Ghost Canyon (The John Decker Supernatural Thriller Series Book 7)

by Anthony M. Strong

  He awoke next morning and made his way to the cafeteria. Colum was already there, sitting alone and digging into a hearty plate of bacon and eggs. A travel bag sat on the floor next to him.

  Decker went to the buffet and helped himself to a ham steak, hash browns, fried eggs, and chunks of honeydew melon, which he figured offset the dubious choices he’d made with the rest of his breakfast. He placed the plate on the tray and then poured a coffee before making his way back through the cafeteria toward his colleague.

  “Mind if I join you?” Decker asked as he drew close to the table.

  “I’m almost done here,” Colum replied, looking up briefly from his food. “But I’ll take the company.”

  “What time’s your flight?” Decker placed the tray on the table and pulled out a chair.

  “Eleven o’clock. I’m booked on a commercial flight out of Portland International. There’s a helicopter standing by to take me there just as soon as I finish breakfast.”

  “Going anywhere nice?” Decker asked, then held up a hand to stop the almost certain protest. “Yeah, I know you can’t tell me the specifics, but at least tell me that Hunt has you going somewhere pleasant.”

  “You’re right, I can’t tell you specifics.” Colum had just about finished his breakfast. He popped the last piece of bacon in his mouth and chewed before talking again. “But I’ll give you a clue since you asked, I’m off to Eastern Europe. I’d love to tell you which country…”

  “But then you’d have to kill me?”

  “See, now you’re getting it. We’ll turn you into a shady government spook yet.”

  “And thus, my childhood dream will finally be realized,” Decker said, chuckling. He cut into his ham steak and started to eat. He had only taken a couple of bites, however, when Colum nodded toward the cafeteria entrance.

  “U-oh. Here comes the boss, and he’s looking at you.”

  Decker twisted to see Adam Hunt striding across the room. And Colum was right. He was heading directly for them, gaze fixed firmly upon Decker.

  He didn’t look happy.

  “What did you do?” Colum asked, mopping up bacon grease from his plate with a slice of bread.

  “Nothing.” Decker shook his head. “I haven’t been here long enough to get into any trouble.”

  “Well, something has pissed him off. I’m sure glad he’s not looking at me.”

  Decker would have replied, but at that moment Hunt reached the table.

  “Good, you’ve had breakfast already,” he said to Decker. “That will save some time.”

  Decker glanced down at his plate of food, barely touched. “Actually, I’ve only just—”

  Hunt cut him off with a wave of one hand. “I got a call this morning requesting our assistance for an unusual situation out west. To be precise, I didn’t actually get the call. That honor went to someone higher up the chain, and they bumped it on down to me.”

  “A call from who?” Colum asked, his interest piqued. “I thought we operate autonomously.”

  “We do.” Hunt looked like he’d been sucking on a lemon. “But the nature of our business requires that we form relationships with other agencies, both domestic and foreign. It’s the only way to obtain much of the information we rely upon. Most of the time that works in our favor…”

  “But sometimes they want to collect on the favor, instead?” Colum said.

  “Exactly.”

  “So, who came knocking?” Decker asked.

  “The FBI, after someone came knocking on their door. The Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, to be precise.”

  “Sweet,” Colum said, grinning at Decker. “Looks like you snagged an all-expenses-paid trip to Sin City.” He settled back in his chair and looked up at Hunt. “Any chance he needs a sidekick? I’d be up for a trip to the bright lights.”

  “Not going to happen,” Hunt replied. “You have your own mission in Europe.”

  “Yeah. Eastern Europe.”

  “Still counts.”

  “Barely.” Colum looked disappointed.

  “What’s the problem out in Vegas?” Decker asked.

  “I don’t want to discuss that here.” Hunt glanced around the room. “I’ll brief you in private once you’ve packed your bags. For now, all I’ll say is they have a need for a monster hunter.”

  “On second thought,” Colum said. “Eastern Europe sounds fine. I’ve had enough of monsters for a while.”

