The Milestone Protocol

by Ernest Dempsey

  “Desmond, show me that website again.”

  He did as instructed, turning the phone’s face toward her.

  She stared at the web address, committing to memory as she typed it into the tablet’s browser. When she tapped the Return key on the digital keyboard, the website reloaded and pulled up the same 404 page that Diego found.

  “See?” Diego gloated. “It wasn’t me. I’m not an idiot, you know.”

  “I know you’re not an idiot,” she defended. “Excuse me for trying to play the role of Geek Squad.”

  “That’s so weird,” Desmond confessed. “Maybe I should refresh the page on my phone.”

  “No!” the siblings said, much louder than they intended. “Don’t.”

  Corin put out her hand to stop him.

  “What?” he asked, elevating his shoulders. “Why not?”

  “Because we might lose it completely.”

  “So? Maybe it was just a fake article. Or the information was incorrect. If the newspaper took it down, there must be a reason for it.”

  “Possibly,” Diego agreed in part. “But look at the date.”

  “It’s today,” Desmond said. “So?”

  “Don’t you think it’s weird that they would publish a piece and then take the page down on the same day?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Maybe it’s your internet.”

  “No,” Corin disagreed. “It’s not. Look.” She entered a different web address and was taken to the History Channel’s website. She twisted the tablet around so the other two could verify. “See? Nothing wrong with the Wi-Fi here.”

  Desmond stared at the screen for a few seconds, then looked back at his phone. “Why would they take down an article about an accident at the dig site on the same day they ran it?”

  “I don’t know,” Diego admitted. “But take a screenshot of that article.”

  “What for?”

  “We need to send this to Mr. Schultz.”

  “Why?” Desmond puzzled. “I mean, don’t you think he probably knows about it already?”

  “Maybe,” Diego hedged, “but it wouldn’t hurt to let him know just in case. Maybe he can fill us in on what happened. Aren’t you curious?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

  “Diego’s right,” Corin said. “We should send that screenshot to Mr. Schultz and see what he says. If he already knows about it, he’ll tell us and maybe fill us in on what happened. If he doesn’t know, it might be we just found ourselves a new investigation to take on.”

  The two boys exchanged a concerned, sidelong glance, then looked back to her.

  “You’re not saying we should go up to Brown Mountain, are you?” Desmond asked. “I doubt our parents would let us go, and Sam probably wouldn’t take us.”

  Diego chuckled. “Yeah, I think your parents’ head of security might be getting a little tired of driving us around, babysitting on our adventures.”

  “Nah,” Desmond passed it off with a dismissive hand. “Are you kidding me? He has way more fun with us than he does with that boring job with my parents.”

  “Maybe,” Corin said, “but it’s nearly winter. Christmas is right around the corner, and it does get cold up in those mountains of North Carolina. The roads might even be slippery with ice or snow right now. I say we reach out to Tommy and see what he says.”

  “And if he doesn’t know about it?” Desmond pressed.

  Corin considered the question. She had to admit that her curiosity was more than just piqued at the strange disappearance of the article. “Let’s deal with that question when the time comes. Send Mr. Schultz the message and see what he says. Maybe he’ll have an idea about what we should do.”

  “Good call.”

  Desmond looked up the contact information in his phone for Tommy Schultz and then began typing his message.

  12

  Stockholm

  Tommy led Magnus and Tabitha down the corridor toward his hotel room. He’d done his best to answer Tabitha’s questions before leaving the museum and heading to the hotel, but she’d insisted on driving her own vehicle. Now, as they stalked down the passage, he did his best to get her up to speed.

  “We received a message from Kevin when he was in Russia,” Tommy explained. “He claimed he’d seen the attack on his camp but was too far away to get any details about the attackers.”

  “That sounds awfully convenient.”

  “And that sounds awfully cliché,” Magnus defended.

  She passed him an irritated glance, then pressed on. “A man’s entire research team is attacked, and no one knows anything about it? Sounds like a hit, Tommy.”

  “I agree,” Tommy said with a look over his shoulder. “But I don’t think Kevin took out his own team. He sent us the email, telling me his best option was to flee to Plovdiv.”

  “Why Bulgaria?”

  “Only flight available on such short notice.”

  “I wonder why,” she said with a hint of fire in her voice.

  “Actually, Plovdiv is a fascinating place. Lots of history there. Ancient ruins, great food, people are nice. The traditional women’s dresses alone are worth the trip.”

  She pulled her head back, eyeing him with surprise or amusement or confusion or all three.

  “Either way, he didn’t want to contact the local authorities for fear that they might have somehow been involved in the attack.”

  Tommy turned a corner and pressed the button between two elevators. Within seconds, the one on the left dinged, and the doors opened. It was empty, and Tommy motioned for Agent Strong to enter first.

  Magnus followed with Tommy in the rear. When he was inside, Tommy pressed the button for his floor, and the doors closed.

  “Luckily for Kevin,” Tommy continued, “I had my best agent only a few hours away by plane. Last I heard, he was able to get to Plovdiv.”

