Crown of Serpents (30 page)

Within minutes, Joe hit pay dirt as a loud beep screeched in his ears. He lowered his headphones and whispered, “Jake, I’ve got something!”

“Okay,” acknowledged Jake. “I’ll start digging. You keep on the look out.” Jake unslung his rifle and set it on the ground next to him. He grabbed his shovel and slammed it into the soft earth, scooping out his first load.

Jake continued digging for several minutes, breaking a sweat under his balaclava. He paused to catch his breath and also to make a quick security scan with his rifle. A red fox bounded down to the northern creek’s edge. A truck whistled by up at the main road. The horses still danced in the barn and the main house was lit like a bonfire. And Uncle Joe sat on one of the boulders eating a candy bar. Jake gave a chuckle under his breath and went back to work.

Three feet down his shovel hit something hard. He pulled out his flashlight, dropped the shovel, and bent down into the hole before flicking the light on. He also pulled out his multi-purpose tool and locked in place a four-inch knife. Joe was already at his side.

“Whatcha got?”

“Let’s see,” whispered Jake. “Hold the flashlight inside the hole so no one sees it.” He handed it off, then started scraping around the hard item the shovel had struck. It was a curved metal band attached to rotten wood. Scraping quicker, his heart raced. He scooped out the excess dirt with his free glove. Slowly a circular shape emerged. Sure enough, the metal ring framed the top of a small wooden barrel sealed with a plug. Jake stopped and looked up at Joe with a glimmering smile. Joe smacked his nephew on the back.

“I don’t believe it.” Jake shook his head as he scooped more dirt out around the barrel.

“I thought it would be bigger than this,” whispered Joe, as he too helped dig around the edges.

“Well, it’s a gun powder keg for foot soldiers. They strapped them to horses and mules. They needed to be small to transport. This is about what I figured. Ten inches in diameter and probably about a foot long.”

A frantic few more minutes of digging and finally they plucked the fragile keg out of the ground. It was heavy. Jake estimated about thirty pounds. No wonder Boyd and McTavish were sick of lugging it around with the rest of their equipment, he thought. He checked the bottom of the keg to see if it was rotted and any of the contents had spilled out. It remained intact. He sat back, the keg on-end between his legs. Joe moved the light beam on it as Jake brushed away more dirt. The rotted barrel was bursting at the seams. If not for the two rusted metal end caps and thick metal belt holding the middle together, the keg would have long since lost its structural integrity. Jake fingered the plug on top and searched for a way to open it. Simply prying it off would probably work, he thought. But as he reached for his multi-purpose tool a loud neigh arose from the horse barn.

“Kill the light,” forcefully whispered Jake. Joe fumbled with the switch and the flashlight beam died. Darkness again enveloped the pair. Jake immediately sprung to his feet, grabbed his rifle, and scanned the barn area through his riflescope. The horses snorted louder, echoing their displeasure across the pasture. He could clearly see one of them through the window, bobbing its head up and down. Then, for an instant, he thought there was a flash of bright green near the house, back behind his Tahoe. He wasn’t positive though, because the damn spotlight hindered his vision. “Joe, do not move,” he ordered in a whisper. “Stay still. I thought I saw something.”

“Them horses are spooked,” replied Joe. “The path to Atotarho’s crown has been unearthed. They can sense it.”

“What?” Jake took his eye off the scope and looked back at his uncle for just a split second. The distraction caused him to miss a bright green-silhouetted figure run from the barn and disappear behind the house.

“The evil has awakened.”

“Stop talking, dammit!” demanded Jake, looking back through his scope. The miserable conditions hampered his view. He held his position for a full two minutes until he was satisfied nothing was there. Maybe Joe was right. He placed the rifle back on the ground.

“Let’s get the keg inside the backpack in case it breaks open,” ordered Jake.

Joe held the backpack open. Jake gingerly lifted and set the keg inside, still on its end. Joe switched the flashlight on, inside the backpack. Back on his knees, Jake used his multi-purpose tool and started prying at the plug with a knife. With a crunch, a piece broke off and fell into the backpack. A few more chips and the plug disintegrated.

