The Fourth Prophecy

by Ernest Dempsey

  The general put his forearm over his face as he pressed forward. His staunch determination wasn’t shared by his men as they all retreated toward the gate, terrified of what they were hearing.

  Only Carlos remained, unwilling to leave his commander.

  He watched as the general pressed ahead.

  Alvarado lifted his foot. Gravity seemed to be working doubly hard now. His body felt heavier than usual, and it seemed as if his boot was filled with lead. He strained hard until his foot crossed the threshold and landed on the stone just beyond.

  Suddenly, the howling ceased. The wind instantly dissipated. Leaves and dust hung in the air for a moment before they began drifting to the jungle floor.

  Alvarado was overcome by an eerie silence. Then as abruptly as the chaos ended, something far worse began.

  A shriek like the screeching of a thousand banshees filled his ears. He clamped his palms against them to keep out the noise, but it was futile. Then he saw it. At first, it was nothing more than a needlepoint of light in the darkness ahead. He peered into the vast abyss, curiosity taking its hold, overpowering the growing sense of fear in his mind.

  The light swelled faster and faster like an oncoming flood until it flashed with the brilliance of the midday sun.

  The general flew backward, struck by something more powerful than he’d ever experienced in all his days on the battlefield. He hit the ground and slid to a stop near the feet of his second in command.

  Carlos instantly sank to one knee. Concern covered his face as he checked the general from head to toe for any signs of injury.

  Alvarado lay on his back. A blank stare filled his eyes as he gazed up at the canopy, unblinking, unwavering. His chest was perfectly still.

  “General?” Carlos said, his voice beginning to fill with panic. He turned and looked over his shoulder for the others, but they’d run back to the creek.

  “General!” he shouted again.

  Without thinking, Carlos raised his fists and brought them down like sledgehammers to Alvarado’s chest. They struck the unconscious man with more force than Carlos realized.

  Alvarado’s torso surged up. Carlos wrapped his hand around the man’s back to keep him from falling to the ground again. The general coughed. His eyes blinked rapidly as he turned his head one way then the other, trying to get his bearings.

  “General? Are you okay?”

  Alvarado’s breathing slowed to a steady, normal pace. He looked into the eyes of his subordinate with absent curiosity.

  “I’m…I’m fine. What happened?” Alvarado asked.

  Carlos sighed.

  He stood up and helped the general to his feet. They made their way back through the two boulders and found the rest of the men standing sheepishly on the riverbank.

  Carlos helped the general to a seat on a nearby rock and looked the other men in the eyes. They were all waiting for orders, hoping Carlos and the general didn’t punish them.

  Rafael was the only one with enough courage to speak.

  “What should we do now, sir?”

  Alvarado was still in a state of shock and couldn’t answer. So, Carlos did for him. He looked back over his shoulder through the stone gate. “Destroy it. Cover it up.”

  “Sir?”

  “Do it,” Carlos commanded. “Wipe it from the face of the earth.”

  Chapter 1

  Washington, DC

  The young woman rolled onto her side and padded over to a pile of clothes she’d left by the congressman’s bedroom door. He propped himself up on his elbow and watched as she got dressed.

  “Enjoying the view?” she asked in a flirty tone.

  “I always enjoy the view,” he said. “One of the perks of this line of work.”

  “I doubt your wife would call it a perk,” she said as she pulled her white satin blouse over her auburn hair and creamy skin.

  “Ouch,” he said, retracting his head a half inch. “Why do you have to bring her up at a time like this?”

  She stepped into her skirt, slipped it around her hips, and zipped the zipper on the back. “I like to push your buttons,” she said. “It’s one of the perks of my job.” She flashed a dangerously flirtatious grin at him that sent the blood pulsing through his veins again. After letting him stare for a moment, she put on her white blouse.

  He sat up and pulled on his shirt that was fortuitously close by. “You are, without a doubt, the best intern in this city.”

  “Do all the interns do this sort of thing with their bosses?”

  He stood and pulled up his boxers. A second later he put on his slacks. “I have no idea.”

  “Oh come on. It’s like a tradition in this town: politicians sleeping with their secretaries or interns or whoever.”

  He made his way over to her, wrapped his arm around her waist, and kissed her on the neck. “Are you complaining?”

  She spun around and faced him, staring into his blue eyes. Her head shook from left to right. “Not at all.” She pressed her lips against his. “But it’s late. You probably need to get home. And I need to get some rest. My boss makes me get to work early and stay late, so I need some sleep.”

  He pulled his head back and faked a frown. “He sounds like a real piece of work.”

  She nodded in the cutest way she could. “Oh, he is. But the job has its benefits.”

  She smirked and stepped away, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door.

  “Bright and early tomorrow morning, Miss Jones,” he pointed a finger at her, feigning the threat.

  “Yes, sir, Congressman Haskins.”

  “Unless you’d like to stay and have a cigar with me,” he motioned to the cigar on the desk in the next room. It was his best effort to tempt her. He knew it wouldn’t work.

  “Goodnight, Congressman,” she said with a smile.

  He watched as she slipped out the door and closed it behind her. The intoxicating scent of her perfume still lingered in the room, filling his nostrils.

