The Dig
Steven F. Freeman
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by www.LLPix.com
Statue image courtesy of Phil Konstantin
Copyright © 2017 Steven F. Freeman
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
To my wife with love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to Ruth Gresh, Chris Daniel, Priscilla Gould, Scott L. McCarroll, Sharron Grodzinsky, Elaine Rivers, and Willow Humphrey for their invaluable feedback and assistance.
PURCHASE OTHER BOOKS IN ALTON AND MALLORY’S “BLACKWELL FILES” SERIES NOW!
(Books 1 – 3 combined: Nefarious, Ruthless, and T Wave Boxed Set)
Book 1: Nefarious
Book 2: Ruthless
Book 3: T Wave
Book 4: Havoc
Book 5: The Devil’s Due
Book 6: The Evolution of Evil
Book 7: Tears of God
Book 8: When the Killing Starts
Book 9: The Dig
Book 10: Coming in 2018. See below for notification when available.
Would you like Amazon to notify you when the future books in “The Blackwell Files” are released? Just click on author Steven F. Freeman’s Amazon Author page, then click on “Add Favorite” below the author’s picture.
Would you like to be notified when future eBooks in “The Blackwell Files” are released, on sale, or free in BookBub, one of the world’s most popular ebook newsletters? If so, click here and select “follow” below author Steven F. Freeman’s name.
Author website: www.SteveFreemanWriter.com
Like your thrillers more intense? Author Steven F. Freeman also writes under the name Malcolm Pierce.
Blood Passage
Maintenance supervisor Brian Francisco goes to sleep for the night in his Midwest apartment and awakes to find himself a prisoner aboard an oil tanker at sea.
“An Unforgettable ride” Readers’ Favorite five-star review
CHAPTER 1
Something was wrong. The spirit of the place—it felt menacing…unsettled.
Rosa Martinez scanned the basilica with growing unease.
Ten minutes earlier, she had shuffled through the entrance of the ornate Catholic edifice. Years of hard labor as a nightshift janitor for the new office buildings in Guadalajara’s business district had ground her down. Now, the simple act of walking the full length of the church’s main aisle required substantial effort. Following the habit of decades, though, she had made her way to the front pew and kneeled in reverence.
Working the nightshift conferred one benefit. At 3:00 A.M., no one else occupied the sanctuary—no screaming children or noisy tourists snapping photos. Just her and the holy silence. As she did most nights, she had retreated to the Basilica of Our Lady of Zapopan to rest and draw strength from her faith before returning to her tiny apartment a block away.
Tonight, the silence had been broken. But from where? And by what?
Under the cupola, the depiction of Jesus on the cross sat undisturbed, as did the centuries-old wood carving of the Virgin Mary. The faint aroma of candles and incense filled the sanctuary as always.
Rosa swiveled her head to inspect the rows behind her. No living being had entered the building. Her apprehension grew. She knew this church like one of her children…knew how it was supposed to sound. What was causing—?
There! In the corner, a hiss and tendril of steam rose from a spot where stone floors met walls covered in tapestries and statues. But what could cause this? In all her many years, she had never seen such a thing.
The hiss of released heat grew louder. A tremor passed through Rosa. Or had it passed through the building? In her panic, she couldn’t be sure.
A stronger seismic wave rippled through the basilica.
Wooden pews rattled on the marble floor like the thundering hooves of a cavalry charge. A brass cross and the instruments of communion toppled from the altar, while jagged cracks zigzagged through the ancient structure’s plaster walls.
“Dios mío!” cried Rosa. She pulled herself to her feet and hobbled back up the aisle, praying to reach the entrance before the entire building collapsed.
As if anticipating this end, a great roar erupted from the front of the church—the sound of wood and stone tumbling into tangled piles.
Rosa didn’t turn. If only her swollen knees would carry her faster.
As quickly as the catastrophe began, it ended. All trembling ceased—in the building if not in Rosa herself.
The sound of settling rubble echoed throughout the structure, and a thick cloud of dust enveloped the interior, sending the musty odor of centuries into every corner of the church.
Feeling heartsick, Rosa turned back to look. Surely the tremblor had thrown this magnificent structure, Zapopan’s crown jewel of four centuries, into ruin and disarray.
But the settling of dust revealed damage less severe than she would have imagined. The walls and ceiling stood intact, leaving the flow of electricity to the building’s dim lights uninterrupted. Most of the floor had survived the earthquake—with the exception of a gaping hole to the left of the altar’s kneeling rail. Steam billowed from the empty space.
Rosa knew the Basilica’s structure must be unstable, but a surge of curiosity propelled her back into the heart of the sanctuary. Studying the cracked walls and ceiling with a sense of dread, she picked her way around fallen pews and chunks of plaster to return to the front.
She reached the hole and peered into the gloomy abyss. At first, only piles of debris could be discerned in the faint light. But seconds later, a different sight—a more profound one—greeted her fearful gaze.
She clasped shaking hands over her mouth. For the second time in a half-dozen minutes, she exclaimed, “Dios mío!”
