The Medina Device

by T. J. Champitto

  The border agent examined it closely. “Que hay en el camión?”

  “Nada,” replied Brad. “Equipo.”

  “You are American?” the agent finally asked.

  “Sí. I had a delivery in Tecate. My paperwork was checked on my way in.”

  The border agent seemed agitated now. He motioned to the back of the truck. “Abre la puerta,” he demanded.

  Brad reluctantly stepped out and led the agent to the rear of the van. He peered over his shoulder, scanning the area with concern. There were four more guards gathered in the next gatehouse over. If things went sideways, the team would be outgunned.

  Hearing the footsteps approach the back door, Cam braced for the worst. He tucked himself against the back wall with his pistol at the ready. The door latches began to shudder. He trained his weapon and released a long, calming breath.

  Brad fumbled with the lock as the border agent impatiently crossed his arms. The doors finally unlocked and slung open with dramatic flair.

  “See? Tools,” muttered Brad.

  The border agent narrowed his eyes and stared deeply at the contents of the metal shelving within the bay. Hidden behind it in the shadows, Cam gripped his pistol with bated breath.

  The border agent’s flashlight danced throughout the cargo hold until the crackle of a radio broke his attention. The agent snatched a small device clipped to his shoulder and began arguing with another agent in Spanish.

  He quickly motioned for Brad to close the truck, then waved him through the checkpoint.

  Brad shut the bay doors and meandered back to the driver’s seat, offering a casual wave to the border agent.

  Pushing the truck through the checkpoint and past the gate, he exhaled into the windshield and exchanged looks of relief with Michael. When Brad Mitchell got up that morning, he never thought he’d be smuggling two soldiers and a dead body through the Mexican border.

  The rusted blue truck continued north on Highway 88, then west on 94 until they reached the small town of Dulzura, California. Brad pulled the tank-like vehicle into the garage of an abandoned body shop on the outskirts of town and killed the lights. The garage had been secured ahead of the mission, a safety net in the event something like this happened.

  Michael jumped out and pulled down the large garage door, then helped Brad remove the faux shelving from the back of the truck and unloaded the ossuary.

  “Who is he?” Brad finally asked, gazing at the mysterious body wrapped in burlap. The soldier knew better than to ask questions, but he had just taken a huge risk to help the Lyles escape Mexico.

  “It’s Mark Montgomery’s little brother,” Cam confessed.

  Brad Mitchell threw his hands atop his head. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “I wish I was,” replied Cam. “We can’t thank you enough, Brad.”

  “No worries, man. Glad I was close by.”

  The two came together for a quick hug and pats on the back.

  “I was never here,” Brad requested. “Be safe and get your ass home.”

  He slipped out a back door where his black Camaro awaited. The hotrod fired up with a sharp roar and sped out of the drive.

  “So, what now?” Michael asked.

  “We need to bury Trip.”

  “Where?”

  “Mount Laguna. It’s only an hour north of here.”

  Michael took pause. “That’s where he proposed to Elena.”

  “I know. He loved it there. He and Mark used to hike that range when they were kids.”

  “And then what?”

  “One problem at a time, bro. We bury Trip and then solve our next problem, and then the next.”

  A black Chevy Suburban sat in the mechanic’s area beyond the old delivery truck. In the backseat was a neatly folded body bag, which Cam retrieved and carefully laid out next to his fallen comrade. They took time to clean Trip’s face and wipe the blood from his body before transferring him into the bag, then loaded it into the Suburban behind the back seat.

  The brothers changed into street clothes and now found themselves staring at the old ossuary. It was taunting them. They’d nearly lost their lives for it. Trip was dead because of it. Yet here it sat.

  After a moment of deliberation, Cam looked around the garage and zeroed in on a crow bar strewn nearby.

  “Fuck it,” he said as he grasped it into his clutches and raised it above his head.

  Michael watched as his brother swung with rage and struck the ossuary on its side. Then again. After another big swing, the ancient box crumbled into a dozen pieces.

  Satisfied, Cam dropped the crow bar at his feet. It clanked eerily against the cement floor as he and Michael gazed in bewilderment at the mess in front of them.

  “We deserve to know,” Cam stated.

  “What the hell is all that?”

  “Whatever it is, it’s not worth Trip’s life.”

  Cam fell to his knees and examined the pile of dusty limestone shards and other random debris. He ran his hands through the rubble and began pulling items out for a closer look. His first grab was a dark stone slab decorated with strange hieroglyphs. He reached for another—a small brick of polymer-like material. Cam then wiped away the dust covering a third item—a ten-inch long piece of…machined steel? He grabbed it with his right hand and pulled it from the pile.

  “Is that metal?” Michael asked.

  “It’s not just metal, it’s…it’s electronic…I think.” Cam was stuttering in bewilderment.

  “That’s not right, Cam. This ossuary is supposed to be over a thousand years old. It looks like a damn lightsaber.”

