The Roswell Conspiracy (3 page)

“I don’t understand.” Her gaze lingered on the bag holding the equipment Colchev had requested. “How will Icarus make this operation possible?”

Colchev tilted his head as if considering a decision. “Are you sure you want to be a part of this?”

She had reached him. Now she had to delve into his mission. “Are you planning an attack?”

He smiled. “I am planning to strike a blow that will change the course of history and Russia’s place in it. I have—”

Colchev’s phone buzzed. He stood and picked up the bag. This was it, as soon as he left the café, the operatives would move in and grab him.

But instead of leaving, he put the bag on his seat and held up a finger. “Excuse me while I take this call. Then I’ll share my plans with you.”

He stepped away to a pillar by the side of restaurant, just out of earshot.

“Can you hear anything?” she said without moving her lips.

“Nothing,” one operative said.

“Keep an eye on him,” said another.

“He won’t leave without the bag,” Bedova said. “He needs it for some reason, and he’s about to tell us why.”

Bedova felt a rush of air blow by her, and the swift hand of a bicyclist snatched the bag from Colchev’s seat. He threw the satchel over his shoulder and pedaled away furiously, scattering yelling pedestrians in every direction.

The thief, who was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, must have thought it was Bedova’s luggage carelessly placed across from her, but he would get a rude surprise when he saw that it held no money, jewelry, or electronics.

Before she could call for help, the other operatives were shouting in her ear.

“Get him!”

“He’s too fast!”

“Cut him off!”

The operative seated at the café tried to jump across the railing to stop the cyclist, but he was too late, as were the agents in the walkway and the one bursting out of the restaurant’s interior.

Bedova knew that Colchev would be just as concerned with retrieving the sack, but when she turned, she couldn’t see him. The wail of an alarm coming from that direction cut through the other noises.

“What happened to Colchev?” she said.

“He was right there a moment ago!” came the harried reply. “I looked away for a second, and then he was gone.”

Bedova grabbed the envelope and leaped out of her chair. She ran through the café to see a fire exit from the adjoining apartment tower click shut. The alarm it had tripped continued to shriek. Because it was a metal door with no exterior handle, someone inside must have opened it for Colchev.

Only then did she realize that the whole scenario had been a setup. Colchev had chosen the restaurant, no doubt paying off the waiter to steer Bedova toward the seat she’d taken. He had used the cyclist as a distraction, giving him enough time to duck into the building.

She took off after the other men chasing the rider, who disappeared around the corner of the building.

Pumping her arms, she sprinted after him, rounding the building not far behind the other agents. As the cyclist came into view, she saw him dump the bike at Macquarie Street. A van screeched to a halt next to him. He hopped in and the van sped away.

She heard it stop again only a few seconds later. She kept running, and when she got to the street, she could see Colchev climbing into the van. He caught sight of her and gave her a wave. He mouthed “
Spasebo
” and the door shut. The van accelerated and whipped around the corner.

“Did you see the plate?” one agent said.

“Don’t bother,” Bedova replied. “It’ll be a stolen number.”

Their own van arrived a minute later, but by now the trail was too cold. Colchev could be heading in any one of six directions.

Bedova patted the envelope in her pocket and withdrew it. She opened it to find a stack of hundred-dollar Australian bills. They were wrapped in a white sheet of notepaper.

She unfolded it and saw Colchev’s handwriting.

I don’t blame you for trying, Nadia, because you are a patriot, too. But don’t get in my way again.

THREE

Tyler was surprised when the men who’d attacked Fay didn’t jump into their car and drive away, instead taking up positions covering both sides of the house with their pistols. Tyler, Grant, and Fay had retreated to the top floor to wait there until the cavalry arrived. The only time she had left them was to duck into the living room and retrieve a canvas satchel that now sat by her side.

“Have you ever fired a Remington twelve-gauge, dear?” Fay said to Grant. The weapon that had loomed like a howitzer in Fay’s hands looked like a pea shooter in Grant’s.

“I’ve handled a few in my day,” Grant replied.

“He was in the Army Ranger Regiment,” Tyler said. “He could shoot an RPG if you had one.”

