Again, he took on a half-embarrassed appearance. “I’m sure most of what you might have heard was somewhat exaggerated. It was a pretty uneventful trip.”
Something in his gray eyes told her that he wasn’t telling the truth. “Really? Because I seem to remember hearing something about an altercation with some South American drug cartel.”
He was a terrible bluffer, and he knew it. His uncomfortable wriggling probably didn’t help. “Ms. Webster, I’m not sure what you heard, but I don’t think any of that really matters. We went in, got the artifact we were looking for, then donated it to the Peruvian government. Of course, we did accept a small reward for locating and delivering the piece.”
“Of course,” she added, her face stoic and cynical. “But why don’t you just tell me about what really happened down there?”
He leaned in closer toward her. The scent of her curly hair smelled like apples mingled with a slightly sweet perfume; vanilla perhaps. With the way her head was tilted, the rich brown curls cascaded off of her shoulder. There must have been a school for professional women to attend just to make their hair do that. Sean tried to ignore his heightened sense of attraction by taking another gulp of latte.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you think you heard about the expedition in Peru, but, I assure you, it wasn’t really that exciting, except from a historical discovery perspective.”
“Are you trying to tell me that there wasn’t a run-in with any drug smugglers down there and that you weren’t taken captive by their leader only to narrowly escape and get away with some statue that you had been looking for?” She took a long breath of air.
Sean continued squirming in his chair. “Again, Ms. Webster, I’d rather not comment on the specifics of some of our expeditions. The one to Peru had a few snags along the way, but everyone came out fine. The Peruvians were able to retrieve an enormous part of their history due to the IAA’s assistance. They were very grateful, I might add.”
She could see there was no getting him to talk, even though he was clearly leaving something out.
Changing the subject, she asked, “Is it true that you were in some kind of special government operations unit after you went to college?”
Again, his face turned red, and he could not seem to get situated in his seat. She was good. “I’m afraid that I can’t tell you that, Ms. Webster.”
The way that he said her name made her blush, just slightly. “And why is that? Because you’d have to kill me?”
“Something like that.”
“So what can you tell me?”
“I can tell you that the IAA has recovered lost artifacts for over twenty different governments. We span the globe, looking for what others do not. I guess you could say that we dig where no one else does.”
“Why the gun then?” She motioned with a nod toward his khaki jacket that had fallen open just enough to reveal the .40-caliber Ruger he always carried.
He pulled the jacket around, covering the piece. “That’s mine. We don’t have standard agency-issued weapons, if that’s what you’re thinking. Got a permit for it, if it bothers you.”
“What bothers me, Mr. Wyatt, is that there are stories going around about all kinds of stuff that your organization has been involved with, but you won’t throw me a bone.” She huffed and her face flushed red. His dodgy answers were exasperating.
“What can I say? I don’t like to kiss and tell.”
Allyson let out a frustrated sigh. This interview had been pointless. She stuffed her notepad into her laptop bag and grabbed her coffee as she stood.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Wyatt. But this has been a waste of mine. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Not at all,” he stood with her. “I was going to come here for coffee anyway. At least let me walk you out.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I insist.” He extended his hand politely.
Not agreeing but not disagreeing either, she simply headed for the door. Sean fell right into line behind her then quickly extended his arm to open the door for her. She shot him an angry glance, not about to thank him for the seemingly long-lost courtesy.
Defiant, she strode quickly to her black four-door Honda Civic and beeped the alarm off as she approached the driver’s side door.
Again, Sean reached out to open the door for her, but this time, she beat him to it. “Thanks again, Mr. Wyatt. Have a nice…”
Her face changed suddenly as she noticed two men in black suits walking toward them from across the pavement. About halfway there, they simultaneously reached into their jackets, removing black pistols.
Sean saw her eyes grow large at whatever she was seeing on the other side of the lot. His reaction was instantaneous; years of government training and field missions kicked in. With a surprising amount of force, he shoved Allyson into the front seat of the car.
“Stay down!” He barked the order quickly.
In another fluid motion, he whirled behind the open car door and pulled it all the way forward, shielding himself from the two gunmen. In another second, he’d ripped his own weapon from inside his jacket. Silent pops pounded the door in front of him as bullets blasted the plastic and leather interior.
They had sound suppressors. His own weapon, unfortunately, would not be so discreet. Risking a peek around the edge of the door, he saw that the two brutish men were still stalking toward the car. They were only about twenty feet away now.
Only one way to play this one, Sean thought. Dropping to the ground below the bottom edge of the door, he extended his weapon and squeezed off four shots at the feet and shins of the approaching attackers.
One man’s foot exploded in a mass of Italian black leather and blood. The other man’s right shin splintered instantly from the impact of the bullet. Both assailants dropped to their knees with the unbearable pain surging up through their legs. One dropped his gun to the ground while the other held it to his side; both were grasping at their new wounds. That was all Wyatt needed.
