He staggered over to the other side of the car and saw that his partner was dead. He had been changing magazines on his machine pistol when the airbag inflated, sending one of the magazines straight into his right eye, killing him.
He could not believe his bad luck. The driver looked over at the line of trailers. It was the only place his prey could be hiding. “Show yourselves, and I’ll make this painless!” hollered the driver.
Silence greeted him. The only sound came from the rain hitting the muddy field at his feet.
“Fine, have it your way. You’re gonna beg me to kill you before you die!” yelled the thug as he walked slowly toward the trailers.
He moved along the line of darkened trailers and tried each one in turn. He found them all locked. He looked over at the parked trucks. An evil grin crept across his face. “I have you now,” he muttered to himself.
He brought his pistol up and made his way to the trucks.
Jen warily popped her head up and peered out into the night. Her stomach turned to water when she saw the darkened shape of a man walking straight at their truck.
“Jesus,” muttered Jen, ducking her head back down. “There’s one of them out there. He’s coming straight for us.”
“If he finds us, you get out first with your hands up,” whispered Fahimah. “Hopefully, he’ll be watching you when I take my chance to fire on him.”
Jen could see the terror in her friend’s eyes. She doubted that hers were any better. She reached over with her hand and held one of Fahimah’s. With a prayer on her lips, she closed her eyes.
“I know you’re hiding in there,” called out the driver. “Save yourselves the trouble. Give me the journal, and I’ll promise to make it quick.”
He, however, had no intention of letting them off that easy. They were going to pay for all the trouble they had put him through.
He raised his pistol in the air and fired off a shot. “I’ll give you three seconds to come out before I make you.”
“One; two—”
“Three,” said a voice from behind him.
The thug never heard the shot that killed him. Fired from barely ten meters away the shotgun slug hit him square in the back, sending his lifeless body sprawling out onto the muddy ground.
“It’s all right, you can come out from there now,” called out a man.
Slowly raising their heads above the dash, Jen and Fahimah were amazed to see a man who looked like he was in his eighties standing there in a rain suit with a smoking, pump-action shotgun held tight in one of his gnarled hands, a flashlight in the other
They climbed down from the truck and cautiously made their way over to the man.
“You two ladies all right?” he asked.
“We are now,” said Jen.
Fahimah looked down at the body lying in the mud and remembered that there were two of them in the vehicle. “Sir, there’s another man.”
“He’s dead too,” said their protector matter-of-factly.
“Thank God for that,” said Jen, quickly introducing herself and Fahimah.
“My name is Horace Lee,” said the man with a smile on his wrinkled face. “Most folks around here just call me H. I’m the night watchman. Come with me and let’s get out of the rain until the police arrive.”
They stepped inside the trailer. Jen saw that it was an almost-empty office with a small table and a cot in the corner for Horace to sleep on. After all they had been through in the past few minutes; it was as welcoming as a five-star hotel room.
“I’ll make us some coffee,” said Horace as he ambled over to his coffee machine to put on a fresh pot.
“We can’t thank you enough for saving our lives,” said Fahimah, wringing out her wet headscarf.
“It’s all right. I haven’t had to shoot anyone since Korea. However, I could tell that he had it coming to him,” said Horace. “I called the police right after you came charging into the camp. They should be here in about ten to fifteen minutes.”
“I thought the camp was deserted,” said Jen. “I’m fairly certain that we tried the door to your office when we were looking for a place to hide.”
“You did. I keep it locked at night. When I saw that man coming this way with a pistol in his hands, that’s when I dug out my shotgun,” he said, patting his shotgun as if it were a pet.
“Lucky for us that you were here, or we’d both be dead by now,” said Fahimah.
“You might want to put that away,” said Horace, pointing at Fahimah’s pistol. “We don’t want any misunderstandings when the state troopers arrive, now do we?”
Fahimah had forgotten about her pistol. Cringing, she quickly put the safety on and put it away in her purse.
“Now, how do you ladies take your coffee?”
30
Dig site
Lofa River, Liberia
Jackson glanced down at his watch.
He cursed under his breath. He was running out of time; it would be dawn soon.
A Liberian sergeant, complaining loudly, strolled to the truck Jackson was hiding behind. After yelling at the nearby soldiers for standing around with their hands in their pockets, the sergeant sent them over to the generators to see if they needed another jerry can of diesel to keep them running. He took a cigar from his shirt pocket. The sergeant was about to light it when a pair of arms, like two boa constrictors, appeared out of nowhere from between the two trucks and wrapped themselves tightly around his neck. A second later, he was pulled silently backward into the darkness.
Jackson held onto the man until he passed out. When he was certain that the soldier was unconscious, he laid him down on the grass and pulled off the soldier’s shirt. Jackson cursed; it wasn’t a great fit, but since he had no other options, it would have to do. He took a quick look around at the odd mix of military clothing on the rogue soldiers and decided to keep his own pants on. He took the man’s belt and quickly hogtied the sergeant. Quietly, he dragged him back into the jungle. Before he left, he ripped a piece of fabric from the man’s pants and jammed it into the sleeping sergeant’s mouth to keep him quiet.
