The Depths

by Nick Thacker

  There was no way they could outrun them.

  Mark was going to get them killed. She struggled to free herself from the death-grip of her captor, the iron lady. It was no use; the woman was unbelievably strong.

  Mark was getting closer.

  What is he going to do? She thought to herself as the large man turned and prepared for a fight. He’ll kill him. The man outweighed Mark by at least fifty pounds, and he was certainly better prepared for a skirmish.

  It didn’t matter.

  Before Mark could get any closer, a loud gunshot reverberated through the hall of the dark school. Mark’s body was flung forward with a jerking motion, dropping to his hands and knees onto the marble floor. Behind him, Jen could see the third soldier still aiming down the sight of his smoking assault rifle.

  Mark looked up at Jen quickly, teeth clenched in defiance, then collapsed all the way onto the cold tile.

  Chapter 7

  DETECTIVE LARSON’S EVENING WAS NOT going very well.

  He’d promptly called up his second-in-command, Ken Dawson, after talking with Durand on the phone and reading through the email thread. Larson briefed him on the phone call he’d gotten earlier as well as on the email that had come through about fifteen minutes ago.

  Ken agreed that it sounded like the English were out to make a power play somehow. The problem was, that was about all the information they had so far. Neither could figure out exactly what the connection was between the kidnapping, the murder, and why the British intelligence agency was interested.

  Ken hung up, agreeing to head over to Larson’s apartment. While Larson waited for him, he poured himself another drink: Jack Daniel and Coke, his third that night. He flipped on the TV to catch the end of the evening news as he waited and sipped his beverage.

  Kidnapping, the murder of an old professor, British intelligence. What the hell did they all have in common?

  He swirled the ice around in his glass and thought about the problem until Dawson arrived. The knock on his apartment door fifteen minutes later alerted him that he’d been drifting off. As he rose to let the younger man in, the front door opened, and Dawson walked straight into the entryway.

  “Well shit, Ken, why don’t you go and give an old man a heart attack?”

  Dawson was about ten years younger than Larson, but he’d been Larson’s right-hand man for about as long as either of them could remember. They’d been on cases together, trained people together, and their families even vacationed together once a few years back. Their relationship now was interesting––stronger than ever, but as Dawson was gearing up for the pinnacle of his career, Larson was winding down for retirement.

  “Haha, right. I’ll be damned if you die before the rest of us, Craig. Eating right, no smoking, and—” he glanced down at the highball glass in Larson’s hand “—up until tonight, no drinking either.”

  “Ah well, you know. I guess I just decided that life isn’t long enough. Speaking of, need a drink?”

  “Vodka, if you got any. Any news?”

  “Nope, not unless you brought some with you,” Larson responded. He motioned for Ken to sit down at the kitchen table and went to make his drink.

  “Well, I found that folder I was talking about, but it’s old. I’d used it as reference material not too long ago for a case, so I had it sitting around. But everything inside is dated at least twenty years ago. I’m not sure it’ll be much help.”

  “At this point, I think anything would be helpful. Greg’s tone was a little hesitant, almost reserved. We can assume something’s heating up. Anything in that folder about Dr. Mitchell Storm?”

  “Storm, right. He was an environmentalist from way back in the day, but no one’s really heard from him in, like, thirty years. He worked on some projects that led to very important research in geothermal technology, geology, and even nuclear power. I only remember the name because one of his projects led to an immediate interest from governments and research corporations around the world.” His voice trailed off as Craig handed him his drink. He sipped it, winced, then smiled. “Perfect. Thanks. Anyway, these guys all wanted a piece of what he was studying.”

  “Which was?” Larson asked.

  “No idea. You can flip through the folder yourself. It just has a few clippings from trade journals about the Storm brothers and their research. It’s a bird’s-eye view though; nothing incriminating, and nothing of interest.”

  “To you.”

  “Ha. Right. Nothing that I’d bat an eye at.”

  Larson flipped through the folder, verifying that nothing inside was of much use to the case.

  “It seems odd that the attacks involved the same person: Jen Adams. She was working very closely with Dr. Elias Storm from that university. On what, we don’t know. He was considered rather tame compared to his older brother. Could be that Elias was continuing the research on something Mitchell started back in the seventies or eighties, before he fell off the radar.”

  “Hmm. I get it, but I’m just not seeing the connection. If this Dr. Elias Storm was in fact working on something that his brother had started years ago, it makes sense why they would kill him. Maybe he wouldn’t give them information or something like that. Then they turned to the only other person who would know what he was doing––Jen Adams—and went after her by way of kidnapping her son.”

  “Right, go on.”

  “But that does not explain why the British cared about it. I just don’t see how it fits in,” Larson said.

  Dawson frowned, then spoke. “Well, you said Durand called in a favor, since one of his acquaintances apparently heard about the attack from local police. Maybe they’re not interested yet. Just covering all their bases.”

  “No, you and I both know these agencies don’t chase weak leads very long. For it to blow up this quick, they have to be thinking something. They’re all related somehow, and I need to figure out what it is. Greg’s a friend, but he’s not going to screw himself over just to give me the full scoop.” Craig left the kitchen and came back holding his MacBook Pro. He sat down in the chair across from Ken and slid the computer over so both men could see the screen.