Both men peered inside.

Same time. Same place.

“Jasper, you move again I’ll skull cap you myself. You understand?” whispered Rousseau to his young minion. His binoculars were up to his eyes as he tried to pinpoint the flash of light he had just spotted at the back of the horse fields.

Nothing. The snow flurries marred his vision. His ears were freezing because of the biting cold wind. They had come unprepared.

He pulled back from the corner and bent down. “You blow our cover and we’re going to have more than this Tununda guy to deal with. Look what happened to Kantiio.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m sorry,” apologized Mr. Jasper. “I didn’t know there were horses in that barn.” Breathing heavily, he sat at Rousseau’s feet, at the side of the house. “I need a smoke. Those horses scared the shit out of me.”

“When he comes back I’ll confront him first,” stated Rousseau. “I want you to circle around the front of the house and sneak up on him from the rear in case he bolts. If he runs, we take him out then and there. Otherwise, I want to make sure he’s got the buried shit Nero is looking for. Then I’m going to beat the fucker to death.”

Jasper lit up a cigarette and offered one to Rousseau. Rousseau gladly accepted. After all, he had been hooked on nicotine since he was twelve years old. Exhaling and shivering in the cold, they waited for their prey to return to its nest.

Same time.

Headlights from a vehicle swept across the field as it pulled a U-turn in front of the house. Jake looked up toward the main road. He noticed the car had a silhouette of a police patrol as it pulled off the shoulder of the road. He grabbed Joe’s flashlight and clicked it off. “Get behind the rocks and lay flat!” Jake ordered.

Suddenly, a large spotlight appeared from the patrol car. The white beam hit the house and barn then swept across the fenced-in pasture coming toward Jake and Joe.

Both men pressed their faces to the ground just as the spotlight moved over them. It crossed the entire field. Then it turned off. The police car’s emergency red lights then turned on and it sped off north. The two men watched the revolving lights as they climbed Henderson Hill Road and disappeared.

“Do you think he saw our truck?” asked Joe, standing up with a huff.

“Don’t think so. I parked well behind the house. But they’re on patrol. They’re anticipating something happening out this way. We’ve got to blow out of here now. That was too close a call.”

“Where do you think he went?”

“Maybe got another call, the way he hauled ass out of here,” replied Jake, as he grabbed the shovel. “Come on, help me fill in this hole.”

“What about the keg?”

Jake bent over and stuck his hand inside the keg. He fumbled around then pulled it back out. Whispering for his uncle to come closer, he told him to get down low. Turning on his flashlight, Jake opened his palm to reveal a single shining British gold Guinea coin displaying the royal crowned shield. Flipping it over revealed the side profile of a chubby King George III along with the wording: GEORGIVS III DEI GRATIA.

Joe smiled. Jake placed the coin back inside the keg and zipped up the backpack. He killed the light. “We wait until we get to a safe spot, then we check the contents.” He stood and shoveled dirt back into the hole. Joe remained on his knees and scooped with his hands.

After replacing the patches of grass on top of the filled hole, they grabbed their equipment and headed back to the truck. Jake took the lead — backpack with keg, rifle across his chest, and shovel in hand. As he neared the fenced-in pasture, he gave a quick night vision scan. Illuminated ahead near the base of the ridge and creek, about fifty yards away, were two grazing deer. Their bright green silhouettes clearly stood out as sources of heat against the cold dark shapes of trees and black ridge beyond. Both were doe, one head down and eating, the other looking his way with bright white eyes. He turned back and checked on his uncle.

Joe lagged behind, weighed down with the metal detector and his shotgun. He was clearly winded after the labor of filing in the hole and being so out of shape. Jake turned and marched on, smiling. He picked up his pace, then keyed his microphone to speak into the two-way radio. “Come on soldier, pick up the damn pace,” he said with a chuckle.

