The Milestone Protocol

by Ernest Dempsey

  She frowned at the orders, but slowly nodded. “Okay, Vally. I trust you.”

  Hana managed to collect her things and pack her luggage within fifteen minutes. The sense of urgency Svoboda projected may have helped speed things along.

  When she was done, he grabbed two suitcases, while she picked up a backpack and a pair of totes. They headed to the door without saying a word. Svoboda felt like it was the last time he’d be in this apartment, with her or otherwise. Soon it would be a pile of rubble or charred walls and burned floors. The property likely wouldn’t survive.

  He pulled the door open and held it wide for her to walk through. A muffled pop came from just beyond the threshold. Svoboda looked up in time to see a pink haze spray from the back of Hana’s skull. Her body tipped backward and then fell to the floor, the back of her head hitting the surface with a sickening smack.

  Shocked and horrified, Svoboda twisted his head and looked out the door. A pistol with a stream of smoke drifting away from the barrel loomed in the empty space. Svoboda’s eyes rolled over the pistol and up the extended arm to the woman who held it. Her black turtleneck clung to her athletic figure. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. Dark red lips creased slightly in a mocking grin, an expression that didn’t move a muscle on the rest of her alabaster face. The chilling hazel eyes that stared back at Valentin betrayed no remorse, no consideration of mercy.

  “Going somewhere, Valentin?” the woman asked coldly. She turned the gun toward him, lining up the muzzle with his forehead.

  He felt his bladder squeeze and clenched his jaw, assuming the last thing he was going to see was his dead girlfriend and a pistol in his face. He closed his eyes, resigned to his fate.

  The gunshot didn’t come. Valentin opened his eyes and found the woman still standing there while two men—one white and one he pegged from somewhere on the Iberian Peninsula—stepped into the room with no regard to the billionaire.

  They avoided the body on the floor and split up, one going to the bedroom, the other to a computer in the corner near a black entertainment center from IKEA. The white guy sat down at the computer and started pecking away at the keyboard, while the other rifled through Hana’s dresser drawers.

  “I asked if you were going somewhere,” the woman reiterated.

  As if doused with ice water, Valentin snapped his head and returned from his imagined death. “No. I wasn’t—”

  “That’s a lot of suitcases for someone going nowhere, wouldn’t you say?” Her Czech was perfect, but her accent was off, as if she were from another country, somewhere nearby.

  “Yes. I mean…no,” he stumbled through the answer. “I wasn’t going anywhere. I know the rules.”

  The woman clicked her tongue and glanced back down the street in both directions. From his angle, Valentin caught a glimpse of an unmarked black police vehicle with lights flashing in the damp night.

  He felt his stomach turn. Bile climbed toward his throat and he found it difficult to fend off. The realization pushed his will to the brink. They’d just killed Hana as though she were nothing more than a rodent, and the authorities had helped.

  They were here.

  “Don’t lie to me, Valentin.” She sounded like she enjoyed saying the name, the way she let the syllables roll off her tongue in derision.

  “I’m not. I swear. Please, you must believe me. I was just helping her get her things for her trip.”

  “Trip?” The woman cocked her head as if staring at a deranged puppy trying to eat its own tail.

  “Yes. To my chalet in the mountains. She asked if she could go there for the upcoming weekend. Since my family won’t be there, I told her yes.”

  “And you decided to come help her at two in the morning?” The woman stepped over the threshold, the gun gimbaled in the air, barely moving at all as she closed the door.

  Valentin’s breath came in quick, desperate huffs, the air blowing out his nostrils. He felt the heat of it on his lips, and thirst abruptly gripped the back of his throat. He knew the reins of panic were lashing around him, something the woman would definitely detect—if she hadn’t already.

  “I had a busy day. You know this.” He shrugged innocently. Valentin instantly knew the gesture was patronizing and dropped his hands. “Besides, she and I always keep strange hours. This is not new.”

  The woman inclined her head, raising her chin as she stared at him over dark-lashed bottom eyelids.

  “You knew you weren’t supposed to tell anyone, Valentin. Your father knew the rules. His father before him. And before him. You knew the rules, too, Valentin.” She took a menacing step toward him and stopped short of the body. The woman crudely raised her boot and rested it on Hana’s stomach.

  The maneuver nearly brought the contents of Valentin’s stomach to his lips, but he winced and forced it back down for the second time. The callousness of this killer was unlike anything he’d ever seen.

  The guy in the bedroom finished his work and returned to the living room. The woman pointed down at the body. “Phone,” she said.

  The man replied with a curt nod and fished the phone out of a brown leather clutch looped over Hana’s shoulder.

  He shifted over to the kitchen counter and held another phone next to the dead woman’s device. Within seconds, the screen unlocked. Then he tapped a button on his phone and the other screen went dark again.

  “What did you do?” Svoboda demanded.

  “Wiped her phone. If she texted anyone, or if it was tapped, any information has been permanently deleted.”

  The woman’s answer chilled him. What kind of technology was this that allowed them to hack a person’s phone in seconds, wirelessly?

  “How are we looking on the computer?” she asked, still glaring at Svoboda.

