Treasure

by K. T. Tomb

  Chyna was exhausted and drained as night drew on. The after-effects of the long day were wearing on her. She wanted to evade sleep, but her eyes were drooping of their own accord. Chyna evaded sleep as much as possible, wishing to be alert and ready for whatever threat was just beyond her sight. Even two months in Alaska had not cured her of the haunting dreams. There was no way she’d take a pill in front of all the people present with her. She leaned forward and looked toward the driver’s side, seeing a wide eyed Mark, driving the car as if it was the easiest thing in the world. She wondered about the possible reasons behind his insomnia. Maybe he had nightmares of his own, though they would be very different than hers.

  “What are you thinking about with such intensity over there?”

  Mark’s voice brought her back from her wandering thoughts.

  “Nothing,” she murmured, and then decided to take the chance. “I was wondering what kinds of nightmares haunt you.”

  Mark’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, and his lips pursed into a thin line. “That’s a pretty morbid thing to think about at this hour of night, don’t you think?”

  “That’s exactly the kind of thing…”

  “Many.” He interrupted her. “I have many kinds of nightmares. Let’s leave it at that.”

  She nodded. A light in the distance broke their gaze from each other. Both of them looked through the windshield toward the blob of red and blue that was moving toward them recognizing it as a police car.

  “Patrol?” Chyna mumbled.

  “At this hour of night? I don’t see a checkpoint.” Mark stared hard at the van as they approached it. Just as the car stopped inches away from a policeman waving his hand, Chyna reached in and retrieved the necessary papers. She looked over her shoulder to see everyone rubbing their eyes because of interrupted sleep.

  “Officer.” Mark smiled at the man, who leaned in and shone a light on both his and Chyna’s faces. They spoke to each other, one in barely functional Spanish and the other in a native dialect. After a few moments, Mark turned toward Chyna and relayed what the officer had just said. “He wants to open her up; the car, that is.”

  Having dealt with all kinds of security officers, Chyna knew that it was a pretty unusual request to be made, especially by a night patrol officer. She frowned and reached for the overhead light. As she flicked it on, she heard Oscar groan from the back. She shushed him and turned to face the officer who was leaning in through the window.

  Her mind clicked.

  Chyna Stone had never been one to forget faces because she knew how useful they could be. There was no way she would forget who this one belonged to. This cop had been one of the four men who had carted off the last three victims from the Mezquita. Why would a guarda civil officer make runs as a night patrol highway policeman? Why would they stop only Tacho’s car with Chyna and her team inside of it and out in the middle of nowhere, especially given the grisly scene they had witnessed earlier?

  Her bewildered eyes met Mark’s, who looked confused, but alarmed nonetheless. She knew if need be, he would shoot first, ask questions later. She hoped it didn’t come to that.

  “What is wrong, Chyna?” It was Tacho who asked her the question.

  She needed to stall for time in order to put it all together. Whether the cops meant harm or not was another mystery they had yet to unfold. However, it could also have dire consequences if they didn’t react quickly enough. If these men had carted the crazies off and eventually murdered them, chances were that one little slip could result in the team meeting the same end. Nevertheless, Chyna decided to take a chance.

  “Tacho, ask them to show their identification,” she directed the journalist. She tried to convince him silently, using only a flick of her eyelids and the hope that the implication inherent in the minute gesture would carry across cultural lines. It seemed to work as he turned toward the officer and asked for his identification in Spanish.

  The cop who had interrupted their journey looked flustered. He said something in Spanish, which was followed by him flailing his arms about in anger. Chyna heard Tacho trying to placate him as he repeated his question.

  They got the answer in the form of a bullet shattering the glass over Sirita, whizzing past Tacho’s ear and burying itself in the headrest of Mark’s seat.

  “Damn it!” Mark stomped on the gas, hitting one of the cops with the minivan. He rolled up the hood of the accelerating vehicle and off to the passenger side. Chyna came face to face with the fake policeman as he slid down the side of her door, grasping helplessly for purchase on the side mirror. They sped away from the red and blue and toward an even darker night. Another bullet sounded and the side view mirror on Chyna’s side was gone. Mark fought the pain in his leg, bearing down on the accelerator like his life depended on it.

