Turner looked around for a hiding place. No goddamned way am I standing in the open pointing this thing. Running behind a nearby tree, he propped the dish on a branch and pointed it toward Milton as he put the headphone in his ear. Static. He aimed more carefully and he could make out a few muffled words but nothing else. Just static.
It’s the damned fountain!
Raising his hand to his mouth, he activated his comm. “Sir, I can’t hear a thing, the fountain is drowning everything out!” He didn’t have to be there to hear the string of curses at the other end.
“Get back here.”
“Can you hear me?” asked Acton.
“Barely, the fountain is pretty loud,” replied Milton, relieved to hear his friend’s voice again.
“Good, that means they can’t hear us either. Listen old friend, I’m in danger and so are you just by talking to me, but I had no choice.”
“What are you talking about? In danger from who?” asked Milton, bewildered.
“I’m not sure. I think they were our troops, some sort of black ops thing. They killed everyone at the camp and they almost got me.”
“Our own troops? I was told it was rebels after your supplies or something you had found!”
“Who told you that bullshit?”
“Two State Department agents came to my office four days ago and told me what happened,” explained Milton. “They said you were missing and wanted me to contact them if I heard from you. I didn’t of course.”
“Good. They may be in on it. Listen carefully. For some reason I think they’re after what we found in Peru.”
“What did you find?”
“A crystal skull.”
“A crystal skull? Like Mitchell-Hedges?”
“Yes, exactly!” said Acton. He suddenly sounded like a teenage boy describing his first car. “It’s beautiful! I’ve seen pictures of them of course and had a chance to see the one in London up close, but I’ve never held one in my hand. It’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m sure it is, Jim, but why would they want to kill you over it?”
“I have no idea, but I think I might know who would. Problem is I need cash.”
“I thought you would so I brought some.”
“Listen,” said his friend, his tone becoming more serious. “They killed everyone, and they’re probably after me. If you want out, now’s the time to get out. I won’t judge you.”
“Jim, you’ve known me long enough to know I don’t leave my friends hanging,” replied Milton. “Now, how do I get this money to you?”
“First, we have to lose whoever’s tailing you.”
Milton listened to the plan then snapped the phone shut and tossed it in the fountain. He looked around again, trying to spot any pursuers, but gave up. There were just too many people in the park. He walked briskly toward the nearest subway station, went down the stairs, paid his fare, then made his way out onto the platform. He scrutinized people descending the stairs, but no one stood out. Too many suits.
His train arrived and he waited until the last second to jump aboard, hoping he might surprise whoever was following him. He took a seat and tried to look inconspicuous. Not hard considering this was a New York subway car. Nobody looked at anybody as they just tried to ignore their surroundings and make it to their destination with as little interaction with their fellow passengers as possible. He grabbed a newspaper from the seat beside him and buried his head behind it.
Turner and Jasper had both followed Milton into the subway station. When the train arrived, Turner boarded right away, just in case Milton tried anything last minute. Turner could always get off at the next stop if needed.
There he goes.
Jasper smiled to himself. Predictable. He made his way back up to the van and waited for Turner to let them know when he got off. In the meantime though, they at least knew which direction to travel. “Let’s head south.”
Washington, DC
“Detective Wheeler, this is Mendosa from the Medical Examiner’s Office.”
Wheeler stopped chewing on his foot long hot dog with the works and handed the pile of artery clogging fat and calories to Schultz who looked at it with disdain. “What have you got, Doc?” he said as he pulled out his notepad and pen.
“We had a hit on the John Doe’s prints,” said Mendosa.
“He was in AFIS?”
“No, he was in the Fed’s Employee database. You’re not going to believe who this kid is!”
“Who?”
“William Guthrie,” said Mendosa, “son of former Speaker George Guthrie. The kid started Monday as an intern at the White House.”
Wheeler scribbled the information onto his pad. “Still think this is a random mugging?”
“No,” agreed Mendosa. “I’ve examined the wound and our young vet was right. This was a professional hit made to look like a mugging.”
“Okay, I’m going to go see the congressman,” said Wheeler. “You keep me posted.” Closing his cellphone, he grabbed the hot dog from Schultz. He was about to take a bite when he realized he had lost his appetite. He threw it in the garbage can nearby and motioned to his partner. “This case just got a whole lot more interesting.”
“How?”
“Our victim is a VIP.”
Wheeler explained as they made the drive out to Chevy Chase, Maryland. This was the part of the job he hated. They both hated. Telling parents that their kid was dead. It was one thing when it was a gangbanger—it was expected. But a clean cut kid, barely out of high school, working at the White House?
It just wasn’t supposed to happen.
They pulled into the long drive of the Guthrie residence and parked near the main entrance, the house huge. It’s good to be the king. He often wondered why it was that politicians, no matter how rich or poor they were when they went into office, always managed to somehow leave wealthy.
Couldn’t be corruption of course.
Guthrie he knew from the papers had married money, so his current situation was clean. But what his son was mixed up in, he had no idea. A professional hit meant either he had dug himself in deep with some bad characters, or this was a hit to send a message to Guthrie, Sr.
