The Omega Project

by Ernest Dempsey

  It was one of the guards bringing him the meager breakfast of oatmeal and toast he’d had every morning since arriving.

  The slop wasn’t much in the way of taste, but it was better than nothing, and the humble meals had helped keep Dawkins alive.

  He looked around the room for what must have been the thousandth time. The basement was, for all intents and purposes, in the bottom of a home, though he couldn’t be sure. It looked like some unfinished basements he’d seen before when shopping for a house. The frames for most of the rooms were still exposed. The electrical wiring had been done, connected to outlets and switches along the walls in multiple locations, but only the room where Dawkins was being held had drywall covering the studs, headers, and runners. There was a barred door and matching wall fixed into the entrance to his cell. It reminded him of old spaghetti western jail cells used by movie companies in the 1960s.

  Of course, he’d fiddled with the lock a couple of times, even jiggled the door when no one was around. There were no guards down here with him, but there was also no other way out except up the stairs. There were no windows, just a few vents in the wall, but those were too small for him to fit through; although Dawkins had most certainly considered that option.

  He sighed as he reflected on his situation. He wasn’t so concerned for himself and his personal safety, but he knew that somewhere out there, Emily was worried sick and would be doing everything in her formidable power to find out where he was and who had done this.

  He’d been on a jet for nearly five hours. That could put him in a number of different locations, though he was able to eliminate several of those thanks to his perceptive senses.

  The bitter cold that hit his skin when he was taken from the plane told him he was farther north than he had been, but there was a certain element of humidity to the air that eliminated the Rocky Mountains as a possibility. Then there was the scent of coniferous trees when he was removed from the vehicle after a drive of over an hour. He’d been moved to a forest somewhere, and because of the heavy smell of fir, pine, and spruce, he figured he’d been taken somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. He ruled out Canada because that would just make things complicated for the kidnappers. That meant Dawkins was likely in one of only three or four places.

  He could be somewhere in Oregon, Washington, or possibly Northern California, though he doubted the latter due to the drive time after their flight.

  None of that helped, of course. Knowing where he was only solved a minor part of the former president’s problem.

  The door at the base of the stairs clicked and then swung open. A man appeared in the doorway with another standing behind him. Dawkins recognized the one in the lead. He was in charge of this operation, the guy calling the shots, but Dawkins had the distinct impression that this man was taking orders from someone else.

  “Wait out here,” the younger man said. The guard closed the door to the stairs behind him as he shrugged the submachine gun tighter onto his shoulder.

  The leader stepped deeper into the basement and meandered over to a wooden chair he’d placed there on an earlier visit. He sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and folded his hands in his lap, lacing the fingers together tightly.

  “What?” Dawkins asked, still sitting on the edge of the cot. His voice was as cold as the temperature outside and harder than the concrete floor.

  “I just thought I’d pay our little VIP a visit.”

  “Appears you don’t know how to treat an important guest.”

  “Well, maybe you’re not that important.”

  Dawkins forced a chuckle and nodded absently, returning his gaze to the floor.

  “But you’re important to my employer, and that’s what matters. Personally, I couldn’t care less about you. If my boss told me to turn you loose right now, I would have zero issue doing that.”

  “Then why don’t you?” Dawkins asked, though he already knew the reason.

  “You know why, Mr. President. You’ve seen my face.”

  “And signed my death sentence.”

  “That’s right, but it’s not my sentence.”

  “You already alluded to that.”

  The younger man shrugged. “Seeing how you’re never going to get out of this alive, I may as well introduce myself. My name is Andrew Boyd.”

  “I don’t care.” Salt filled Dawkins’s voice.

  “I know.” Boyd took a long breath. “Of course, you probably wonder what I’m getting out of all this. If I don’t care, why am I holding you here? It’s simple, really.”

  “I actually wasn’t wondering anything about you.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll tell you anyway. You see, my employer wants something very powerful, something that you would never have let him have.”

  That was a strange thing to say. Dawkins didn’t know what that meant, but he also didn’t have time to ask.

  “Me, on the other hand, I’m just after good old-fashioned revenge.”

  “Oh really?” Dawkins didn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice.

  “Yes, indeed. And it’s interesting that you are the link to bring me what I want and get my generous employer what he wants.”

  “Which is?”

  “Honestly, I don’t have a clue what that old guy wants. I don’t even think he knows what it is. That’s why he’s using Sean to find it. You’re just the carrot in front of the mule to get him to do his job.”

  Dawkins thought hard, then it hit him. “You want revenge on Sean?”

  “Bingo,” Boyd raised one finger and pretended to fire a gun with the thumb hammer dropping to mock-shoot his captive.

  “What did Sean ever—”

  “Ever do to me? Great question. See, I was in the military, Mr. President. I served our nation, your nation, selflessly and with pride. Then your friend Sean Wyatt took that all away from me one day. Thought I was doing things unethically. I was court-martialed, thrown out of the military I’d served so honorably. All because of him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Save it.”