  Chyna looked toward the back and saw that the impostor’s police car was closing in. She knew exactly how much they had gained when another bullet grazed past their car almost instantaneously, whoever was firing at them was a crack shot to aim so well from a moving vehicle and at a moving target to boot. With the way the man who had shot at Tacho from point blank range had missed, she had been thinking that they were a group of amateurs looking for their fifteen minutes of fame, but their marksmanship, so far, had her backtracking on her criticism. She looked toward the driver’s side to see Mark holding onto the wheel. She knew the pressure on his foot would get increasingly worse and could potentially damage it. He was already straining the engine and they had barely hit a hundred kilometers per hour. Chyna thought that maybe she should have taken the driver’s seat in spite of her exhaustion, but realized that self-criticism over her past mistakes was counterproductive.

  Her decision was made.

  She reached into the glove compartment where Tacho had told her he kept the gun. It was a small nine millimeter, but she was skilled enough to know that it would do the job. She rolled down the passenger side window, stood up and leaned halfway out.

  “Chyna!” Lana screamed at her. “What the hell are you doing?!”

  “Sit back. I need to ward them off!” Chyna aimed the gun at the car following them, but couldn’t get a good shot due to the darkness.

  “Chyna, this is madness!” Oscar protested.

  Chyna ignored him and turned to Mark.

  “Can you slow down a little? I need to get a good shot.”

  Mark was slow to act at first, but as Chyna saw his foot ease up off of the pedal, she knew he was with her. The team protested at the sight of the car gaining on them, but Chyna steadied her arm and aimed loosely at the approaching headlights. As the car following came closer, the full beams reflected from the back of Tacho’s minivan and illuminated the faces of the occupants in the rear vehicle. Allowing the driver to see the pistol pointed directly at his face for a moment, she saw his panicked eyes widen, and the steering wheel gave a jerk to the left as he tried to get out of the firing line. This only presented Chyna with her real target, her bullet flying true and tearing into the right side front tire, ripping a hole and causing the driver to lose control of the high powered police car, spinning once, twice and coming to rest facing the wrong way on the road.

  Chyna slid back into her seat, raised an eyebrow at her shell shocked compatriots, and allowed herself a half smile. Every one of them knew who she was and the things that she could do; what she was essentially capable of, but their knowledge did little to wipe away the awe of what they had just witnessed. Why had it been so easy for them to forget those parts of me? Surely they knew better than to doubt me by now?

  Chapter Ten

  RSS feed. Lana Ambrose, 2014

  The Cathedral of the Holy Cross and Saint Eulalia, also known as Barcelona Cathedral, is the Gothic cathedral and seat of the Archbishop of Barcelona, Spain. The cathedral was constructed from the 13th to 15th centuries, with the principal work done in the 14th century. The cloister, which encloses the Well of the Geese (Font de les Oques) was completed in 1448. In the late 19th century
, the neo-Gothic façade was constructed over the nondescript exterior that was common to Catalan churches. The roof is notable for its gargoyles, featuring a wide range of animals, both domestic and mythical.

  “You are not coming with us?” Mark said as he and Oscar unloaded all of their equipment from the car.

  “No, Tacho and I are going to start work as soon as possible,” Chyna replied. “We are headed over to the Cathedral de Barcelona to scope out this case. His editor called when we were driving in. You were sleeping. He told Tacho to check the place out and I’m going with him. It looks like the last sighting of the afflicted were in that area and there haven’t been any admissions to the hospital or bookings by the local police force.”

  “Are you sure? Are you going to be okay? If there have been no arrests, it could be more of these murderous swine in police uniforms in play, right?” Mark protested.

  “Yeah, I think so. I mean, how crowded can it be? It’s after midnight. I’ll keep my phone on.”

