by Casey Lane
I let her carry me to the car before making my miraculous recovery. Her face is unreadable as I announce that my weapon was loaded with kinetic impact rounds, nonlethal bullets made of wax and sawdust. I’ll have a pair of bruises that will last for weeks, but I certainly won’t die.
Snedeker looks as happy as a puppy with a new toy. That’s my boy. I find myself warming to him a little.
I make a point of thanking Spero for carrying me from the mansion. I’ll also recommend a commendation for her in my after action report. Mustn’t let her know I’m onto her. I need to find out who she’s working for, and I have a special plan for that.
I remove a backup gun from the glove compartment in the SUV. It’s loaded with .40-caliber hollow-points.
Spero eyes me nervously. “What are you doing?”
“We’re going back in to kill Beasley. It’s justified. He shot first.”
In reality, I don’t want a living witness contradicting Spero’s report. She was the hero here, wrestling the gun from Beasley and carrying me to safety. I want the record to reflect my admiration of her actions.
I tighten my belt as our plane descends into Addis Ababa Bole. This is not my first journey to a third-world hellhole, but I’m hoping it will be my last.
I wanted a stealth helo drop, but Stockhausen is making us fly commercial, punishment for Beasley’s death. At least KoR has arranged to get our weapons and armor through Ethiopian customs. That’s the most important thing.
I glance over at my travel companions. Snedeker and Kaplan are asleep, but Spero is wide-eyed and nervous. She still can’t believe she got away with the attempt on my life. I doubt she’ll try again anytime soon, but just the same, I’m not going to turn my back on her.
Before we left Boston Logan, KoR Intelligence dug up all the information available on Tyler Buck. There wasn’t a lot. He’s a treasure hunter who grew up poor and hit it big. We have a picture of him posing on a beach with a gold coin.
After landing, we pass through customs without a hitch. We have a false paper trail showing we are military contractors working for the Pentagon, so local officials aren’t surprised by the weapons and armor, currently disassembled for safe transport.
Before leaving Addis Ababa Bole, we search the airport for Tyler. We know from accessing travel records that he’s still in Ethiopia. If he found those dragon bones, I want them.
There’s no sign of Tyler, so we book a charter flight to Arba Minch, the closest city to the site of the shrine. Had we arrived here a few hours earlier, we could have flown commercial to Arba Minch, but we’ve already missed the daily flight.
Something tells me Tyler is near. Perhaps we’ll catch him in Arba Minch.
The airport in Arba Minch is a sad little affair, and it doesn’t take long to search. Tyler isn’t here either.
It’s early evening and we’re all hungry and exhausted. But before we seek lodging, I insist that we rent a car and locate a guide who can take us into the bush.
We manage to find the actual man who drove for Tyler. He claims that Tyler is still out there and is not due to be picked up for several days. Perhaps we’ll catch Tyler in the field.
I’m eager to set off right away, but the driver’s boss refuses. Apparently, the roads are too dangerous at night, so we’ll have to wait until morning.
We manage to find rooms at a quaint little hotel called the Paradise Lodge. They have only two rooms available, so we have to share. Normally, I’d enjoy sharing a room with Spero, but I can’t risk her cutting my throat in the night, so I put her with Kaplan and keep Snedeker with me.
We eat dinner in the hotel restaurant. I don’t recognize the dishes on the menu, so I randomly point at something called kitfo. For some reason, the waiter seems amused by my order.
The meal turns out to be quite bloody. The meat is so raw, I doubt they bothered to kill the cow. Still, I enjoy it immensely.
In the morning, our guide helps us purchase supplies for the journey. I’m certain we’re being overcharged, but it’s coming out of my KoR expense account, so I don’t object.
There’s a delay leaving Arba Minch as our driver finds a vehicle large enough to accommodate our group, but we’re finally off by midmorning.
Soon after we leave town, we pass a village where native women are posing topless with the tourists. Savages. Have those women no shame?