After placing the sergeant’s sweat-stained cap on his head, Jackson threw his AK over his shoulder and then sauntered out from the jungle trying his best to look like he belonged there.
“I see Nate,” reported Cardinal to Mitchell. “It looks like he’s borrowed some clothing and has gone for a stroll.”
“Anyone wise to him?” asked Mitchell, worried for his friend all alone inside a camp full of nervous and trigger-happy soldiers.
“Nah, everyone seems too interested in the artifacts they keep bringing out of the ground.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way.”
Casually strolling from pit to pit, Jackson was surprised to see how much stuff they were digging out of the ground. A professional archaeologist would have had a heart attack at the way the relics were being treated. Anything not deemed of value was being unceremoniously tossed in a pile in the center of the site, undocumented and unaccounted for, while the precious stones and gold coins were collected and placed on a table being supervised by an officious looking Liberian civilian.
Jackson looked over at the couple of SUVs parked off to one side and saw a man who looked out of place. His clothes were much cleaner and neater than anyone else. The greedy, smug look in his eyes told Jackson that this was the man in charge of the operation.
Jackson took the sergeant’s cigar out of his pocket and lit it. He was surprised; it was actually quite good, probably from the Dominican. With a disinterested look on his face, he nonchalantly walked over to the area setup to sift through the piles of dirt and bones being brought over by the bucketful.
On a folding table near the sifter, Jackson saw several gold rings, earrings, and trinkets in a box. Beside it was another box in which the diamonds and other precious gems were being placed. He took a quick glance inside and saw that there was barely a handful of precious stones inside the box.
“Can I help y
ou?” asked the man standing by the table.
He knew that he couldn’t fake a decent Liberian accent, so Jackson simply shook his head and then walked away.
Something didn’t add up. Where is the mountain of treasure they expect to find? Perhaps it’s still waiting to be found?
He took a long drag on his cigar, turned, and walked over to a pit that had just begun to be dug.
“Where the hell is this bloody fortune in diamonds that you said was buried here?” said Taylor to Gray, his voice unable to hide his growing hatred toward the Englishman.
“It’s here,” replied Gray dismissively. “We just need more time. We will find it.”
“I’m not so sure. Take a look for yourself. The stuff we are digging out of the ground is what you would have found on any pirate—personal jewelry and small bags filled with precious stones for bartering. We have yet to find a single diamond above two carats. Where are the diamonds you told me about? I always thought that you were delusional when you said we would find diamonds the size of a man’s fist.”
“It is here,” stressed Gray, growing weary of Taylor’s incessant gripping.
“Come noon, if we haven’t found the diamonds, I’m leaving. You can carry on without my men and me.”
Gray’s eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening me?”
“No, I’m just giving you a heads-up. My men have intercepted radio transmissions from army headquarters in Monrovia. Your coup is failing faster than you thought it would, and I for one don’t want to be here when the government forces arrive.”
Gray was about to say something when he saw a broad-shouldered man in an odd mix of uniforms walk away from the sifter. He pushed his way past Taylor. Gray stood and stared at the man. Something about him seemed out of place. As he watched him amble away, it dawned on Gray what was wrong.
“Grab some men and follow me,” said Gray to Taylor, drawing his pistol.
Jackson saw Cristoval Martinez and a couple of other American hostages begin to dig into the wet ground. If he could have, he would have grabbed them all and made a run for it. The men, however, looked like they were ready to drop. It took all the strength they had remaining just to stay on their feet. Jackson doubted that they could have gone more than a couple of meters before being mercilessly gunned down.
Jackson stopped at the edge of the pit and looked over his shoulder to see where the guards were. A couple of bored-looking young men stood off to the side smoking cigarettes. It was obvious that they didn’t expect any trouble from the weary hostages.
He got down on one knee, looked at Cristoval, and waved him over.
With bloodshot eyes, Cristoval glanced up at the man waving him over. He didn’t recognize the man, but he was so tired that he thought that he wouldn’t recognize his own mother if she were standing there right in front of him.
“Yes, what do you want?” said Cristoval, his voice tired and raspy.
“Don’t look at me,” whispered Jackson. “I just stopped by to tell you that Emily is safe and that we’re going to get all of you out of here.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Gray, jamming the cold muzzle of his pistol into Jackson’s neck.
Slowly standing, Jackson turned about and looked at Gray. “What a surprise. They hired a piece of Eurotrash to do their dirty work,” said Jackson contemptuously. “I guess they don’t trust Africans to screw over Africans.”
“I don’t know who you are, but the next time you go traipsing about I suggest that you change your footwear. Liberian soldiers don’t wear the latest in U.S. military fashion.”
“Whoops,” said Jackson, looking down at his boots.
“I doubt that you are alone. I take it that you’re from a Special Forces reconnaissance team. I had planned for this eventuality, so why don’t you do us all a favor and tell your friends to come out of the jungle and join us.”