  “Indeed.” Hunt glanced at his watch, then turned his attention to Decker. “I’ll see you in my office in forty-five minutes. Don’t be late. You’ll be sharing the helicopter ride with Colum and we can’t afford any delays. We have a private jet waiting for you at Portsmouth International.”

  “Lucky you. Riding in style,” Colum said. “All I get is a coach class ticket and no legroom. Still, on the bright side, the only monsters I’ll be chasing are human.”

  “Which doesn’t make them any less deadly,” Hunt replied. He tapped his fingers on the table and focused on Decker. “I’ve had the concierge transfer everything you’ll need to your room.”

  “What might I need?” Decker asked.

  “A sturdy pair of boots for a start. You’ll be out in the desert. We don’t want you getting your ankle bitten by a rattlesnake.”

  “Concierge,” Colum said with a snort. “When I was in the army, we called them quartermasters.”

  “You’re not in the army now,” Hunt replied. He nodded toward Decker. “Eat up. Time’s wasting.”

  Then he turned and strode back in the direction from which he’d come.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Harlan Biggs, Jr., who liked to think of himself as one of Las Vegas’s great hoteliers, rose early, as was his custom, and headed down from his penthouse suite atop the Prospectors Paradise Hotel and Casino, to the small gymnasium on the second floor. The penthouse was in reality no such thing, except in Harlan’s own head. It was really just two hotel rooms knocked into one on the sixth floor at the back of the aging building, overlooking an alleyway stuffed with dumpsters and trash cans. On a good day there was only the faintest whiff of garbage seeping in through the gaps around the window mounted air conditioner unit. On a bad day, in the height of summer when it was a hundred and ten degrees in the shade, he could smell the collective trash of the surrounding buildings slowly roasting inside the plastic refuse containers.

  He rode the elevator, noting how it clanged and creaked its way to the second floor. That would soon be addressed. The hotel was in the middle of a much-needed renovation, its last facelift having occurred when Sinatra was still living it up at The Golden Nugget over on Fremont.

  Harlan’s own hotel and casino, the gambling equivalent of an off-off-Broadway show, sat nowhere near either Downtown or the Strip. Instead, it was located over a mile east and was more of a hangout for locals than tourists. After its three-million-dollar spruce up, he hoped that would change. This figure was still frugal compared to the amount spent on most such endeavors, especially in a place like Sin City, but it was all Harlan could lay his hands on, and even that had not been easy.

  He stepped out of the elevator, a towel slung over one shoulder, and headed toward the gym. He encountered no one in the hallway. The hotel was currently closed and would remain that way for at least the next two months. He had toyed with the idea of getting rid of the gymnasium, an amenity added in the 90s at the expense of one of the guest rooms. But the economics that drove his old man—who still ran the hotel back then—to provide the seldom used facility was still valid. Tour operators and hotel booking sites handed out star ratings by the number of creature comforts afforded the guest. Having a gymnasium might make the difference between being a two-star property or getting three stars. There was no standard across booking sites, and you could never tell what would or wouldn’t move you into a higher category, but if an empty gymnasium meant he could charge a couple of dollars more for a room, and get five percent more bookings, so be it.

  Harlan stepp
ed into the gymnasium and dropped his towel on the elliptical. He hated exercise, but he also loved good food and better scotch, two habits he’d picked up from the senior Harlan Biggs. If thirty minutes of exercise each day kept him from following his father to an early grave, Harlan figured it was time well spent. At least he didn’t smoke cigars one after the other like his old man. That was one vice that never interested him. In fact, the smell of those big fat stogies had made him want to wretch. Even now he hated the odor of cigar smoke, which was a problem when you ran a Vegas casino.

  Harlan eyed the treadmill, willing himself to step onto it and get his morning torture session over with. Below him, on the partially gutted ground floor, he could hear the workers starting their day. The lobby was an empty shell ripped back to the studs. The casino and its adjacent restaurants, which occupied most of the remaining floor space, were further along, and the results were better than he’d expected. After his workout, he would change into more suitable attire, and head down to oversee the work. Or more accurately, check in with his general manager, Wagner Mitchell, whom Harlan had entrusted with the day-to-day supervision of the various contractors.