  “Wyatt?” Tabitha asked in a whisper, though she wasn’t sure why. People tended to speak lower in elevators than in other rooms, though the social convention escaped her.

  “Yes. Sean Wyatt,” he said the name dramatically and with a bad English accent, as though introducing his friend like some super-secret MI6 agent might.

  “And did he get to Dr. Clark in time?”

  Magnus stood close to the wall with his hands folded in front of his waist, listening to the conversation.

  “I don’t know. When we get back to the room, I’m going to find out.”

  The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Tommy stepped out into the lavish hallway and turned right, heading toward the penthouse at the end of the corridor.

  “Why don’t you know?” Tabitha asked, scurrying to keep up. “Didn’t he call you or something?”

  “Sean went dark. Didn’t want to be tracked. I left my burner phone in the room here before I went to the museum for the presentation. It’s possible he may have called.” Tommy stopped at the large double doors and took a key card from his pocket. He pressed it to the lock, and the device clicked.

  He opened the door and said, “Just keep in mind that he was looking for someone in a decent-size city. It’s possible he never found Dr. Clark, but we won’t know until he gets in touch with me.”

  Tommy held the door open for Magnus and Tabitha to enter.

  “That hurts, Schultzie.” The familiar voice startled Tommy to the point his fingers slipped off the edge of the door, letting it close on Tabitha just as she was crossing the threshold.

  “Oh, sorry,” Tommy offered and reached back for the door. He was too late. She’d seen it coming and braced it with her palm.

  She pushed it open and looked at him like a child who’d just dropped a glass of milk on the floor.

  Tommy blushed at the scathing glare but quickly swiveled to search the suite for the source of the voice he knew so well.

  “Sorry if I scared you,” Sean said, stepping out of the shadows in the darkened living room. “I hope you don’t mind me letting myself in.”

  Magnus grinned br
oadly and bumped into Tommy as he passed, opening his arms wide. Sean mirrored the man’s approach, and the two embraced in a firm hug. Magnus ended it with a solid slap on the back and stepped away.

  “Sean, my boy, it’s so good to see you again.” He looked Sean up and down as if assessing his own son. “You haven’t aged a day.”

  Sean grinned back at the older man. “Sure doesn’t feel that way. Things hurt now and then when I wake up in the morning. Or when there’s a change in the weather.”

  Magnus boomed laughter. “Maybe you have aged then, at least on the inside.”

  Tommy moved closer and interrupted, cutting straight to business. “Did you find Dr. Clark?”

  Sean deadpanned for a second, then let out a disappointed huff. “Seriously? You really have zero faith in me. After all we’ve been through.”

  “I tried to tell him you’d take care of things,” Magnus hedged with a wink.

  “Okay, fine. Where is he?” Tommy said, exasperated.

  Dr. Clark appeared around the corner from the master bedroom. He looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes, but there was a sheepish, apologetic expression radiating from his face.

  “Tommy,” Kevin said with a nod.

  “Kevin,” Tommy replied with a hint of relief in his voice. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  He strode across the room in three big steps and shook the man’s hand. “I was worried when I read your email.”

  For his part, Kevin appeared confused. “You were?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Well, we’ve never really been on good terms, for starters.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I’ve said some pretty scathing things about you and your organization in the past,” Kevin went on.

  “I’m aware.”

  “I called you guys the cowboy wannabes of archaeology.”

  “Yeah, that one was too far,” Tommy said, pretending to be hurt. “But it was also pretty funny.”

  “You thought it was funny?”

  Sean interjected. “Look, Dr. Clark. You do things your way. We do them ours. Doesn’t mean either one is right or wrong. We just differ. Don’t take stuff so seriously.” Sean looked back to his friend Magnus. “I’ve been trying to get this guy to relax since we left Plovdiv.”

  “Is it working?” Magnus asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Not so much.”

  The two laughed, and soon the other two joined in.

  Tabitha lingered near the door, watching and listening to the testosterone-fueled water cooler moment.

  Sean was the first to realize she’d been standing there awkwardly waiting for the bro fest to end.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “were you going to introduce us to your friend, or were you just going to let her stand there in the entryway for the rest of the night?”

  Tommy blushed and whirled around. “I’m sorry. This is Agent Tabitha Strong from MI6. This is—”

  “Sean Wyatt,” he said, gliding across the room to shake her hand. At her robust grip, he smiled approvingly. “Nice to meet you. MI6, huh?”

  “Yes,” she drawled. “Nice to meet you as well, Sean. Or should I say Agent Wyatt?”

  “I haven’t gone by that title in a long time. Left those days behind me to younger, more talented people.”

  Her lips pursed for a split second, but she caught herself and offered a slight nod in thanks. Inside, though, she felt her heart flutter. He was smooth.

  She’d heard about Wyatt’s exploits, though nothing in tremendous detail. Much of what Axis handled was kept under wraps, and that agency never had a leak. Not that Tabitha ever heard about.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Sean,” she said coolly. “Tough to know much about Axis' missions, though I do appreciate what you did with those Russian arms dealers back in the day.”

