The Ancient Breed (5 page)

“As soon as I’ve examined
your
information,” Nick answered.

“Make it quick. This place gives me the creeps.”

Nick agreed but didn’t admit it to Jim.

“Here.” Before Jim could hand over his envelope, he and the vital information were shredded by automatic gunfire from the open doorway behind Nick.

Nick spun and fired at the moonlit silhouette. The shooter collapsed but was replaced by another before his corpse hit the ground. The new shooter was armed with an AK-47 and lit up the old warehouse like it was the Fourth of July. Nick rolled behind the crates and attempted to return the man’s fire, but the shooter marked Nick’s position and kept him pinned down with a continuous stream of bullets.

While the shooter reloaded, Nick heard clacking footsteps somewhere behind him; that meant reinforcements were taking flanking positions. Sweat erupted on his forehead as another fusillade splintered the wooden crates above him. He had to move. Now. Before it was too late.

He leaped up and fired wildly toward the entrance as he retreated deeper into the warehouse. A new bullet barrage blistered the crates and clanged off the machine parts. The bullets ricocheted in all directions, and one of them grazed Nick’s left forearm. He swore loudly, but the staccato firing masked his careless outburst.

Another stream of bullets from his left pinned him to the floor. A new shooter! The terrorists were rapidly closing for the kill. That left him only one avenue of escape –up.

He easily scaled the closest stack of crates, finding numerous foot and handholds for his ascent. When he reached the top, he lay prone, caught his breath and surveyed the entire area for enemy movements and rifle laser beams. The figure in the doorway abandoned his position and ran a serpentine route to Jim Lonedeer’s lifeless form. The AK-47 shooter kicked the defector in the ribs to be certain he was dead. Satisfied, he yanked the tattered envelope from Jim’s frozen hand, tucked it beneath his belt and advanced toward Nick’s previous position behind the crates.

Another AK-47 shooter swiftly closed in from the opposite direction, hoping to team with his partner and catch Nick in a deadly crossfire. Nick heard them speaking. Microphone headsets! Nick chastised himself for not anticipating it. Their movements within the dark warehouse were too well coordinated to be dumb luck. He checked the huge labyrinth for other terrorists but came up empty. A corner of his mouth rose. One against two. He could handle those odds.

The men were now ten feet from his previous position. He peered over the edge of the crate and slowly, quietly targeted the terrorists. He desperately needed Lonedeer’s envelope. He couldn’t afford to miss. Some Washington hotshot’s life depended on his success.

Of course, Nick wanted to save his own skin, too, and for that to happen he needed to steady his nerves and fire his trusty Glock swiftly and accurately. That meant ignoring the searing pain in his forearm and the discomfort of his blood-soaked shirtsleeve. If he misfired the first time, the two shooters would shred his ass into ground beef before he could get off a second shot.

He chanced another peek at the shooters. They were sitting ducks. It was now or never.

Nick targeted the first shooter, inhaled slowly, held his breath and squeezed the trigger. Before the flash and echoing explosion died, one of the men jerked backwards against a crate and slid to the floor. The second shooter spun around, uncertain where the gunshot came from. Nick bit his bottom lip from the escalating pain in his arm, sighted the other man and was about to squeeze-off a shot when he detected movement to his right. A third terrorist sat cross-legged atop a crate in an adjacent stack and pointed his handgun’s beady-eyed barrel directly at Nick’s forehead.

Instinctively, Nick barrel-rolled to his left and fired. His bullet slammed into the third shooter’s chest and knocked him over the edge. His flailing corpse crashed with a sickening thud on the concrete floor.

Nick immediately glanced down and saw the first AK-47 shooter sprinting through the open doorway. In a second, he and Lonedeer’s envelope were gone.

“Damn!” Nick shouted.

Nick’s forearm burned like a three-alarm fire as he descended through the gun-smoke haze and staggered to Jim Lonedeer’s body. He flicked on his flashlight, jammed his thumb against the Indian’s neck and felt his carotid for a pulse. Suddenly, Lonedeer’s hand flew up and crushed Nick’s bleeding forearm!

“Tampa,” he hissed breathlessly.

Nick nearly fainted from the intense pain. “What?” he groaned.

Jim raised his head; his bulging eyes appeared ready to explode. “Tampa,” he hissed. “Walking . . . man.”