  Cam blew the dust from the metallic wand, which indeed looked just like the handle of a Star Wars lightsaber. It revealed what appeared to be a button, along with various wires and circuitry. This wasn’t some relic, it had been manufactured. It had been engineered.

  As the Lyle brothers meticulously examined the device, their focus was cut short by a low hum in the distance.

  “You hear that?” asked Michael.

  “Yeah,” Cam replied, darting his eyes to the ceiling above. “Helo. Kill that flashlight.”

  The guys marched through the darkness to a nearby window. The sound was getting closer now.

  “Feds?”

  “Probably,” Cam confirmed. “They’re likely to circle in eight-kilo loops, intervals of ten minutes.”

  “Where’s that leave us?”

  “In a hurry.” Cam finally got a visual on the lights of a helicopter circling the night sky above. “They should finish this vector and keep moving east in a few. We’ll probably have a five-minute window before another one shows up.”

  He grabbed a backpack from the Suburban, and then knelt down and began stuffing the artifacts in one by one. He picked up the lightsaber last, gave it a final look of disdain and slipped it in with the other items.

  Cam slung the bag into the backseat and lifted the adjacent bay door. Moments later, as the large SUV crawled out of the body shop and into the shadows of southern California, Michael and Cam peered through the windshield at the black abyss overhead. The helicopter had moved on.

  Chapter Twenty

  Mount Laguna, Southern California

  The Suburban sped up the winding asphalt of Sunrise Highway. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning and fatigue was starting to set in.

  Cam pushed the SUV up another hill, climbing to the summit of a sprawling peak. He pulled the vehicle over and sat solemnly behind the wheel.

  Michael fidgeted in the passenger seat, nervous that someone would
spot them. He was frustrated that his brother was willing to take such chances on the heels of what had just happened. He felt vulnerable.

  “There’s a trailhead a few miles north,” Cam pointed out. “But everything along this ridge is completely untouched. We’ll carry him past those cliffs, down into the valley a bit and find a spot.”

  Michael stared out into the vastness. The barren mountains were illuminated in the night by a waning moon. It was beautiful. He remembered hearing Trip talk about the area as if it were the most gorgeous place on earth.

  They exited the Suburban, armed with a couple folding shovels, and lifted the body bag from the back. Together, Michael and Cam ventured beyond a series of bluffs and hiked down into the shallow valley, carrying the body of their closest friend.

  They reached a small nook, hidden from the moonlight in the shadows of a cliff, and began digging. It was a scenic location, surely more enhanced during the daylight hours, thought Cam.

  As the last throws of dirt were strewn across the grave, Cam sat on the ground and crossed his arms over his knees. He was tired and afraid—two things he could never reveal to his younger brother.

  “Let’s gather some rocks, build a headstone,” he finally huffed.

  With Michael’s help, he stacked a series of hand-sized boulders at the head of the burial plot. Cam reached into his pocket and pulled out a large coin, and got lost in its inscription. A black rubber stamp covered one side, with an image of a skull and the words Sons of Odin inscribed on it. He leaned over and gently placed it on the mound of rocks.

  “What’s that?” his brother asked.

  “It’s a challenge coin…from a joint operation in Afghanistan. We took a lot of knocks during that deployment.”

  Michael knew he was talking about Mark and the operation that took his life. He found it fitting that Cam would lay it entombed with Trip, a man with no family left, who lost his own life the same way his brother had—fighting at Cam’s side.

  “I know we have to leave,” Michael whispered. “But, do you want to say something?”

  Cam listened closely to the insects, to the wind and the silence around them. Everything seemed surreal, like a strange dream. He struggled to find the words fitting of the moment.

  “In this life,” he slowly began. “We’re faced with countless…” he searched. “Countless challenges, and decisions. Victories, losses…and sacrifices.” Cam’s eyes began to well.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Michael begged. He’d never seen his brother shed a single tear.

  Cam waved him off and found his voice. “Trip, you were the smartest, most stubborn… sonofabitch I ever met. You embodied everything that makes a good man. I know you wanted to get out of this, I know you did…but, I didn’t listen and I’m sorry.”

  Cam fell to his knees and continued to weep, collapsing under a wave of guilt. “You fought hard, my friend, and I’ll never forget it. We’re gonna find out who did this to you, I promise.”

  He placed his hand on the rocks and closed his eyes.

  Michael wiped the tears that now covered his own face and joined his brother on the ground. He placed a hand on Cam’s shoulder, the other against the burial mound.

  “I’ll miss you, Trip. You deserve better than this, but you’re home now…with your family.”

  . . .

  The two eventually rose to their feet and marched back up the ridge through the darkness to the waiting Suburban. They drove out of Mount Laguna in a crushing silence and raced eastbound through the night and into the next afternoon, stopping only for food and gas.

  Closing in on their destination, the Suburban barreled north up Interstate 25 and crossed the Colorado state line.