Wheeler and Schultz crossed the drive and climbed the three steps of the main entrance, an impressive columned affair with a massive double, carved wood door. Wheeler was about to knock when the door swung open, a man he instantly recognized as George Guthrie, the boy’s father, standing there, his eyes red, his face flushed.
“What do you want?”
Anger and pain tinged his voice, and Wheeler realized the poor bastard already knew why they were here.
“I’m Detective Wheeler, this is my partner Detective Schultz, Metro PD. We’re here about your son.”
The man’s shoulders sagged and he turned away from them, leaving the door open as he shuffled deeper into the house. Wheeler looked at Schultz and shrugged, then followed Guthrie.
They found him in a sitting room, trying to console his wife and fight the tears welling in his own eyes. He took a moment to steel his nerves as he placed his wife in a chair and turned to face the detectives.
Wheeler cleared his throat. “I take it you’ve heard?”
Guthrie nodded, his bottom lip trembling for a moment. “We just received a call from a friend who thought we already knew.”
“I’m truly sorry you had to find out that way, sir. As soon as the identity was confirmed we drove over. In fact, I’m surprised anyone knew before we did.”
Guthrie ignored the observation. “All I want to know is how my boy died.”
“This may be difficult to hear, Mr. Guthrie,” said Wheeler as he motioned to a chair. “It appears to have been a professional job, made to look like a mugging.”
Guthrie dropped onto the chair, his legs giving out. “Professional?” he asked. “But, why? He was only eighteen!” This elicited a wail from his wife.
“It’s early in the investigation, sir,” rep
lied Wheeler. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Guthrie stood up and faced Wheeler. “I’m sure you know who I am. I still have a lot of friends in this town. If anyone gets in your way, stonewalls you in any way, you call me. I’ll open any doors you need. I want my Billy’s killer caught.”
“Yes, sir, you’ll be the first I call.”
Grand Central Station, New York City
Milton jumped off the subway at the last second, again hoping this would help. He had taken the subway daily when he lived in New York, but hadn’t been on it for over a decade. He didn’t miss it. The throngs of commuters made it difficult for him to reach the main floor of Grand Central Station. Once finally there, he headed through the Hyatt Hotel entrance directly toward the main floor bathrooms. He saw one that had a yellow sign in front, indicating it was closed for servicing, and walked confidently toward it then entered. He closed the door and, as his friend had promised, he found a piece of wood by the door. Wedging it between the door and the entrance wall, he tested it to make sure the door couldn’t be opened.
He went to the back of the bathroom, climbed up on the counter and pushed on the window. It swung open easily. Again, his friend had planned this perfectly. Milton struggled out the window. Jim obviously forgot I sit behind a desk for a living. The last time he had climbed out a window was after nearly being caught by his high school girlfriend’s father in her bedroom.
It had been easier then.
He heard someone try the door handle to the bathroom. The board did its job. Whoever it was began pushing hard on the door, pounding on it and apparently throwing their shoulder into it. After a few moments of panic thinking he might be caught, Milton squeezed through the window. Dropping unceremoniously to the floor of a service corridor, he ran toward a door at the end below a lit red exit sign. He shoved the handle and burst through onto Lexington Avenue, much to the surprise of a few passersby.
He dusted himself off and looked around. The green Prius he was told to expect was there. Jim, even running for his life he thinks of the environment. He ran over and climbed in. The car sped off before he had a chance to even say hello.
Turner finally broke through the bathroom door as the piece of wood blocking it splintered then snapped. He ran in and noticed the open window. He jumped up on the counter, pulled himself through, then dropped to the ground. He looked around for Milton, but couldn’t see him. He ran to the exit at the far end and looked up and down the busy street as he emerged. Milton was nowhere in sight. He radioed in, cursing to himself.
“I lost him.”
“They shouldn’t be able to track us in here.”
Stuck in traffic in the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, Acton finally felt safe. He had been traveling for hours to make sure he wasn’t being followed. He had chosen the Prius not for environmental reasons, as he was sure his friend thought, but for the fact that the incredible gas mileage meant he wouldn’t need to stop for gas whereas anyone following him would. Also, the terrific pickup from a dead stop meant he could accelerate through traffic quicker than most vehicles.
He looked at his friend and smiled. “Thanks for coming.”
“I’m just glad you’re alive.” Milton turned to face him. “Now, are you going to tell me what the hell is going on, or am I going to have to beat it out of you? I’ve never been so terrified in my life!”
“Quite the adrenaline rush, eh?” laughed Acton.
Milton scowled.
“Okay, here’s what happened. Last week on our dig we found some hidden chambers inside a cave. It looks like the ancient Incans had bored out a huge chunk of the hillside to make these things. The carvings and whatnot were impressive in themselves, but inside, on a stone altar, was this.” He reached into his pocket and took out some Polaroids.
Milton’s jaw dropped. They were carefully taken close-ups of the skull from various angles. He held the photos up to look at it closer.