“Tampa,” Nick repeated through clenched teeth. “Walking man?”

“Walking . . .”

Lonedeer’s head and hand slumped against the concrete. Nick checked again for a pulse but there was none. He closed the Indian’s eyelids, crumpled to the floor and managed to phone the office for an ambulance and an
Orion Sector
sweep-and-clean team before he lost consciousness.

The
Orion Sector
medical squad arrived to find both men lying in a single lake of blood. Leaving the Indian’s body for the sweep-and-clean team, the paramedics bandaged Nick’s forearm, administered a shot of antibiotics and sped him to the closest hospital.

Nick awoke en route, called his office and demanded that the computer department have a complete dossier on Jim Lonedeer on his desk tomorrow morning by ten sharp. The paramedic frowned at Nick’s physical exertion, but the
Orion Sector
Director stared him down.

Nick dreaded his next call – to Rance Osborne, FBI Director. His boss would have a few choice words for him, because Nick had sidestepped official bureau policy by meeting with a suspected terrorist without back up. Of course, this wasn’t the first time Nick had blown-off an official policy during an investigation, but this was the first time that he actually felt
guilty
about it. A government official’s life remained at risk.

He punched Rance’s home phone number into his satellite phone and pressed
Call
. He turned away from the paramedic. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

4

T

he next morning, a stiff gulf breeze whistled through the open sliding glass door into the suite where Blossom and Clay were examining the gold chest. The sheers fluttered and billowed inward with each gust, but they failed to distract the couple. Their attention was directed on the problem of how to open the locked chest, so they could search the interior for any objects that might identify its ancient owner. Blossom photographed the chest numerous times from every conceivable angle with her digital camera, but even the close-ups failed to pick-up any clues that they might have missed with their own eyes.

The phone jangled and they both flinched. Blossom snatched the receiver before the second ring.

“Professor Anders! Thanks for returning my call so quickly,” Blossom said excitedly and immediately proceeded to detail their dive and discovery.

“That’s amazing!” Professor Anders said after Blossom finished. “Don’t force the chest open. We’ll get a locksmith to open it when I arrive tomorrow.”

Blossom’s eyes were large brown marbles. “You’re coming here?”

“As luck would have it, I got another call today to inspect a construction site not far from Pirates Cove.”

“A construction site?”

“Seems the construction workers found some bones. Actually, a lot of bones.”

“But why bring in an archeologist, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Professor Anders laughed. “Seems some of the bones they found are human and others are not so human. Or so they say.”

Blossom gasped. “You mean the bones might belong to an undiscovered species?”

“I highly doubt it, but I’m going to meet them at the site in the morning. Are you and Clay going to be around tomorrow afternoon?”

“Sure.”

“How about I swing by your motel around three?”

“Perfect.” Blossom gave her the directions to their motel and hung up.

Clay wrapped his arms around her and squeezed gently. “You didn’t tell the professor that we’re engaged.”

“Oh God, you’re right. I was so surprised that she was coming down to see us that everything else kinda slipped my mind.” She kissed him. “I’m sorry.”

“Not much of an apology,” he said, feigning a pout.

Blossom shoved him backwards and he fell across the bed. She grinned seductively.

“I’ve got a much better apology planned, big boy.” She slipped her shirt over her head, tossed it on the dresser and displayed her bare breasts.

There was a knock at the door.

“Maintenance,” the voice in the hall announced.

“Shit!” Blossom exclaimed and tugged the shirt back on. She strode out of the bedroom. “Sorry,” she mouthed to Clay and opened the door.

Three armed men slammed against the door, knocking Blossom to the floor behind it, and rushed inside. One of the intruders grabbed her shoulder, roughly yanked her to her feet and smothered her mouth with his large hand. The other two pointed their guns at Clay, who stood in the bedroom doorway and helplessly watched the stranger manhandle his fiancée.

“Hands behind your head or die!” a short man with a shaved head and a maze of tattoos curtly ordered. Clay complied reluctantly, his anxious eyes never leaving Blossom.

The first man into the suite removed his hand from Blossom’s mouth and forced her down onto the loveseat.

“Scream and your boyfriend dies,” he growled.

Suddenly, Blossom recognized her attacker. “Jay!” she whispered. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The man she referred to as Jay glowered at her. “Catching my girl cheating with pretty boy there.”

