The Secret of the Stones (3 page)

Chapter
2

Atlanta,
Georgia

Tommy
Schultz sipped a white coffee while sitting in the breakfast nook of his
kitchen.  He’d learned of the drink while visiting Spain one summer.
 
It was similar to a latte except that
it was made with coffee instead of espresso.
 
It had more milk than a café con leche so the flavor was
less bitter.
 
There was a paused
look of satisfaction on his face as he savored the warm, toasty
flavor.
 
He had a lot to do today,
but no matter how busy his morning might look, there was always time for good
coffee.
 
That was something he felt
the Europeans had right.
 
They
always made time for coffee or tea, especially in the afternoons.
 
Most Americans viewed it more as an
energy drink, something to be gulped and discarded.
 
Terrible waste.

These
and other frivolous thoughts played through Schultz’s head as he finished up
the last bit of java in his cup.
 
He looked at the empty vessel with a small amount of disappointment,
wishing there were a little more.

Tommy
stood and sauntered into the kitchen, straightening his red and white striped
necktie as he moved.
 
The tie
didn’t have to be perfect since the rest of his outfit was fairly casual:
 
tan chinos with a textured white button
up and a pair of brown Sketchers.
 

Standing
by the little bistro table, he gazed for a moment at the figure in the
mirror.
 
He didn’t think he looked
old.
 
After all, he was only
thirty-three.
 
But inside he felt
much too tired for someone his age.
 

There
were only a few lines underneath his dark brown eyes, probably from the years
of being on digs in sunny, hot places.
 
The sun always made him squint.
 
It was rare that he found a gray hair in the tussle of chocolate
coloring on his head.
 
Tommy smiled
at his vanity and grabbed his keys off the table.

Tommy
Schultz had founded the International Archaeological Agency a few years
before.
 
His parents had been
fairly wealthy and when they died suddenly, Tommy had inherited
everything.
 
His career in
Archaeology had barely begun when the accident happened.
 
For a short time, he’d moped around,
trying to find his life’s direction.
 
The idea had come to him one night while sitting alone at a bar.
 
A news story about treasure hunters
played on the television.
 
He began
to wonder what it might be like if he started an agency that recovered ancient
artifacts and returned them to the rightful governments.
 
At that moment, he began planning the
IAA.
 

He
took a deep breath and suppressed the tear that was trying to sneak out of his
right eye.
 
It had been more than a
decade since Tommy’s parents had died in the accident, but from time to time,
memories crept into his mind.

Reaching
over a chair, he grabbed his computer case from the table and headed for the
door that led into the garage.
 
Out
of the corner of his eye, he noticed through the dining room window that there
was a car sitting in his driveway.
 
Curious, he stopped and walked toward the glass to see what the vehicle
was doing there.
 
It wasn’t one
that he recognized.

The
auto was a gigantic Hummer, larger than most he’d seen.
 
He wondered how anyone could drive such
a large truck and still afford the gas prices.
 
Odd, though.
 
No
one was inside it.
 

He
frowned in confusion and walked back toward the front door of the house,
half-expecting to find the driver of the vehicle about to ring the
doorbell.
 
Suddenly, an arm wrapped
around his neck from behind and squeezed tight.

From
the shadows of the hallway, a tall blonde man appeared wearing an English-style
trench coat.
 
“Hello, Mr.
Schultz.”
 
The voice sounded
German.

“What
the…” Tommy started to respond, but the arm around his neck pulled tighter,
cutting off the air he needed to breathe and speak.

“It
will all be explained to you later.
 
For now, you must come with us.”

The
tall man nodded and again the arm squeezed harder.
 
Lights and scenery started blending together in a blur.
 
He felt a small prick of pain in his
arm as a syringe injected something into his bloodstream.
 
A cool feeling eased up his arm; it was
only a few seconds before Tommy was unconscious.
 

Due
to the odd morning hours that he went in to work, no one noticed the three men
carrying Tommy’s limp body out to the truck and stuffing it in the back of the
SUV.

Chapter
3

Midtown
Atlanta

“So,
how does it affect your personal relationships to be gone so often?
 
Must be difficult to make anything last
with friends or romantic interests.
 
Or maybe you prefer it that way.”

She
looked at her victim in the khaki pants and olive green button-up
jacket with a genuinely curious glance, even though the tone of her comment had
been lathered in sarcasm.
 
Her head
was cocked to the side; a playful shimmer in her hazel eyes.
 
The sounds of coffee grinders and
cappuccino machines humming loudly in the background afforded no awkward
silence.
 

Sean
Wyatt sat, somewhat uncomfortably across from Allyson Webster, journalist for
the Atlanta Sentinel.
 
He scratched
his messy blonde hair for a moment while considering her line of
questioning.
 
The noises and the
people bustling about, enjoying their morning java, did nothing to ease his
mind.
 
She’d requested to meet with
Wyatt to ask a few questions about the International Archaeological Agency, the
driving force behind the construction of the Georgia Historical Center.
 
In fact, most of the artifacts on
display at the facility were pieces recovered by IAA agents, one of
whom in particular, had been involved on more of the recovery missions
than most.
 

Sean
was that agent and Allyson wanted to speak to him regarding some of the inner
workings of the IAA.
 
After
ordering two lattes, the two had sat down in a couple of large cushioned chairs
in the corner of the coffee shop, preferring their interview remain at least a
little private.
 

Sean
had been hesitant about answering questions regarding his job.
 
He didn’t feel like it was something
glamorous the public wanted or needed to know about.
 
There had been a few dramatic incidents, but nothing he felt
the need to reveal to the readers of the Sentinel.

For
a moment, he looked out the wall-sized window, lost in thought.  Downtown Buckhead
was busy with pedestrians and commuters hurriedly heading to work or other
appointments. Across Peachtree Street, a woman in a cream colored dress
stood staring at a storefront window, oblivious to the morning
pandemonium.

He
sipped his drink, drawing out the seconds before answering.
 
“Well, if you really want to know, I
prefer it that way,” he replied with a wry smile.

“Really?” 
Her eyes squinted in suspicion.

“Yeah.” 

“And
why is that?”

“Because
in my line of work, attachment is not a good thing.
 
I’m hardly ever home.
 
And when I am, it isn’t usually for very long; maybe a few weeks at a
time.
 
But I most definitely like
it that way.”

“So
you’re a loner?”  she asked with a lifted eyebrow.
 

A
slight snort came out of his nose to accompany the grin.
 
“I guess I am.”
 
He set the cup onto a small end table
that was positioned between the two sofa chairs.

She
returned the smirk with one of her own.
 
“Fair enough.
 
So, how about
you tell me the details of your escapades down in Peru?
 
What exactly went on down there?
 
I’ve heard some pretty interesting bits
and pieces from that little adventure.”

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 cynically.
 
“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 richly 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 Peruvian’s
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-colored jacket that had fallen open just enough to
reveal the Ruger .40 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.”
 
Her demeanor had become
exasperated.
 

“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 towards
them from across the pavement.
 
About halfway, 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 erupted 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, 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 laying on the asphalt. 

“Are
they…?”  She began.

“Yeah.”
 
He answered before she could finish her
sentence.

He
re-holstered his gun. The yellow parking lights flashed on a nearby carbon gray
1969 Camaro.
 

“We’ll
take my car,” he stated.
 

She
was too stunned and scared to disagree at this point.
 

Questions
swirled in both their heads amidst 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.