  Except that he didn’t need to check in with Wagner. His GM came barging through the door, red-faced and panting.

  “Harlan, you might want to make yourself scarce.” He bent over, hands on his knees, and sucked air. “Oscar Rossi just pulled up out front with two of his goons. He doesn’t look happy.”

  “Shit.” Harlan felt his stomach clench. “Go down to the casino and see what he wants. Tell him I’m not here.”

  “He’s not going to fall for that,” Wagner said. “I’m sure he wants what he always wants. Money.”

  “He’ll buy it if you sound convincing enough. Tell him I went over to Henderson to pick out the new slots for the casino.”

  “What if he checks and discovers we lied to him? He’ll just come back in an even worse mood.”

  “It’s not a lie. I do have to go there today. All we’re doing is fudging the time.”

  Wagner shrugged. “It’s your kneecaps.” He turned to leave, but he hadn’t even made two steps when a figure appeared in the doorway.

  Oscar Rossi, who looked a good decade younger than his sixty-eight years, was dark-skinned even for a man of Italian heritage who lived in a place with over three hundred days of sunshine each year. Harlan had often wondered if he was just naturally swarthy or if he achieved his well-done complexion via a sunbed in one of the dozen massage parlors he operated around the city, mainly to launder dirty money.

  “Harlan,” Oscar said in a sing-song tone that still managed to sound menacing. “I hope I’m not interrupting your morning exercise routine.”

  “Not at all. Always a pleasure to see you, Oscar,” replied Harlan. It was not, in fact, a pleasure to see Oscar Rossi. Ever. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Don’t play coy, Harlan. You know why I’m here.” Oscar glanced at Wagner and hitched his thumb toward the door. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

  Wagner hesitated, casting a furtive glance toward Harlan. Then, deciding he was better off out of it, the GM scurried toward the door.

  Oscar stepped aside to let him through, and Harlan glimpsed two burly men loitering in the hallway outside. The closer of the pair, a musclebound slab of flesh with tattoos covering both arms, leaned in and pulled the door closed, blocking Harlan’s view, and leaving him alone with Oscar.

  “Shall we get down to business?” Oscar asked.

  “Doesn’t look like I have much choice,” Harlan replied. He wished he’d brought the gun he kept in his nightstand drawer down with him. A Glock 48. He felt vulnerable, alone and unarmed in a room with Oscar Rossi, who surely had at least one weapon stashed about his person. Although even as he harbored the thought, Harlan realized that being armed would be of little use. If Rossi wanted him dead, the goons would be in here, not the boss. And they wouldn’t engage in polite conversation or give him time to draw his own gun. Upon reflection, a chatty Oscar Rossi was better than a couple of tight-lipped enforcers.

  “Now then, how about you tell me why I’m here.” Oscar said, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets, which pulled his jacket open just enough for Harlan to confirm what he already suspected. Oscar was wearing a shoulder holster. “I want to hear it from you.”

  Harlan’s throat was dry. He swallowed, hoping the meager amount of spittle would provide enough lubrication to prevent his voice cracking. “Your interest payment.”

  “That’s right. It should have been on my desk three days ago.” Oscar nodded. He glanced toward the closed door, then looked back at Harlan. The implied threat was obvious. “Here’s how this is going to work. You give me your excuse for not paying, and I’ll decide if I like it enough to cut you some slack.”

  “Okay.” Harlan nodded, his mind racing.

  “And make it good.” Rossi smiled and glanced toward the weights machine, which made what he said next even more disturbing. “I’d hate for you to have an accident while you’re working out. That truly would be a shame…”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Robyn Miller slept fitfully, her dreams haunted by images of torn bodies and dying screams. She woke at 8 AM and rose, thankful the night was over, then dressed and headed from her bedroom on the ground floor at the back of the building behind the saloon bar. The room had once been a lean-to storage area, but she had rebuilt it, blocking off the outside door, and opening a new entry from a corridor running adjacent to the bar. It was small, but functional, and best of all it didn’t deplete her stock of guest rooms on the floors above.