  Cam’s thoughts were now on his children. He thought of the beauty that captured their youth, the whimsical innocence with which they saw the world. He wanted to be a part of their lives forever, to sit in pride at their graduations and to walk them down the aisle. It all suddenly seemed at risk.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Hannah Lyle whisked herself out of the courtroom and into the atrium of the Federal Courthouse in Providence, Rhode Island, with a rushed sense of determination. She had been juggling her case and her home life for days while Cam was away under the charade of hosting field training sessions at Naval Station Mayport. But today he was coming home. Hannah was exhausted and couldn’t wait to get some much-needed parental reinforcement.

  On her way down to the parking deck to the car, her cellphone rang. It was a number she didn’t recognize.

  “Hello?” she answered.

  “Honey, it’s me.”

  “Cam! How are you, babe? Did you beat me home?”

  “No,” he hesitated. “I need you to listen to me, Hannah.”

  There was something in his voice that stopped her in her tracks. “What’s the matter, Cam?”

  “I’m okay, but…the uh…the training didn’t go so well.” He took a long pause, searching for his words. “The, ah…the weather—”

  “Cameron?” She was suddenly worried.

  “The weather in Florida is unseasonably warm. We had to clear off the base.”

  His wife quickly pulled her fears together and put on her game face. Cam was speaking in code, which meant something was seriously wrong. She and the girls were in danger.

  “Honey, do you understand?” he finally asked, desperately seeking confirmation.

  Hannah peered over both shoulders and broke into a fast walk toward her car. “I understand,” she said, trying to sound strong.

  “I love you, baby. It’s gonna be alright, I promise.”

  Hannah managed a cautious smile as she unlocked the Audi and tossed her purse over to the passenger seat. “Copy that, soldier.”

  With that, she hung up and drove home to relieve the sitter and get Abigail and Lindsay packed for a road trip. On several prior occasions, Hannah had been given strict and detailed orders by her husband, but had lived in hope she would never actually have to execute them. It was the moment she had prayed would never come.

  . . .

  Cam placed the phone back on its jack and stepped out of the booth. The storms had calmed, but the humidity was rising. He lunged into the Suburban and leaned his head back against the seat. He was clearly wrestling with his thoughts.

  “Everything alright?” Michael asked.

  “Yep.” Cam stared blankly at the long dirt road ahead of them.

  The power lines ran all the way to the horizon and melted into the hot reflection of the sun.

  “You think they’ve made us yet?”

  “Who?” asked Cam.

  “Who do you think?” his brother snapped. “The small army that ambushed us in Mexico. They have to know who we are by now.”

  Cam shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s a good chance they got pictures of us prior to the attack. If they’re intelligence guys, they see everything.” He sighed with frustration. “Christ, I don’t even know where they would have picked up our scent in the first place.”

  “I’m telling you,” Michael started in. “We were out clean. Everything was clean until we hit the rendezvous point—until we met up with Rook’s guys. Maybe they were the ones being tracked and we just got caught in the crossfire.”

  “Who knows. Someone brought those thugs to the party: if it wasn’t Rook’s guys then it was us,” Cam guessed.

  “No fuckin’ way! If they got a lock on us, they would have cut us down in Puerto Nuevo when they had the chance. You’re the tactical genius, so tell me…if they tracked us, why would they wait until we drove all the way to the top of that mountain?
They had a million other chances to take us out and grab the ossuary.”

  “I dunno,” Cam replied with hesitation. “Maybe they wanted to see who we were handing it off to. Ambush us all at the drop. Two rocks, one stone.”

  “I’m not buying it,” Michael argued. “Either this whole thing was a setup or there’s a mole in Rook’s little clan.”

  “That’s another possibility,” Cam agreed. “But the obvious answer is the CIA.”

  “So, what now?”

  “At some point, we need to make contact with Rook. We’ll lay low for a couple days and figure out what the hell we’ve stolen. And why we were paid fifteen million dollars to steal it.”

  Cam was frustrated. He’d broken the first rule of combat—never underestimate your enemy. It cost Trip his life, and it now threatened the well-being of his wife and children. Cam knew it was only a matter of time before the CIA traced everything back to them. And when they did, the rules would drastically change.

  Defeat began to rear its head. He was now up against the largest intelligence agency on the face of the planet.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rand stared into a large mirror beyond the bar at the defeated face looking back and judging him. He had just made a spectacle of himself in front of the Coast Guard, Homeland Security and the FBI. The last thing he wanted to do was attend tonight’s event—the annual Federal Law Enforcement & Intelligence Gala. If not for Brodsky’s threat to end the agent’s career early, Rand would be sleeping off a drunken stupor on his couch right now.

  Yet here he sat, tired and unhinged, slouched at the open bar of Bellagio’s Grand Ballroom as a private party danced around him.

  “Another round, sir?” the young male bartender in a black vest asked him. “I don’t think I got your name?” he kindly continued with an outstretched hand.

  Rand took a moment to stare awkwardly through the man. With a frustrated exhale, he simply pushed his now empty highball to the bartender and spun his stool to view the unfolding circus around him.