The Medina Device

by T. J. Champitto

  “What about this younger brother, Michael? Could be our number three?”

  “Well shit, Reynolds, that sure would tie this up nicely, wouldn’t it?”

  The two spilled out into the bullpen and dispersed in separate directions—Reynolds to his desk and Rand to a makeshift office he’d set up in the back corner of the ballistics lab.

  An hour later, the team regrouped again in the conference room.

  “What do we got?” Rand anxiously asked.

  “We can put Cameron Lyle at a National Defense conference in New Orleans a little over a month ago,” Reynolds began. “After that, his credit card receipts keep him in Providence, except for a week where all internet and financial activity goes dark. We’ve also got a list of phone calls made over the last year, looks like he stayed in regular contact with Trip.”

  “Immediate family?”

  “Lyle’s married, two daughters,” the female analyst informed him. “We have eyes on the residence. Unfortunately, the wife and kids haven’t been there for a few days and they haven’t shown up on any flight lists. They’ve disappeared.”

  “And let me guess,” Rand predicted. “Cameron Lyle hasn’t been back on the grid since?”

  “Nope,” replied Reynolds. “Just like Trip Montgomery, he hasn’t made a phone call, swiped a credit card, visited an ATM, or even sent an email in over a week.”

  “These are our guys. I can feel it,” professed Rand. “We need to locate Trip Montgomery and the Lyle brothers. Get a team on the oldest brother, James, in addition to Trip’s fiancé. And find me Cameron’s wife and kids.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Michael Lyle sat inconspicuously among the travelers at Gate 9 of Denver International Airport. He clutched his ticket and fake passport as he checked his watch. It was twelve minutes until Aer Lingus Flight 8918 to Dublin began boarding.

  After digging into the contents of the ossuary the day before, he was now on a mission to track down a symbologist in Ireland. It had been a tight window, but Michael was able to make the drive to Denver in time for one of the first international flights departing that day. He was exhausted.

  Shortly after boarding, Michael took a rough head count, checked his exits and made mental note of any suspicious passengers. It was an instinctual habit—one of the many marks left on him from years of training with his older brother. Comfortable with his surroundings, he lost himself in his headphones and was well into a deep sleep by the time the plane left the runway.

  It was an eleven-hour flight, following a brief layover in Washington. After his plane landed safely in Dublin, Michael made his way through the terminal and out to the rental lot. It was just before dawn when he crept behind the wheel of a blue, four-cylinder rental car and swiftly pulled out onto a small highway.

  An hour’s drive south put him in Dalkey—a posh part of town that overlooked the Dublin Bay. The small rental car came to a stop and parallel parked along the curb across from a non-descript row of shops, including a café that his target often checked in to through social media.

  An hour into the stakeout, a familiar face finally emerged from the sidewalk and briskly entered the café. Michael, feeling almost too lucky, double-checked the photo from his cellphone.

  “Bingo.”

  He slipped out of the car and checked both directions before crossing the busy street. Landing at the front door of the café, Michael casually entered and scanned the small building. His target sat alone against the wall with a black coffee and chocolate scone. The twenty-something Irishman appeared to be lost in his smartphone. With the air of a half-asleep university student, Corin Baker yawned and sipped his coffee.

  Michael ordered a cappuccino and sat quietly at a nearby table. After a painfully slow, twenty-minute lull, his target finally got up and exited the café. A lengthy stroll along Cunningham Road and a few blocks up Hillside took them to a row of residential buildings.

  The young symbologist hadn’t noticed Michael following him at first, but after arriving at the entrance door, he caught the reflection of a man standing behind him. It was the lost American from the café.

  Corin slowly turned around.

  “Corin Baker?” the American growled.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “I am. Let’s go inside,” Michael demanded.

  “I don’t have any money,” Corin lashed back with a typical Northside Dublin flare. “And my place is a shithole. There’s nothing to steal.”

  “I’m not here to rob you. I need your help.”

  “Piss off,” Corin replied. He pulled the entrance door open and slipped into the lobby.

  Michael caught the door and quickly followed.

  “Listen, you dolt,” the symbologist threatened. “I really don’t have time for this. I’m remarkably busy and—”

  “I came a long way to find you, Mr. Baker. Please.”

  Corin fumbled with his keys as he walked past the stairway to a brown door at the end of the hall. As a last resort, Michael pulled a torn piece of paper from his pocket and flashed it at the young man.

  “Have you ever seen this before?” he asked.

  Corin stopped. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m either your best friend or your worst enemy,” assured Michael. “Your choice but either way we need to talk.”

  Corin snatched the piece of paper and turned to enter his loft, leaving the door open and heading straight for a tiny living room. He stared at the crinkled paper, examining it with deep interest.

  Michael followed him inside and closed the door behind them. “My name is David Trevin,” he lied, “and I’m trying to decipher that tablet. I was told you’re the best symbologist in the world.”