“No, the New Zealand government won’t let us own those, I’m afraid,” Fay said. Tyler didn’t know whether or not she was seriously chastising her adopted country for not allowing her to own a rocket-propelled grenade until she winked at him.

“You don’t have any more ammo, do you?” Grant asked. “We’re down to four shells.”

“No. It was my husband’s gun, God rest his soul, and I hadn’t fired it in years until today.”

Fay’s initial calm demeanor hadn’t been an act. Once they’d heard that the police were on their way, Tyler had expected her to collapse from the strain. Instead, she’d methodically related the events preceding their stumble through the front door, although she did give Grant the shotgun, which he kept trained on the stairwell.

Fay had been traveling in the US for the past two weeks, and she had returned to Queenstown that morning, in time for her meeting with Tyler. Five minutes after she got home, two men knocked at the door. New Zealand normally being a safe place, Fay didn’t think twice about letting them in, especially when they said they were there representing Tyler Locke, who unfortunately wasn’t going to be able to come himself.

The men, both of whom spoke with American accents, seemed to know everything about the meeting, including the ten o’clock appointment they’d set, so she showed them her artifacts from Roswell. The lean blond man who’d shot at Tyler and Grant called himself Foreman, and the other one, a hulking giant sporting a black goatee, went by the name of Blaine. They wanted to know whether she’d ever come in contact with an opalescent metallic material, and she told them she honestly didn’t know what they were talking about.

Fay was already beginning to suspect their motives when she went into the kitchen to fetch a pot of tea and saw Tyler’s text message that he would be early.

Calling from the kitchen, she asked Foreman and Blaine where Tyler was, and they claimed he hadn’t been able to make the trip from America. Instead of coming back with a tray of Earl Grey and scones, she entered the living room holding the shotgun.

The men put up their hands and moved as if to leave, but one of them drew a pistol, and that’s when the shooting started.

“I guess those two will think twice before underestimating an old lady again,” she said.

Fay certainly didn’t fit the image of an elderly pensioner. Tyler guessed she kept herself fit working the sheep station. Her hands were callused and she had lines on her face from being outdoors in the sun, but the sweater she wore left no doubt that she had some muscle on her bones, holding the shotgun with ease. She was the antithesis of a doddering grandmother.

“I wouldn’t mess with you,” Tyler said. “Plus you seem pretty fresh for someone who slept on a plane last night.”

“Try Ambien. It does wonders for a person. Fourteen hours from LA through Auckland, and not a bit of jet lag. You should try it the next time you travel.”

“As long as Tyler isn’t the one doing the flying,” Grant said.

“Oh, are you a pilot?” When Tyler nodded, she patted his arm and then gave it a squeeze, feeling his bicep. “You are a catch, aren’t you? Smart, good-looking,
and
talented. If I were forty years younger, I’d save you for myself.”

Tyler didn’t know what that meant, but he felt himself blushing. Grant chuckled and shook his head.

“Maybe we should get back to focusing on the two men with guns outside,” Tyler said. The car hadn’t started, so he guessed they hadn’t gone far. “How long before the police get here?”

“About ten more minutes, give or take.”

“They’ll leave as soon as they hear the sirens. It would be suicide for them to make a frontal assault.”

“Their whole plan seems risky,” Grant said. “Why aren’t they leaving already?”

“Fay, do you know why they wanted your artifacts?” Tyler asked.

Fay shook her head and clutched her satchel tightly. “I don’t. Only my granddaughter has seen what’s in here.”

“Would she have told someone about it?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I know why they aren’t leaving,” Grant said with a sniff. “Do you smell that?”

Tyler saw the first wisps of smoke curling up the stairwell, followed by the crackle of flames from the back of the house.

“I’ll call 111 back and tell them to send a fire engine,” Grant said as he handed the shotgun to Tyler and pulled out his phone. “And I’ll get something to cover our faces.” He went into the hallway bathroom.

For the first time, Fay lost her composure. Her face seethed with rage. “Those bastards set my house on fire! I should have killed them when I had the chance.”

Tyler crabbed to the rear window and poked his head up. The back door was engulfed in fire. “Did you have any accelerants outside?”

Fay thought for a moment, then nodded. “Lighter fluid for the barbecue.”

“That must be what they used. The cedar siding will go up fast.”