  Instinctively, Chyna checked the shoulder holster under her jacket and then tugged the jacket closer around her to hide any bulge. She had been traveling for hours, and would have given anything for a good night’s sleep. She knew that her team was falling over their feet because of exhaustion, but there was still a task in hand and they had to strike while the iron was still hot. Chyna did not want to burden them with something she could do herself; therefore, she and Tacho had decided to visit the Cathedral of Barcelona alone while Oscar, Mark Sirita and Lana already booked into a hostel.

  “Okay. Call me if you need anything, though. Don’t hesitate. I’ll be awake,” Mark told her as he picked up the bags as he limped over to the main door.

  “Mark.” Chyna ran up to him and took the bags from his hands. “I’ll be okay. I promise.”

  “I can carry those,” he said in a tense tone.

  “Just walk. I can pick these up,” Chyna said, but saw the resistance in his eyes. She knew Mark hated being treated as a special case, but she picked up the bags in her hand and started toward the door while he walked beside her. There was little time to be sensitive to anyone’s sense of pride, not to mention the fact that she wanted a few more moments beside him to give her confidence a boost.

  As they reached the door, Tacho came around the front of the hotel with a new rental car. The fake cops in Cordoba had seen his minivan and he didn’t want anyone else in Barcelona to recognize it. The chance that the highway patrol had taken note of his license plate was too high, and it was a chance that neither Chyna nor Tacho was willing to take. He had parked the vehicle some distance across town, so if it was indeed located by co-conspirators to the murderers or the murderous agents themselves, it might buy them a little extra time while they investigated a false lead.

  Chyna handed the bags over to a lone attendant in the hotel, who readily carried them toward the designated room, and then she then turned to Mark. “Get some rest. We’ll be fine. We’re just going in for a routine scouting. We’ll be back before you know it, I promise.”

  Mark looked hesitant, but agreed nonetheless. “Okay, but call me if you need anything.”

  He put his arms around Chyna in a friendly hug, then leaned on his cane all the way to his room.

  When Chyna exited the hotel, she found Tacho waiting and the car running. She hopped in without wasting any time, and got into the business of interrogating Tacho about the Cathedral to which they were traveling, absorbing as much information as she could during their short drive.

  “It’s an old, but famous building. Built primarily in Gothic style, it is dedicated to Saint Eulalia, whose remains are also entombed there. It is said that the Romans tried to shame her by undressing her in public at the Cathedral, but a mysterious snowfall saved her honor. She was then forced into a barrel that had knives sticking out of it, and then rolled downhill. I think she was thirteen when she was martyred,” Tacho said.

  Chyna felt a chill go down her spine at the thought of such a torturous death. “That’s a pretty gruesome ending for a child.”

  “It is, yes. It is a beautiful building though. You, as an archaeologist and historian, will find many pieces that might interest you. The Gothic influence is clearly visible, and the cathedral itself is just grand!”

  Chyna smiled at Tacho’s enthusiasm. Even in times of evident danger and after being shot at, his face showed no worry. In fact, he seemed more like a child lost in a museum rather than a journalist on an assignment. She longed to share the same passion, and the same excitement with him. She hated to admit it, but she knew that Tony’s betrayal had left her halved and broken. She didn’t feel as loved as she had before, as excited, as confident and as adventurous. However, looking at Tacho, truly enjoying something he loved made her nostalgic. She found that she longed to feel the thrill, anticipation and enthusiasm for the hunt all over again. Maybe she wasn’t as recovered from her ordeal in Dresden as she had thought she was. Her efforts in Deadhorse had been somewhat of a help but even her ‘soldier of fortune’ friend, Rivka Ibrahim, had found her taciturn. “Too little, too late,” she had quipped.

