Chaos (4 page)

A crushing, tingling sensation erupted from my chest.

I fell to the ground, writhing in pain. I tried to fight, tried to resist, but my body refused to respond.

As my eyes began to close, I tilted my head upward. Beverly Ginger looked down at me, hands on hips. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she gave me a saucy smile.

My vision deteriorated. Desperately, I fought to hold on to consciousness but it was a losing battle. Finally, my mind drifted away and I hurtled into darkness.

Hurtled into the unknown.

Chapter 4

As I stumbled forward, handcuffed and blinded by the coarse woolen bag tied around my head, I felt a profound sense of shame. It was the sort of shame that wrenched the gut and extended to every last cell of my body. But for once, it wasn’t caused by memories of that fateful day three years prior. No, I felt ashamed for being caught off guard.

Ashamed that I’d fallen into Beverly’s trap.

A loud scream reverberated in my ears and I ground to a halt. I didn’t recognize the voice, although I was almost certain that it was human. But I could sense its anguish, its despair. It was the cry of sheer terror.

It was the cry of insanity.

As the scream died off, softer sounds began to emerge around me, sounds that had previously escaped my attention. Tiny claws skittered against the concrete floor. A metallic object, a pipe perhaps, hissed and vibrated. Liquid dripped from above, plopping into the tiny lakes that surrounded my feet.

Something hard poked at my spine, its coldness seeping through my sweat-drenched shirt. Taking the hint, I shuffled forward, water splashing under my mud-encrusted boots.

“Where are we?”

Silence followed my question. Again. It was annoying, unnerving. Eight hours had passed since my abduction in Taganga, eight hours without a single shred of conversation. Why wouldn’t anyone talk to me? Who were these people?

Abruptly, a thin shaft of light penetrated the woolen fibers that covered my face. Twisting slightly, I aimed myself at the source and walked toward it. With each step, the light intensified, and soon I was forced to shut my eyes. But even that couldn’t stop the growing brightness.

A catcher’s mitt of a hand grabbed my shoulder. I halted and breathed deeply, inhaling the sickening odors of mildew, rotten meat, and spoiled fruit.

A lock clicked and metal scraped loudly against concrete. The light intensified again and beefy, powerful hands pushed me toward it. Gritting my teeth, I took a few awkward steps forward.

Where am I?

Almost all indications pointed to a prison. And yet, I sensed open space around me, far too much for a typical cell.

The hands grabbed my sore wrists and freed them from the handcuffs. Then, the woolen bag was torn away from my head. Blinding light flooded into my eyes.

Metal scratched against concrete and I heard a door slam behind me. Seconds later, the lock clicked.

“Hello, Mr. Reed. Please have a seat.”

The soft, fuzzy words reverberated in my ears. I didn’t recognize the voice, but I could sense its coolness, its strength. It was the voice of a leader. It was the voice of someone who wielded power.

Tremendous power.

“Give me a second,” I muttered. “It’s a tad bright in here.”

“Of course. Take your time.”

Rubbing my eyes, I racked my brain for a strategy. The man in front of me held my future in his hands. The right words, delivered with the right attitude might save my life. They might even give me back my freedom. But the wrong words or the wrong tone could worsen an already miserable situation.

As my eyes adjusted to the light, I lifted my head and prepared to speak. But the room in front of me took my breath away.

Dark wooden paneling covered the walls while an elaborate oriental carpet adorned the floor. Fine wooden tables, tall bookshelves filled with dusty volumes, and expensive sofas were tastefully positioned throughout the space. Antique lamps cast ridiculously soft light throughout the room, far softer than I’d realized. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought I was in a mansion.

I lowered my eyes to the polished wooden desk that sat in front of me. A thin muscular man sat behind it, bathed in patches of light and shadow cast by the various lamps throughout the room. His eyes were small and brown, matching the mop of hair that topped his lined, tanned face. He wore an expensive pinstriped suit, complete with a dark red tie and white gloves over his hands. Every inch of him, except for his head, was covered with clothing.

