by Attard, Ryan
Finally Astrid let out a laugh, breaking the tension.
“Of course not, Professor. That is just my philosophy. Please,” he said, inviting the archaeologist to sit around a small coffee table under an umbrella, while a very pretty girl brought over a tray with two long island ice teas.
Nick sat down and sipped the cool drink. He forced himself to clam down, and stick to the plan.
“Here’s a list of possible locations of where El Dorado could be,” he said, handing his tablet over to Astrid. “I have managed to narrow it down to three places. It’s the most I can do without any actual clues or historical documents.”
Astrid glossed over the information and whistled. “Truly impressive, Professor Solomon. You have arrived to some very viable conclusions without any help or real clues. I truly commend your skills.”
Nick nodded and watched as Astrid tapped the device and emailed the information to himself.
“Professor Solomon,” Astrid said, as he handed the tablet back to Nick. “What if I were to…shall we say, acquire the red ledger-”
“Let me stop you right there, Mr. Astrid,” Nick interrupted. “I have no idea what your true business is here, and I don’t care. But I am smart enough to know that when you say ‘acquire’ you mean, ‘get at any cost.’ I only came here to point you in the right direction, and that’s only cos my government blackmailed me into doing so.”
Astrid’s eyebrows shot up. “Did they now?”
“Yeah,” Nick replied. “Apparently they like keeping tabs on secret societies as well.”
Astrid burst out laughing. “Your government is extremely talented at wasting its own time and resources. But I am not worried—they are powerless here.”
Nick shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Either way, I held up my end of the bargain to the both of you.” He stood up. “I wish you luck with whatever you do with that info.”
“Professor Solomon,” Astrid called after him. “I was hoping that you would join me on my expedition.”
“I told you already,” Nick replied. “El Dorado does not exist. My job was to help you out, not hunt down fictional cities.”
“And yet, here you are, delivering me actual results,” Astrid said. He held up his hand, anticipating Nick’s response. “I intend to start my expedition soon. I will call upon you once I finish preparations.”
“You’re gonna be disappointed,” Nick replied.
Astrid smiled sinisterly. “We shall see, won’t we, Mr. Solomon?”
“Yeah, we shall,” Nick replied. He mirrored the Spaniard’s malicious frown. “And it’s Professor Solomon.”
***
The evening air felt cool on Nick’s face.
Astrid insisted that he stay for lunch before finally letting him leave, and afterwards, the driver dropped him off in a town nearby. Nick had just enough money for a cab ride to the airport and maybe a cheap dinner later that day, until his flight back home.
Nick sighed in relief as soon as he stepped off of Astrid’s property. All he had to worry about now was how he was going to occupy himself during the long flight ahead. Sleep sounded like a good option.
He really didn’t mind the long journey, so long as he didn’t spend another day in Spain. The quicker he got from Astrid and the rest of this insanity, the better.
Once the sun had set, and he checked out of the motel he was staying in, Nick hailed a cab and gave the driver directions.
“Good evening.” Her voice nearly sent him into cardiac arrest. Sitting next to him was a slender woman dressed in all black, with matching dark hair, perfectly camouflaged by the evening darkness and interior shadows of the cab.
“What the hell?” he yelped.
“Oh, I hope you don’t mind,” she gently replied, with a faint british accent. “I, too, am headed for the airport. I guess we both hailed the same taxi at the same time.”
“Uh huh.” To Nick’s mind this was starting to sound like something out of a cheesy romantic comedy.
“I really hope you don’t mind,” she insisted. “I’ll be more than happy to split the fare. But I really can’t miss my flight.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he replied.
For some reason, warning signals going off in Nick’s head, but he ignored them. She seemed harmless enough—besides, there were worse people to share a cab with other than a hot businesswoman.
She smiled, and for a second, his mind went numb.
Her hand was a blur and Nick felt something cold and thin sink into his thigh. He found himself looking right into her eyes, partially stunned by the sudden turn of events. He remained ensorcelled by the emptiness in her icy blue eyes, a void expression that comes after years of training and cold, hard execution of orders.
In that split second, his own training kicked in. He stopped seeing her as a woman, but as a faceless being set out to hurt him. And there was absolutely nothing stopping him from retaliation.
His fist whipped into her face and he felt her block his punch. She twisted her wrist and sent him face first into the empty passenger seat in front of him. Her other hand snaked up to his thigh and pressed the injector on the syringe stuck there.
Nick’s mind went into overdrive, and time seemed to slow down. He knew already that the woman was trained to fight, almost certainly having a level of skill far exceeding his own. It was unlikely that he could overpower her. The drug was numbing his leg and spreading its contents across his bloodstream like a river—Nick guessed it was a tranquilizer or a barbiturate of sorts. The syringe was small, meaning that the dosage was minimal: killing him wasn’t her agenda. Nick glanced down to look at the injector. It wasn’t something that was commercially available, which meant it was likely military issue.
Nick looked at the rear-view mirror hoping to catch a reflection of the driver. The man behind the wheel wore the same empty expression the woman had. He deduced that this was a planned operation, a deliberate plan to kidnap him.