Spinning around the outside of the door, he stood and fired off two more shots. The suit with the shin injury fell over backward, a blackish-red hole about the size of a nickel etched into his head. The other clutched at his neck, furiously trying to contain the sudden fountain of blood leaving his body. That struggle only lasted a dozen or so seconds before he fell forward.
Sean looked around anxiously. There was no one else in the parking lot, but his shots must have been heard inside the shop. People on the sidewalks were screaming and running away from the scene in a panic.
He stepped back over to the open door and found Allyson curled up inside, terrified.
“We have to leave.”
“What?” She asked, shock on her face.
“Now, Allyson.”
He reached down and grabbed her arm, yanking her from the car. Again, the amount of strength he showed for a man his size was surprising.
Allyson stared blankly at the two bodies lying on the asphalt.
“Are they…?” she began.
“Yeah,” he answered before she could finish her sentence.
He reholstered his gun. The yellow parking lights flashed on a nearby carbon gray 1969 Camaro.
“We’ll take my car.”
She was too stunned and scared to disagree at this point.
Questions swirled in both their heads amid the confusion. What was going on? Why were those two men trying to kill them?
Sean opened the passenger door for her and, as gently as possible, forced her into the seat. He skipped around the back of the car quickly, taking one last look around the parking lot.
He turned the key, and the engine revved to life. Trying not to draw too much attention, he stepped on the gas and steered the car out of the back exit.
4
Nevada
Through a giant arched window, the last rays of afternoon sun shone onto the dark walnut floor. A man with gray hair and a wrinkled, weathered face gazed out at the mountainous
scene. He was known by a few loyal followers as The Prophet, a leader during a time of spiritual and religious weakness. They didn’t need to know that the title was self imposed. All that mattered was that they believed in what he was doing. His mind was occupied, busy with a task few knew about. An old phone on a large oak desk rang the way phones did twenty years ago. Aroused from his thoughts, the old figure sitting in the shadows of his study reached over to answer.
“Have you begun?” His voice was direct and commanding.
“Yes. Everything is in place as you wished, sir.” The voice on the other end of the line was foreign.
“And you are certain that Schultz will lead you to the answers we seek?”
“One hundred percent sure.”
“And Wyatt?”
“He will not be a problem.”
“Is he dead?”
“No. But he does not have access to the information.”
“Why is he still alive?” Irritation laced the old man’s words.
“Do not worry, sir. The homing beacon on Wyatt’s vehicle is working. I will know every move he makes. He is predictable if nothing else.”
“I am not worried. I simply know exactly what this Sean Wyatt is capable of. You are the expert in these matters, so I expect you to know exactly what I am talking about. We are proceeding with the plan that you presented, but if at any moment I feel like things are getting out of control, I will not hesitate to pull you.” The threat created silence on the other end for a moment before the shadowed figured continued. “Keep me informed of any further developments. And Jens…”
“Yes, sir?”
“Dispose of the woman. She can serve no purpose for us.”
“Of course, sir.”
The dark figure in the high leatherback chair gently laid the receiver back onto the phone base and returned to gazing through the large study window.
Soon, he thought, the whole world would change.
5
Atlanta
It had been a busy day already for Detective Trent Morris. He had been working since 7 a.m., and now, right in the middle of the morning, he gets a call for a double homicide at a coffee shop in Buckhead. And from the sound of it, it wasn’t going to be a routine call.
When he arrived on the scene, one of the CSI guys already there informed him that they were unable to find any identification on the two victims. Both were males, roughly the same muscular build, dark-brown hair, and wearing very similar suits with long black coats. Each one was wearing sunglasses as well.
If he didn’t know better, Morris would have sworn the guys were Secret Service. Unaware of any possible presidential visit to North Atlanta today, that was an easy thought to swear off.
Morris was an imposing presence and commanded a great deal of respect with his coworkers. He had grown up in Atlanta with six brothers and sisters just southeast of the city. Being the oldest had taught him a great deal about responsibility. He walked with purpose through the police tape, lifting his badge that dangled on a lanyard from his neck as he passed the officer working the perimeter. Nodding a thank you to the cop lifting the tape for him, Trent breathed in the mild city air. An array of odors mingled in his nose: restaurants, trees, car exhaust, and cigarette smoke from a couple of the other detectives already on the scene.
“What do we got here, Will?” He spoke as he neared a familiar face kneeling over one of the bodies.
His partner, Will Hastings, had been transferred to the department a few weeks ago. The twentysomething white kid had been a breath of fresh air to the investigation unit, and he and Trent had developed an instant chemistry. The younger cop had a go-getter attitude much like Morris had when he joined the police force. But something about the kid seemed seasoned, not too eager like so many rookies he’d seen.
Will turned at the sound of his name and stood up, pulling off the latex gloves he’d been using. “Hey, buddy.” He glanced down at the mess. “At least we got the call in the morning. Usually this kind of thing happens at the end of a shift.”
