UNSEEN FORCES: SKY WILDER (BOOK ONE) Page 7

  CHAPTER 6

  Bacavi had insisted upon remaining with the newly discovered artifacts until Wilder could get back to civilization and make some discreet arrangements. Wilder hiked out of the canyon as night fell, and drove the Jeep into Cottonwood, where he stopped at the Sizzler’s to use the rest room. He noticed a black Suburban as it parked on the other side of the highway. Dark tinted windows were as common in Arizona as fire ants, but the vehicle struck him as odd because after it pulled into the empty lot, no one got out.

  After his pit stop, the Suburban was still sitting there, so Wilder decided upon the direct approach and jogged toward the Chevy. The big vehicle suddenly lurched forward and drove, lights off, in the direction of Jerome. The glint of a streetlight revealed there were no rear plates.

  He wondered if it was a government vehicle. Had they followed him over the roads he covered today? Not without a GPS tracking device attached to my rig. He smiled at the thought, shook his head and mumbled to himself, “Really think you’re some big cheese, huh? GPS trackers.” He wanted to laugh off the whole notion, but his smile faded and formed into a hard line of suspicion.

  Caution, practicality and a healthy sense of paranoia had served him well, so he didn’t think twice about driving straight to an Avis Rental Car lot. They were closed, but the enterprising young manager didn’t like turning away business. Wilder soon found himself zipping straight into Camp Verde, driving an almost new Toyota Corolla, with one eye in the rear view mirror.

  ###

  “You still keep a half-pint of Jim Beam down in the old bomb shelter?” Wilder gestured to a heavy steel, submarine-like hatch recessed into the floor in a corner of Lt. Lou Burdette's room in the Yavapai County Sheriff’s substation at Camp Verde.

  “Hell no, I keep a fifth of Heaven Hill Bourbon right here in my desk for nights like tonight. Not the expensive single malt scotch you send me for Christmas, thank you kindly, but good whiskey just the same.”

  Burdette, heavyset and in his sixties, looked so comfortable sitting behind his battered metal government surplus desk it seemed he was reclining in a Barcalounger, not squeezed into an ancient office chair groaning under his weight. He brusquely retrieved a bottle of bourbon and sweetened the Styrofoam cups of coffee in front of himself and Wilder. Burdette had grown up in southern Arkansas before settling in Camp Verde after twelve years in the military. His Dixie accent was seasoned by deployments overseas and by decades spent in law enforcement in Arizona.

  “How easy you think ‘tis for me ta shimmy down through that hatch? So I got a bottle in my desk, what’s the Sheriff gonna do, fire me? Heck, I’ll die here. And be advised, young man, it ain’t no bomb shelter no more, it’s our command bunker, renovated by a grant from Homeland Security ta the tune of three-hundred-fifty-thousand greenbacks.”

  Wilder whistled. “Wow, what do you have, a Jacuzzi down there now?”

  “Wish. Bunch’a computers and stuff. ‘Mergency supplies and bio-hazard gear. We're now wired ta the county disaster setup and the Feds. Not sure we'll ever use it, but one thing we do use is the tunnel.”

  “Tunnel?”

  “Yep. Runs over ta the basement of the diner ‘cross the street, case it’s rainin’ and we get a powerful need for some bacon and fry bread.”

  Burdette patted his substantial girth, as if in fond memory of the thousands of pieces of fry bread that had passed through his gullet and helped build the monument of a waist that wreaked havoc with his high blood pressure. He'd run the Sheriff’s substation here in Camp Verde for decades.

  The salt-and-pepper hair that had made Burdette look so old to Wilder years ago was now a fine platinum white, and drew the eye away from the 270 pounds straining at the Sam Brown holster rig. Burdette carried a highly polished .357 magnum revolver in the holster, showing him to be an old-timer who refused to change over to a semiautomatic.

  Almost every square inch of the cinder block walls of Burdette’s corner-rear office were covered with photographs, awards, wanted posters, duty rosters and maintenance schedules. A propane heater threw out a dim hiss, the police radio hummed on low, the evening relatively quiet.

  “Wanna see the tunnel? You the expert, right?” Burdette used a cheap blue lighter to light up a rum-soaked cigar.