  Larson typed a search query into the bar at the top of the browser and pressed enter. England America Mitchell Storm. He quickly scanned the first three pages of results, finding nothing of importance. He changed the query, adding the word research.

  Still nothing on the first three pages. On the fourth page, however, he paused and clicked on the fourth result. A webpage opened. It was a poorly designed blog from what seemed to be a conspiracy theory nutcase.

  Abandoned American Research Station Sold to British was the title of the post. The post was written around two letters the author had allegedly come across at his office during his working days, but he was trying to build a case on a severe lack of logic and no hard facts.

  “…Mitchell Storm worked with the Agartha crew among British and American private companies for three years before resigning from the program, eventually moving to the backcountry to Canada.”

  “Agartha,” Dawson said. “Interesting name for a research station.”

  The article didn’t link to any other sources, nor did it cite any in the content. Further, the author seemed to have forgotten what the title of his own post, never mentioning more about the “research station” or “Agartha.”

  “Well, that’s a bummer,” Dawson said when he had finished reading the post.

  “You’re telling me. This nut job is the only thing even close to real information, and there’s no way we’re getting anywhere by tracking him down.”

  “Even if it was a good lead, I’m not sure I’d want to track him down.”

  Dawson and Larson perused a few more of the posts—collections of “research” on Area 51, scraps of newspaper headings that the author claimed were forgeries, and other bits of old-fashioned American propaganda.

  Larson stood and searched the apartment for his cellphone. He dialed a number and waited for a r
esponse.

  “Greg? Hey, did I wake you?”

  Dawson looked toward Larson as the man continued his conversation.

  “I don’t care. Listen. We need more. What—” he paused a moment. “Of course the line’s secure; you think I haven’t been doing this job for thirty years?” Again, he paused as Gregory Durand spoke on the other end of the phone. “What? What are you talking about?”

  “What is it?” Dawson asked, now standing at the doorway to the living room.

  “Durand. What do you mean ‘you sent in a team?’”

  He frowned, then hung up the phone. He slammed it down onto an end table and stormed back into the kitchen, a wide-eyed Dawson waiting patiently for an explanation.

  “We need to move. Durand’s group apparently sent a team to the states right after we talked last. They don’t want this getting out, and he said it’s a matter of ‘national security.’ Apparently I’m not enough of an asset to them. They had to take matters into their own hands.”

  “But what do they want to do? What do they want you to do?” Dawson asked.

  “Ken, I don’t think they’re wanting me to do anything other than pick up the pieces. Durand got me in this thing before the rest of his organization got wind of it. I’m pretty sure we’re lucky to know about it at this point. We’re not getting anything else from them. We want this, it’s on us.”

  “Okay, we can work around that. When’s this ‘team’ supposed to get here?”

  Larson stared at the younger man in his living room. “They’re already here.”

  Chapter 8

  0226 HOURS

  JEN HEARD A loud groan. Her husband. She stood and walked over to his bed; a hospital gurney set up in a makeshift operating room. The powerful lighting in the room projected shadows along the warehouse walls—brick, no doubt old. She took in the surroundings. Why a warehouse? Who are these people?

  The old brick building loomed overhead. Though the room they were currently in was small, the walls climbed almost a hundred feet straight up to meet the sloping corrugated steel roof of the structure. The door to the room was also modern reinforced steel. It was an odd juxtaposition, but Jen had a feeling there was a reason for the setting. No doubt this place looked innocuous from the outside.

  Mark Adams was lying on the bed wearing a hospital gown and trying in vain to scratch an itch on his shoulder, but finding it impossible to lift his arm. A military doctor, Dr. Pritchett, was bustling about in response to her husband’s waking.

  That ass, she thought. “You okay? What the hell was that?” she asked him.

  Mark just frowned. “That bastard shot me!” he said.

  “Well no shit, Jay, you ran from a man with a loaded gun. I told you stay down.” Her voice shook; she knew she couldn’t feign anger with him. After everything that had happened, she was in no place to lose another person close to her.

  They needed to find Reese.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to just sit there and let them kill us. If he would have just said he wanted to talk…” his voice died as the metal doors to the small warehouse’s inner room opened.

  “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Adams. Excuse me—you prefer ‘Ms.’?” Jen didn’t know how to respond to the question.

  She recognized the man’s voice was the same as their captor’s from the university: British, deep, posh, and educated.

  She turned to look in the man’s direction and almost choked. The man in front of her was absolutely huge—at least six-foot-five and made of pure muscle. The hulk of a soldier walked up to the bed, and only then could Jen see that he was being followed. When she’d seen his outline in the hallway at the Academy, she noticed he was a large male figure, but seeing him in the surgical light of the warehouse was shocking.

  A woman—the same one she’d “met” before—strode up behind the large man. She was almost as tall as the man. A small torso and short, skinny arms rippling with well-formed muscle made her look like a runway model-turned-mercenary. God, who are these people? Jen thought. The woman nodded once, curtly, and stood at attention behind and to the left of her commanding officer.