The only question left was which side they were on.
“Who are you?” he mumbled as the drug took effect and the world began to spin.
Before he fell unconscious, the woman spoke up. “Your new best friends, Professor.”
Chapter 18
Nick Solomon woke up when a rush of cold water hit his face. His head snapped backwards in shock, and he sucked in a deep breath. The chair’s hard back bit into his spine, and he jerked forwards. Sensations rushed into him like a freight train.
A halogen lamp was aimed at his face, blinding him.
His eyes hurt, and his ears rang. Nick felt something hard press against his knees and realized he was sitting down behind a desk. A wave of nausea hit him. The dampness around his face and neck wasn’t helping. He reached up to wipe his face, but handcuffs restrained his movements.
A plastic cup was pressed into his palm.
“Drink up. It’ll counter the effects of the drug.” The phantom voice came from behind the painfully bright light.
Nick’s mouth was too dry for a response and he just drank. The cool liquid worked its magic, and he could breathe without his throat burning.
“Welcome back, Professor Solomon.”
Even in his state, Nick recognized the voice. “Director Stan,” he rasped.
“It’s Director Briggs,” the man said.
Nick’s head spun. “Did you guys date rape me or something?”
“Nothing so drastic. I simply thought it was time for us to meet face to face.”
“Ever heard of Skype?”
“Try to calm down, Professor,” Briggs coolly said. “There’s no reason for this to become unpleasant.”
“So the abduction was the pleasant part?”
“By our standards, yes.”
“That’s it. I’m not voting anymore.”
“It wouldn’t make a difference,” Briggs replied with an unsettling grin. “We have been around since Bush.”
“That explains so much.”
“Bush Senior.”
/>
“Oh.” Nick craned his neck, trying to better figure out where he was. Best he could tell, it was some sort of interrogation room—grey walls with no decoration, save the bright lamp in his face.
“So, what do you want?” he asked.
“For you to help us,” Briggs replied. “And by that I mean, take Astrid’s case, retrieve the red journal, and then help my agency secure the artifacts.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” The chains around his wrists rattled furiously as Nick snapped at Briggs. “There is no artifact. There is no Order. There is no magic power source. It’s all the screwed up belief of a bunch of religious nut-jobs and the idiots who believed them.”
Briggs sighed and sat back. There was a click as he switched off the lamp and the ceiling lights went up, illuminating the room.
The director was dressed in a dark suit. His black, calloused skin and thick lips gave him a truly feral look. In contrast, his small, beady, intelligent eyes were focused on the young archaeologist before him.
“We know all about your past, Professor Solomon,” Briggs said.
“Congratulations. You can read National Geographic.”
“Your childhood, Solomon,” Briggs continued. “We know how you were raised.”
Nick’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, that was one secret facility that did not serve its purpose.”
“Oh, but it did serve its purpose,” Briggs said slyly. “It was a mine of information. Most of our agency is, in fact, based on that facility’s principals.”
“You’re telling me that you guys are an off-shoot of those whack jobs?” Nick asked incredulously.
“In a way, yes.”
“Then, I really have nothing else to say to you guys.” Nick sat back and tried to cross his arms, despite the handcuffs.
“We know the Order is real, Solomon,” Briggs said. “I’m not happy about it, but it does exists.” He leaned forward, peering into Nick’s eyes. “What do you really know about your childhood home?”
Nick stared at him defiantly, silent as the walls around him.
“Okay, then,” Briggs said. “Here’s a story. You like stories don’t you, Professor?”
He cleared his throat.
“Sometime after Europe invaded the New World, the secret society known only as the Order was formed. No one knows its exact origins. Some claim it might have been the Buccaneer shift, while others point their fingers at the Church. Whatever it was, this thing operated just like a terrorist organization—cells everywhere, in every facet of society. They believed that a bunch of gods came down during the birth of humanity and helped us out. Supposedly, these gods gave us artifacts which hold terrible power. The leaders of the Order kept details on these artifacts in a series of red leather-bound journals.”
Briggs paused for effect.
“But you already know all this,” he said. “Here’s where it gets interesting. We have records of a priest and a duchess, both members of the Order, boarding a privateer ship. They altered the vessel’s course and headed in the opposite direction, in search of a mythological city. We strongly believe the place to be El Dorado. That vessel was the Belladonna, and its captain was a certain Jack Finnegan.”
Nick’s eyes widened at the mention of Finnegan’s name. Briggs caught that movement and smiled.
“Yes,” Briggs continued. “No one knows how their voyage ended, but the official story is they all got sick and died out at sea. The ship was found on fire and later given to Sir Francis Drake. But a few months later, a certain duchess—remarkably similar to the one who was supposedly killed on that ship—bought a dozen acres of land for a family she was starting.”
Briggs’s eyes were wide open and he bore the crazed look of a scientist who had solved the puzzle of a lifetime.
“Finnegan and Tier did survive their voyage,” he said. “And together with their son Ollie Fletcher, born Oliver Finnegan, they founded a small militia. This militia was, in fact, financed by the same guys who funded the Order. So, you see, the Order and this militia, which later evolved into the compound you grew up on, are one and the same. One side was dedicated to finding the artifacts and safeguarding them, while the other was scared to death that the gods would show up again, and trained to fight them off.”