  The square in front of the cathedral seemed to be unusually dark as they approached it. The streets themselves were populated with the late night revelers of Barcelona’s thrumming nightlife, but the square itself was almost deserted. Chyna checked her watch and frowned; it was close to one in the morning, but it was not unusual for nightlife to continue on until two or three a. m. in Barcelona. According to Tacho, the church was a popular destination for young lovers and party goers, so much so that it usually remained flooded with people well into the wee hours of the morning. Therefore, it seemed unusual for the main square in the church to be deserted so early. Tacho found the answer before she did, reading the signs in Spanish. “Look,” Tacho pointed to something in the corner. “The sign says ‘Closed for Construction.’”

  “I don’t see any construction equipment,” Chyna pointed out. She thought she had an inkling as to who or what could have created such a ruse, if the sign was one, but she didn’t want to believe it. The fake cops couldn’t have caught up so fast, could they?

  “What do you think?” Tacho asked. “Should we go in?”

  “Do you think it’s the cops from Cordoba? I smell a trap here, Tacho.” Chyna wondered aloud.

  “Maybe, but either we spring the trap now, or we spring it in the morning when they have had even more time to prepare.” Tacho shrugged nonchalantly and Chyna was impressed by the man’s bravery, or recklessness; she wasn’t quite sure. “It still depends on us, though, whether we want to take the chance or not.”

  Chyna sighed heavily. She stared out of the windshield and at the rising gothic behemoth in front of them. Everything about the cathedral seemed daunting and uninviting, the effect enhanced by the night that closed in on them, cloaking all movements of potential or imagined enemies. Chyna reminded herself about darkness. If there is darkness, there is sanctuary. If you cannot see anyone else in the black, chances are, no one can see you. If the pretend cops had caught up with the team, then they were as close to the next clue as Chyna and Tacho, and in the final calculation that was all that really mattered at that point.

  “Let’s go in,” she announced with finality, “We need to find as many clues as we can.”

  They alighted from the car together after parking it in a secluded and darkened spot. They moved around toward the main doors, all the while alert and watching closely for any other movement. Chyna noticed that there were no guards on the premises, which further added to the weight of suspicion in her mind. A building that old and holding so many precious artifacts had to be guarded at all times, surely; but then perhaps not. Spain was, at heart, a relaxed Mediterranean idyll, perhaps there was not the need or requirement here for oppressive, all-encompassing security.

  The gate in the front was locked, and there did not seem to be any source of light either. Tacho leaned and inspected the knob, rattling it.

  “We can’t get in.”
He stood up. “It’s locked. What do we do now?”

  “Tacho,” she scoffed with playful reproach. “An investigative journalist who has never picked a lock?”

  Chyna fiddled with her hair for a moment and pulled out a bobby pin from her ponytail, leaned down and inserted the pin inside the lock. From the look of it, the cathedral authorities did not take protection very seriously. She concentrated on the movements going on inside of the mechanism, and breathed an exhalation of satisfaction when, after some seconds of manipulating the chamber, the lock clicked and the handle fell open.

  They were inside, and they were evidently not alone.

  The very first thing that had Chyna reaching for her gun was an unearthly, almost inhuman howling that resonated inside the cathedral. She looked around for the source of the noise, and found him right at the end of the nave they were closest to; at the very steps of the altar.

  The man leaning there was dressed as if he had once been the very picture of grace and opulence, with an air of formidable coolness. Incongruous with his appearance was a person bent under the weight of the world, feeling suffocated and alone. Chyna and Tacho approached him carefully, unwilling to arouse an angry response from the tormented soul before them. He looked well dressed, but his suit was of an older style and seemed like neither he nor the suit had been washed in days.

  “Senor?” Chyna called out to the man, gaining his attention and providing a break in his continuous sobbing.

  “Si?” he gasped and spoke in hiccups. Chyna immediately turned to Tacho, knowing that she would never be able to understand his words, garbled by grief as they were and in a language which she had only the vaguest grasp.

  Tacho nodded at her and turned to the man. It was clear from his tone that he was trying to placate him but was failing miserably. The man was becoming hysterical, talking with his hands flailing about in the air. His chest heaved with the exertion he was putting into his words. After some moments, he started sobbing again, and Tacho began speaking to her in English only after comforting him.