Aside from one perilous passage over a rickety bridge, the journey is largely uneventful. We do see a number of men with AK-47s, possibly the local militia. They seem content to leave us alone. That’s a wise choice on their part, as our weapons are now reassembled and we’re wearing our body armor.
By late afternoon, after a bumpy off-road stint, we finally arrive at the same place where the driver dropped off Tyler.
I’m excited to see that Tyler’s tent and gear are here, though there’s no sign of the treasure hunter himself. He’s probably at the shrine.
I order our driver to remain here as we scout the area, and I take his key to ensure that he does. He isn’t happy about that, but I don’t trust him and I can’t risk being stranded out here.
Wearing our silverweave armor and carrying close-assault rifles, we head out for a look around. We soon find a grid laid out at the bottom of a hill. Tyler has clearly been searching this area.
We can’t find anything resembling a Coptic shrine. Perhaps it fell into ruin and was overgrown. That doesn’t surprise me. But I’m puzzled as to why Tyler isn’t here. Did he see us coming? Is he hiding somewhere nearby?
We spread out to do a more thorough search of the hill. Hours later, as the sun begins to set, I hear Kaplan call out. We converge on his position at the top of the hill and I see a narrow crevice. We follow it to a set of hidden stairs leading underground.
Of course, they built the shrine underground. Those clever Copts were early Christians and were trying to avoid persecution.
Tyler is probably inside the shrine at this very moment, unearthing the foul dragon bones. If so, the Knights of Rome have an unpleasant surprise for him.
I motion for Kaplan to lead the way in. He looks scared enough to vomit.
Chapter Seven
Piggy Bank
TYLER BUCK
The armed goat herders lead me into their encampment, where I see another dozen or so Mursi. Most of them are young, but there’s also a bony old woman squatting near a low fire.
I call out to them calmly, “Do any of you speak English?”
Most ignore me. A few look annoyed. No one responds.
One of the men uses his rifle to push me over with the goats, then he forces me to my knees. Shit, is he going to kill me?
A goat sniffs my shoe, then tries to take a bite from it. I jerk my foot away and appeal to my captors. “I need help. I can pay.”
I pull out the travel pouch hanging around my neck and remove a five-thousand-birr gift card. I hand it to the jagged-toothed man standing over me. He cautiously takes it from my hand and examines it. He’s holding it upside down. Not a good sign.
He drops the card to the ground and kicks dirt over it.
So much for the power of the gift cards. I guess that makes sense. How would they redeem them out here?
I’m relieved when the jagged-tooth man backs away. I don’t think they plan to shoot me.
Two teen boys extract milk from one of the goats into an iron pot, then take the pot to the old woman, who mixes in water and flour to make a soup. As it cooks over the fire, it smells like pasta, and it sets my hunger raging. I don’t think I’ve ever gone this long without food.
Time passes. I watch them eat and my hunger grows.
About an hour after sunrise, I hear the sound of a Jeep! I jump to my feet for a better look, but the man with the rifle gestures for me to get back on the ground.
The Jeep stops about twenty yards away. It’s been traveling off-road and is covered with dust. The driver exits. He’s an Ethiopian man in city clothes. Maybe someone from Arba Minch?
&nb
sp; I wave at him, and he frowns. After speaking to the herders in a language I don’t understand, he approaches me. He’s a heavy guy in his forties, wearing a red bandana around his neck.
He has a thick accent, but I can understand him when he speaks broken English. “Who you? Why you come?”
I probably shouldn’t mention I came to steal a relic. “I’m a tourist, Tyler Buck. I got a little lost. Are you from Arba Minch?”
He nods. “I work for government. I make peace between tribes. They fight for where animals eat.”
“I don’t speak Mursi. Can you tell them to let me go?”
He shakes his head. “They not Mursi. They Hamar. I not command them. I tell them why you come here. They decide.”
The guy with the bad teeth leads me over to the fire and the armed herders gather around. I tell my story and the government man translates.