  “Finishing up now. Doesn’t look like anything suspicious was sent. I don’t think she knew anything.”

  “Good. Wipe the computer and head back to the car.”

  The man tapped away at the keyboard. When he hit the Return key, the monitor blinked off. He stood, opened the door, and left, closing it behind him.

  “So,” Svoboda said nervously, “where are we going? I thought we were supposed to wait for the coordinates before we make our way to the rendezvous.”

  “Correct,” the woman said. “But you’re not coming with us.”

  “What?”

  A similar muffled pop echoed through the room. The right side of Svoboda’s head erupted, and the man collapsed to the floor, perpendicular to Hana. The guy who’d been standing at the kitchen counter lowered his weapon. Then the killer drew another pistol with the silencer still attached, placed it in Svoboda’s hand, and pulled the trigger. The pistol discharged, but no round ejected from the barrel. It was a blank, purely to expel powder residue onto Svoboda’s skin.

  The gunman crouched down over the dead man, removed the decoy pistol, and pressed the real gun into Svoboda’s palm, careful to make sure the finger wrapped around the trigger and grip to leave fingerprints.

  The woman watched the entire process with disconnected ease. She kept her eyes on the door, as if an intruder might enter. That was unlikely. Their team had cordoned off the street. Svoboda’s driver was dead. No one would know a thing.

  The henchman stood once his job was complete. He waited for her to give him a command, just like a good soldier.

  “Return to the car,” she ordered.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. He immediately exited the apartment, leaving her alone, surrounded by the acrid smell of gun smoke and blood.

  She looked down at the two bodies. The scene was messy, but it didn’t matter. A clean scene would raise questions among the subjects, and the fewer questions the better. She laughed internally at the thought of the subjects. They called themselves civilians or citizens. Think what they might, they would never understand the truth.

  She shook her head at Svoboda. “You had a free pass to life,” she drawled. “Shame you had to be so stupid. And for wha
t?”

  The woman shrugged and turned away. She would never understand Svoboda’s decision, or the rare few who made the same mistake. Emotional attachment was a fuse strapped to an explosive and sudden demise. She never let herself get sentimental. There was no room for nostalgia or codependence in her world. There was only the mission. And the time for the Milestone Protocol to be initiated was finally at hand.

  2

  Volgograd, Russia

  The team of archaeologists looked up from the plastic picnic table as three SUVs skidded to a stop on the dusty trail that passed for a road.

  The researchers had been working almost around the clock, only taking breaks for food and sleep, as they searched for evidence of the lost city of Sarai. Fatigue had worn on them, but they were on a mission, and their persistence had finally paid off.

  They’d made a significant discovery the day before, and the joy and relief on every face still shone like the warm afternoon sun.

  “Who is that?” one of the team asked. The man had a thick black beard and matching hair with a tanned, fleshy face.

  “Not sure,” Susan said. A thin, shortish blonde, she’d been left in charge of the operation when the lead, Kevin Clark, went into town.

  He’d taken their discovery to the university in Volgograd to be analyzed and had promised to return as soon as he knew something. They’d agreed he could also leave the artifact with the university's professors. The team had a working agreement with the university to house any of their discoveries there, if needed. They’d also worked out details to allow the university to conduct additional research with any artifacts the team recovered. After all, the dig was happening in Volgograd’s backyard, and while the ancient city of Sarai wasn’t necessarily Russian, the land was.

  Kevin and Susan had to hope that the eccentric Russian president didn’t find out about any of it. For the time being, he had his eyes on other matters, not the least of which was the constant tension with other European nations and, occasionally, with the United States.

  The American president, Gwen McCarthy, had made major strides in diplomatic relations with Russia, though it was unclear whether either side fully trusted one another. Public sentiment said no, but only time would reveal the truth.

  For the moment, though, Kevin and the rest of his team didn’t concern themselves with international affairs, instead focusing all of their energy on tracking down what had been one of the world’s largest, most magnificent cities of the Middle Ages.

  The week had been a thrilling one for every member of the team. The first signs of their discovery emerged on Monday, and by Wednesday, they had uncovered something unexpected and exciting.

  The graves were unlike most they’d seen, and definitely not like anything used by the Golden Horde, the founders of Sarai.

  Susan watched the doors to the SUVs open and several people in black tactical suits step out. One of them, a blond man with shiny aviator sunglasses, pointed in various directions and issued orders. She was too far away to hear what he was saying, but from the looks of it, she didn’t like what was going on.

  She moved away from the table and stalked over to the man as his team fanned out. There were a dozen of them, and they were all armed with submachine guns.

  Susan didn’t know much about modern weapons—she’d spent most of her life in academia, studying history and cultures—but her expertise in ancient weaponry rivaled some of the top minds in the world. All she knew about the guns these people carried were that they looked like the kind she’d seen the military or SWAT teams use.

  She stormed toward the man in charge as his team spread through the camp like wildfire. They started turning over crates, rifling through files on some of the workstation tables, and even entered the tents that served as private quarters for the members of the archaeology group.

