The Omega Project

by Ernest Dempsey

  “That’s true,” Tommy said, though the truth was that the project could wait. They weren’t scheduled to begin operations for another two weeks. A dig site in the Congo was being set up around what was believed to be an ancient civilization, far more advanced than any ever discovered in that region.

  As yet, there wasn’t anything for the IAA to extract and secure, but that could change at any time. The director of the project had requested Tommy be on standby, and so that’s what they’d done, hanging out and waiting until they got the call. Of course, that call could also never come if the site turned out to be a dry well.

  Maynard looked crestfallen, but only for a few fleeting seconds. “No worries,” he said, immediately cheering up. “The next time you two are in town, I’d love to treat you to a good steak dinner. And if you’re ever out west, let me know. I have property in Montana, Colorado, and Oregon. You’re always welcome to use one of my cabins, or if you’d like to go out there for a fishing trip on one of the rivers, just let me know. My home is your home.”

  “Thank you, sir, but that’s not necessary,” Tommy said.

  Maynard held up a hand and dramatically shook his head back and forth. “Nope. I’m sorry. I won’t take no for an answer. And if the two of you don’t reach out to me in the coming months, I’ll track you down, kidnap the both of you, and make you go out there for some trout fishing with me.” He had a mischievous look in his eyes that told the two friends that maybe he’d done that very thing before.

  Sean grinned and nodded. “Sold. I do love doing some trout fishing. Most addictive thing in the world if you ask me.”

  “Perfect!” Maynard exclaimed. He reached into his pocket and fished out a business card. “Whenever you’re ready, just call. I’ll make sure to take care of the arrangements.”

  “Thank you,” Tommy said.

  The older man shook his head. “No, thank you. You saved my little girl’s life. Anything I can do to repay that, I will. For the rest of my life, I am in your debt.”

  Maynard turned and started back toward his daughter. The two guards nodded at Sean and Tommy and then followed their employer back up the slight slope to the edge of the woods.

  Sean waited until they were out of earshot before he spoke. When he did, it was barely a whisper. “The Maynard McIntyre?” he asked.

  “Unless you know of another one.”

  The story of the McIntyre fortune was something of a local legend. The McIntyre family had started a small restaurant chain on Cherry Street during the Great Depression. It had been a gamble, especially during tough economic times, but by providing people with a cheap, clean place to eat, it had become an instant success—despite the lack of disposable income floating around at the time.

  Their restaurant became two, then four, and before long the little burger places were all over the Southeast and pulling in millions during a time when very few people were making money.

  Maynard was the son of the founder, Marshall McIntyre. Apparently, having some alliteration in their names was something of a family tradition.

  “I thought his hands felt soft,” Sean said, not intending any insult. “Guy has worked in corner offices his entire life.”

  Tommy nodded. “That and manicures, most likely.” He arched one eyebrow, but Sean didn’t see.

  “You sound jealous,” Sean quipped. “Want to make an appointment at the spa before we head back?”

  Tommy shook his head and then lowered it. “You’re an idiot.”

  “I can make it a couples massage if you like.”

  “Okay—and we’re done here.”

  Tommy started up the hill toward the trail leading back to the parking area. Sean stayed put for a couple of seconds longer. “They can do the whole hot stone thing on your spine. Or, ooooh, maybe we can do the thing where they walk on your back. I’ve never had that before.” His voice climbed as Tommy got farther away.

  The cameraman looked at him with a curious expression as he stuffed the expensive equipment back into his camera bag.

  “He can get so testy sometimes,” Sean said with a wry grin.

  The cameraman snorted and went back to packing.

  Sean turned around one last time and gazed out at the valley below where the river slithered through the gorge. A burst of cold air rushed up the slope and splashed over his face. It tickled his ears, and he tugged down on his beanie to keep them warm. Destin sure would be nice right about now.

  He could feel the warm sand of the beach, hear the gentle gulf waves calling him, but a trip to the Emerald Coast would have to wait.

  His phone started to vibrate in his pocket, shaking him back to the moment. Sean reached into his pocket, pulled out the device, and pressed the green button on the screen.

  He pressed it to his ear, already knowing from the caller ID who was on the other end of the line. “How was the honeymoon?” he asked.

  Alex laughed, the sound filling Sean’s ear. “It was great. Fiji is a beautiful spot. If we didn’t love you guys so much, we probably would have just stayed.”

  “I can relate,” Sean said, peering out over the mountains across the way. “What’s up?”

  Alex and Tara were Tommy’s lab techs. They’d proved invaluable over the years in many capacities, including watching over HQ while Sean and Tommy were out gallivanting around the planet. They were also crack researchers and a tremendous resource for information gathering, capable of pulling up, or tracking down, facts swiftly when the guys found themselves in a pinch. For years, Sean and Tommy thought something romantic was going on between the two. That fact had finally come out, and a few months ago the two had married.