  Tripp Haskins looked down at his desk. A box of cigars sat next to a picture of his wife and two children—the latter two were off living their lives in other parts of the country.

  Mariam Jones—his current intern—was just the latest in a long string of women he’d slept with during his seemingly never-ending tenure in Washington. He’d been smart enough about most of them, keeping the affairs out of the public eye. The last girl, a brilliant brunette named Casey, had made a few empty threats about blackmail.

  Those threats ended up costing her dearly. Police raided her home and found more drugs on the property than a Mexican cartel safe house. She went to prison for her crime, which was nothing more than threatening a man with power.

  Every politician in Washington was connected to someone. The people with whom Tripp Haskins was aligned were more powerful than others. And they didn’t take kindly to outsiders threatening their horse.

  Mariam wouldn’t be so foolish. She knew the score and was smart enough to enjoy the ride while it lasted. If she played her cards right, she’d be taken care of for years to come, possibly even find herself as a member of an advisory committee or even someday as a representative. The latter was unlikely, but it was a carrot to dangle.

  Haskins flipped open the cigar box and thumbed through the collection until he found one he wanted. They were all the same brand and all equally good. Searching through the sticks was more of a ritual than anything else. He tipped the cigar up, pressed his thumbnail into the cap, and peeled it back. Some people preferred cigar cutters. Others chose to use a hole punch. Haskins liked to do it the old-fashioned way, the way many of the older cigar dons did it.

  He tossed the cap into the trash bin by his desk and picked up the torch next to the cigar box. Methodically, he spun the cigar in his fingers while the blue flame touched the tip, searing it into a bright orange glow. Bluish-gray smoke circled into the air until there was a thin haze surrounding the congressman. He set the butane lighter down and gently blew on the tip before putting
the cigar between his lips and taking a long, slow drag. He puffed the smoke out of his mouth in little rings that floated toward the ceiling before dissipating.

  The building was a strict no-smoking zone, but Haskins didn’t care. It’s not like he could be fired for it. He was an elected official. Besides, when he decided to retire or someone beat him out in an election—unlikely—a cleaning crew would come in and scrub down the entire place anyway.

  Haskins eased into his leather chair and leaned back. He was living the dream. Fine women, fine cigars, and a boatload of money coming in every month from his allies. Selling his votes, sometimes he wondered if he made it too easy. Their pockets were deep. It’s not like they couldn’t afford a little more. He wasn’t greedy, though, and had no intention of killing the golden goose.

  As long as he had some semblance of power, he was fine.

  He took another puff from the cigar and blew it out into the air.

  His cell phone suddenly vibrated on the desk, startling him for a moment. Haskins set the cigar in a square black ashtray and picked up the device. He sighed after he saw who’d sent the message. He also noticed the time.

  It was nearly 11:30 at night.

  “No wonder she’s messaging me,” he said. His voice cut through the dead silence of the cavernous office.

  “Honey, it’s late. When are you coming home?” He read the text silently to himself before responding.

  Sorry, sweetie, he typed on the keypad. We’ve been working on this new energy bill all day. I’m having a cigar before I come home. Just trying to unwind and let my brain recoup. Be home soon. Love you.

  He hit send and set the device back on his desk. A minute later, he got the response. It said, “OK. Be careful. Love you, too.”

  His wife, Cindy, was a good woman. She’d stuck by him through the tough times when he was just getting started as a city councilman. Back then, they didn’t have much money and definitely no influence. Together, they’d clawed their way to the top.

  Was it immoral of him to habitually cheat on her? Probably. But she reaped the benefits of his hard work. She drove a hundred-thousand-dollar car, lived in a beautiful home, got to take vacations to exotic places whenever she wanted, and had an unlimited amount of funds for shopping if she was so inclined.

  Cindy was taken care of, at least that’s how he justified it.

  Could he stop and just be a loyal husband? Probably not. After all, it was just so easy. The young, ambitious women who walked into his office begging for jobs basically threw themselves at him. And if they didn’t, he didn’t give them the time of day. He was smart enough to not give chase. That’s how lawsuits and scandals happened. Haskins had no intention of losing what he’d worked so hard to gain.

  He took another pull from the cigar and held the smoke in his mouth for a long three seconds, enjoying the nutty, spicy flavor before letting it seep out of his lips. With every drag, he could hear the tobacco sizzling in the quiet of the room.

  A noise out in the hall startled him, and he instinctively reached for the ashtray before remembering he wasn’t fifteen years old, smoking in his parents’ house.

  “Mariam?” he said in a loud tone. “Is that you? Forget something?”

  There was no answer. He leaned to the side and stared at the door. Nothing happened. For a moment, he expected a knock or maybe for someone to push it open.

  Must have been something mechanical, he thought. That or I’m hearing things.

  He laughed to himself, then stood up, spun around, and stared out the huge window behind his desk. Haskins had one of the better views from the Capitol Building. He could see the Washington Monument across the mall, the red lights on top flashing in the night. In front of it, the lights from the Lincoln Memorial illuminated the dark sky.

