The Diamond Dragon (Kip Keene Book 4) (9 page)

“They really need to address the security around here,” Keene said. “Color me unimpressed.”

Keene put his hand through the hole in the floor tiles. With no easily accessible grates, access to the waterworks had been a little trickier than breaking into the morgue. But a few taps on the crumbling ceiling had yielded some spots that sounded weak.

Weak enough to bust through with a pistol grip.

He brushed the cracked material away until the hole was large enough to squeeze through. Then he pushed through first, leaving Strike below.

“Grab my arm.”

“Yeah, like you can lift me.”

“Just do it.”

Keene felt Strike’s weight pull down on his arm. He strained and lifted her through the makeshift entryway. She collapsed, slumping against a sagging desk chair.

“That was a lot of effort,” Strike said.

“I’m the one who did the lifting.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She glanced around the small room. “Where are we?”

Keene searched the room for clues. Plain, cream colored tiles covered with cheap rugs, tan walls and a nearby slightly rusting desk suggested an administrative office.

“It didn’t say, but—”

“Shh.” Strike brought a finger to her lips and gave Keene a stern look. Voices filtered towards them from a nearby hallway, indiscernible but uncomfortably close.

Keene’s nails dug into the rubber stock. He began to raise the gun towards the nearby window. Three bullets left. Time to make them count. Strike slapped his arm down.

“Great plan.”

“I wasn’t going to kill them,” Keene said. Although upon further consideration, he wasn’t a deadeye shot, so even aiming for the legs could destroy an artery. “Just in case.”

Strike pointed towards the corner of the room. A security camera tilted and zoomed, clearly aimed directly at them.

“Their entire security team is probably converging on us right now,” Strike said.

Keene looked back at the busted tile. Maybe heading back to the sewers was a good idea. He sat up to look out the room’s sole window, then dove back to the floor.

“Lots of guns,” he said. “Too many.”

“See what I was saying? I don’t want to get shot. Again.”

“They might have medical care on site,” Keene said.

“I had the staples in for a month. My stomach hurt until our innkeeper friend gave me that tea. You know what that feels like, walking around like you just got the wind knocked out of you all the time?” Strike said.

“Just saying.”

“Never again. And I didn’t mention the scar.”

“I’ve been shot, too. Stabbed.” Boots echoed in the hall, marching in rhythm. “It wasn’t so bad.”

“All right, Rambo, you head out and see what happens. I’m happy where I am.”

“Thought you had my back,
partner
.”

“Not when it comes to suicide,” Strike said.

“Duly noted.” Keene held the gun up in front of his face, staring at the camera with arched eyebrows. He hoped that his expression accurately conveyed that he had little interest in a gunfight. Then he tossed the pistol to the side. The errant throw took down a wall calendar. But the firearm skittered harmlessly down the wall. “We surrender.”

He made sure to annunciate the syllables very clearly, so that they couldn’t be mistaken. His arms were locked behind his head. Strike followed suit.

“I’m behind this move a hundred percent. Hundred and ten percent, in fact.”

“I thought you might approve,” Keene said. The marching stopped. A gloved fist banged against the door. An intercom clicked on.

“You are illegally trespassing on government property,” a gruff voice said. “If you resist, you will be shot on sight without trial or quarter.”

“Define resist,” Keene said.

“Nod yes towards the camera if you agree to these terms.”

“I don’t want to sign anything that I can’t take back,” Keene said. “I like to keep my options open.” Strike rolled her eyes and jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

“If you do not issue your assent in five seconds, a fatal chemical agent will be released through the room’s vents. Five.”

“Jesus,” Keene said. “Remind me not to let you near my drink or something.”

“Four.”

“We consent,” Strike shouted. “We’re not resisting.”

“Three.”

“Come on, Keene, stop messing around.”

“I’m still weighing my options,” Keene said.

“Two.”

“I’m going to kill you myself, if you don’t say something,” Strike said.

“One.”

“Fine.” Keene nodded vigorously at the camera. Apparently the prisoner-of-war treatment—or whatever these nice sounding fellows had planned—was the sole road available to him. “I won’t resist.”

The door swung open and a half dozen men stormed in. Gloved hands tore at the kneeling Keene’s back. Keene’s forehead banged off the ground, the room spinning.

“Ow.”

“He’s resisting,” the gruff voice said.

“No, it just hurt—”

An assault rifle butt to the back of his head sent everything dark before Keene could finish his protest.

Keene’s eyes snapped open. The room was dim and grimy, like the back of a seventies police precinct. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, hanging by a thin wire.