  “I want to see another tunnel, like you want to see another drunken cowboy on a Friday night.” Wilder borrowed the blue lighter and fired up a cigarillo.

  “You don’t like jails neither, but you and young Mister Frank Bacavi were my guests here... how many times?”

  Wilder smiled at the thought, then stared evenly at Burdette. “I need to hire four men, military combat vets, the saltier the better. Very serious, well-equipped guardian angels right out of the box and I need them yesterday. Five grand a week, two week minimum.”

  Burdette pursed his lips and considered the request. “Archeology that cut-throat, tis it?”

  “Getting that way. “I've attracted some unwanted attention. But the gunslingers aren't for me, their job is to secure some material and to keep a friend healthy.”

  “Threat level?”

  “High. Very high. Maybe even some rogue elements of the government. I didn’t do anything wrong, I did something right.”

  “That’s worse. Don’cha know that no good deed goes unpunished?” Burdette sweetened his coffee with a little more bourbon, then pulled a book off the shelf behind him and set it on the desk. It was one of Wilder’s: Lost Secrets of Old Africa. “You really have a spear fight with two tribal warriors in a Nairobi bar, like this here book says?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Son, college just made you stupid. Think I’m gonna have ta detain you overnight for observation, ‘till I git those four good ole boys here in the mornin.’ Anybody balls-out-dumb as you needs some devil dogs, not no guardian angels.”

  ###

  The private chef presented Simon Forte and Rene Bailey with an appetizer of cherry-smoked bacon and creamed asparagus on oyster toast. Pausing as they took in the presentation on the blue Limoges plate trimmed in twenty-four-karat gold, the couple took twenty seconds, though they often took longer, to drink in the full gamut of color, texture and arrangement of the food.

  “Inspired. Do I detect white asparagus? Not blanched, are they?”

  “Of course not, sir,” said the classically trained Japanese-American chef. “I know you prefer the mounding technique used by the Germans to grow white asparagus.”

  The chef excused himself and Forte and Bailey took their first bites. Forte always preferred to spend at least the first five minutes of a meal in silence. He enjoyed reflecting as he ate; it became almost ritualistic as if he were feeding and nourishing his thoughts and memories with every swallow.

  He sensed time to not only be flying by, it seemed to travel at the speed of thought. After three years running DISC, he took his enforcement network private when he founded Athanor, to function as the intelligence / para-military arm / hit squad of his rapidly expanding empire under the innocuous name, Southern Enterprises Trading, or S.E.T. Being an amateur Egyptologist, he knew all too well the meaning of SET, and considered it his little joke.

  Based in Geneva, S.E.T. had grown exponentially in the last seven years, morphing into a multi-billion dollar trading firm. Athanor completed his circle of power. Forte quietly shed the shackle of his American citizenship—to him it had become an albatross—and jumped into new territories, buying tankers, an airline in South America, oil wells, politicians on four continents, wineries in Chile, hotels in Tokyo, a cigar company in the Dominican, banks in Belize, paintings by Monet and Van Gogh.

  At the zenith of money and power, it wasn’t only the corrupt former-Soviets who loved him. He did deals with the intelligence agencies of Israel, South Africa, even Communist China. Prime Ministers and Central Committee members took his calls. Former Secretaries of State, movie moguls, pop stars, a truckload of European royalty, OPEC sheiks and Honk Kong taipans sought his advice, wined and dined him, pr
oposed deals. The money rained like a monsoon, the parties were never-ending.

  He soon found himself recruited into a European secret society called SW, Schwarze Wahrheit, or Black Truth. His money and stature propelled him into the upper echelon, although as a junior member. It was all so heady to meet in castles by candlelight, performing spooky archaic rituals with political and cultural giants of the Continent. They were Satanists, but weren’t particularly adept at practicing black magic. It was more about orgies and indulgence and networking.

  Just as twelve-step programs had become the networking tool of choice for Hollywood wannabees or used-to-bees, secret societies and their long proud history were a dime-a-dozen in Europe, which is why joining the “right” one was all important. The A-list secret society.

