The Medina Device

by T. J. Champitto

  Another man slid down the hall into Corin’s office and within seconds confirmed the purple binder. “We got it,” he yelled out, as he flipped through the pages and immediately found the handwritten notes.

  The binder was rushed to the man holding Corin at gunpoint. The page was thoroughly reviewed, then shown to its author.

  “Is this it?”

  “Yeah,” Corin confirmed. “That’s it. I gave the other guy a copy, too. I have no clue what it’s for, but that’s the best I could do. I can’t guarantee the accuracy, but good luck finding anyone who could come close.”

  He was thrown backward onto his couch as the three men hustled out of the apartment and the whole ordeal was over just as quickly as it began. Corin paced the floor, trying to gather his senses.

  It’s time to find a new place to live, he told himself.

  . . .

  Deep inside a sprawling estate in Kilcloon, Ireland, Michael focused on his breathing, trying to take his mind off the pain. He was bleeding profusely, and the last round of questioning resulted in the loss of his left pinky finger, which was now lying in a puddle of blood on the floor. There were literally pieces of him scattered around the room.

  He was holding up well given the circumstances and, at long last, the ranking officer of the CIA team entered the room.

  “Michael, Michael, Michael—” the burly operative ranted. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “You must be the asshole in charge of this shit show.”

  “That I am. My name is Carson. Please accept my apologies if our hospitality has been a bit…brutal.” He kicked the fingertip to the side.

  “We were just the middle men,” Michael explained. “This isn’t my fight.”

  “You must be confused, Mr. Lyle. The moment you stepped foot on my freighter you placed yourselves right smack in the middle of this thing. And now you and your brother, who will be dead soon, are going to return what’s mine.”

  “You’re bluffing. You don’t have Cam.”

  “We don’t have Cam yet,” Carson corrected. “Your brother’s plane just touched down in Paris. He’ll be dead in ten minutes.”

  “I don’t believe you. He’s not going to Paris.”

  “Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant. You see, I’ve already profiled both you and your brother. I’ve determined that you are the weaker of the two. So here you sit. Eventually you’ll break down and tell me exactly where the asset is. Guys like you always crack. I want to be completely up-front with you—you’re going to die here no matter what. That, my friend, is non-negotiable. But you can save your brother. I’ll let him walk if you return the ossuary to me. You only have ten minutes.”

  “I still think you’re bluffing. I really expected more out of you guys, this is deeply disappointing,” snarled Michael.

  “You must be way out of the loop, son.”

  Carson motioned toward the two-way mirror and returned to the metal door, where another operative popped in and handed him a file folder. Carson paced back to Michael and pulled a black-and-white photo from inside, tossing it on the floor at his prisoner’s feet. It was a grainy photo of Cam and another man at an airport gate.

  “This photo was taken twelve hours ago at Philadelphia International. The other man is an FBI agent that Cam was supposedly apprehended by, but we’re pretty certain they’re working together. Why that is, I have no idea, nor do I care. But my instincts tell me that my items are in his backpack. We’ll know for sure in a few minutes.”

  “He’s not stupid enough to just walk into your little trap,” Michael promised. “I hope you have an army waiting for him, you’re gonna need it.”

  “Do you guys really think you’re anything more than a small band of losers? It sure as hell didn’t take an army to bring you in. We’re going to wipe your names from history and no one will ever give a shit whether you existed or not.” Carson took a breath, hoping some of his words were sinking in. “Here’s how this is going to work, Mr. Lyle. You’re going to tell me where the items from the ossuary are. And you only have that option for another ninety seconds. If you tell me now, I let Cameron live. He can go back to his family and his old life. I promise this to you. But if you don’t tell me, and the stuff winds up being in his backpack anyways, then as soon as I get the call that your brother’s dead and we’ve retrieved the pack, I’m going to put a bullet in your face.”

  Carson let the threat hang in the air for a moment. “And finally, as a third option, if you don’t tell me what I want to know and Cam’s not carrying the items, then we kill him on the spot and spend the next two weeks torturing you unmercifully until we get what we want. Is this starting to make sense to you now?”

  Carson was telling the truth and Michael knew it. He had no strategic advantage. There were no moves left on the table.

  “Cam doesn’t know where it is,” he attempted. “I’m the only one. Let him walk and I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Nope,” Carson immediately replied. “It’s not gonna be that easy. You see, one of my agents is about to walk through that door and tell me that Cam and his FBI buddy have been captured or killed at Charles de Gaulle Airport. You’re on the clock.”

  Michael understood the art of decision making in a survival scenario. There were risks, rewards and sacrifices. Regardless of his emotions, he needed to make a decision giving him the best opportunity at success—and that success didn’t always mean survival, sometimes it was simply the success of a mission. And in those instances, tough decisions needed to be made without hesitation or regret. This was one of those instances.

  “So, what’s it gonna be, tough guy?” Carson threatened.

  Through broken bones and a bloodied mouth, a tiny grin emerged on Michael’s face. “I think it’s gonna be a long couple of weeks.”

