book

by Unknown

  "Wow. When you were a kid, you must've sucked at hide-and-seek."

  "Actually, sir, I never lost."

  Payne smiled. "Actually, son, you just did."

  The sniper was tempted to argue, but what could he say? Instead, he quickly changed die subject. "Was there something you needed?"

  "I'm looking for my translator. Female. Asian features. Probably covered in vomit."

  "You mean the hottie? She headed toward the village."

  "There's a village?"

  The sniper pointed down a side path that cut through the woods. "Can't tell you much about it. Haven't been there yet."

  "Is it secure?"

  "Don't know. Don't care."

  Payne nodded, not surprised by the answer. In the military, most information was compartmentalized— especially on secured projects such as this one. A guard over here didn't need to know what was going on over there unless it posed an immediate threat. And even then, he sure as hell wasn't going to talk about it with someone he didn't know or trust.

  "We done here?" asked the sniper, who waited to be dismissed before he slipped back into the woods to find a better place to hide. Payne watched him for a while, then turned his attention to the village path. It was dark and foreboding, like everything else in the area. Protocol told him that he should let Jones know where he was going, but something in his gut told him that time was of the essence. That Kia was in a lot more danger in the village than Jones was in the cave.

  And as usual, Payne's gut was right.

  Kia walked through the center of town, staggered by the silence. It was the middle of the day, yet there were no dogs barking, no kids playing, no errands being run. No movement or activities of any kind. Tiny stone huts sat back from the rocky road, separated by stone fences and guarded by dozens of harubang, their friendly stone faces no longer quite so inviting. In fact, in the stillness of the village, their presence was somehow disconcerting, as if the people themselves had been consumed by these ancient stone figures. As if they were suddenly the only residents.

  A gust of wind added to the chill that Kia felt surge through her body. She was accustomed to the warm tropical breezes of the Marshall Islands, not the whipping wind of this volcanic ghost town. Or was the chill from something else? Perhaps more to do with her fear and apprehension than the temperature itself. The thought was an unpleasant one, especially after her recent behavior in the cave. No way she was going to turn and run again.

  Once was bad enough. Twice would be unbearable.

  The strength of the wind increased, this time bringing the faint scent of burning wood. Not maple. Not oak. Maybe pine. The musk filled her nose, quickly erasing the memory of the bloody cave and replacing it with the promise of survivors. She turned toward the smell, staring into the face of the breeze, looking for a sign of life. Any sign. And then she saw one. A tiny wisp of smoke rising from a stone chimney on the far end of the village. It wasn't much, but its presence gave her hope. A rope to cling to as she journeyed forward, searching for answers.

  Kia passed house after house, yard after yard, all of them seemingly deserted. Each adding to the mystery of this vacant town, each filling her head with more questions. Were the villagers dead? Or were they hiding? If so, from whom? Or what? She prayed the blood in the cave didn't belong to them, but every empty home, every abandoned car made that seem less likely.

  Obviously there was a connection between the two mysteries.

  She hoped it wasn't a tragic one.

  Payne heard the scream from the far end of the village and reacted instinctively.

  In a single motion, he pulled his Sig Sauer P226 from his waistband and broke into a full sprint. His eyes scanned the horizon, searching for danger. The only movement he saw was the bouncing of tree limbs as they swayed in the breeze. Payne leaped a log gate in a stone fence that lined one of the nearby yards and checked his weapon. His magazine was full.

  At least until he found a target.

  Because of the wind and the echoing effect of the rock, Payne couldn't gauge where the scream had come from. He knew it was somewhere up ahead, but that's all he knew. Maybe from a house. Maybe in a yard. Maybe in the woods beyond town. To him, it was like tracking gunfire in an open canyon. The first shot announced trouble; the second shot gave its location.

  Thankfully, the scream was followed by the murmur of voices. Close enough to be heard, but too far away to be understood. Yet Payne didn't care about diction. He cared about location. Every second of sound gave him a better chance to find the threat and stop it.