“Sorry, I can’t do that. They don’t like me. That’s why I got picked to come out here.”
Gray’s face flushed with anger. “This isn’t some damned game. I could kill you where you stand, and then what would your friends think of that?”
“If you tried raising your pistol to shoot me, you’d be dead before you knew it,” replied Jackson.
“So you have a sniper. Is he any good?”
“Try him and see what happens.”
Gray took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “No, I have a better idea. You and all the other Americans will be coming with me. If your people try to interfere in my business before I am finished here, you and all the other hostages will die.”
“I can live with that,” said Jackson, quietly cursing his bad luck. He had come to take a quick look around but now found himself a prisoner.
Jackson handed his AK over to the nearest Liberian soldier. He helped Cristoval and the other people out of the pit. Surrounded by soldiers with weapons jammed into their sides, the Americans were escorted to the far side of the camp to await their fate.
“Goddamnit,” cursed Mitchell, feeling absolutely helpless as he watched Jackson being led away at gunpoint.
“There’s nothing we could have done,” said Sam. “If Gordon had fired, Nate and all the others would be dead by now.”
“Yeah, I know, but I never should have let him walk in there.”
“He volunteered.”
“You know, it’s not as bad as everyone is making it out to be,” said Cardinal, from his perch.
“Why’s that?” asked Mitchell.
“Because for the first time since we landed in Liberia, everyone we want it is one place. They may be surrounded by a platoon of ill-tempered soldiers, but they are all together.”
“Damn, you’re right,” said Mitchell. “Now, all we need is a plan to get them out of there.”
“Are you telling me you that aren’t already thinking something up?” asked Sam, grinning.
“I never said that," replied Mitchell. “Please call Yuri and see if he has taken possession of that chopper yet. I’m going to call General O’Reilly to see if they’ve got anything to pass on to us before it gets too late in the day. I think it’s time for our friends out there to pay the piper.”
“And just how do you intend to do that?” asked Sam.
“I have no idea, but before this day ends, the people we came to get are going home, and some people are going to wish they had never been born.”
31
Polaris Operations Complex
Albany, New York
Jen, Fahimah, Donaldson, and General O’Reilly sat around a long wooden table that had once been in Patton’s Third Army Headquarters during the Battle of the Bulge. A half-empty box of donuts and four empty coffee cups littered the table. It may have been well past midnight, but no one showed any signs of fatigue. In fact, the opposite was true. Faced with a chance to pinpoint the exact location of James Lucifer’s buried treasure had breathed new life into everyone.
Donaldson stood up; walking into his office, he wheeled his Smart Board into the conference room for them to use. “It helps me to visualize things,” explained Donaldson as he absentmindedly began twirling the colored marker pens around in his hand.
O’Reilly had used his police contacts and had arranged for a police escort to drive Jen and Fahimah straight from the woods of Massachusetts to Albany, New York. They arrived less than thirty minutes ago. Jen and Fahimah first filled O’Reilly in on what had happened to them after they left New Haven, before beginning the task at hand: trying to discern the clues from Thomas Gordon’s journal that would lead them to the treasure.
Fahimah kicked them off. “Okay, I have all the references to leagues, which I took to be distances, and the directions from the bittacle, which I believe are compass directions.”
Donaldson drew an X on the bottom of the Smart Board. “We’ll call this the entrance to the Lofa River. I’ll draw a line from here based upon the information that Fahimah has found.”
For the next half hour, Fahimah went through her notes,
calling out each time there was a reference to distance or direction. On the whiteboard, the line meandered back and forth, resembling a snake as it slithered across the ground. When they were done, O’Reilly insisted that they repeat the process to make sure that they hadn’t missed a single reference contained in the journal. Donaldson then captured the image and projected it up on a split screen. Their drawing on one side, a satellite image of the Lofa River on the other.
O’Reilly stood and examined the images. “Not a perfect match, but not a bad one, either.”
“It only goes about halfway up the river and falls short of where Ryan’s team is currently operating,” observed Jen.
“I know, but there are no more references to distance or direction that I can find in the journal,” said Fahimah.
“May I see the journal?” asked Donaldson. He took a seat and skimmed through the book while everyone else took a break to clear their heads.
Five minutes later, Donaldson stood straight up, walked over to his laptop, and then zeroed in on the area where the map directions abruptly stopped. With a smile on his face, he called everyone back in the room.
“Have you found something?” asked O’Reilly.
“Yes, I most certainly have,” said Donaldson.
“Don’t keep us in suspense. What is it?” said Jen.
“Fahimah’s idea that the journal was riddled with clues to the final resting place of James Lucifer’s treasure was spot-on,” explained Donaldson.
“But we came up short,” said Fahimah, looking up at the hand-drawn image on the screen.
“Actually, we have found it.”
“How so?” asked O’Reilly, wishing that Donaldson would get to the point.
“It was the passages from the Bible that I found at the back of the journal that sealed the deal for me.”
“Go on,” said O’Reilly. He could tell by the look of excitement in Donaldson’s eyes that he was dying to tell what he had found.
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