  His mind’s wandering this early spring morning soon anchored itself to the mooring it always found: The Big Problem. Which, simply put, was that someday it would all come to an end. At fifty-one, he was much closer to seventy than to twenty-one. Hence, he and his fellow lodge members took up the pursuit of the elusive Philosopher’s Stone, the Tincture, the study of alchemy, or rather, the subsidy of the study of it, and ultimately, to an obscure Egyptian sorcerer named Hui and the notion of physical immortality.

  A soft chime from the cell phone inside Forte’s black silk dinner jacket gently shattered the reverie. Not pleased with the interruption, he checked the caller’s identity, then hissed, “What is it, Daniel?”

  “Sorry Mister Forte, but I felt these unusual developments regarding Doctor Wilder warranted—”

  “What unusual developments?” Forte registered sharp interest.

  Daniel Pratt sat in a $2000 ergonomically correct black desk chair in the Operations Control Center of Athanor, two levels above Forte’s private residence. As Forte’s number one executive assistant, Pratt, thirty-one, had grown accustomed to working twelve-hour days, six-days a week, for $225,000 a year plus perks. Presently however, he functioned as the project supervisor of Athanor’s top priority: monitoring Dr. Sky Wilder’s every move.

  Estranged from his upper-middle class family and their money, Pratt had dropped out of an engineering program at M.I.T. and joined the air force. He served six years, including four with the Air Force Intelligence Agency. He displayed the combination of amorality, ambition, and adrenaline lust that Forte found so effective in management personnel. Pratt understood computer systems as well as he understood demolitions, which was to say exquisitely.

  “Wilder is presently at the Yavapai County Sheriff Substation in Camp Verde, Arizona. He was incarcerated there several times as a high school student for breaking into the local library with his best friend.”

  “And...?” Forte asked, impatiently.

  “Thirty minutes ago he rented a car in Cottonwood, Arizona after phoning his agent and telling her to cancel the promotional tour for his new book. To postpone it, actually, for one month.”

  Simon Forte stood from the table, disinterested now in the meal.

  “That’s not a good way to sell books. Show me what he was doing earlier today.” A large flat panel screen silently slid down from the ceiling, displaying an interactive map and log of Wilder’s movements. “These coordinates he went to with Professor Bacavi earlier today... what is there, exactly?”

  “It's a remote canyon north-west of Sedona. Nothing’s there as far as we can tell.”

  “You don’t think he found a tablet, right there in his own backyard, do you, Simon?” cooed Rene, sipping at her wine like a cat enjoying heavy cream. Her trim, leonine manner broadcast a cool elegance, whether in a sexual heat or a murderous rage, and glimmered a slick polished sheen, hard, beautiful and expensive, a purring platinum pussy.

  “Why not?” Forte always softened when he spoke to her. He’d never been angry with her and never intended to be. “One thing I’ve learned over the years is that God nurtures a very healthy sense of irony. It's quite possible Wilder has recovered one of the tablets and cleared his schedule because he thinks he’s going to retrieve the other two. And he’s smart enough to realize he’s in danger. He dumped his car and is spending the night at a police station until he can figure out his next move.”

  “Sounds like the police there are old friends of his. If he found a tablet, maybe’s he’s going to leave it in their safekeeping.”

  Forte bent down and kissed Rene’s cheek close to her ear, drinking in the subtle fragrance of tangerines and supple freshness of pampered skin. “Perhaps you’re right, darling. Perhaps you’re right.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The black Chevy Suburban pulled into the small visitor parking lot of the Yavapai County Sheriff’s substation at Camp Verde, Arizona, and parked right next to Sky Wilder's rented Toyota.

  Two muscular gentlemen around thirty, wearing civilian clothes but bearing the unmistakable stamp “military,” emerged from the SUV and walked straight into the visitor’s reception room, a modular structure anchored to a cinder block foundation. Actually, the entire substation looked a bit disjointed, as it was comprised of meandering, interconnected cinder block one-story buildings and modular add-ons. These were cost effective expansions that mirrored the growth of the entire valley.

  Inside the small reception area brightly lit with fluorescent overheads, a two-inch-thick window of glass-clad polycarbonate bullet- resistant glass separated the public from the operations room, where Deputy Ramirez, mother of three and ten months from retirement, sat at the front counter. A closed and locked security door led from reception into operations. In the corner behind Ramirez sat Sgt. Hawkins, who struggled to get used to his new bifocals as he went through a mound of paperwork.