  The comment caught him off guard, and for a second Sean felt more vulnerable than he had in a long time. He cocked his head to one side, appraising her. “Looks like someone’s been reading some files they weren’t supposed to have. And technically,” he leaned forward and whispered with the side of his hand against his face, “it was in Moldova.”

  “You don’t know my clearance level, Sean. And while the mission may have happened in Moldova, the dealers were Russian.”

  “All of our stuff was highly classified. Only three people in the world should have known about that one. Do I need to call my friend the director and let her know she has a leak?”

  “Axis doesn’t get leaks. And I didn’t read about it. I was there.”

  Sean held his cool, statuesque gaze, only blinking once or twice. He wasn’t going to give anything away to this person he just met, but she shouldn’t have known about the arms dealer mission in Moldova. That was years ago. He recalled the events of the night, the cold, the rain, the mission where he’d taken out dozens of armed men who were in the process of delivering weapons to extremists in the Middle East.

  How did she know? Was she really there?

  “Looks like you and I are going to have a few things to discuss, but for now we have more pressing matters.”

  “I’ll say,” Tommy chimed, eager to stop watching the awkward exchange between Sean and Tabitha. “Where’s the wife, Sean?”

  Sean tore his gaze away from the mysterious MI6 agent and turned back to his friend. “She’s back home.”

  “In Atlanta?” Magnus asked.

  “Madrid. Working on some family affairs.”

  “What kind of affairs?” Tommy asked. “I didn’t realize she was so involved with the day-to-day operations.”

  “No clue,” Sean admitted. “And she’s not that involved. All I know is whenever her dad calls and tells her it’s important, it must be.”

  13

  Madrid

  Adriana followed her father through the darkened corridor. Only sparsely placed candle sconces provided a dim light for the two to see as they stalked through the palatial Villa mansion.

  The three-hundred-year-old manor had been in their family since its creation. Several renovations and restorations had taken place throughout the centuries to keep the home in peak condition, and it was one of the few historical dwellings that hadn’t fallen prey to the proverbial “fire” that seemingly every palace and chateau fell to throughout the ages.

  Diego Villa pivoted at the next corner and didn’t lose pace as he continued deeper into the bowels of the mansion.

  Adriana had difficulty keeping up with her father, even though he was in his mid-seventies. The man was in spectacular shape, and it seemed the years had barely touched him since her childhood. There were other markers, of course, that betrayed the effects of time, but they were few: a stray gray hair here and there, one amid the black strands of his beard, and the occasional groan from aching joints. But for the most part, the man looked and moved like he could run a marathon the next day and feel just fine afterward.

  “You’re keeping awfully quiet, Papa,” Adriana huffed as she hurried to keep up.

  “I am aware, my daughter.”

  “I haven’t been down in these passageways in many years. Since my childhood training.”

  “Yes,” he agreed curtly, but without a hint of rudeness.

  She knew better than to press her father with a slew of questions, but she also wanted to know what was going on.

  He’d called her three weeks before and requested her presence at the familial estate in Madrid, telling her he needed her help in dealing with some aspect of family business. For the last few weeks, however, she’d done anything but work. Her father had been so busy, she barely saw the man until a couple of days ago.

  She’d kept herself busy, walking the vineyards, investigating new leads for artwork that had gone missing during World War II, as well as some pieces that disappeared even longer ago.

  This morning, however, he’d woken her in the early hours to let her know they would be going down into the manor’s bunker, where she’d trained
so long ago at an early age.

  These halls and cells had been a place of refuge for Adriana as her mother languished with cancer. The dojo and weight room here had been her outlet for rage, sadness, and honing herself into something stronger, a formidable weapon against any who would stand in her way.

  For much of her life, Adriana wondered why her father had her spend so much time training, sharpening her skills, and sculpting her physique into a fine-tuned machine. She’d assumed, initially, that it had been for self-preservation. Perhaps that had played a small role, but through the years her doubts about that answer continued to mount. Self-defense classes, or martial arts, would have been enough to deal with most threats that could have threatened her as a young woman. But Adriana hadn’t done basic self-defense training. She’d been taught by one of the last of an ancient line of warriors in the forbidden arts of ninjutsu.

  Initially, she’d wondered if she was having a strange dream. Even historians couldn’t fully agree on the mysterious past of the Ninja and their training regimen after the order drifted into the shadows during the seventeenth century. In the nineteenth century, the secret band of warriors was nothing more than the topic of legends and stories people told around the campfire or at the dinner table. They were a fascinating study, but had faded into obscurity.

  That, Adriana knew, was only partly true.

  She’d pressed her master for more information on the Ninja, or Shinobi as they were known in the old days. Adriana asked how many there were, where they were located or based, and why they’d kept their presence secret for so long.

  Her master’s answer was as cryptic as the Shinobi history itself.

  “We are everywhere and nowhere,” he’d explained. “It is best that we remain in the shadows, lest we once more corrupt ourselves with greed and lack of purpose.”

  She surmised that he referred to their role as mercenaries, spies, and assassins for hire, though he never explained their origins, how they were formed, or where they came from. Adriana wondered on many occasions about the Shinobi’s purpose and how they had come to embrace greed and cast their moral codes into the abyss.