  “Thank you for your cooperation thus far,” the man continued. Jen couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. “I’m terribly sorry to have to have met under these, well, circumstances, and I am especially sorry for your shoulder. How are you feeling?” He faced Mark.

  “It’s, uh, well it hurts like a bitch, but I guess I’m fine.”

  “The rubber pellets we used are meant to stun, but not seriously injure. I’m glad you weren’t closer when I fired. Either way, I’m sorry we had to use force. We just cannot allow any unnecessary setbacks.”

  “What’s going on? Who are you?” Jen straightened. She sensed she needed to be as straightforward as possible. “If you don’t know, my son—”

  The man held up a hand, and Jen immediately fell silent.

  “Yes, yes. Your son, Reese, has been kidnapped. We’re aware of the situation. Actually, that’s what we’re all here for.” He stretched an arm out to signify a look around. “This is a warehouse my superiors purchased for inconspicuous rendezvous such as these. It’s completely safe, and you have nothing to fear.

  “My name is Corporal Daniel Carter, and this is Rachel Saunders. We’re with the British Royal Marines, Amphibious Task Division.

  “We’ve been tracking the group that we believe kidnapped your son and killed Professor Storm. They’re a mostly underground unit, completely self-sufficient and irrelevant to the outside world.”

  Jen looked confused. “You think some radical religious group took my son?”

  The woman, Rachel Saunders, spoke. “Not religious, Ms. Adams. This group, at least from what we can tell, seems to be focused on environmental targets.”

  “Environmental? Like trees and Earth and Mother Nature crap?” Mark asked, now fumbling with the bed-raising lever.

  “Well, somewhat, yes,” Corporal Carter responded. “They’re interested in preserving the Earth in its natural state. We don’t know much about them except that they’ve been dormant—as much as we can tell—for the last thirty years after a brutal massacre in the seventies. They killed thirty-seven men and women, all scientists and engineers.”

  Jen’s heart raced. “What? They killed all of these people? And Professor Storm?”

  “Ms. Adams, we have no reason to believe they’ve harmed your son. Honestly, they have no need for him, except to get to you.”

  “To get to me? What the hell does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. We don’t know what exactly they want. But you worked with Dr. Storm, and one of these people who were murdered was Dr. Storm’s brother, Mitchell Storm. For whatever reason, it seems the group wants you to find the information they think Dr. Storm was withholding.”

  Jen shook her head. “No, that’s not right. I mean—I don’t—I have no idea what they want from me. And Dr. Storm didn’t have a brother… at least not one he ever mentioned.” She realized then that she didn’t have a clue as to what her late boss’s family life was like. Other than knowing he was unmarried, she really didn’t know much about his personal life.

  “Yes, Jen, he did have a brother. And he was very wound up in this group. At least until they cracked and killed his research team at their small firm. Look, we’re still trying to piece this together as well. But we need your help. You’re obviously a part of this puzzle for some reason,” Carter said.

  Rachel Saunders picked up where Carter left off. “We need you to come with us and help find what they want. We know this group. They’re completely under the radar when they want to be. They left you a message to find this—whatever—for them, and we don’t think they’re going to interfere with you while you find it,” she said.

  “Chances are they’re holding your son over your head to motivate you; to make sure you know how serious this is. But they won’t do anything—or even show up—until you find their prize.”

  “Ms. Adams—and you, Mr.
Adams—we’d like for you to find this missing link, this item they’re looking for. We’ll get your son back, but if you can make them happy by delivering on their expectations, it’ll be much quicker, and we might have a chance at catching them.”

  Jen looked at Mark, who gazed back at her in disbelief. It was all too much to take in. How in the world was she supposed to find something if she didn’t even know what she was looking for?

  “Can’t we just wait and see what the police figure out?” she asked. She knew it was a pitiful question. Still, the panic and hysteria she’d been feeling had now seemed to settle into a comatose state of numbness. She didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to find some stupid artifact these murderers were after. Especially since they’d be looking in—

  “Wait,” she said, before anyone could respond to her previous ridiculous question. “You never said where we were going. Do you know where we’re supposed to be looking?”

  The two soldiers shared a quick glance at one another, and Corporal Carter turned to respond to Jen. “Yes. We think they’re after a specific piece of research your professor was working on prior to his death. And have reason to believe it’s in an undisclosed location in the Atlantic Ocean.”

  The Atlantic, she thought. “So, like an island. The Caribbean, maybe?” she asked.

  Carter smiled a half-grin. It appeared and disappeared within a second, and it was first time she’d seen a hint of emotion other than stoicism from the man. “Something like that. We can talk as we prepare. The other half of my team has already been dispatched and is preparing for the briefing.

  “Mark will be in good hands as well. My doctors are the best in the world, and so are their drugs.” He winked at her husband, but Mark just squinted as he was reminded of his sore back. “Let’s get you two outfitted and ready, and we’ll meet back here at 0300 hours—that’s half an hour from now. We’re catching a flight to Miami, then leaving from the base there. We’re all tired, so I’ve scheduled some downtime for us before we launch.”