? Apparently, this guy was living all the way off the grid. Sean had a cabin that wasn't connected to the world, but he could always get online via satellite if he needed to and he always had a cell phone with him. His phone had been taken away by the CIA guys who'd abducted him. Now he was on a snowy island in the middle of nowhere with no connection to anyone or anything except a former doctor turned hermit.
"Okay," Sean said, resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to be strong enough to get up anytime soon. "If you're going to make a call for me when you go into town, let's go ahead and make it three calls."
"Got people who will be worried about you?" Jack asked.
"You could say that."
3
Washington
Secretary of State Kent Foster waited patiently for the door to open. He'd been sitting in the Oval Office for just over twenty minutes. It wasn't unusual for the president to keep him waiting. For a man who was on such a tight schedule, it seemed Dawkins was perpetually running behind.
Secretary Foster looked down at his phone and tapped one of the app icons. He made a quick note of something he didn't want to forget later in the day before putting the phone back in his pocket. He did so just as the door to his left opened.
He stood up as the president, two Secret Service men, and one of Dawkins's advisers walked in.
"Mr. President," Foster said in a polite tone.
"Good morning, Kent. Please, have a seat."
The secretary did as instructed and returned to his seat. The president's adviser left a note on the Resolute Desk before disappearing out the door again. It closed behind him leaving the room in momentary silence.
"So, tell me what's so urgent that you had to meet with me this morning." Dawkins eased into his seat and folded his hands on the desk's surface. His brown, wavy hair was combed to one side as best as could be done, though it seemed to often have a mind of its own.
"We have an issue, sir."
"Obviously, Kent. What kind of issue?"
"Actually, sir, there are two," Foster said. "The first is the Russians. We have reason to believe they are pushing closer and closer to Alaska. I've been briefed by the council. Things are starting to get tense. They've gone so far as to begin installing oil rigs just off the Aleutian shores. I've heard that they've even been so brazen as to send geological experts to a few locations to investigate potential drilling sites. This is a direct encroachment. We're going to need to take a stand."
"I've been told the same thing by the members of the council," Dawkins said. "Which is why we are meeting with them in two hours."
"Yes, sir. I'm aware of the meeting."
"This couldn't wait until then?"
Foster tilted his head toward the floor for a second, slightly embarrassed by the question. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, sir. It's just that...the Russians get more emboldened every day. Their president has claimed rightful ownership of Alaska and wants the United States to return it to them."
"Again, I've heard this stuff before, Kent. How in the blue blazes that guy thinks he can just push us out of that territory is beyond me. He's just blowing smoke. He wouldn't dare try an invasion, not this day and age."
Foster cleared his throat. "While it is certainly a possibility that this is just a case of the Russian leader trying to show a little bravado, we still have to take this threat seriously, sir."
Dawkins leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other, resting his ankle on the other knee. It wasn't the first time he'd had to deal with the Russian president. A few years before, the man had been brazen enough to invade a section of Ukraine, claiming it had always been Russian land and Russian citizens still lived there. Remarkably, the international community did little more than blast the move on social media, which was basically like throwing snowballs at a tank.
President Dawkins had watched everything unfold from afar, waiting to see what would happen before issuing any executive orders. He'd adopted a strong policy of neutrality when it came to most international conflicts. Dawkins firmly believed in a strong defense but without trying to police the world. The rest of the planet had made it abundantly clear that they didn't want the United States poking its nose in everyone's business. And so, President John Dawkins all but refused to openly jump into conflict.
Of course, what the public didn't know was that he'd secretly ordered elite units to take care of certain situations abroad.
A warlord in Sudan had been wreaking havoc on the country and its people. Women were being victimized in horrible, unthinkable ways. Children were brutally murdered. People were starving and exposed to the elements with no shelter.
His predecessor had stayed away from such situations, probably because there was no money in swooping into a central African nation to help people in need. His predecessor had focused more on oil countries.
Not Dawkins.
He had ordered a tactical strike on the Sudanese warlord that took out the man and most of his followers in one swoop. Next, Dawkins had sent tens of millions in aid to help feed the people and get them back on their feet.
The attacks on the warlord were never publicized, never shown in the media, because that's how covert ops were supposed to work. Dawkins wasn't a fan of bragging. He didn't put his triumphs out there for everyone to see so his approval ratings would go up a fraction of a point. He just got the job done, and the people loved him for it.
He'd handled several situations in much the same way, helping people who couldn't help themselves.
The Ukraine situation, however, was different.
The Russians had been stewing for a long time. Their national resources were vast, but severely restricted and less cost effective than getting them somewhere else. That, or implement new laws and regulations that would enable the country to get back on its feet with more renewable resources and better management of nonrenewable ones.
While Dawkins couldn't fly in and bomb the Russians back across their border with the Ukraine affair, he had every right to defend Alaska. A full-on military assault wasn't his first choice, especially when the people infringing on U.S. borders were mostly civilians.
"I realize we must take this threat seriously, Kent. Believe me, I have no intention of letting Nikolai Zhirkov think he can make idle threats without me noticing. Don't worry. I'll handle it, just like I've handled every other threat in the past."
Foster appeared to accept the answer, so the president continued. "What was the other thing you wanted to talk to me about?"
"Well," Foster said with an uneasy voice, "it's about Axis, sir."
"Axis?" Dawkins sat up a little straighter. Only he and a few other select people knew anything about the elite secret agency. They operated quietly, sticking to the shadows most of the time. Their missions were the ones no one else could handle, or they s
imply didn't want to. It was much like MI6 in the UK, only smaller.
"Yes, sir. I don't know how to say this. I know that you are personal friends with Director Starks as well as Sean Wyatt."
"Wyatt? He's no longer with Axis, Kent. You should do your homework."
Foster nodded. "I'm aware that former agent Sean Wyatt is no longer working for Axis, sir. However, this does involve him."
"Wyatt? How so?"
"Sir, I don't know how to tell you this, but we think that Sean Wyatt might be working with the Russians."
It was all Dawkins could do to keep from bursting with laughter. After a minute, the laughter died as he realized Foster was serious.
"You're kidding, right?" Dawkins asked, his face turning grave.
Foster folded his hands in his lap atop a file he'd been holding. "Unfortunately, sir, I'm not. I just received word from the CIA that he's gone rogue. He took out three operatives. Another is recovering from a blow to the head."
"Three operatives? Why on Earth would you send CIA assets after Sean Wyatt in the first place? You do realize he's like a badger. Corner him, and he is more dangerous than pretty much anyone you know."
"We are aware of his skill set, sir."
"You are aware?" the president said in a mocking tone. "Obviously, you didn't think before you put people in play with him. And that brings me back to the first question. Why were you sending men after him?"
Foster took the file from his lap and laid it on the desk. He pushed it closer to the president with one finger.
Dawkins read the cover. It was like a million other files he'd seen come across his desk in the years he'd been president.
Classified.
He opened it and noted the pictures of Sean taken by—most likely—a CIA surveillance operative.
"Those images were taken a few days ago by one of our assets. You can see there, Agent Wyatt is on the premises of the William Seward estate."
"So? I told you before, he's been working on a special assignment from me. And he's doing it as a favor."
The Sean Wyatt Series Box Set 4 Page 57