“If they came for my Roswell artifacts, why do they want to burn them now?”

Tyler shrugged. He was just as confused by the situation as Fay.

Smoke billowed through the hallway. He and Fay crouched to get under the thickest of it.

Tyler edged over to the front window and took a peek. He saw Blaine run around from the back of the house and take up a spot behind the Toyota. At this distance the shotgun would be at a severe disadvantage. Instead of solid slugs, the gun was loaded with birdshot, which had a minimal effective range. There was no way to get all three of them to the Audi safely.

Blaine reared back and threw a glass container with a lit rag protruding from it.

The front of the house burst into flames. Now they were trapped from both sides. They’d all succumb to smoke inhalation long before the police arrived if they stayed inside, but jumping through one of the windows would make them easy targets.

Grant came back from a bathroom with wet hand towels to put over their noses and mouths.

“The firefighters are on the way,” Grant said, “but it’ll be a while. I suggest we get out of here.”

Tyler remembered the tire tracks leading to the garage. “Do you have a car, Fay?”

“A Land Rover. We can get to it from the kitchen.”

That’s what Tyler had been hoping to hear. Since the garage was attached to the house, they wouldn’t have to go outside to get in the vehicle.

“We’ll have to risk a getaway,” Tyler said. “Let’s go before we can’t breathe.”

They all scooted down the stairs. Fay grabbed Tyler’s hand. “This way.”

The three of them scuttled to a door in the kitchen. They had to shield themselves from the flying shards of glass as the back windows shattered from the heat. When they entered the dark garage, Fay slapped a set of keys into Tyler’s hand.

“Your reflexes are probably quicker than mine.”

Tyler gave the shotgun to Grant. “See if you can take one of them out when we pass.”

They scrambled into the SUV, Tyler in the driver’s seat, Fay in the passenger seat, and Grant in the back.

“Ready?” Tyler said, the key already in the ignition.

Grant thumbed the window switch. “Ready.”

Fay clicked her seat belt and nodded.

“Okay,” Tyler said, “everyone keep your heads down.”

Tyler started the engine and flicked the transmission into drive. He didn’t bother with the garage door opener. He slammed his foot to the floorboard, and the Land Rover’s nose tore into the aluminum door, wrenching it from its tracks. Flames licked at the truck as they sped out, the garage door still clinging to the hood until a flick of the steering wheel sent it flying.

The gunmen were crouching behind the Toyota, ready for their quarry to pile out in a panic away from the fire at the back of the house. It only took a moment for them to refocus their aim, but it was enough time for Grant to lay down some covering fire. Two quick blasts disintegrated the Toyota’s rear window and pockmarked the quarter panel.

Tyler checked the rearview mirror and saw that one of the men had been hit by a couple of pellets. The slight injury did no more than cause him to curse loudly and return fire, his pistol cracking as bullets plunked into the back of the Land Rover.

In this snow there was no way the two-wheel-drive Toyota sedan would be able to keep up with the four-wheel-drive SUV, so Tyler intended to gain a lead and rendezvous with the police, who should be on their way up the mountain.

It sounded like a great plan until a pistol shot behind them was followed by a loud thump from under the vehicle. A bullet had punctured the right rear tire. The Land Rover’s back end swerved sideways as Tyler struggled to maintain control. Now he not only had to outrun their trigger-happy pursuers, but he would have to fight the SUV’s insistent urge to plunge off the snowy cliff-side road into the river far below.

FOUR

Morgan Bell wasn’t getting much cooperation from Charles Kessler, Lightfall’s project lead. That pissed her off.

“Dr. Kessler, we have full authorization to be here,” she said, pointing at her credentials. It stated that she was a special agent with the Air Force’s Office of Special Investigations.

Kessler peered at her ID in mock studiousness. “Never heard of OSI.”

“That doesn’t matter. I know you’ve been contacted by our superiors about our investigation and that you were instructed to give your full cooperation. We need to talk. Now.”

By “we” she meant herself and her partner, Vince Cameron, who stood next to her watching a dozen laboratory technicians carefully packing equipment into shipping crates. Their voices echoed from the Wright-Patterson lab’s high ceiling. Morgan had visited the sprawling Dayton, Ohio Air Force base many times, but she’d never been inside this building.