“It’s beautiful,” he whispered, “in an almost eerie way.” He flipped to a photo showing the hollowed out eyes. “This looks just like the Mitchell-Hedges skull.” He flipped to another picture.
“Exactly the same as far as I can tell,” agreed Acton. “Completely smooth, no tool marks.”
“Where is it now?”
“On its way to London, God willing,” replied Acton. “When I was in Mexico I FedEx’d it using one of my student’s IDs to an expert on the skulls there.”
“Who’s that?”
“Professor Laura Palmer of the British Museum. She’s been studying the one they have for years and is known as the expert in these things. She’s apparently examined all of the ones known to exist that are accessible,” explained Acton.
“What do you mean by accessible?”
“Some are in private collections.” Acton looked ahead as the traffic stirred again. “Okay, we’re almost out of the tunnel. You brought the money?”
“Yes.” Milton reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Nine thousand nine hundred dollars, the most I could withdraw without flagging a government inspection.” He handed it to Acton.
“I think it’s five thousand now,” said Acton as he took the envelope.
“What? Are you sure?”
“I think they changed it recently.” Acton stuffed the envelope in the inner pocket of his jacket. “You might be flagged, but they’re not looking for you.”
Milton tried to put on a brave face. “Well, the important thing is you’re now flush with cash. I assume you’re going to London?”
“Yes, there’s a midnight flight.”
“How are you going to get through security?”
“They’re not after me, they’re after the skull. They must know by now that I don’t have it so I’m probably safe for the moment.”
“Let’s hope so.” Milton nodded toward the pocket Acton had just put the envelope in. “There’s also a new Visa and bank card from the university in there. If you have an emergency, use them. Hopefully they won’t think to trace them.”
“Hopefully, but these guys are pros.”
“Any idea who they are?”
“I don’t know. They must have been some type of Special Forces. They came in by helicopter, were well armed, state-of-the-art equipment, well disciplined,” recalled Acton. “I shot one and pistol-whipped another. That one I spoke to, his English was perfect Bronx.”
“You’re sure they were ours?” Milton shook his head. “I can’t believe that. Why would our government want to kill you over this?”
“I don’t know, but don’t forget, our government, as you put it, doesn’t always know what these black ops guys do. It could be some rogue element that the administration doesn’t even know about.”
Milton was still shaking his head. “I just can’t believe it. You’re sure it wasn’t the Shining Path or some other rebel group? They’ve killed a lot of people.”
“No, they don’t have equipment like this.” Acton looked in his rearview mirror to see if they were being followed. “I think we lost them.” He took the exit for JFK.
“You’re not worried about them knowing you’re on the plane?”
“A bit. I’ll just have to hope they’re not willing to shoot down an airliner full of people. They’re after the skull anyway, and right now they don’t know where it is. I’ll try and lose whoever is waiting for me in London. I can’t believe they’d want to risk an international incident at the airport. My guess is they haven’t even notified the regular authorities to watch for me since that would raise too many questions.”
When they arrived at the airport, Acton battled his way to the departure drop off area and jumped into a spot as another car pulled away. He turned to Milton. “I don’t want any more help from you. If they ask you questions, tell them the truth.”
Milton shook his head again.
“Listen, I don’t want you to get hurt,” pleaded Acton. “Too many have died already. Promise me.”
Milton sighed. “Okay,
Jim, I promise.” With that, Acton popped the trunk and left the car. Milton climbed out as well. Acton gave his friend a quick one-armed thumping hug, grabbed a hockey bag from the trunk, and strode into the terminal, not looking back, silently praying his friend would be okay.
Entering the terminal Acton studied the boards to confirm the midnight flight to London. It was on time and leaving in two hours. He approached the counter and purchased a ticket. He knew he would be tracked on this flight since he had to use his passport so he decided to use his credit card, reserving the cash for when he arrived in London. His ticket bought, he headed for customs to find several of the scanners down and the crowds getting frustrated. Finally cleared, he arrived at his gate with little time to spare. As he headed down the gangway, he took one last look over his shoulder and could have sworn a man was looking directly at him as he talked into his wrist.
“Bravo Command, Bravo One-Two. Subject has cleared customs, over.”
Red grinned as he accessed the reservation system, Dawson packing up their equipment having correctly guessed the Professor was heading out of the city by air. They had pre-positioned teams at all the major airports, then it was just a matter of him showing up at one of them.
And he had, just as predicted.
“Recall the other teams. Have them rendezvous at the base. We’ll head out once you find the reservation. And tie up that loose end. Control says he’s on the Termination List.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
JFK Airport, New York City
As Milton guided the Prius through the chaos that was the JFK loading and unloading zone, he started to shake as the realization of what he had been through sunk in. Get a grip! He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Someone stepped in front of his car and he slammed the brakes on. The person, dressed in a dark suit, flashed a badge as he walked up to the passenger door. He knocked on the window, pointing at the lock. Milton reached for the switch to unlock it then hesitated.
The Protocol (A James Acton Thriller, Book #1) Page 10
