She pulled a metal object from her bag. Startled, I reared up, knocking my chair over.
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.”