  Ramirez looked up as the two men entered and approached her window. The shorter one presented his ID by sliding it into the slot at the base of the thick, bullet resistant glass.

  “We work for the DoD and are here on official business. We’d like to speak with Doctor Wilder, please. It's an urgent matter.”

  Ramirez carefully examined the ID and compared the photo with the man standing there. She gestured for the taller man to present his ID, and he did so wordlessly. As she checked the second ID, she reached for the phone, then hesitated.

  ###

  Lou Burdette had two cast iron skillets working on an old gas stove in the break room, cooking up ground beef, onions and peppers in one while toasting corn tortillas in the other. Sky hungrily devoured a taco on his plate and washed it down with a swig of Budweiser. “Can't tell you how much I appreciate all of this, Lou.”

  “You're practically family here, you know that. Every time I called you up for a donation ta our scholarship fund, or whatever, you came through.”

  “Yes, but not because I thought I might need a favor one day.”

  “Heck, I ain't doin' you no favor, Sky. But one thing I want ta ask—”

  The lunch room wall phone rang, startling both men. Burdette answered on the second ring. “Yep?” Wilder watched as the man went stone face. “Tell ‘em I’ll be right out. And put out a ten-nineteen, return ta base fer Slim and Pablo.”

  Wilder set aside the beer. “Sounds like there's a problem.”

  “Two guys claim ta be from Joint Special Operations Command. Ramirez pushed them and they came out and said they work for Task Force Orange.”

  “Task Force Orange?”

  “Also known just as Orange, or Grey Fox, or the Army of Northern Virginia. Originally called ISA. They're the folks who prep the battlefield before Seal Team Six or Delta shows up. That's Orange. Some of the best operators America has.”

  Wilder shouldered his backpack and stood.

  “Don’t sweat it, son, nuthin’s gonna happen here.”

  “I didn't mean to bring trouble, Lou. How’d they find me, anyway? I came here in a rental, and I'm sure I wasn’t followed.” He looked at his watch, then quickly removed it and set it on the table. “They must have me wired with some kind of micro-tracker.” He started to remove a heavy gold necklace and pendant when B
urdette put a reassuring hand on his arm.

  “Hold your horses. Before you donate all your jewelry ta the Sheriff’s Benevolent Association, let me talk ta ‘em. Officially and unofficially, ya ain’t here.”

  ###

  The two Orange agents turned to observe as a harried young couple, Steve Kraus and Meg Lee, both fair-haired blondes in their late-twenties rushed into the reception room clutching a baby car seat, the child’s wail the kind of cry that signaled something was truly wrong.

  “Please, my baby’s sick, is there some hospital near here?” Meg asked plaintively, as she set the car seat on the floor

  The husband, sunburned and upset, moved toward the window, almost pushing aside the military men. “We’re from out-of-town, and this is our first child. She was choking a few minutes ago and—”

  Steve turned as he heard the sound of the baby choke, then gasp, a frantic gurgling gulp for air. “She can’t breathe!” cried Meg, panicked. “My God, help us! Does somebody know first aid?!”

  The Orange agents exchanged a wary glance, but made no move. Ramirez stood up from her stool and picked up a phone. “I’ll call for paramedics.”

  “There’s no time for that!” Kraus reached into the car carrier. “She’s not breathing!”

  The security door into the station flung open and Sgt. Hawkins stepped out saying, “I know CPR—” which were his last words ever spoken as Meg, a petite blonde, executed two perfect head shots with a silenced compact Glock 23, conveniently avoiding the sergeant’s body armor, shattering his new bifocals and knocking him sprawling back through the doorway as his brains and the back of his skull sprayed on the wall.

  As the Orange men reached for their weapons, Kraus pulled a silenced mini-Uzi from the baby car seat—the “baby” was a state-of-the-art digital recorder that produced a truly lifelike sound—and sprayed them both with nine-millimeter hollow point rounds, mortally wounding both men and drowning the bullet-resistant glass in blood so thick, the sight of a stunned Ramirez disappeared from view.