  Sean didn’t really have any interest in working with his wife, not in a professional sense. He and Adriana got along great. They had a wonderful life together, traveled pretty much whenever they wanted, and enjoyed each other’s company. Working together, Sean thought, might strain that. He couldn’t imagine the stress that could come from being employed together with her in the same confined workspace. Even the closest couples needed time apart, and for most, leaving the house and going to work provided that.

  “We got something here. In the mail,” Alex clarified. “It’s kind of strange.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll have to see it for yourself. I’m not really sure.”

  That was odd. “You can’t tell me anything about it?”

  “I didn’t open the box. It’s addressed to you, specifically, Sean. I don’t open other people’s mail.”

  Sean frowned at the revelation. Not at the fact Alex or Tara hadn’t opened his mail; he could understand that. But he never got mail delivered to HQ.

  “Does it say who it’s from?”

  “No,” Alex answered. “It just says, ‘A. Colleague.’ The return address is in Saint Louis, Missouri.”

  Someone wanted to remain anonymous. Who would be sending him a box and addressing it to IAA?

  He figured that was a question that had to wait until he was back in Atlanta. He took one last look out over the mountains and then turned to the trail. “We’ll be back down tonight,” Sean said. “I’ll take a look at it then.”

  5

  Baring, Washington

  Andrew Boyd sat in the living room as he watched the television reports coming out of southeastern Tennessee. Dark wooden beams braced the ceiling overhead, contrasted by the white paint between them. A fire crackled in the fireplace. Boyd steepled his fingers together on his lap as he listened to the interview.

  Upon seeing Sean Wyatt and Tommy Schultz on the evening news, he wondered where they were now and if the incident would keep them in Chattanooga or if they would return to Atlanta that night. Not that it mattered. Things were already in motion.

  In another time and another place, perhaps Andrew and Sean could have gotten along, even come to be friends. Not in this life, though, and not this time.

  Andrew spread his hands out to either side, stretching his arms across the back of the tan fabr
ic of the sofa cushions. He breathed evenly, forcing down the anger rising from his belly. That fire could be put to better uses.

  Phase one of his plan had already begun. He could feel a tingle of excitement swelling inside him. It was a thrill much like he’d felt on his first date with a girl, or on Christmas Eve when he was a young boy. The stakes now were much greater.

  Andrew had spent the majority of his life in luxury. He’d been raised by wealthy parents in Saint Louis but had moved to Seattle where he felt more at home in the vibrant, thriving city on the coast.

  He had two homes there: one condo downtown in the Lower Queen Anne district and a second outside the city in the forest leading into the eastern mountains. The condo was fashionable, professionally decorated and adorned with all the modern amenities a person could want. Its views swept over the majestic downtown skyline and out over Elliot Bay to the west. It was for sale now, a fact that gnawed at him on a daily basis. He hated letting it go, but that was where he was at the moment.

  His parents had suffered greatly in the last two years. Their enterprises collapsed before their eyes. Everything they’d worked to build, their entire family business, had fallen apart. Most of their homes had been repossessed. They declared bankruptcy to avoid certain creditors, but by then, winning that battle was barely a consolation prize, a scrap for them to chew on.

  Andrew’s father had taken his own life, choosing to walk out into the woods behind their cabin in Arkansas with a pistol and a single bullet.

  Andrew’s mother was so shaken that she never recovered. One month later, she joined her husband by way of a handful of prescription pills.

  Neither of them had ever been particularly close to Andrew, not since his decision to enter the military. When he tried to recall happier times, perhaps birthdays or Christmases, all he could recall were friends and relatives getting more attention than him.

  That didn’t change the fact that Andrew blamed Sean Wyatt for his troubles. He even believed that what happened in the army had been the catalyst for the downfall of his family business.

  Now Andrew was trying to sell his once-posh condo in Seattle to make enough money to fund his plan, a scheme for revenge that involved some formidable challenges.

  The cabin in the woods, contemporary in design like so many he’d seen in Scandinavia, was large at four thousand square feet and featured mostly views of the surrounding forest, save for a few peeks at the mountains to the east in the Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest.

  It was here, in this cabin, that he watched the news reports out of Southern Tennessee. Normally, local news broadcasts from that region wouldn’t be seen in the Pacific Northwest, but apparently when two celebrities of the academic community did something heroic it made national news.

  Andrew shook his head in disgust as the reporter and then the news anchors figuratively kissed Sean’s and Tommy’s rears over the dramatic rescue of the young girl.

  In a way, the incident was somehow poetic.

  Sean had been on Andrew’s mind for a long time now, his plot for revenge stewing, simmering in the cauldron. He’d been planning on launching the second phase of his operation within the next twenty-four hours, but this—this was too perfect.

  The anchor touched his ear, and then a serious expression flooded his face.

  “And now, breaking news out of North Georgia, mere miles south across the border from where today’s heroics took place. We have just received word that former president John Dawkins has gone missing. Federal investigators are on the scene working with local law enforcement, but as of this moment they have no leads as to where the former president could have gone or what may have happened to him.”

  Andrew grinned at the censored information. He knew they had more. The Secret Service agents guarding the president were dead. But the news didn’t dare report that. News executives didn’t like a panicking public any more than did those in the ruling class. For now, they were content to let the public think perhaps Dawkins had wandered off, perhaps a victim of early onset dementia.