Briggs smiled. “That peak your interest, Professor?”
Nick’s eyes narrowed. “That seems like a lot of speculation to me, Director.”
Briggs let out a laugh. “But I haven’t gotten to the best part yet.”
“Oh, goody. More bullshit.”
“The intel mentions something about certain special people,” Briggs said. Nick did not like the look on his face. It reminded him too much of a crocodile about to snap some poor gazelle’s neck. “In all our sources, we kept coming up across the word Select. Know anything about that?”
Nick kept his poker face.
“You should,” Briggs continued, “since you’re apparently one of them. See, the Order believed that the gods blessed some individuals with special powers. Made them smarter, gave them visions and such. Hell, these folks were geniuses through and through. And according to some very interesting studies taken from Order records, you Select guys are supposed to have some psychic homing beacon with these artifacts.”
“Oh, so I’m super-powered now?” Nick asked sarcastically.
“That wouldn’t be the phrase I would use,” came a female voice from behind him.
Nick turned his head and saw a beautiful vision of a woman walking towards them.
She was tall, slender, and proud, and carried herself with the poise and confidence of a queen. She wore a pencil skirt which showed enough of her legs to make Nick fantasize, but wouldn’t be considered indecent in a work environment. A white blouse hugged her figure like a second skin, framing some very enticing curves. Her face had Nordic features and was slightly angular, with stark blond hair tied into a ponytail. Two strands on her sides were twisted into braids and encircled her head, like a crown of gold. She frowned at Nick with icy blue eyes, giving him a look of disregard that was almost insulting.
It took him a while to place the voice and the slight angle of her jaw, but Nick recognized her as the woman who drugged him in the cab in Spain.
“Y-y-you!” he stuttered.
Briggs chuckled. “Pick up your jaw, Solomon. I believe you guys have met already.”
The blonde woman took a seat in front of Nick, next to Briggs. Nick couldn’t take his eyes off her—he wasn’t sure whether to be aroused or scared.
“Professor Nick Solomon, meet your official handler,” Briggs said, indicating the woman next to him. “Agent Excalibur.”
Chapter 19
“My what?”
Excalibur grinned at Nick’s horrified expression. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “In this case, I think he means babysitter.”
“Only if you’re the naughty kind,” Nick shot back.
Her skin visibly crawled. “Despite what you might believe, Mr. Solomon,” she replied, “you are not God’s gift to women.”
“It’s Professor Solomon.”
“That would imply you’re smart and responsible,” she sniped.
Nick placed his hands on the table, rattling the handcuffs as loudly as he could.
“What’s your problem with me?” he asked. “Did we use to date or something? Cos you seem to have a personal vendetta against me.”
“I just don’t like your type,” she replied in a tone that suggested anything but warmth. She cleared her throat and slid a manila folder across the desk. “Have a look at those, please.”
Nick sighed and opened the file. Inside were satellite pictures of buildings—the compound he grew up on. The images included the training fields, equipment sheds, and even the main barracks. The images were quite old, showing areas that Nick knew no longer existed.
At least, that’s what Google Maps had told him last time he checked, about six years ago.
“Where’d you get these?” he asked, looking over th
e images and reliving some of his childhood memories. “This place no longer exists.”
Excalibur sat back, giving Nick a good view of her slender neck and the open blouse, showing enough of her chest to waver his concentration.
“I’m good at my job,” she replied.
Nick frowned at her, then looked at the images again. “This is way too detailed. No way this is real, not unless you knew what you were looking-”
Time froze as something clicked in his brain, as if a phantasmal hand flipped a switch. He looked at Agent Excalibur again, this time taking in her features with an analytical mind, noticing things like her mannerisms and the way she pursed her lips when she got impatient.
At the same time, he remembered his childhood days; his friends, his lessons, the dumb little acts of rebellion. Like a computer, his mind filtered through every face, every voice, and every person he had ever met while on that remote hell hole, until he finally found her.
They were both nine when they first met. She was of mixed nationality, with a Swedish father and a British mother. She was raised in both countries, and her accent was a hybrid of both, giving her voice a unique, exotic tone. She looked like a real life version of the angel Nick’s mother hung on the Christmas tree. In fact, that was their very first conversation: Nick staring at her and asking her whether she was an angel. She blushed and said she did not understand in broken Scandinavian English.
Nick’s memories sifted through days of innocent childhood laughter, mostly of her and a few other friends giggling as Nick acted the fool and got berated by the various instructors.
She was the one he missed most when he left. How could he forget her name?
His mind suggested it was a defense mechanism—forget everything, erase the past and start over.
Her name. What was her name?
“Solomon.”
Nick felt a rough hand squeeze his shoulder and shake forcefully.
“Hey, Solomon.”
Nick came back to reality, back to that interrogation room. Briggs had his fingers clasped on his shoulder while Excalibur sat there with only the faintest look of concern on her face. Nick felt blood trickle down his nose.