In my tale, I’m a curious traveler who came to Ethiopia to explore its beauty, then was chased away from my camp by hyenas.
When I tell them about peeing a circle around myself, they get visibly angry and several of them point their rifles at me.
The translator speaks to them, then turns back to me. “They say you lie. Hunter animals not fear human urine.”
The government guy speaks to them some more, and then starts arguing with them. That’s weird, why are they fighting with each other?
“What’s wrong?”
The translator looks nervous. “They kill you now. I am sorry.”
“What? Hold on, I’m an American. People will come looking for me.”
He looks pained. “I not say you American. They kill you slower.”
“Tell them I’m Canadian! Everyone likes Canadians.”
Ignoring me, he jogs back to his Jeep.
On impulse, I start singing the Canadian national anthem…
“Oh Canada,
Our home and native land.
Real patriot … something,
A truly maple brand.”
The man with the bad teeth raises his gun to fire.
Desperate, I tear the dragon amulet out from under my shirt.
“Wait, take this! It’s gotta be worth fifteen grand.”
He flips off the safety and takes aim at my head.
Suddenly, the old woman speaks. I have no idea what she’s saying. She calls out to the translator, who reluctantly returns.
The snaggletoothed gunman, his eyes wide, lowers his weapon.
The translator speaks to the old woman, and then to me.
“You keep necklace. You pass safely here now.”
“Awesome! Did she say why?”
“I ask. She not say. I take you to Arba Minch or someone else kill you.”
I nod my thanks to the woman, and in about three steps I’m sitting in the passenger side of the Jeep.
I’m guessing the old woman saw the dragon amulet and it pinged her superstition radar. That was a huge piece of luck.
I arrive at the Paradise Lodge restaurant in the afternoon with torn, dirty clothes, but they still treat me like a king. I order three entrées: poached fish, beef stroganoff, and a delicious chicken dish called doro wat. I wash it all down with a nice white wine from the Rift Valley.
Chef Getachew himself comes out to say hello. What a great guy. Getachew. How perfect is that name?
This is the best meal I’ve ever had. The scary thing is, I feel I could eat even more, but I need to get my ass back to Florida. I’m hoping the amulet will make up for Lord Beasley’s lost survey equipment. The gear is insured, so I’m sure as hell not going back for it.
I rent a room at the lodge just to use the shower, then take a taxi into town to get new clothes and a disposable phone.
I text Beasley to let him know I’m returning. He normally answers right away, but not this time. That’s odd. It’s after seven a.m. there and he’s usually up by now. Maybe I caught him in the shower.
I manage to get to DHL just before they close. Beasley set up a secret shipping channel that avoids customs and gets a package anywhere in the world in under forty-eight hours. I ship the amulet to my post office box in Coconut Creek. I rent the box under another name for added security.
A short time later, I’m in the Arba Minch airport, waiting for my charter flight to Addis Ababa Bole.
I’ve been in close scrapes before, but this was the worst yet. I can’t believe I survived. When I get home, I’m going to spend a week in my hot tub, drinking margaritas. I’ve learned one important thing from my experience here in Africa. It’s beautiful, but it will kill you.
Through the window, I spot a group of Westerners disembarking from the same small plane I’m probably taking to Addis Ababa Bole. One of them is a bald guy who looks like some sort of military type. In fact, they all look military, though they aren’t wearing uniforms. I wonder if the CIA is operating out of Arba Minch. I’ve heard the US is flying drones over here.
Through the cover of a potted plant, I watch them enter the terminal, only five yards away. The bald guy, their leader, shows his phone to the gate attendant. I recognize the picture on the phone. It’s me, posing with my gold doubloon!
Oh shit, this is bad! Do they know I smuggled out an antiquity?
I make a beeline for the gift shop, where I pick up a hat and a pair of sunglasses. Then I duck into the restroom and hide out in one of the stalls.