  “Thank you for your service,” the president goaded.

  “I said save it.”

  “Obviously, you must have done something pretty wrong for Sean to come after you. He doesn’t take out good guys.”

  Boyd shot out of his chair, fury flaming in his eyes.

  “Sean Wyatt is no angel, Mr. President, and when I’m done with him, no one will remember his name. He’s falling right into our trap. And when he does, I’m going to let you watch him die. Just thought I’d let you know.”

  Boyd stalked to the door, flung it open, and disappeared up the stairs.

  “That was a bratty thing to do,” he muttered under his breath. The little cuss sure enjoyed hearing the sound of his own voice. Dawkins wondered if Boyd was just trying to get a rise out of him. Maybe the whole monologue about getting revenge on Sean was somehow cathartic for the guy.

  He’d considered threatening Boyd, but Dawkins knew that wouldn’t work. And it wouldn’t prove anything. If you were dumb enough to kidnap a former president, you had most likely run through most of the scenarios and understood the imminent danger in doing so.

  His thoughts gravitated back to Emily. He hoped she was okay. While Dawkins knew that the entirety of the government’s resources had been focused on finding him, he knew the chance for a favorable outcome was bleak at best.

  Dawkins exhaled and looked down at the floor again. He’d set his expectations low for how all this would turn out, but now it seemed like things were only getting worse. He just hoped Emily wouldn’t be devastated.

  11

  St. Louis, Missouri

  Sean drove all day and into the night until he reached Saint Louis. It was one o’clock in the morning when he stopped at a tiny motel just on the western side of the city. He had no intention of staying on the eastern side of the river. It was renowned across the country for its high crime, which meant there would likely be a lot of law enforcement over
there, as well. The last thing he needed was to be hanging around a bunch of cops. While he doubted they’d received any sort of APB yet on what was surely being called a fugitive situation, it wouldn’t be long before his name and image will be in the hands of every officer on the force.

  He’d been careful on his drive up through North Georgia, Tennessee, Kentucky, and southern Illinois. The farther away from Atlanta he drove, the better he felt in some ways and the worse he felt in others.

  On the north side of Atlanta, just out of the city, he’d tossed his phone out the truck’s window as he crossed Lake Allatoona. The biting cold ripped through his skin for the few seconds he’d had the window open. It was unseasonably chilly in the south, and he was happy to get the window back up as fast as possible. Later on that night, as he drove through Paducah and then Illinois, he’d forced himself to lower the window a few times just to stay awake. The cold air sent a shock through his body every time and woke him up, only to be ravaged by fatigue twenty minutes later.

  By midnight, he was ready to stop somewhere and get some rest, but he wanted to clear Saint Louis first. His plan was to drive through Kansas City the next morning and go all the way to Rapid City, South Dakota, by the next night. He’d considered going a little farther and trying to reach Sturgis, but it would depend on how the drive went. Many of the Midwestern states and the mountain states beyond were already getting pounded by snow. That would make travel slow.

  He’d made the drive before, cutting up through South Dakota, Wyoming, and then Montana all the way through Idaho, but that was in the summer when there wasn’t a trace of snow on the ground. Now there would be tons of it. Some of the roads would likely be closed, and he would probably have to figure out some alternate routes to reach his destination.

  The cabin was located between Columbia Falls, Montana, and the Canadian border, though the road didn’t provide access to the country to the north. It went right up to it and then came to a stop, at least that’s the way it was the last time Sean was there.

  The place was completely off the grid. He’d paid for the property without using any banks, any lenders, and without much of the paperwork that came along with mortgages. A friend had helped him with the build during one long summer. They’d paid for the materials in cash and built it with their own hands. In doing so, Sean had installed a few additional features that would have caused a normal contractor to raise an eyebrow. The solar panels he’d installed in the clearing near the cabin provided power year-round, save for when he had to clear off the snow or when the days were cloudy, which wasn’t too often. For those times, he’d invested in a new kind of technology that used large heat sinks to provide thermoelectric power.

  Of course, he could always use candles for light if he needed to. Sean was accustomed to roughing it. He’d been in Third World countries with little more than the clothes on his back and a canteen. There’d been hard nights in Central and South America. He’d been hot and sweaty, barely able to sleep during those missions. Driving through the cold of Illinois and Missouri, he contemplated those hot nights with a fondness he’d never had before.

  Sean opened the door to his motel room and stepped inside, poking his head out one last time to make sure no one was watching or that he’d been followed. Then he closed the door and set his pack on the chair near the window.

  The room was unimpressive. The single queen bed in the middle featured a light green comforter with white sheets. The brown wallpaper with white stripes was peeling in a few places. As Sean looked down at the bottom of the door, he could see light coming in through the opening between the threshold and the door’s edge. He almost didn’t want to see the bathroom, but he needed a quick shower.