  That was far from the truth.

  While much of the nation worried or, as had become the modern norm, pretended to care, the president was safe. For now.

  Andrew had connections, and he had money, though only a fraction of what he had before. Most importantly, he had influence.

  Over the years, Dawkins had made enemies in Washington. While he’d been one of the most beloved presidents in recent memory, if not history, that came with a price. It was, after all, impossible to please everyone. When you move a rock here, you disturb the dirt there.

  The people who disliked Dawkins were glad to see him out of office, although they feared his successor would be just as bad for business, if not worse. He’d pushed through bills that would help the environment and, with the majority of Congress on his side, the laws were easily created.

  Getting the information needed to track down Dawkins and kidnap him had required promises; promises Andrew believed he could keep. His family was one of the wealthiest in their region, and one of the most influential. Their money ran deep from the Industrial Revolution. While Andrew Carnegie had forged his steel empire, the Boyds were content to ride his coattails, supplying Carnegie’s factories with equipment, raw materials, and often land for new foundries. Carnegie’s name became one of the most famous in the modern period and he was once known as one of the three wealthiest people in the world.

  Andrew’s ancestors were content to keep their names out of public view, but their fortune was made in the same industry as Carnegie’s. The Boyds, however, were more discreet about their spending. They squirreled away their money, reinvested in dozens of other ventures. Eventually, their portfolio ran into the billions, featuring land, businesses, and other assets.

  He’d grown up spoiled. While Andrew wouldn’t admit to that, there was still something missing in his life, at least early on. Even with all the money, family, power, and influence, he’d resorted to thrill-seeking to fill the gap.

  It wasn’t uncommon for him to go skydiving, base jumping, and swimming with sharks on a given weekend. He’d tried to fill the void with women, too, funding extravagant charters to the Caribbean, or to other exotic places around the world, often taking a dozen guests at a time.

  His friends, of course, loved every second of it. But Andrew had felt empty, unfulfilled with his life of debauchery.

  Drugs hadn’t appealed to him despite several friends encouraging him to try a smorgasbord of illegal and dangerous delights.

  Oddly, he’d found his place in the military.

  His parents hadn’t approved of his decision, but when he was twenty-one years old, he went to his local recruiting office and signed up. His father had been angry, his mother disappointed.

  “Someone else can do that,” she’d said.

  “You have a life here,” his father had said. “A good life where you’re free to do whatever you want.”

  Andrew didn’t care. There’d been no sense of purpose for the first twenty years of his life. It had been a hollow existence.

  He’d caught grief when he went to basic training. Some of the new recruits apparently knew who he was, billionaire playboy Andrew Boyd. They called him the prince or “your highness,” but he kept his nose down and pushed ahead. After he kicked a few butts in the process, the men around him started to show hints of respect. Maybe this rich boy wasn’t the sissy they all thought he was.

  He rose through the ranks with an uncommon rapidity and, after a heroic display of leadership in a firefight in Iraq, he received an unusual call.

  Special Operations wanted him, so he had joined the 160th, known to many as the Night Stalkers. Their more formal title was the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment.

  He’d forged a strong bond with a few of his fellow soldiers and promised them that when their time was up in the military, they would always have a job working private security for him.

  At first, he hadn’t been certain how some
of the guys would take it, but the offer was too generous to pass up.

  Now he had five highly trained, extremely talented spec ops soldiers working for him. He’d been waiting, planning, and timing things behind the scenes. All the while, he had watched Sean Wyatt.

  The thought of the man’s name sent a surge of anger through Andrew.

  He remembered the events like they’d happened a few hours ago.

  His team was in Iraq, investigating a possible connection to bioweapons that the Iranians were supposedly smuggling across the border to insurgents. He’d cornered a man they suspected—with good reason—of being the primary contact with the insurgency.

  Andrew and his team captured the guy and his family, tied them up in their home, and proceeded to interrogate him in front of his wife and two small children—a boy and a girl both under the age of seven. When he wouldn’t talk, they began torturing the man’s wife.

  Andrew enjoyed that part. To him, those people weren’t human. They were something else, caught between animals and people in the evolutionary chain. He actually enjoyed hearing the woman’s screams, the begging of the husband, the sobs of the children as they watched blood oozing from their mother’s toes where the nails had been ripped out.

  And still the man wouldn’t talk.

  Andrew had come to the conclusion that they would have to use even stronger leverage to get what they wanted. One of his men, a hulking lumberjack of a guy named Ted, hadn’t hesitated. He pressed the barrel of his sidearm against the boy’s head and tensed his finger.

  Amid the screaming, the begging, and the tears, Andrew was about to give the order to spray the kid’s skull across the room when the door burst open.

  Sean Wyatt and another guy appeared in the entrance.

  Andrew’s men had spun and pointed their weapons toward the doorway, but upon seeing an American had lowered their guns.

  Sean had not. He pointed his pistol straight at Andrew, knowing precisely who was running the show.