  Chapter Forty

  Flight 751 rolled up to the gate. Minutes later, the jet bridge engaged and the exit door opened. Cam and Rand blended in with the first batch of passengers to exit the plane.

  They paced up the jetway and prepared for battle. Before they even made it to the gate, they spotted a couple of suspiciously rugged men waiting ahead—clearly a CIA welcoming committee. With a swift lunge, they broke out of the bridge and cut right to a set of utility doors twenty feet away. The two burly operatives sprang into action and were immediately joined by four additional assassins who emerged from the crowd.

  Cam went through the doors first and sprinted down a long hallway with Rand on his heels. The operatives plunged through the doors behind them and closed in.

  As they approached another set of doors ahead, the hallway exploded in gunfire. Ducking their heads, Cam and Rand pushed through and spilled out into a row of conveyor belts and pulley systems. They wove their way through the maze and disappeared into a loud industrial area that looked more like a factory than an airport.

  A few stray bullets punched into random luggage cases on a nearby conveyor. Rand dodged the incoming fire and bobbed beneath a swinging steel hook.

  “Over here!” he yelled.

  Cam held his position a few feet away and returned a burst of gunfire at the operatives who hastily regrouped and continued their pursuit. Cam then jumped over a set of thick cables and sprinted toward Rand who laid down more cover fire. The rounds missed their targets and pinged off machinery somewhere in the distance.

  Now side-by-side, they broke through an exit and onto a small platform, which offered a stairwell that wound several stories down. With each lunge, Cam and Rand covered multiple steps. Hard left after hard left, they made their way into the abyss.

  After a two-story descent, bullets began firing down the center of the shaft. Cam could hear the r
ounds whizzing past him just outside the railing. A parade of footsteps echoed through the stairwell as Cam reached the bottom. With shrapnel now ricocheting off the floor around them, Cam threw himself into the metal exit door.

  It was locked.

  He backed off a couple feet and fired two rounds into the doorframe. With a swift kick, it flew open and they rushed out into an open-air corridor between two buildings. In a dead sprint, they reached the end of the alley just as the CIA team filed out of the building behind them.

  They were faced with a split-second decision—right or left. Cam leaned hard around the right-hand corner, Rand followed closely behind. Ahead was a loading dock with clear plastic drapes hanging from its entrance. With both arms shielded in front of his face, Cam burst through at top speed. Now inside, they both stopped. The two now stood in a bustling warehouse beneath the airport. The place was buzzing with airport employees, large airline equipment and a fleet of trolleys pulling trains of luggage containers.

  “This way!” Cam dashed left toward a conveyor belt, the end of which appeared to pass through a wall in the distance—another possible escape route. Rand followed without question.

  As they careened around a refueling truck, they could hear the footsteps of six men closing in. They blazed a fifty-yard dash to the end of the conveyor but were halted by a hail of gunfire, forcing them to find cover behind a flatbed luggage trolley. Separated by only a few feet, Cam motioned Rand to push further, demanding that he reach the conveyor.

  Keeping his head down, Rand sprinted for the conveyor line. Cam popped around the corner of the trolley and caught sight of the hitmen charging him.

  Just as they closed in, Rand released a .40 caliber storm upon the CIA team, hitting one in the leg. The other five dove to the cement floor and returned fire.

  Pinned against the trolley, Cam pulled his 9mm to his chest and took a firm breath. He peeled around the corner and released five, well-placed rounds at his enemies, then slipped back behind the vehicle.

  The CIA operatives scattered like roaches again. After a brief pause, one of them began advancing on Cam’s position. The attacker was protected by a row of shelving along the wall. Cam took a knee and steadied his weapon. With a slide of the hips, he peeked around the front of the trolley and put three, crisp rounds into the approaching agent’s chest. He then retrained his gun a few degrees left and squeezed off one more, which caught another agent in the forehead.

  Cam looked downrange as he reloaded another clip—two operatives were dead on the floor, one sat behind a cargo crate wincing in pain, and two were hiding among luggage racks to his right. I’ve lost one, he worried after a quick headcount.

  Just then, more footsteps began approaching from behind. Cam sunk his head in an effort to remain unseen. The steps drew closer as he pressed his head against the door of the trolley and waited, silently hoping the agent would slip past. Cam opened his eyes and saw a sixth operative slowly advancing toward him. Before the agent could get a lock on Cam, his attention shifted up the warehouse to Rand.

  The assassin unknowingly pushed past Cam, slithering toward Rand, who was about to reach the end of the conveyor belt and certain freedom.

  Cam rose from his knees and quietly slipped the backpack over his shoulder. In an instant, he closed in on his prey from behind. As the CIA agent raised his weapon for one last shot at Rand, Cam cracked him over the skull with his pistol. The man slumped to the ground, blood rushing from the fresh gash in his head. Number six was now accounted for.

  As he stood over the sleeping body, Cam could now hear the remaining operatives continue their pursuit from a distance. He sprinted toward Rand who was now pushing through the wall ahead.