  He walked through the diminutive bedroom area and stopped at the sink. The bathroom was to his left, the shower, tub, and toilet separated from the wash basin by a narrow door hung flimsily on its hinges. He wondered if it would fall off and if he’d be responsible for the damages, but he shook off the thought and stepped into the bathroom, electing not to close the door just in case. Besides, there was no need for privacy since he was alone.

  Sean had stopped at a twenty-four-hour drug store a few minutes before arriving at the motel. He’d avoided the news on his satellite radio, instead choosing to have a blissfully ignorant trip across country, but knew the net would probably be expanding. Cops and federal agents all over the nation would be looking for him. That meant he’d need to change his appearance.

  As luck would have it, he’d started growing his beard the week before in preparation for winter. It was also something he did in the depths of hockey season as had been his tradition since college.

  He set down the bag from the drug store on top of the toilet’s water closet and pulled out the hair dye he’d purchased. He stared at the box with disdain and shook his head.

  Sean thought—for what felt like the millionth time in the last decade—he’d left this cloak-and-dagger life behind. He sighed and set the container down on the edge of the tub, took off his shirt and pants, and then picked it up again. He squeezed some of the liquid into his left hand, put the tube back down again, and then started massaging the dye into his hair.

  He walked back into the sink area and looked over at the door. His senses were on full alert. They had been since the call he’d received from Emily.

  Sean knew that at any moment there could be a knock at the door followed by the bang of a battering ram. No sense in worrying about it. He looked to his past and his studies in psychology to alleviate the anxiety. Worrying, he told himself, never fixed anything. It simply occupied the mind with one more thing when it could have been used to solve problems or come up with more efficient, helpful thoughts.

  Worry, he figured, was humanity’s default setting.

  He let the dye soak another few minutes and then turned on the shower, let it warm up to a reasonable temperature, and stepped in.

  Once he’d washed the dye out of his hair and gone through the rest of his usual routine, he turned off the water and got out, dried off, and put on a T-shirt and jeans.

  Sean preferred to sleep in his boxers and T-shirt, but in this instance, he was going to have to sleep fully clothed. Should the need arise, he’d have to be ready to hit the road in seconds.

  He grabbed his Springfield XD .40-cal from the tactical bag on the chair and rechecked the magazine.

  His eyes were getting droopy, pulled by the dense core of the earth as he grew more and more tired. Falling asleep wouldn’t be a problem. Staying asleep might be.

  He walked over to the bed, set the pistol on the nightstand, and crawled under the covers.

  Sean didn’t open his eyes again until five o’clock local time. He’d slept like the dead for the last three hours or so, but something had roused him. Through the crack in the drapes, he could see it was still pitch dark outside. He sat up and scanned the room, lit by the pale glow of the moon shining through the window.

  It was empty, save for the cheap furnishings and television on the dresser. He’d heard something, though; he was sure of it.

  Then the sound came again. It was a click, like someone was messing with the door, trying to unlock it.

  His right hand moved to the pistol on the nightstand. Sean knew if it was a cop or a Fed that he couldn’t kill them. That would put him straight into a max security prison and, most likely, on death row. If it even got that far. Clearly, someone wanted him dead or arrested. He thought back to the voice of the man on the video and the things he’d said.

  The guy claimed Sean had taken everything from him. For the entire length of the drive between Atlanta and Saint Louis, Sean had pondered that very issue. He couldn’t narrow down the list of candidates enough to come to a definitive conclusion. He’d made so many enemies over the years, it could be any of two or three dozen people, maybe more, who wanted his head.

  This guy, however, was different. Sean could apparently find something he wanted, a treasure or relic, perhaps. But he was wi
lling to sacrifice losing any chance at that by framing Sean for the abduction of former president John Dawkins, which meant whatever secret Sean had to find to save Dawkins was superfluous.

  Did that mean if Sean failed the kidnapper would release Dawkins?

  Sean doubted it. If the former president had seen the faces of his captors, even heard their real voices, it was probably going to be curtains for Dawkins. Sean knew that was likely going to be the case even if he delivered the artifact, or whatever it was he had to find. There was only one reason to try to find whatever it was they wanted. If he could locate this mystery and deliver the goods, perhaps he could find a way to free his friend. That was a long way off, though, and he was already down one day.

  The sound at the door startled him from his dreamlike thoughts, and he swung his legs around the edge of the bed and planted his feet on the floor. In the blink of an eye, Sean whipped around the bed and stood against the door, right shoulder nearly touching it, with his weapon held up close to his face. If anyone tried to come through, he’d be ready.

  Another sound came from the door’s exterior, this time sounding more like a scratching noise, like claws on metal.

  Sean frowned and shuffled a few inches away. He glanced down at the bottom of the door and noted the shadow outlined by the light beyond through the narrow gap. That wasn’t a human shadow. He was sure of it.

  So, what was it?

  He gripped his pistol with his right hand and then unlatched the door chain and unlocked the deadbolt. Still ready for an attack by an intruder, he grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, and yanked it open, leveling his weapon at the same time in case he had to blast someone in the chest.