Anger displaced her fear. “Dammit, I’m not your girl and I haven’t been for over eight months. I told you that we were through and I meant it. So get it through your thick head that . . .”

Jay bent and slapped her face. Clay lunged forward, but the tattoo man gave him a solid uppercut to the solar plexus that knocked the air from his lungs. Clay doubled over, gasping for breath.

Jay glanced at Clay and then the tattoo man. “The next time pretty boy moves, shoot him.”

“No!” Blossom shouted, and Jay slapped her again.

“Cheatin’ bitch!” he yelled. “You and me were made for each other, promised to each other by the tribal elders, but here you are sleazin’ around with a white man. A goddammed
white man
! Us Indians got to stick together, Blossom. Can’t have no white man thinnin’ our bloodlines.”

She gingerly touched her face and felt the heat swell her cheek beneath her fingers. “You’re crazy, Jay,” she said softly, “and that’s why I left you. There was a time at Nebraska University when you were actually . . . civil . . . kind, but that changed when you abandoned your circle of friends for
them
.” She pointed at the tattoo man and the tall thin blonde man with pale blue eyes.

Blossom studied Jay. Yes, the two of them had been a romantic “item” since junior high school, but Jay grew increasingly distant and secretive the past two and a half years. He would mysteriously disappear on weeknights and over long weekends while she stayed in the dormitory alone, waiting and worrying. When he did return, he refused to tell her where he’d been. All Blossom could get out of him was that his frequent absences were connected to activities on behalf of the oppressed Indians and other minorities everywhere. He bragged that he was going to be part of some kind of worldwide revolution, and until then she would just have to trust and support him. Maybe some day, he said, she would be invited to join their cause.

Of course, she had no intention of joining any radical organization so she transferred universities and left him alone with his faction.

Jay Walkingman’s long black braids were shaved to stubble, and a merciless countenance displaced his former warm and smiling one. Hate plowed deep furrows into his forehead and at the corners of his eyes; his formerly sensuous lips were reduced to terse, cruelly drawn lines.

Blossom sighed. So many changes, but yet he obviously still cared enough to seek her out. His love – or lust – for her remained constant despite the other major changes in his life.

Or had it? Blossom suddenly got some bad vibes about the situation. Perhaps he thought of her as a possession, not a person. If that was the case, he wouldn’t be content with just reclaiming her. Following Jay’s twisted logic, he’d have to dispatch his competition. For good.

That morbid conjecture iced her flesh and roiled her stomach.

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you? I can read it in your face, sweet Blossom,” he smiled. “You’re right, I am crazy – crazy like a fox. I’m an important part of something big. Something so big that it will shift the world’s attention to our righteous cause. Bring the world to its knees like a cheap whore. Governments will be begging to meet our demands,” Jay boasted.

“Sounds terrific. I’m so proud of you,” she said sarcastically. “So why are you here instead of bringing the world to its knees? You expecting us to join your cause? Or is your big plan to bully the world, two people at a time?”

When Jay raised his hand to strike her again, she defiantly awaited the blow and made no move to avoid it. He lowered his hand.

“You’re going to see it all, Blossom. You’re going to be a part of our cause, whether you like it or not.”

“Part of what cause?”

“Patience, my love. Next week, you’ll be singing our praises,” Jay predicted.

“You sound like a common terrorist to me,” Clay said. “Leave Blossom here and take me with you instead.”

“I ain’t no queer, white boy!” he snapped. “Why would I want
you
in my bed?”

Clay lunged forward again, but quickly stopped when he felt the cold barrel of the tattoo man’s gun pressed hard against his ear.

“Just stay out of this, white pig!” Jay growled and turned toward his blonde companion whose eyes were dull expressionless orbs. “Get the chest, Lonny.”

Lonny jostled Clay on his way to the bedroom.

“No!” Blossom objected. “Not that! It has historical relevance.”

“To me, it has financial relevance. Now stand up. We’re leaving,” Jay ordered brusquely.

“I will not,” Blossom replied obdurately.

“You mean you’d rather stay here with your white-bread fiancé?”

“How do you know about that?”

Jay laughed. “I watched the entire touching engagement scene from my boat yesterday.”

“You’re a Peeping Tom these days, too?”