  She made her way to the brand-new commercial kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. While it brewed, she fed Tieg, and then strolled through the saloon bar and into the lobby.

  There was no sign of Carlton. He lived in a dilapidated cabin at the other end of town, which was not actually far away considering that the entire town was comprised of fourteen structures in various states of repair, and a dusty, unpaved street. This was in stark contrast to how the settlement would have looked during the town’s heyday. Back then there were many more buildings, including a bank and an assay office. At its height, the town boasted a population of two thousand. Most were prospectors lured by the promise of riches buried deep in the surrounding hills. There were at least six different mines operating. They were mostly small, abandoned when the miners realized that the promise did not live up to the reality. There was not as much gold hereabouts as it first appeared. The only operation that produced any large quantity was the Ghost Canyon Mine, which was also the closest to town, and even that had dried up after a few years. Without the lure of precious metals to keep them there, the town’s fortunes dwindled along with its population until there was nothing left but a bunch of dusty old buildings baking in the sun.

  Robyn stepped onto the veranda. Tieg followed her out, still licking his chops. The dog flopped down with a grunt, head on his paws.

  When Robyn looked back up, she noticed the police car was no longer stationed at the foot of the trail. The A-frame barricades were still there, but they were now unguarded. Then she noticed movement further up the canyon. It was the two FBI special agents. They were picking their way back down from the direction of the mine. They still wore khaki pants and polo shirts, but at least they’d had the good sense to swap their sneakers for hiking boots.

  When they drew close, the younger of the two, Agent Barnes, waved a greeting. She waved back and waited until they reached the hotel and mounted the steps onto the veranda.

  “Out for an early morning walk?” She asked.

  “We felt it would be prudent to check the mine and see if there was any activity,” Agent Fowler replied.

  “And was there?” Robyn asked hopefully. They had closed the metal gates at the mine’s entrance the previous evening, but had not padlocked them, hoping the two missing geologists were still alive and would find their way out.

  “There was not, I’m
sorry to say.” Agent Fowler shook his head. “And given the circumstances of their disappearance, I must conclude both men are dead.”

  “I concur.” Agent Barnes stepped past Robyn and kneeled to pet Tieg again. He scratched behind the dog’s ears, which elicited a satisfied snort from the animal.

  “But you’re still going to look for them, aren’t you?” Robyn asked.

  “Not at this time,” Barnes said, glancing up. “Those tunnels aren’t safe. It would be foolhardy to send more searchers in when it could very well lead to more deaths.”

  “Safety has to be our number one priority,” Fowler agreed. “Given the extremely slim odds of finding them alive, we cannot risk more casualties. We did, however, leave the gates unlocked, should either of them have survived.”

  Robyn nodded. She understood their concern but wished something more could be done. Then she remembered Agent Fowler’s request that she prepare a third room for a specialist. Someone who could resolve the situation. For the first time since the lone geologist stumbled back down the trail, wild-eyed and terrified, she felt a glimmer of hope.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Decker sat in the Gulfstream jet’s spacious seat and watched the ground slip away beneath them as the sleek aircraft took to the sky.

  He reflected on the briefing that had occurred two hours previously. Adam Hunt kept it short, telling him only that three people had died under mysterious circumstances in an abandoned goldmine outside Las Vegas and the local FBI field office had requested CUSP’s help. It was a quid pro quo situation. CUSP operated as an international organization free of oversight by any single government. Yet they needed access to the resources of other law enforcement and military organizations, both clandestine and otherwise, in order to do their job. If they needed satellite images of a certain region, they could access NSA spy satellites, for example. CUSP had operational agreements with organizations as diverse as England’s MI5, the CIA, the French intelligence service known as DGSE, and of course, The FBI.