  Moving silendy, Payne skirted the stone fence and crept forward, his weapon raised in an offensive position. His eyes focused. His breathing controlled. Just like he'd been taught to do. In fact, this whole scene felt like a training exercise. Like he'd stumbled into Hogan's Alley—the mock city at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia—and was being tested for speed and marksmanship. Only this was the Asian version. And it was real. No fake terrorists armed with paint guns. No spring-loaded wooden targets. And absolutely no do-overs.

  He was up against an unknown enemy with unknown numbers.

  And he was facing them alone.

  * * *

  12

  Jones stared at Dr. Sheldon, unsure if he was telling the truth. How could several days of fieldwork turn up nothing? "Doc, I'm not calling you a liar, but—"

  "You find my lack of answers hard to fathom." Sheldon smiled, not the least bit offended. "And if I were you, I'd feel the exact same way. All this blood, all this evidence, I have to know what happened. Unfortunately, there's one thing preventing me from drawing any conclusions."

  "Which is?"

  "I don't have a lab. My entire investigation relies on forensic evidence, yet I can't test anything myself. As it stands, every single sample has to be smuggled off this island so it can be examined at some classified facility. That tends to slow things down."

  "I guess it would."

  "Right now I'm still waiting for test results I should've received days ago."

  Jones nodded, sympathetic to the situation. Early in his career, he worked for the military police, so he knew all about forensic delays and what they did to a case. "Then let's concentrate on other things. Like Trevor Schmidt. How do you know he was here?"

  "How? Because this was his facility. He was running the show."

  "What do you mean?"

  "They brought him in several months ago. First as a guard, later in a more significant role. My guess is they wanted to see if he could handle this place, and he ended up thriving."

  "Doing what?"

  "Doing everything we're not supposed to do."

  The voices came from a house at the far end of the village. One male, one female. Both of them shouting in Korean. Or Chinese. Or some other language that Payne didn't speak. He tried to get as close as possible, hoping to get a view of the argument, but the stone fence that surrounded the yard was much taller than the others he had passed. It stood ten feet tall and was made of thick volcanic rocks that were held in place by some kind of natural paste.

  The only entrance was a carved wooden gate that depicted all four seasons on Jeju. Royal azaleas blooming in spring. Waves roaring in summer. Leaves dancing in autumn. And snow falling on Mount Halla in winter. A stone grandfather stood on both sides of the gate; each was rough and weathered, like they'd been there longer than the home they were protecting. A stone chimney anchored the right side of the house, exhaling wisps of brown smoke that soared above the thatched roof and filled the air with a piney aroma.

  Gun in hand, Payne crept closer until he was able to lean his body weight against the right gate. It groaned ever so slightly as it swung open, just enough space for him to slip inside.

  Kia stood at the far side of the yard, her back against the wall, tension etched on her face. She was arguing with an old man who wore ajeogori robe and bqji pants. Pleading with him. Begging for something in Korean. None of this made any sense to Payne until he saw the wea
pon in the guy's grasp. It was long and sharp and pointed at Kia's midsection. Maybe a pitchfork. Maybe a trident. Whatever it was, it was fully capable of ruining her day.

  Payne inched forward, approaching his target from behind. His hair was long and white and pulled into an elaborate ponytail that was bound tight with a fancy clip. Every time the old man talked, it swayed back and forth, up and down, as if punctuating his words with extra emphasis. His voice was guttural, his phrases choppy. Fear was evident despite the language barrier.

  Kia spotted Payne about twenty yards away. Much to her credit, she didn't smile or point or call out to him. Instead, she kept arguing with the old man. Kept his focus straight ahead so Payne could ease into position and do whatever he needed to do.

  Ten yards out, Payne lifted his gun and aimed it at the back of his target's head. One simple squeeze and the old man would have been dead. Brains splattered everywhere. Game over. But Payne sensed that was the wrong move. This guy wasn't a killer. He was scared. Probably more so than Kia. He was wearing a robe and slippers in his backyard. Simply defending his property. No way he deserved to die. Then again, neither did she.