CHAPTER 2
TWO MONTHS LATER
Alton Blackwell held the door so Mallory, his wife, could enter the spacious conference room first.
From the sprawling table, NSA Supervising Agent Ernesto Vega looked up. “Glad you two could make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” replied Alton. The former Army officer had been forced to retire following a combat injury in Afghanistan, but his world-class cryptographic skills and Mallory’s forensic accounting expertise had caught Vega’s eye as they had worked a mutual case in Italy nineteen months earlier. Before long, the couple’s investigatory track record had landed them a job as NSA special operatives, called from their civilian jobs when cases requiring their unique skillsets arose.
“Good to see you, too,” added Vega as the rest of the party filed into the room.
The assemblage lost no time taking seats around the oblong table. David Dunlow, Alton’s long-time friend and fellow part-time NSA operative, took a seat on Alton’s left. Next to David sat his adopted daughter, Mastana.
As Agent Vega cleared his throat to begin, two more agents entered the room.
“Agent Silva!” said Mallory, rising to give the newcomer a hug. Agent Jessica Silva, a fit Latina in her mid-twenties, had served with the Blackwells on two previous missions. Her tactical and improvisational skills had earned their respect.
“And O’Neil,” said Alton, standing up to offer a firm handshake. Daniel O’Neil, a former Special Forces soldier and now full-time NSA operative, had joined Alton and Mallory on their last mission, a daring foray into North Korea.
“How’s the injury coming along?�
� asked Alton.
“Just about healed,” replied the lean, muscular man. “My biggest risk now is getting spoiled.” He shot a sly glance in Silva’s direction. The first, tentative sparks of interest he and Silva had shown during the conclusion of the North Korean mission looked to have fanned into a steady flame.
Silva chuckled. In Guadalajara, the almond-toned, Latina agent could easily be mistaken for a local—a characteristic that might prove to be helpful on this mission.
“This family reunion is great,” said Vega, “but we have work to do.” He cleared his throat. “I’m going to cut right to the chase. Remember that Guadalajara earthquake we discussed two months ago?”
“Yeah, the one you were worried was a terrorist attack?” replied Alton.
“Exactly. Turns out it was a legit earthquake, but we’ve had a new development. The tremblor revealed an ancient chamber filled with relics underneath the basilica. No one knew it was there. A joint U.S./Mexico archeological team was already working in downtown Guadalajara. When they heard about this discovery, most of them were diverted to investigate. They report that the Aztecs created the chamber over four hundred years ago.”
Where was this leading?
Vega set down a stack of papers he’d been shuffling and glanced up with a solemn eye. “Two members of the archeological team have been found murdered, and a third is missing.”
“That sucks,” said David, shifting his six-foot frame in his seat, “but why send an NSA team? Can’t the local cops look into it?” The man’s somewhat goofy appearance belied a lively mind sharpened by years of experience in Army Intelligence and the Secret Service.
Vega’s mouth pulled into a thin line. “They could, but as usual, politics have come into play. Dr. Evan Cornick, the team’s lead, is one of the most well-known archeologists in the field.”
“Dr. Cornick hasn’t gone missing, has he?” asked Alton, recalling a parallel case in the Galapagos Islands ten months earlier.
“No, and I’d like to keep it that way,” replied Vega. “Cornick is hearing rumblings of discontent. The remaining members of his team are worried about their safety, and local citizens near the dig sites blame the work for bringing crime to their areas. Our country’s relations with Mexico are already tense. Cornick is worried the murders will exacerbate it. So he asked if the U.S. could help…make the investigation a joint project rather than the Guadalajara police cleaning up a mess we Americans presumably brought to the city.”
Alton nodded. The countries’ relations had been a bit strained recently. “Makes sense. So this is the complete mission team, those of us here?”
“Mastana isn’t an official members of the team,” said Vega. “She’s only seventeen. But if she’d like to accompany her father to Guadalajara, I have no objections.”
Mastana’s countenance glowed with excitement. A year earlier, Alton and a strike team had freed her from the clutches of an evil Afghani cult. After the rescue, David and Fahima Dunlow had adopted the orphaned teen. The new family had settled into a typical American lifestyle. Yet the adventure of her rescue had sparked within Mastana an interest in pursuing a career in criminal investigation, a passion that had caught the eye of Agent Vega himself. Small wonder the NSA supervisor wanted to groom the teen for this kind of life as much as possible. Even without taking an active role in the mission, the youth’s observations would provide the kinds of lessons only direct experience confers.
Vega cleared his throat. “Your mission is twofold: help the local police solve the crimes, and ensure the safety of the remaining team members. We can’t have these murders snowballing into an international incident.”
“What kind of heat are we packing?” asked David, ever conscious of security protocols.
“Mexican law doesn’t allow firearms,” said Vega, “so you’ll have to see what the police will provide once you get down there.” He rose from his seat. “You’d better put your contingency plans into place for your day jobs. You’ll be leaving in the morning.”