I wait until the last possible moment before missing my flight, then slip out of the restroom for a look around. I don’t see them anywhere.
I board the charter plane, eyes on the gate. At any moment, I expect them to burst out of the airport and drag me away.
I don’t breathe again until I’m in the air.
Twenty-eight hours later, I arrive at Miami International with a serious case of jet lag.
I down an energy drink as I go to long-term parking to fetch Bluedini, my powder-blue 2011 Camaro. It feels weird to be behind the wheel again after almost a week without driving, but it’s a good weird.
I’m worried about Lord Beasley. He isn’t answering my calls and texts. So instead of driving home first, I pass Coconut Creek and continue on to Highland Beach.
As soon as I pull up to Beasley’s mansion, I see police tape across the front door. I circle the mansion on foot and run into the gardener, who appears to be looting equipment from the storage shed. He tells me that Beasley’s been murdered, and the police have no idea who did it.
I feel sick to my stomach. Lord Beasley’s been a great boss and patron. I can’t believe he’s dead. He was always so charming and polite. It’s hard to believe anyone would want to kill him. And he wouldn’t be easy to kill, especially here at home. He had a guard dog and a security system. Whoever did this had some serious skills.
I flash back to the bald guy at the Arba Minch airport, the one who was showing my picture around. I’ll bet anything that he and his team killed Beasley, and now they’re looking for me. How long before they realize I’m back in the States?
Who are these guys, and what do they want? Maybe they’re after Beasley’s relic stash.
I wonder if they’re a threat to Ayana and the other cultists. If so, I have no way of warning them. And why should I, after what they did to me?
I’ve got to lie low for a while and figure this thing out.
The first thing I do is get on the phone and buy a plane ticket to Mexico. I won’t be using it, of course, it’s just a way to throw them off my trail.
Next, I go to the bank and pull out all of my money in cash. From here on out, all my spending will be off the grid.
It’s too dangerous to go to my apartment, so I find a dumpy little motel not far from the mailbox rental store where I sent the amulet. The motel wants ID, but they let it slide when I tell them I don’t have any. After all, this is a place with hourly rates.
By now, I’m feeling really sick. This is more than jet lag. I think I caught a flu bug on the plane. Probably from all the stress. Wait, oh God, what if it’s the fly bite? What if I
have sleeping sickness?
When I wake up, I’m still fully clothed, and it’s the afternoon of the next day. I don’t even remember falling asleep.
I’m in a haze, and my muscles are cramping. I should probably see a doctor, but I need to pick up the amulet. It’s too risky to leave it at the mailbox place.
I don’t trust myself to drive, so I walk over to the postal store to pick up the package. I have a special arrangement with the owner and he never asks me for ID.
I take the package back to the motel. For a moment, I can’t remember what room I’m in.
When I finally get inside, I’m almost too weak to open the package. I definitely need to see a doctor.
I’m happy to find the amulet undamaged. I hang it around my neck and tuck it under my shirt.
I feel light-headed and sit down on the bed. Sweat drips into my eye, and I realize I have a fever. Mom used to make this great chicken soup from bone broth whenever I got sick. I could use a bowl of that now.
I’m struck with a horrible thought. Those military guys may not be able to find me, but they sure as hell can find my mother! If they’re willing to kill Lord Beasley, then mothers are probably not off the table. Adrenaline hits me and I feel a wave of panic.
The piggy bank dream plays through my head. I see my mom crying, and pleading with the marshals. I have to protect her.
Suddenly, I’m reliving that moment in startling clarity. Only this time, I’m not the little boy with the broken piggy bank. I’m a grown man, watching the little boy.
The poor kid’s hands are shaking as he harvests coins from the broken glass. He keeps cutting himself but doesn’t seem to notice. I can’t stand to watch it anymore.
I hurry over and pick him up. “Careful, that glass is sharp.”
He kicks me in the balls and I drop him. He screams as he falls onto the broken glass.
I bend over from the pain, gasping for breath, my eyes watering.