  As he lowered his head and extended his stride, a sharp pain ripped through Cam’s neck. The crushing blow paralyzed him immediately and he stumbled forward, trying to keep his balance and pace. It wasn’t enough. He fell to the ground and slumped his head to the concrete, unable to find the strength to hold it up. His hands went numb, then his legs.

  Cam closed his eyes and began to lose consciousness. He could hear the muffled sound of footsteps closing in and felt the jolt of his backpack being torn from his body. He was drifting away now, gasping for air. A blackness closed in around him as his hearing faded. The pain was now absent, but he could feel his limp body shifting as boots kicked his torso. Then, he surrendered to his fate, slipping into a coma-like sleep.

  Chapter Forty-One

  A soft light found its way into his consciousness. It became brighter and brighter until Cam sluggishly tried to open his eyes. He couldn’t hear and his vision was still too blurred to make out his surroundings. He could feel he was sitting upright. The sensation of motion told him he was in a car, strapped into a seat. His head rang in pain and a pulsing sting pounded through his body, emanating from his neck.

  The soldier’s head bobbed as he slowly regained the strength to lift it from his shoulders. He winced in pain, then blinked his eyes as his sight came back to life. Cam tried to straighten his back, but everything was too stiff to move.

  Finally, with a deep breath, he turned to the left, trying to identify something—anything. He could see he was in a small car with what appeared to be a taxi meter mounted to the dash. Someone was driving. With a deep groan, he raised his eyes to see the man sitting next to him.

  It was Rand Kershaw. The former agent’s knuckles were pure white as he gripped the steering wheel and stared blankly through the windshield. They were on an interstate, dodging from lane to lane as the taxi sped through a thin pocket of traffic.

  “Rand?” Cam whispered, unsure if the words were coming out.

  “I’m here.”

  “What…what happened?”

  Rand pulled a small, black dart from the console and tossed it into Cam’s lap. “You were tranquilized,” he said in a tone devoid of emotion.

  “Then what?”

  Rand kept his lifeless eyes on the road. “I wasn’t going to just leave you there.”

  Cam noticed the blood on Rand’s sleeve and began piecing together the only possible scenario. “Did you get the backpack?”

  “Yes.” Rand pointed his thumb to the back, where the pack rested safely on the leather seat.

  Cam let out a sigh of relief, then pressed back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

  After merging onto A1 South toward Paris, Rand drove the Audi ten more kilometers and exited at Saint-Denis. They wouldn’t last long in a stolen taxi and needed to get on foot as soon as possible.

  As the minutes passed, Cam was regaining his strength and composure. He looked again to Rand and grew concerned with the agent’s emotionless disposition. He’d seen it before—battle fatigue.

  “They were going to kill us,” Cam tried to explain. “You had no choice.”

  Rand bit his lip in frustration. “You’ve ruined my life,” he finally responded. “My life is completely over. I just wanted to find the ghosts.”

  “What ghosts?”

  “You. You’re my ghost.” Rand was clearly in a state of shock. He continued his blank stare. “I’ve been chasing you for a year. And now, here we sit in a stolen cab—in France!—running for our lives. And the most fucked up part,” he said with nervous laughter, “is that we’re working together. We just took out a half dozen agents from the CIA.”

  “This wasn’t part of the plan,” Cam assured him. “It wasn’t supposed to—”

  “But it did. It happened.”

  “Rand, there’s something bigger going on here. We both know it. We’re in danger and fighting for our lives. There’s a good chance that the most significant scientific discovery of all time is sitting in that backpack.”

 
“No. My life is over. Your life’s over, too. And you have a family.” Rand struggled to focus.

  “Yeah, I do,” Cam agreed. “But I’m also desensitized, accustomed to sacrifice. And I know that no matter what happens to me, my family will be okay. Beyond the sadness and mourning that my death might bring, my little girls will be okay. They’re strong. Hell, they’ve spent most of their lives preparing for me to die—ready for someone to pull up to the house and tell them their father isn’t coming home.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever see them again?” Rand genuinely asked.

  “Of course! We prepare for the worst and hope for the best. But this doesn’t end here, Rand. We decide how this ends. I’m wired up to fight to the bitter end. And clearly, so are you.”

  “Fine,” conceded Rand. He took in a heavy breath and wiped his brow. “If we’re gonna do this, we need to find Marco Damion.”

  . . .

  As the minutes ticked by, Michael began to feel the effects of blood loss. Carson took notice and waved into the mirror for someone to come in and bandage the prisoner’s left hand. Seconds later, a junior agent appeared with gauze and medical supplies. Michael’s pinky finger was picked off the floor and dropped into a plastic bag; the agent then swiftly bandaged him up.

  The medic left the room and was immediately replaced by another agent, who happened to be an attractive female in her mid-thirties with a blue business skirt and white top. She met with Carson in the middle of the room where the two whispered in secret.

  Michael watched as Carson clenched his jaw and stared blankly at the floor. He was searching for something, Michael noted. Whatever she had just told him pissed him off. Carson shot Michael a threatening stare and left the room with the female agent.

  Minutes later, after a quick debriefing, Carson returned alone.