He was a man of obvious wealth and power, a man who knew how to get what he wanted. But I wasn’t intimidated.

At least not totally.

“Nice room,” I said nonchalantly. “Where are we exactly?”

“A little ostentatious perhaps, but it serves my needs,” he replied. “As for our location, well, that’s my secret.”

“Who are you?”

“It’s Cyclone right? Cyclone Reed? Why don’t you sit down? We have much to discuss.”

I remained standing. “Call me Cy. Who are you?”

“Jack Chase.”

“Nice to meet you. Now, can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t march over there and beat the crap out of you?” I watched him carefully, looking for signs of fear or adrenaline. But I saw nothing.

Instead, he leaned over the desk, picked up a crystal tumbler, and sipped it. I’d met some cool customers before, but Chase was in a league of his own.

After a moment, he set the tumbler back on the desk. “My apologies. We were a little disingenuous with you.”

“Disingenuous? More like blatantly dishonest. Your girl hired me to retrieve a priceless artifact under false pretenses. Did she even manage the previous dig or was that just a lie?”

“She works for me. However, I’m arranging for the artifact you recovered to be delivered to the real archaeologist.”

“That’s comforting,” I replied scornfully. “Oh, by the way, did she tell you the hell I went through to acquire that thing? And how she rewarded me with a Tasering?”

“Beverly can be a bit of a handful,” he shrugged. “But she gets results. I asked her to test your limits, to see how far she could push you. And I must say, I’m extremely impressed.”

Chase’s icy demeanor frustrated me. At the same time, I couldn’t help but feel curious about his motives. I sat down in a hand-carved wooden chair. “What do you want?”

He held up a bottle and a tumbler. “Scotch?”

“Sure.”

He poured me a glass and passed it across the desk. Then he opened a file and flipped through it.

“Cyclone Reed,” he read aloud. “Approximately thirty years old. Born and raised in New York City. PhD from New York University. Worked as a historical archaeologist, specializing in cities or, if you will, urban archaeology.”

“Do you want my autograph?”

He closed the file and stared at me. “Tell me, why did a highly touted urban archaeologist, once viewed as the second-coming of Hiram Bingham III, leave it all behind to become a treasure hunter?”

“Mid-life crisis?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’ve got my file,” I replied. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Three years ago, there was an incident. One week later, you were gone.”

My expression hardened. “Is that so?”

“Yes. And since then, you’ve been on the move, traveling from country to country, never staying in one place for more than a few months. You eke out a living by retrieving lost or stolen artifacts. But as far as I can tell, you’re extremely discerning about the jobs you take.”

“Not discerning enough, apparently.”

“You’re a treasure hunter,” he continued. “Yet you retain the soul of an archaeologist.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for the psychoanalysis. Now, it’s my turn. You’re a wealthy executive who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. People are pawns to you. You think nothing of kidnapping an innocent man and holding him against his will. In short, you’re a powerful man. Yet you retain the soul of a coward.”

He leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs. “I see that I owe you an explanation. I’m the founder, owner, and CEO of a small security-consulting firm named ShadowFire. We’re headquartered out of Manhattan. I’m also the acting Chairman of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority.”

I laughed. “The MTA? New York’s MTA? You must be joking.”

“It’s not a joke. The previous chairman passed away less than a month ago. I’m assuming the reins until a more suitable replacement can be found.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“I want to hire you.”

“Pass.”

“That’s too bad. Because I think I can help you.”

“Help me? You must be out of your mind.”

“You have hefty legal charges pending due to the, ah, incident. I can make that disappear and provide you with a generous stipend to boot. In other words, I can give you a blank slate. How does that sound?”

“Too good to be true.”

He smiled, a bit too widely for my liking. “I know what you’re thinking but I can assure you there’s no catch. Upon successful completion of the assignment, my lawyers will negotiate with the necessary parties to clear your legal record. In addition, we will provide you with a substantial dowry. One million dollars to be exact.”

One million dollars. That was mouth-watering, life-altering money. But I didn’t like the strings attached to it. “Not interested.”