“Screw you Major,” Joe radioed back. His breathing was heavy. “The most exercise I get is moving on and off that stool back at the shop.”

Jake grinned. “You know, an ass is a terrible thing to waste.” He glanced back as he increased the distance between them.

“If I wanted to hear from one I would have farted myself,” said Joe, through slight static. “I’ll meet you back at the truck. Make sure you heat it up too. I gotta take a quick break. Catch my breath.”

“Well, hurry up twinkle toes. I want out of here ASAP.” A minute later Jake entered the circle of bright light at the rear of the house. As he approached his SUV, he smelled something peculiar. He couldn’t place the aroma at first but then instantly realized it was cigarette smoke. Dropping the shovel and backpack, he lifted his rifle.

Too late.

A hard piece of metal cracked him on the back of his head. He saw stars. Shooting pain bounced inside of his brain.

“Take that muthafucka!” said a male voice.

Jake crumbled to the gravel driveway — face up. He lay just underneath the rear bumper of his truck. He blinked several times, barely conscious. The pain sliced through him like a nail had been driven through his skull. Strange, he thought, a blurry red light blinked above him. He frowned.

“Get his rifle,” ordered a second male voice.

The voice sounded somewhat familiar to Jake.

“I’m on it,” said the first man.

Jake’s vision faded in and out. The red light confused him even more. He wasn’t sure where he was. He heard footsteps crunch up near his head and the metal scrape of his rifle being unsnapped from his 3-point chest harness.

“Now, let’s see what’s inside of his backpack here,” said the familiar voice.

Jake heard the pack unzip. He tried to move his head to look over. He let out a moan.

“He’s coming to,” said the first man.

“Well, well, well,” said the known voice. “Look what we have here — an old keg. Freshly dug up. Good work Major Tununda. Saved us from getting our boots dirty. But then again, I like getting my boots dirty.”

Jake turned his head just as a black booted foot swung back for a kick to his face. He rolled over. The boot glanced off his cheek and cut it open. Jake sprung up like a cat and faced his attacker.

It was Clown Face, as Jake knew him. A glowing cigarette butt protruded from the ugly man’s smiling lips. He wore a bandage on his forehead and grasped Jake’s backpack in one hand. Out of the corner of Jake’s eye another behind-the-back blow came at him from the other man. This time Jake stepped aside. The man missed and was thrown off balance. Instantly reacting, Jake cocked his elbow and drove it into the guy’s jaw, followed by a hard punch to his temple. The thug was knocked out cold and dropped like a sack of horseshit. A silenced pistol tumbled out of his grip next to Jake’s M4 rifle.

Jake moved for the weapons.

Not in time.

Clown Face punched him below the sternum. The blow felt like a metal giant had hit him. The wind blew out of Jake’s lungs and he dropped to his knees. Clown Face gloated with satisfaction, then pulled his hand back to reveal brass knuckles. The next blow cracked Jake in the side of the head. He sprawled face first on the gravel driveway.

“That’s for disrespecting Nero.” The thug lifted his boot and prepared to stomp Jake’s head. “And this is for screwing with me.”

Jake rolled away, narrowly eluding his adversary’s stomp. An explosive shotgun blast boomed. Rousseau flinched. The spotlight on the house blew out. Darkness enveloped the area. Shattered glass fell to the driveway.

About time Uncle Joe joined the action, Jake thought grimly. He wobbled to his feet and painfully sucked in a breath of air. A dark figure loomed large. Jake charged forward and tackled Clown Face. He drove with his legs and lifted the larger man off the ground and then body slammed him against the back of his SUV. Clown Face’s head spider-webbed the rear window.

Like a hockey goon, Jake pumped a series of right fists into Clown Face. He connected multiple times and it felt good. Then all of a sudden, something overcame him — the same feeling he had in Afghanistan, as if someone else had taken over his thinking. His fists kept working, charged with a new sensation, pummeling his foe — seeking to end the man’s life. Then a flash of light appeared from behind, illuminating the thug’s face. It gave Jake a clearer target for the final blows.