He hit the bottom of the grave with a jarring thud. The impact increased the burning pain in his chest for a second. He winced and clutched one of the wounds. His body reacted by forcing a cough.
This is it, he thought. His mind wandered to Adriana, the woman he loved. She was back in Madrid, visiting relatives. He didn't think that when she left for the airport it would be the last time he saw her. Then his thoughts drifted to Tommy, his lifelong friend. Tommy wouldn't know what happened either. Sean's body would be covered up and left for time to forget.
Suddenly, another weapon fired from somewhere behind the grave.
It was a hunting rifle based on the sound. Sean struggled to breathe; the pain in his chest felt like two knives were jammed into his lungs.
The new weapon fired again.
Then he heard the SUV's engine rev to life. The sounds of the vehicle speeding away through the snow echoed down into the shallow hole.
Sean's vision started to blur, and a chill began creeping into his bones. He felt the cold metal of the pistol in his hand, and he held it up to defend himself from whoever was still on the ground above.
"Hello?" a gruff voice shouted. "You in the grave. You still alive?"
Sean tried to answer, but all he could muster was a faint squeak. He could feel warmth spreading across his chest as blood leaked from his body.
Just before he lost consciousness, he saw a silhouette of a man in a long black coat standing over him. Then everything went dark.
Sean's eyes cracked open. He didn't feel cold anymore. Instead, his body was embraced by a strange warmth. He coughed and closed his eyes again. The pain in his chest wasn't as bad as before. He tried to turn his head, but the movement caused his vision to spin for a second.
"Where… where am I?" he whispered through cracked lips.
His nostrils filled with the smell of smoke. A dim orange light flickered from the corner of his eye, and he realized wherever he was had a fireplace. He tried to open his eyes wider, but the lids felt caked together. He raised his right hand and rubbed his eyes for a moment until his sight cleared.
Sean surveyed the room, taking in his surroundings. He was in an old log cabin, lying on a sofa. The fire crackled in the hearth on the opposite side of the living room — about twelve feet away. He could see the kitchen off to the right. There was a doorway nearby, just behind his head, though he couldn't maneuver enough to see what else was there. He looked down and noticed the IV in his wrist. A stand with a bag of clear liquid hanging from it was propped up next to the couch.
"Whose cabin is this?" he asked himself. "Doctor Quinn?"
"Not hardly," a man's voice answered from the shadows.
Startled, Sean attempted to sit up, but vertigo took hold once more and forced him to keep his head on the pillow.
"Who are you? Where am I? What do you want with me?"
The gravelly voice chuckled. "You sure do ask a lot of questions for a dead guy."
Sean knew he wasn't dead. That didn't change the fact he had zero ideas as to where he was.
Before he could say anything, his host spoke up again.
"You're lucky I came around. Those guys were bent on killing you." The voice had a Southern draw to it — definitely out of place in this part of the country. "So how's about you answer my questions first. That is, if you're feeling up to it."
Sean's body still felt heavy. He was too weak to move or protest.
"What do you want to know?"
"That's more like it. The name's Jack. Jack Scoggins. What's your name?"
Sean sighed. "Wyatt. Sean Wyatt. I work for—"
"Now hold your horses, Son. I didn't ask who you worked for. Truth is I don't rightly care. What I do care about is why those men wanted you dead. You a criminal? Was this some kind of Mafia hit?"
A chuckle escaped Sean's lips. The brief spat of laughter sent a fresh jolt of pain through his chest and turned to coughing.
"No," he said finally. "I'm not a criminal. Like I was saying, I work for the International Archaeological Agency in Atlanta."
"Okay. Pardon me for being a bit skeptical, but why on earth would a group of men armed like those fellas want to execute an archaeologist? Did you have some sort of treasure they wanted?"
Sean struggled to keep from laughing again. "No. Nothing like that. And I'm not technically an archaeologist. I just enjoy history. My job is research and security. I find lost relics and bring them in for further study, stuff like that."
Jack didn't respond for a moment. Sean figured he was assessing the explanation.
"What brings you to this part of the country? Kind of remote out here. I can't imagine there's much in the way of archaeology going on around these parts."
"Looking… for a clue," Sean said, struggling to get the words out. He was so weak, even the act of talking took a concerted effort.
"Clue?"
"Yeah. I'm on a mission from the president. He found a letter in the White House that had to do with William Seward. I thought I'd poke around the Seward museum and estate to see what I could find."
"Looks like what you found was trouble," Jack said.
"So it would seem."
Sean heard the wooden floor creak under slow, heavy footsteps. A man with a thick gray beard appeared in the light of the fireplace, standing five feet from the couch. His eyes were lively and green, seemingly out of place in the older man's face.
"Nice to meet you," Sean said. He glanced down at the IV in his wrist. "I guess you have some kind of medical training. This is a clean line."
"You could say that," Jack said. "Before I came out here, I was a doctor."
Sean's eyebrows shot up. "A doctor? What kind of doctor?"
"Surgeon. That was a long time ago." There was a twinge of sadness in his voice.
"So, you retired and came up here to get away from everything?"
"Something like that. Let's just say I didn't have anything else keeping me in that line of work."
Sean immediately figured the man was a widower. That or he went through some other major tragedy. People didn't usually just pick up and move out to the frozen wilderness unless they wanted a big life change. That desire was typically driven by sadness in one form or another.
Jack pointed at Sean's chest. Two white bandages were taped to his skin, stained a brownish red. "You lost a lot of blood. Wasn't sure you were going to make it. Been giving you some pain meds and saline for the last two days. For a minute, I thought I was going to have to take you back to that grave those guys dug for you."
"Wait. Two days? I've been here for two days?"
"Yeah. And you're lucky it's not a permanent stay. Whatever you did to those men, they wanted to make sure you didn't do it again."
Sean tried to push himself up from the couch. His arms gave out, and he collapsed.
"Just take it easy, Son. You're safe here. My cabin is a half mile from where they tried to kill you."
"They'll be back. I have to get out of here. You won't be safe until I'm gone."
Jack stepped forward and put his finger to Sean's forehead, pushing him back to the pillow.
"I said you need to take it easy. I tell you what, back when I was a surgeon, I had the same problem with patients. No one ever wants to listen to the doc. You're going to be here a few more days, Sean. High time you get used to that idea. And if you think those men will be back looking for you, I doubt it."
"What… what makes you say that?" Sean said in a feeble tone.
"Because I've been keeping an eye out for them. If they haven't come back in the last forty-eight hours, I doubt they will now. My guess is they think you're dead. You're very fortunate those bullets didn't do any permanent damage. If I were you, I'd take the good doctor's advice and get some rest. When you're feeling a bit stronger, you can get up and move around."