The Milestone Protocol by Ernest Dempsey (reading in the dark txt) 📗

rearview mirror until he was back in the city. Emotions of grief and sadness pried at his mind, but he forced those away. There would be time for grieving later.

He’d found a parking garage, ditched the car, and headed out on foot to catch a cab to the airport.

Every passing second filled him with dread.

When the cab driver dropped him off at the airport, he still didn’t know what he was going to do, or what had happened to the rest of his team back at the dig site.

In the airport, he desperately tried to find a flight—any empty seat would do, so long as the plane was leaving Russia. He felt that as long as he could get out of the country, he’d be safe.

The earliest flight with an opening was to Plovdiv in Bulgaria, and he’d gratefully taken it. He paid with a credit card, his first mistake—he now realized. And did the same when securing a modest hotel room in Plovdiv, near the heart of Old Town.

While sitting on the plane, awaiting takeoff, he sent a desperate email to Tommy Schultz in Atlanta. Tommy, the director and founder of the International Archaeological Agency, was a casual acquaintance of Kevin’s. If he were honest, Kevin didn’t like Tommy. He didn’t like the IAA either. He thought their methods brash and aggressive. Too often, the IAA took credit for discoveries that they didn’t deserve—as far as Kevin was concerned. Their agents were armed, which was another thing Kevin disagreed with. He thought the only reason they advertised being an artifact security and recovery agency was so they could carry guns.

Through the years, IAA agents—in particular, Sean Wyatt—had been involved in several violent incidents, almost always resulting in the deaths of multiple people. Bad people, sure, but Kevin didn’t approve of their methods.

Now, however, he was in a bind, and he could think of no one else who might be able to help. He’d sent the email, doubting it would be read in time, or that Tommy would be able to respond quickly enough. It was unlikely that he could get anyone to Bulgaria in time. With limited options, though, Kevin had to try. Tommy had never spoken unprofessionally regarding Kevin. The two had been silent rivals for years. During that time, Tommy never said anything derogatory about Kevin or his work. Quite the opposite, in fact. Tommy always referred to Kevin in a positive light, no matter what kind of mud Kevin threw at the IAA and its founder.

He could have called the police or Interpol or some other agency, but how did he know one of those agencies wasn’t involved with his team’s murder? The incident reeked of conspiracy and cover-up. What he didn’t understand was why.

Suddenly, Kevin’s phone vibrated in his pocket, sending a tingle of fear and hope across his skin. He took the phone out and looked at the screen. It was an Atlanta area code.

He pressed the phone to his ear and continued to scan the sidewalks and street.

“Hello?” Kevin’s voice trembled as he spoke.

“Listen to me very carefully, Kevin. Do not go to the hotel you booked. I have made arrangements for another room about ten minutes’ walk from that one. You in Plovdiv now?”

“Yes. I’m here. But why not go to the hotel?”

“It’s compromised. You used a credit card, yes?”

Kevin nodded, even though the man speaking to him couldn’t see. “Yes.”

“Get rid of your cards. Do it immediately. They’re tracking you with them. They’re probably tracking this phone, too.”

Bile climbed up his throat at the thought. His gut wrenched, and he nearly lost the contents of his stomach. He stumbled to a stop at a corner between two bars.

Get a hold of yourself, Kevin. The thought did little to keep him from retching. In truth, he didn’t know how he kept that from happening.

He breathed heavily and looked up the sidewalk, then back the way he’d come. Still no sign of the pursuers.

“But how—”

“I’m sending someone to meet you there. They will have a burner phone for you and some cash. We’ll get you out of this, but you have to do exactly as I say.”

“Someone?”

“I read your email,” the man said. “We notified the police in Volgograd about what happened.”

“My team?”

“We need to worry about you for right now,” the caller said. “Get to the Hotel Grand Garden. The concierge knows you’re coming. I made the reservation under my name. The second you get off this call, smash your phone, dump your cards, and get to that hotel. Can you do that?”

Another nod. “Yes. I can do that.”

Kevin choked back the fear, the nausea, the scant contents of his gut that kept trying to push their way up into his throat.

“Good. One of my agents will meet you. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t stop until you reach the hotel.”

“Okay. Thank you, Tommy. I’m sorry for—”

“No time. Go. Now.”

The call ended abruptly, and for a second, Kevin wasn’t entirely sure it was because Tommy hung up or if he’d lost the signal.

He retreated back a few steps into the alley and then immediately slammed his phone onto the stones at his feet. The screen cracked, and then he dug his heel into it. A white bucket near a dumpster had dirty water in it, and he dropped the wrecked device into the liquid to finish the job.

Next, Kevin fished the credit cards out of his wallet and bent them in half before stuffing them into a trash bag jutting out of the dumpster. Bending them wasn’t as good as cutting them, but it would have to do in a pinch.

Satisfied with the job he’d done, he stepped toward the sidewalk. He poked his head out to take a look and was immediately greeted by a man with dark brown hair swept to one side. He looked like he was in his late thirties, perhaps early forties. His tanned skin surrounded eyes so dark they were nearly black in the dim evening lights.