  Five yards later, Payne made a choice. No gun was necessary. He tucked his P226 in his belt and slipped behind the old man. In a fluid motion, Payne grabbed his ponytail with one hand and flicked away the pitchfork with the other. It fell harmlessly to the ground. The old man was next. Payne eased him backward, supporting his body weight with his own, making sure he didn't bang the man's head or break a hip or anything else.

  It was his good deed for the day. No sense hurting the guy if he didn't have to.

  "You okay?" Payne asked Kia, refusing to take his eyes off his target.

  She nodded as she grabbed the rusty pitchfork. "I'm fine."

  "Glad to hear it." Payne patted down the old man, who seemed stunned by the sneak attack, then took a few steps back. Just enough space to feel comfortable. He felt even safer once his gun was back in his hand. "What the hell happened?"

  "He attacked me."

  "Yeah, I kind of figured that. But why?"

  "I don't know," she blurted, punctuating the words with the pitchfork. "I saw the smoke and came here to ask where everyone was because the entire village is empty and I thought maybe he could tell me what was going on, but before I could even ask, he attacked me."

  Payne smiled, recognizing the symptoms of adrenaline. The rambling. The exaggerated hand movements. The white knuckles as she clenched the handle. Common traits for a soldier who was new in the field. "Kia, sweetie. Remember to breathe."

  "What?"

  "Breathe."

  She nodded, sucking in a deep bream that returned some color to her cheeks. She repeated the process, and everything about her calmed down. At least a little bit.

  "Now, what else can you tell me?"

  "About what?"

  Payne pointed to the old guy. "Him."

  "I heard someone working out back. So I walked around the side of the house to investigate. I got halfway there when he came charging at me with this." She held up the pitchfork. "I'm not armed, so I did what my father always taught me to do when attacked. I screamed."

  "And I heard you. You did it very well."

  Kia smiled, the stress of the moment melting away. "Thanks."

  "What were you two arguing about?"

  "Everything! I said I wasn't going to hurt him, but he disagreed. I told him I was Korean, but he didn't believe me. No matter what I said, he claimed I was lying."

  Payne nodded, starting to grasp the situation. Either the old guy was completely delusional, or he'd suffered a recent trauma. Something so significant that he'd developed some major trust issues. Why else would he be deathly afraid of Kia?

  "Does he speak English?" Payne wondered.

  She asked him in Korean but the old guy ignored her, refusing to say anything.

  "Fine," Payne said, "then he can't help us. We're just gonna have to kill him."

  The old man flinched on the ground, reacting to what Payne had said. Obviously a big mistake. Right then and there, Payne knew he spoke English. Or at least understood it.

  In a calm voice, Payne said, "Don't worry, sir. I'm not going to hurt you. I just wanted to see if you could understand me. And clearly you can." He stepped forward and offered the guy his hand, but it was rejected. The old man wanted to stand on his own. "My apologies, sir. I figured since I pulled you down, the least I could do was help you up."

  "Just like an American," the old man muttered in a thick Korean accent. He took a moment to dust himself off— first his robe, then his pants—before finishing his thought.

  "Why do your people always assume that an act of kindness will make up for one of violence?"

  Payne shrugged. "Probably the same reason that your people always sound like a fortune cookie when you're talking to my people."

  The old man frowned. "What's a fortune cookie?"

  "It's not important. What is important is why you attacked my friend."

  "She came into my yard where she didn't belong. I was defending myself."

  Kia objected. "I came into your yard because I was worried about you and your neighbors. And according to sammu, I'm allowed to enter your yard when I know you're home."

  Now it was Payne's turn to be confused. "What's sammu?"