  He placed one hand on the windowsill and let out a long sigh. The room felt warmer than usual, and he unbuttoned the top button on his shirt to loosen the collar. Maintenance didn’t usually cut off the air conditioning until around midnight, but maybe they’d decided to try to save a little extra money and do it half an hour sooner. Then again, he thought with a chuckle, he could still just be hot from the amorous activity from earlier.

  A bead of sweat formed on his temple. His throat itched, only slightly at first, as he swallowed. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. Something wasn’t right. He twisted his head from side to side.

  His mouth was suddenly dry. He looked at the cigar and figured it had to be from the tobacco. It wasn’t uncommon to need a drink with a good stick.

  Haskins turned around and picked up a bottle of water he always kept on the side of his desk. He poured half of the contents down his throat and wiped his lips. Why was he so thirsty all of a sudden?

  The room continued to get hotter. His stomach burned, and the scratching in his throat turned to fire. His eyes watered, and tears streamed involuntarily down his cheeks.

  “What is…wrong with me?” he said out loud.

  The muscles in his legs turned to Jell-O, and he had to press his hands against the surface of the desk to keep his balance.

  The internal pain was overwhelming now. It felt like his esophagus and stomach were filled with lava. Something was horribly wrong, and Haskins couldn’t figure out what it was.

  He knew his bodyguard was down in the car, waiting as he’d been instructed. The man’s name was Carl, and he’d been with Haskins ever since the congressman arrived in Washington. Carl was like most of the other bodyguards in the nation’s capital. They knew the rules, especially the number one rule: Never interfere with a politician’s personal interactions unless those interactions could bring harm. In this case, Carl had been ordered to wait in the car as he always did when Haskins was entertaining one of his girls.

  Carl, Haskins thought. I have to reach Carl.

  The pain in the congressman’s abdomen wrenched his body, and he doubled over, nearly hitting his head on the surface of the desk. His fingers slipped, and his legs gave out. Gravity pulled him to the floor. He’d never felt anything so horrible in his life.

  All Haskins knew was that he needed help. A sudden surge of bile rose in his throat, and he vomited on the floor behind his desk as he crouched on all fours, trying to regain his balance.

  Blood and foam splattered on the carpet. “What the….” he spat.

  Haskins dug his fingernails into the desk and dragged his torso up enough so he could see the phone just a few feet away to the right. He grimaced as another round of burning wracked his insides. He clenched every muscle in an attempt to fight the agonizing pain, but it was of little use.

  He reached with every ounce of strength he had left, desperately trying to get to his phone so he could call for help. Another surge of fire shot through his stomach. The room felt like it was ablaze. His body wrenched again and he lost his grip on the desk. His left elbow hit the ashtray, knocking it to the floor. As he fell sideways, his hand struck the phone, and it landed a few inches from the smoldering cigar.

  The screen displayed the last text message from his wife amid the trickle of gray cigar smoke. He read the words again as the burning sensation suddenly turned to ice.

  “I love you,” he gasped and surrendered to the darkness creeping in around the corners of his eyes.

  He never heard the door to his office open, the footsteps crossing the floor, and the mysterious figure exit a few moments later.

  Tripp Haskins was already dead.

  Chapter 2

  Atlanta, Georgia

  The crowd’s roar came through the walls of the apartment three seconds before Sean and Tommy saw what happened.

  They stared at the television mounted to the wall as the Braves’ batter swung. The ball cracked off the bat and soared high into the air. The announcer’s voice escalated as he called the play.

  “It’s a high drive to deep center field. Back. Back…it’s gone! Home run! Braves win on a walk-off home run!”

  Sean pumped his fist and then clapped his hands on
his knees. “Wow! What a game!”

  “I told you we should have walked over there and got tickets,” Tommy said as he shook his head.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t,” Adriana said from the kitchen as she poured a smoothie into a tall glass. “That’s half the reason I got this place.”

  Adriana Villa had Old World money from her family’s wine and coffee businesses. She’d grown up in the outskirts of Madrid but rarely went home anymore. Most of her time was spent traveling or in the Southeastern United States with her boyfriend, Sean Wyatt.

  “What was the other half?” Tommy asked.

  She rolled her shoulders and took a sip of the smoothie, not answering until she’d swallowed the chilly clump of fruity ice. “I just like the area.”

  “Oh.” He had expected a more interesting answer.

  The Battery Atlanta was an area constructed just north of the perimeter to give the professional baseball team a new home and a community around the park. The restaurants and bars were top notch, and the living quarters were second to none with modern amenities, retail centers on the sidewalks, and easy access to the interstate.

  Even though Sean and Tommy each had their own places in the city, they were both excited about using Adriana’s new apartment as their postgame crash pad during the summer.

  Tommy Schultz was the director and founder of the International Archaeological Agency based in Downtown Atlanta. Sean was his best friend and a former government agent turned head of antiquities security. The agency’s mission was simple: find and recover lost artifacts for governments and occasionally private entities and deliver, research, and restore them to share with the world.

  It sounded easy enough in theory, but the work was often fraught with difficulty and danger. The latter was why Sean and Tommy always carried weapons when on the job—just in case.

  Tommy pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped on the email icon while Sean made his way to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water.