  “Excuse me,” Susan blared. It was all she could do to keep from yelling at the man. “What are you doing? This is a legal excavation site with permission from the Russian government.” The breeze whipped a loose strand of her blonde hair up past her ear, where it fluttered for a second before falling.

  “The artifact,” the man said. “Where is it?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “We know you found something here. You must give it to me.” His accent wasn’t Russian. He towered a full eight inches or more over her. His broad, muscular shoulders trailed down to equally strong arms. The man was too lean to be a professional bodybuilder, but he clearly worked out frequently.

  Susan frowned. She eyed the man suspiciously. “Who are you with? We have—”

  “Yes, I know you have permission to be here. So do we. We’ve been instructed to extract the item. I’m not at liberty to tell you who I work for. Just know that their authority supersedes the Russian government.” The accent sounded vaguely Scandinavian, but she couldn’t distinguish which nation. She didn’t think him to be Finnish, but she’d only met a few people from Finland.

  “Supersedes? Now, hold on one second,” she sneered. Her dignified English accent lost all decorum as her voice roiled with anger. “We are here on a peaceful, historical research project to find the lost city of Sarai. Whatever we find here is equally shared by the—"

  A gunshot sounded over the plains and hills, silencing her thoughts in mid-sentence.

  Her body fell to the ground at his feet. Screams from the picnic table swelled to a cacophony of panic. Susan’s team immediately stood from their seats on the benches, as if they could somehow protest what happened with nothing but their words.

  The leader spoke into the radio attached to his shoulder. “Round them up.”

  Instantly, the twelve invaders circled the picnic table, leaving their investigations to follow the command.

  When his minions had enveloped the archaeology team in a tight circle, the blond man leading the group trudged over, casually ambling past Susan’s body with the same regard he might have given a squashed cockroach.

  He stopped short of the circle and met the eyes of each researcher. Some brimmed with tears. A few of the women trembled, holding on to each other. He saw in their faces an expression he’d seen many times. They sensed death, and they were right to.

  “You found an artifact on this site,” the blond man said. “I want to know where it is. Give it to me, and I will spare you. And only you. The rest will die.”

  No one said anything, but he could see that one—the man with a thick beard and bulging gut—was considering the possibility.

  “You,” the leader said, pointing at the pudgy researcher. “What’s your name?”

  The archaeologist swallowed hard before answering. “Scott,” he muttered.

  “Scott, you look like a reasonable person. Where is the artifact? Tell me where it is, and I will let you live.”

  One of the women on the other side of the circle panicked. Sensing the truth was going to come out anyway, she blurted, “Kevin took it to Volgograd! Kevin Clark. He has it.” Her answer was met with rage from the others in the group, and she immediately burst into tears.

  “Where did he take it?” the leader clarified.

  “The university there. I swear.”

  “Heather?” one of the other women sneered. “How could you?”

  “Thank you, Heather,” the leader said, sincerely. He nodded to his second-in-command, a black man with a strong jaw and a shaved head. “Burn it.”

  “Wait!” Heather yelled, still sobbing. “You said you would spare me!”

  The leader regarded her with curiosity. “You shouldn’t believe everything you’re told.”

  Then he turned and marched back to the convoy as a barrage of gunfire erupted from behind. He climbed into the SUV and waited while his team ransacked the tents and workstations, taking computers, external hard drives, and paperwork. When they’d collected enough, the team set fire to the camp and returned to the vehicles.

  The blond leader watched the flames swell, growing to twice his height before
everyone was back in the trucks. As they drove away, he watched the column of smoke spiraling into the sky.

  Something over the dusty road ahead caught his attention. Another plume drifted into the air, swirling and twisting until it formed an indistinguishable haze.

  The leader knew right away what it was. Someone else was there. And they were speeding away in the other direction.

  “It seems we have a loose end,” he said coolly to the driver. “Catch them.”

  3

  Brown Mountain, North Carolina

  Federal Agent Nicholas Sandstrom watched as the crew of government scientists exited the airlock connected to the cave on the mountain’s slope. He’d been assigned to this project for more than a month, and he was getting tired of being out in the mountains.

  He’d grown up in New York, in the heart of the city. To say he was indoorsy was an understatement. Sandstrom loathed the great outdoors—never went camping once in his childhood or during high school. The one time he did, in college, was a decidedly unpleasant experience, and one he vowed to never try again.

  Fortunately and unfortunately, he’d been put up in a local motel along with the rest of his team as the process of collecting evidence and artifacts stretched from days into weeks. The tiny motel room constantly smelled musty, like a leak filtered into the carpet somewhere from a pipe. Sandstrom couldn’t believe the place didn’t have black mold sprawling all over the ceiling, walls, and floor. At least, he hoped it didn’t.

  When he joined the FBI, there’d been some tough assignments, but most of his career up to that point had been pushing paper or analyzing information on his computer. When he got the call for a field assignment, he’d protested, but with tensions rising on the political landscape both foreign and domestic, it was all hands on deck. Federal agents in every agency fanned out across the United States in an effort to stem all manner of problems, from immigration to civil unrest in some cities.