  Corin scoffed. “Hold your breath, man. ‘Symbologist’ isn’t even a real thing. The proper term is ‘philologist.’ I study ancient languages, hieroglyphs and semiotics. Symbols are for gobshites.”

  He took another sip of his coffee and tossed the printout onto the pass-through bar between a cramped kitchenette and the living room.

  “So, have you ever seen anything like that before?” Michael pressed.

  “Leave your number on the bar and I’ll get back to you. I’m really wrecked right now, and I certainly don’t appreciate being followed home. Christ, man, I’m going to have to find a new place to get breakfast.”

  Michael could sense this was going to be a difficult task.

  As the bulky American turned away and placed his hand on the doorknob, Corin got comfortable in the recliner, silently hoping the man would just go away. But, instead of leaving, Michael reached up and deadbolted the door.

  “Damnit,” Corin cried. “Please just leave me the fuck alone or I’ll call the guards!”

  Michael angrily marched over to Corin, grabbed him by the collar and ripped the young scholar into the air and onto his feet.

  “Listen to me, you little shit. I just buried one of my best friends and there’s an entire army out there trying to kill me. And for some stupid reason, this stone might be the only way to get myself out of the position I’m in. Do you understand me now?”

  The sudden change in tone frightened the skinny Irishman.

  “So, you’re going to stop playing video games and pause whatever linguistics projects you’re working on and help me out!” Michael was growing more agitated by the second. He grabbed the paper and held it to Corin’s face. “Deciphering this tablet is the only fucking priority in your life right now!” he yelled.

  “Well you don’t have to be such an asshole about it.”

  Corin grabbed the paper from Michael’s outstretched hand and studied
it further. The philologist paced the room before finally sitting back in his recliner.

  “I already told you, I’ve never seen these before,” he nervously stated.

  “How long is this going to take?” Michael asked.

  “It could take months, I just don’t have the—”

  “You don’t have months. You don’t even have that many days.”

  Corin’s fear escalated. The room started to spin. “Where did you get this?” he finally asked, trying to focus on his own survival.

  “It was discovered in Bolivia. I stole it from some very bad people. And now I just want to send it back to wherever the hell it belongs,” Michael confessed.

  “When it was dug up, was it with any other items?”

  The question seemed peculiar. Michael hadn’t told him it was dug up.

  Corin could sense the American’s skepticism. “I—I only ask because it would give me more context, perhaps indicate what civilization it’s from,” he mumbled.

  Michael continued to stare a hole in his new friend. Corin’s mind raced, searching for an escape route, a way to get this crazy man out of his flat.

  “Listen, I’m not going to be able to crack this.” Corin was almost begging now. “I have to be straight with you. The resources simply don’t exist to decipher something like this. It would take an entire team—”

  “You’ve seen it before,” Michael sharply interrupted.

  Corin took a long, deep breath and carefully considered his next answer. Unfortunately, the fear had frozen him. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  After a long silence, he gathered his senses. “Fine,” Corin revealed under his breath.

  The jig was up. He wasn’t cut out for this kind of charade.

  “I was contacted a couple weeks ago by someone named Diaz. He was acting real dodgy, like, about the whole thing. He sent me a snap of the same tablet and asked me to start looking into it.”

  “And?”

  “That’s it, I swear. He was supposed to contact me again a few days later and I never heard from him.”

  “That’s because he’s dead, Corin.”

  The young Irishman paused. “I’m in danger, aren’t I? Are you going to kill me?” His eyes began to well.

  “No. I’m not going to kill you,” Michael promised with a sense of relief in his voice. “How far did you get?”

  “Not far, like. I thought it was just a hoax at first, you know, Loch Ness Monster type filth. I didn’t pay it much attention. But the more I examined the damn thing, it has all the hallmarks of a lost language. The best I could tell it derived from a pre-Incan civilization. There were definite similarities, you know.”

  “Corin, I need you to be honest with me,” Michael pleaded. “Can you or can you not tell me what is written on that stone?”

  “A couple of days maybe, but I have a life—”

  “For the next couple of days, this is your life.”

  “Fine,” Corin agreed. “How do I reach you?”

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” assured Michael. “I’ll be staying right here until you figure it out.”

  Corin grimaced with disappointment and locked his hands above his head. He had always dreamed of a life of adventure. Unfortunately, this wasn’t what he had in mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A black Cadillac Escalade pulled away from LAX and headed southbound onto Highway 1. A cellphone rang in the backseat.

  “Carson,” he answered.

  “It’s Kevin. How was Belgium?”

  “Overpriced chocolates and a lot of rain. What do you have?”

  “Blood samples came back. William Montgomery: hacker-turned-security expert from Silicon Valley.”

  “Dead?”

  “Affirmative. The other two obviously slipped through, so we need to get boots on the ground. Fast.”

  “Fine. You know the drill. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  Carson abruptly ended the call and leaned his head back against the gray leather. The vigorous agent had a nonstop battery, but the past week had taken its toll. He hadn’t slept in over thirty hours, and was in desperate need of a recharge.