“Just thinking that myself, Brother. So what’s the story here?” Trent strode over to the body Will had just been inspecting and looked down. “This where they were done?”
“Looks that way. Shots were from up close. From the looks of it, they came from over there near that black car. This one’s fatal wound was to the head,” he motioned to one victim. “This guy here,” he pointed to the second, “was shot in the throat. Probably only took him a minute to die.” One victim lay sprawled on his back, arms splayed in different directions. The other was positioned facedown on the asphalt, in a pool of blood from the exit hole in the back of his skull.
“One fell forward, and the other guy just collapsed back.” Trent continued his partner’s line of thought.
“We know who these guys are yet?”
“We’re trying to ID them right now, but they didn’t have anything on them.”
“Robbed?” Trent was trying to piece this together as quick as possible. Hunger gnawed at him. As if hearing his stomach grumbling, a young beat cop walked up with a fresh cup of coffee from inside the shop. “Coffee, sir?”
“You read my mind, Kyle. Thanks.”
The young officer seemed pleased with the gratitude and walked back over to the perimeter to relieve the cop Trent had seen when he first arrived.
Will responded to the previous question. “I don’t think it was a robbery. These guys both had Glock 9 mm’s. Powder residue on their hands indicates they took some shots, too, and there are bullet casings all over the ground matching their weapons.”
“What kind of gun did them?”
“Ballistics hasn’t said yet, but I’d say it was probably a .40 of some kind. Sort of looks like a hit gone wrong.”
“Great,” Trent thought. That was the last thing the town needed on top of the rising level of gang violence. Through the years, Atlanta had seen its fair share of corruption, but for the most part, organized crime had not been able to take root. With so many international corporations transplanting to the growing city, there had not been room for the much more localized operations of the Mob.
“So, are we talking Mafia type? I mean, shouldn’t assassinations be someone we’ve heard of?”
“Doubt it. Got a witness over there. Said he saw the whole thing. Claims it was a man and a woman. The department’s artist is over there right now getting their description. He speaks with some kind of accent. Sounds like German to me, but I can’t really tell.”
Trent looked over at the witness sitting on one of the patio chairs and looking about as unnerved as a person could look. The guy had probably never seen a murder before, much less two. He was blond, late twenties/early thirties, probably around six-two, two hundred pounds. His jaw was distinct much like the rest of his bone structure. Wearing a police-issue blanket around his shoulders, he looked visibly upset as he described the suspects to the artist.
“Any sign of the weapons?” Morris took a sip of his coffee, pleasantly surprised that it was just how he liked it. He raised his cup in appreciation as he looked over at Kyle, who returned the gesture with a simple nod and a wave of the hand.
“Haven’t found them yet. We got a team going through the nooks and crannies in the surrounding blocks but nothing so far. Witness said that the two suspects hopped in a car and tore out the back entrance.”
“A male and a female? Did the witness get a good look at the car?” Trent dared to hope.
“I’ll go you one better. 1969 Camaro, silver with black trim, and the witness even got the plates memorized. So, odds are, we aren‘t going to need those sketches anyway.”
Trent could not believe what he was hearing. This might actually be over within an hour. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”
“No. But you can buy me a beer later instead.” Will returned the smile.
“Done. So who do the plates belong to?”
“Car is registered to a Sean Wyatt. Lives out near Dunwoody on the north
side of town. No word on the occupation yet, but we got three units headed that way right now to check it out.”
“Good. Let’s get up there and see what this is all about.”
The two detectives turned and walked away from the victims, who were now being bagged in nondescript coroner body bags. Trent nodded again to Kyle as they slipped under the police line and opened the doors to the car.
He looked through the windshield at the witness apparently finishing up with the sketch artist; the young man looked as though he were about to puke. “Poor kid,” he remarked. “Bet he’ll never get that vision out of his head.”
“Yep,” Will agreed. “Some people just aren’t built to handle that sort of thing.”
6
Atlanta
Sean reached up and clicked the remote to the front gate of his home a few seconds before they pulled in. From the street, it was difficult to see what lay beyond the huge brick wall and the spruce trees behind it, which was kind of the point of the wall. He swung the car into the driveway as the gate opened completely. Once the car passed through, it began closing again.
Allyson gazed, open-mouthed, at the property. She’d not said anything since leaving the coffee shop. He assumed her entire life had been spent far away from things like the shooting in the parking lot.
Vast collections of trees, shrubs, and flowers decorated the whole estate. Giant magnolias dotted the large yard with their dark, waxy leaves. Azaleas surrounded the unmanned gatehouse, along with a few of those long grassy plants common to golf courses and suburban neighborhoods. Poplars, Bradford pears, and even some coniferous spruce trees stood in rows in the enormous yard. More hardwoods lined the driveway on both sides.
“Are those maples?” Allyson broke the silence with the sound of awe at the beautiful landscaping.
The Secret of the Stones Page 3