“Just hear me out.”

Obviously, he wasn’t going to give up. And anyway, I wasn’t in much of a position to bargain. “Okay,” I replied after a moment. “I’m listening. What’s the assignment?”

Chase lifted an old color Polaroid from the desk and passed it to me. The faded image depicted a strange-looking fellow, with puffy eyes, a bulbous nose, and misshapen shoulders.

Sort of like the love child of an ostrich and an ape.

“His name is Dr. Karl Hartek,” Chase said. “He was a German physicist during the Second World War.”

“What happened to him?”

“He emigrated to the United States in 1945, shortly after the surrender of Nazi Germany. He was a part of Operation Paperclip.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It was a program designed by the Office of Strategic Services. With the war coming to an end, America was already looking ahead to the Cold War. So, they recruited former Nazi scientists to come to America. After several months of interviews in Cape Canaveral, Hartek was relocated to Manhattan. He vanished a few years later.”

“So what?”

“My researchers have linked Hartek to the
Organisation der ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen
, or ODESSA. ODESSA was a postwar network designed to help SS members escape the Allies. It also enabled those same SS members to transport Nazi resources out of Germany.”

I shrugged. “Does this story have a point?”

“I’m getting to it. Although he was just a scientist, Hartek apparently held influence within the SS. As such, ODESSA entrusted him with a substantial treasure after he was forcibly immigrated to America.”

“What happened to it?”

“Nobody knows for certain. However, two months ago, a man walked into a Manhattan pawnshop. He attempted to sell a gold bar, which displayed the markings of the
Deutsche Reichsbank
. Naturally, it raised the proprietor’s suspicions. The proprietor called the police, but the man fled before help could arrive. Eventually, the story came across my desk and I was able to confirm that the serial number on the bar matched that of a gold bar distributed by ODESSA to Hartek many years ago.”

“Do you have a lead on this man?”

Chase passed me another photograph. The lines were fuzzy and it lacked color, but I could easily make out the picture of an older man. He exhibited good posture. A fierce scowl was etched across his face. His hair looked dark and bushy. Although clearly advanced in years, his eyes maintained a spark of vitality that gave me pause.

I frowned as I passed it back to him. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you have a lead on him?”

“Fingerprints at the scene confirmed his identity as Fred Jenson. He served during World War II. After the war, he returned to Brooklyn for a short while before going off-grid. This is the first time he’s surfaced in decades.”

“Off-grid? Where does he live?”

“Underground,” Chase replied with a wily grin. “About one hundred feet under the streets of Manhattan, to be precise.”

I tightened involuntarily and then forced myself to relax, cursing myself for being so transparent. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“So you want me to find him for you?”

“Obviously, we’ve done our research on you. In your previous life, you conducted an archaeological study of New York’s subway tunnels, did you not?”

“Well, a section of them. But –”

“Then, you’re the perfect man for the job.” He paused to take a breath. “According to the pawn shop proprietor, Jenson said that he knew where to find more gold bars. He indicated that they were very close to where he lived. I want to hire you to find him as well as Hartek’s treasure.”

I held up my hand. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking. New York has hundreds of miles of subway tunnels and thousands of miles of sewers. And that doesn’t even include naturally formed underground spaces.”

“I know it won’t be easy. That’s why we’re willing to pay you handsomely for your efforts.”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m going to spend the next few weeks dodging trains just so you can get a little bit richer.”

“I’m not going to keep the treasure. On the contrary, I’m planning to return it to its rightful owners.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I have an interest in righting the wrongs of the past.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that.”

He sighed. “My father was an American soldier. He died during World War II when I was just an infant. I think he’d appreciate my tiny effort at obtaining justice.”

His face betrayed his steady voice. There was something else driving him, a reason he didn’t want to share. I considered pressing him on it but ultimately, decided to forget it. “Aren’t you worried I’ll steal the treasure?”

“I doubt you could, even if you wanted to. We believe that ODESSA supplied Hartek with nearly half a ton of gold.”