  Upon his arrival at the CIA black site just south of Los Angeles, he gazed out the window at the abandoned three-story factory. It was blanketed by rusted metal siding and steel framing. Many of the original pulley systems and hardware were still mounted in various places inside; the rest had been completely gutted over the years.

  A decades-old industrial elevator brought Carson to the third floor, where his team had assembled a small command center. He wiped the sweat from his brow and approached the cluster of computers and servers. Agent Kevin Bailey met his boss at the first row of monitors, where several analysts typed away on their keyboards.

  A glass wall had been erected in the center of the mess, somehow jammed between rows of desks and endless cables running along the floor. Taped to the glass were headshots of seven males, one in particular was taped above the others. It was marked ‘William “Trip” Montgomery.’

  “What’s the score, Kevin?”

  “Alright, KIA at the top. William Montgomery the third. His friends called him ‘Trip.’ The others are known associates.”

  Kevin’s beady eyes scanned the faces on the wall as he spoke. “These are the six males that had the most contact with him over the last three years.”

  “I’m listening,” Carson blasted.

  “Three of the six are former hackers—one dead, two unaccounted for. None of which match our profile,” Kevin assessed as he struck through the headshots with a red marker. “This other guy is David Grainger, a software engineer with a specialty in satellite communications systems, worked with our boy Trip at Spartan Security. No training or military background, no prior arrests.”

  Kevin marked through his face as well.

  Two headshots remained on the board, staring back at the agents.

  “And these jokers?” Carson pried.

  “We’ve traced all credit card purchases, emails and phone calls for these last two, both of whom have gone dark. Cameron and Michael Lyle—brothers. They’ve been in the wind since the day before the Burgundy heist.”

  Carson suddenly perked up. The agent was wide awake now.

  “Cameron, the older of the two, served with Trip’s brother, Mark, in Afghanistan,” Kevin confirmed.

  “What branch?”

  “Navy. They were both frogmen, fought together during the height of our ops in Kunduz and Korengal.”

  “Jesus, they were in the thick. Nothing but firefights and roast beef. What about the younger brother, Michael?”

  “He’s been a little tougher to crack,” Kevin admitted. “We learned more from his Instagram account than any of the databases. He was a good student, an athlete. Spent some time abroad after high school. He’s now an extreme travel guide. Takes rich folks all over the world on crazy expeditions—summit climbs to Kilimanjaro, rafting the Amazon, you name it. He’s an expert mountaineer, survivalist, and, from what we saw in Mexico, very skilled in combat.”

  “Where the hell did he get that type of combat training, his brother?” Carson wondered aloud.

  “I would imagine Cameron buttoned Trip and Michael up pretty nicely. It’s what he does for a living.”

  The young agent pulled the photos marked with red from the wall—leaving only Trip, Cameron and Michael. “These are our boys.”

  “One down, two to go,” Carson sighed.

  “Yes, sir. We’re still pulling at some strings, something’ll s
hake out.”

  “They’re too smart to go to their old networks, so they’re in the wild—alone,” Carson pondered.

  “They’ll screw up somewhere, sir.”

  “No, they’re perfectly at ease in this situation. They’re immune to fear, used to being hunted, and experts at evasion. They might actually drag this out several hours or more,” the veteran added with a sense of sarcasm.

  The two agents examined the board, both deep in thought.

  “Next move?” the younger asked.

  “Activate the entire North American network.”

  “That’s sixty-three operatives, sir.”

  “I know what it is, Kevin. Make it happen. I want everyone pulled off whatever the hell they’re working on. Now.”

  Just then, one of a dozen senior analysts appeared from behind the massive server at the edge of the command center.

  “We’ve got something,” the analyst announced. “There’s an older Lyle brother, James. Teaches English in Delaware. Agents are on route now, sir.”

  “Good,” Carson responded. “Eyes only. No contact.”

  “You got it. Anything else?”

  “Yes. I want facial recognition run on every video from every gate, at every terminal, in every airport within two hundred miles of the Mexican border. Go back seventy-two hours.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll start pulling it now.”

  And as swiftly as the analyst had appeared, he was gone.

  . . .

  Cameron Lyle took short breaths, gazing at the city lights that hovered beyond the dashboard. A sudden movement in his right peripheral snapped him from a temporary daydream. It was just another random businessman walking past his car and melting into the darkness. The black Honda sat undetected on the curb, neatly blending in with a line of parked cars that stretched for blocks.

  With Michael in Ireland, Cam knew better than to visit any friends or family. He realized at some point the CIA would put his name and face to the shootout in Mexico, then cast a net over everyone he knew. Yet, here he sat, parked across the street from Wilmington University in Delaware on a stake-out for his older brother. Cam rubbed his hands together to keep the cold at bay and focused his eyes on the Dorothy M. Peoples Library Building.