  "It's a tradition on Jeju. The people here are direct descendants of the Kingdom of Tamna, islanders who always prided themselves on honor and independence. The concept of sammu guarantees that this island is free of thieves, beggars, and gates. When you walked through town, did you notice the three logs that blocked the thresholds on all the fences? Those logs are known as jeongnang. They aren't used as protection but rather to inform visitors if the master of the house was home or when he'd be coming back. If one log was there, he'd be back shortly. Two meant around dinnertime. Three meant he was far away from home. On the other hand, if the logs were missing, you were welcome to pay him a visit."

  Payne glanced at the old man. "No log means she wasn't trespassing."

  "Not only that," Kia added, "but he doesn't have a log. He has a huge wooden gate. I'm surprised his neighbors let him get away with that. It's disrespectful to the entire village."

  The old man bristled, unwilling to be insulted by two strangers. "One shouldn't mock what one doesn't understand."

  Payne frowned. "Meaning?"

  "If you had my past, you'd have a gate, too."

  * * *

  13

  Shari Shasmeen was a lot of things, many of which caused her problems in this part of the world.

  For one, she was an American. Born and raised in Florida, she was the child of a Muslim father and a Christian mother—neither of whom was overly religious. Each of them had their own beliefs and raised their daughter in an environment where she was allowed to believe whatever felt comfortable. Naturally curious, Shari read the holy texts of several religions and compared their major attributes. After much consideration she came to a conclusion that pleased both of her parents. Instead of choosing a faith, she chose a career. She opted to become a religious archaeologist to answer all the questions that plagued her.

  Yet her job was problematic. Women were second-class citizens in the Middle East, one of the main areas she needed to conduct her research. Whether natives or tourists, women were expected to follow the rules and customs of the land—laws that restricted their dress, travel, and ability to socialize. Things were especially strict in Saudi Arabia, where the Commission for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice (CPVPV) employed religious police called mutaween, who patrolled the streets like Nazis, looking for even the slightest violations of Islamic law. They arrested unrelated males and females caught speaking, enforced Islamic dress codes and prayer schedules, prevented the consumption of non-Muslim food such as pork or alcohol, and seized inappropriate products such as American books, magazines, CDs, and movies. Sometimes punishment for these violations was a public flogging; at other times it was a pr
ison sentence. Occasionally it was much worse.

  On March 11, 2002, the Saudi mutaween stopped hundreds of schoolgirls from leaving their burning school in Mecca because the girls were not wearing the abayas (black robes) and head scarves that were required in public by Islamic law. Some mutaween were seen beating scorched teenagers as punishment, while others locked the school gates from the outside, preventing the students from fleeing the fire. Fifteen girls were killed and several dozen were injured—many of whom were crushed against the barricades while trying to escape the flames. Making matters worse, many of the schoolgirls' parents witnessed the carnage from across the street and were punished when they tried to intervene and save their daughters.

  Shari knew about the mutaween and their violent ways before she ventured to Saudi Arabia for her current project, but fear wasn't going to stop her from her work. In America she was a respected academic known for her fierce determination and dedication, so there was no way in hell she was going to let anything stand in her way. Even if it meant risking her life.

  Of course, she wasn't reckless about it.

  Shari was an attractive woman in her late thirties. Not flashy or glamorous, more like an exotic soccer mom who lived down the street. In most parts of the world, she went to work in casual clothes, staying as comfortable as possible while she slaved away in the hot sun. But in Mecca, she played it safe and followed the local dress code, hiding her tanned and lithe body under an abaya, a long robe mat scraped the ground every time she moved. A veil covered her shoulder-length black hair. She wore no makeup or jewelry. She even traveled with a chaperone.

  At least that's how she was in public.

  In private, it was a completely different story. The instant she got inside the tunnel that had been carved underneath the old city, she started taking off her clothes, stripping down to the T-shirt and cargo shorts that she wore under her robe. It was her way of flipping off the mutaween and everything they stood for. Her way of showing independence and great legs at the same time. Her coworkers, an American crew of two scholars and three security guards, thought it was amusing. Not only because Shari was so dramatic about it, but also because all of them knew her behavior wouldn't make a damn bit of difference if the Saudi government figured out what they were doing down there.