CHAPTER 3
At noon the next day, a Delta jet carrying the NSA team touched down at Guadalajara International airport. After a trip through a passport-control area bordered by desks of vibrant orange and green, Alton and his teammates found themselves spirited away in a quartet of taxis.
In their ride through the city, an eclectic mixture of eras flashed past the taxi window: the Matute Remus bridge—a sleek, ultra-modern structure of concrete and steel—followed on the heels of a century-old, stone-carved fountain gracing the center of a broad roundabout.
Dropping their belongings off at the Hilton Guadalajara, they headed directly to the Basilica of Our Lady of Zapopan, site of the earthquake.
The taxis dropped the entourage off at the edge of a broad plaza fronting the basilica. Brick planters filled with a salsa of red, yellow, and white flowers framed the courtyard. Beneath individual umbrellas, pushcarts overflowing with crosses, rosaries, small replicas of the church, and other Catholic souvenirs stood shoulder to shoulder on a lane fronting the edifice.
Scaffolding covered the church from end to end, rendering the task of finding a way inside somewhat challenging. Alton sidestepped between folds of heavy tarp and led the team into the building.
Repair crews worked from more scaffolding erected inside the sanctuary. Dust from the repair work carried the scent of ages into the air. Random noises filled the sanctuary, yet the scrape of mortar trowels and buzz of electrical tools seemed a hopeful sound, a signal that the basilica would soon be restored to its former glory.
The NSA team advanced down the center aisle. To the left of the altar, yellow tape encircled a gaping pit.
Alton approached the abyss and peered into it. “Dr. Cornick?”
No response.
Alton cleared his throat and called again, louder this time.
At the bottom of the fifteen-foot hole, a head crowned by salt-and-pepper hair popped into the circle of illumination cast by the repairmen’s dazzling spotlights. “Did somebody call me?”
“Yes, Dr. Cornick. It’s Alton Blackwell. My colleagues and I just flew in—”
“The investigators from Washington!” cut in Cornick with smile. “Thank goodness you’re here. Wait…let me get Elias and we’ll climb out.” He scaled an aluminum ladder and grasped Alton’s hand. Calloused and scratched palms bore witness to the down-in-the-dirt aspect of the archeologist’s job.
Cornick, a larger-than-life, middle-age figure wearing heavy canvas slacks despite the heat, motioned toward a mid-twenties, wiry man at his side. “This is Elias Tan, one of my research assistants.”
Alton nodded.
After casting a glance around the disheveled room, Cornick gestured towards a folding table and chairs placed directly in front of the altar. “Let’s go over there, away from the repair crew. Most of us can sit at the table.” He turned and peeled back a drop cloth, sending a plume of plaster dust into the air. “Those who can’t fit can use this pew.”
As Alton approached the table, he caught Tan eying him with an uncertain look. Alton was used to the unease his limp inspired in new acquaintances. Despite a regular exercise regime that kept him in excellent physical condition, his injury-induced limp and a height that ran only slightly above average often generated concern over his capacity to lead an NSA team—until he proved his doubters wrong.
Alton brushed the settling dust from his closely-cropped, chestnut hair. “Let me introduce you to the members of my team.”
“Splendid,” said Cornick. He turned to the group. “We’re certainly glad you’re here.”
Cornick and Tan shook hands with each person in turn, the latter apparently sizing up each person as he did so.
Would Mallory’s petite, athletic frame and flowing, obsidian hair—features that had turned men’s heads for years—have their usual effect? Would Tan assume a beauty like this couldn’t have an equally impressive mind? If so, he wouldn’t be the first.
Cornick’s eyes, on the oth
er hand, held little in the way of unfounded conclusions. His gaze reflected relief in the team’s presence.
The introductions over, they all took seats on facing pews.
“Let’s start off by making sure we’re on the same page,” said Alton to the lead archeologist. “Guadalajara’s police are responsible for investigating the recent crimes against your team. We’re here to aid in that effort. We’re also here to help keep the rest of you safe.”
“Perfect,” replied Cornick. “What’s the best way to begin?”
“First, I need the names and numbers of any policemen who’ve helped in the investigations.”
“That would be Gaby Vasquez,” said Cornick, pulling his cellphone from a Velcroed vest pocket and opening the “contacts” screen. “She’s the lead investigator—quite a capable young woman, I might add.”
“Great,” said Alton, typing in the phone number Cornick offered and forwarding it to David. “Can you call her and ask what’s a good time to meet?”
“Will do, Chief.” David stepped away from the group to make the call.
Alton returned his attention to Cornick. “I’d like to get some background on your team and the work you’re doing here.”
“This is our newest and most extensive dig site. Everyone was so excited, until…” His voice trailed off.
In the ensuing silence, the calls of workmen echoed through the vaulted structure.
Alton cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. That’s why we’re here: to protect your team so that doesn’t happen again.”
Cornick swallowed and gave a quick nod. “Quite right.”
“Can you tell us a bit about the team members?”
“The ones who died?”
“Yes, and the ones still here. I’d like to know about them individually, but it’d also be good to understand how they fit into the team as a whole.”
The Dig (The Blackwell Files Book 9) Page 1