A shadow emerged from the corner.

“It’s nice of you to join us, Mr. Keene.” The gruff voice bounced off the tight walls, seemingly surrounding Keene. He glanced over his shoulder, but the shadow had moved. Keene attempted to get up, but found his hands shackled to the simple aluminum table in front of him. “Quite the smartass.”

“Only when I’m nervous,” Keene said. “You know me and I don’t know you.”

“We can change that.” A metal chair scraped against the unfinished concrete. The owner of the shadow came into view. A surprisingly slight man with a boyish face, a shock of bright blonde hair and wide brown eyes sat down across from Keene. In the flickering light, it was difficult to tell whether he was deeply tan or whether the creamy sandalwood tone was his natural skin color. 

“Where’s the guy with the voice?”

“Special Agent Leif Redbeard,” the man replied. “And you’re in big trouble, Mr. Keene.”

Keene’s mouth dropped. This guy didn’t look a day older than fifteen. And he sounded like he weighed two-sixty and considered small children a staple of a protein-rich diet.

“This is a put-on.” Keene jerked his head around the room, looking for a curtain or a blackened viewing window, behind which the rest of the guards had to be laughing their asses off. But all he could see as the bulb swayed back and forth were paint-stripped walls, empty metal tool racks and a dusty mop.

“Our previous deal is contingent on your cooperation, Mr. Keene.” Leif folded his thin arms, the excess fabric loosely flapping. “We can revisit what will happen if you resist.”

“You can’t be named Redbeard without a beard,” Keene said. “You can’t be named Redbeard, period. It’s just like, not allowed. There are laws against that.”

“It was an irritating adolescence,” Leif said, a modicum of annoyance creeping into the bottom of his baritone, “But we are not here to discuss me.”

“I mean, really, that’s like child abuse or something, right?”

“Enough!” Leif slammed his hands against the solid table, which emitted a great gong-like noise. His voice bounced off the walls, sounding as if God himself had come down and issued an edict. “It was my father’s name, chosen when he arrived in this country. I will not have you sully it with your sarcasm.”

“Duly noted,” Keene said. “But I think you missed your calling. Could’ve been big on the radio. You know what they say.”

“What’s that?”

“Never to late to start.”

Leif placed his hands together in a triangular shape and cupped them over his mouth and nose. The tips of his index and middle fingers slid slowly off the ends of his nostrils, then down across his lips as he let out an exasperated sigh.

“What were you doing in Tillus, Mr. Keene?”

“Vacation. My boss is a nice guy. Two all expense tickets to—”

“Cut the act. We found you with the key to the portal. What did you do with Agent Mitchell?”

“Nothing,” Keene said. “He was already dead.”

“You’d better hope that was the case.”

Leif picked something up from the floor. Keene’s heart pounded. Maybe he’d pushed the resistance a little too far. Still, he wanted to feel this Redbeard guy out a bit before he gave him anything useful.

Not that he had a plan for escape, if it so happened that boy wonder and his shadowy friends were up to no good. But information was the only leverage Keene had, and he also had a feeling that these threats about resisting were relatively empty.

Plus, for some inexplicable reason, seeing this guy flustered was a true joy.

Leif dropped a heavy manila folder on the table with a large thud.

“You are fortunate that these documents suggest you and Ms. Strike could be useful. If even some of these stories are true…”

Keene didn’t like the ominous nature of the trailing voice.

“Quite the file, Mr. Keene,” Leif said. He had recovered his composure. “Scraps and stories from the FBI, CIA, Secret Service, private sources—everyone’s quite interested in the byproducts of your adventures, although none have quite the full picture.”

“Didn’t know I was so popular.”

“Very.” Leif opened the folder and removed the top sheet. “You and Ms. Strike found the Lost City of the Incas. And then completely obliterated a six-hundred-year-old historical site of untold archeological significance. Impressive indeed.”

He shoved the glossy aerial photo towards Keene. The paper was still slightly warm, suggesting that Leif had hastily assembled the file. Whoever this guy worked for, they sure moved quick. In the dim glare, all Keene could make out was a pile of rubble and splintered trees. Which looked about right, considering how the place had almost crashed down on top of him.

“What makes you think I was there?” Keene said. “Looks like a bunch of rocks to me.”

“The forensic trail—your travel itineraries, purchase habits and other circumstantial evidence brings this beyond the realm of coincidence, Mr. Keene.” Leif thumbed through the sizable stack of paper within the folder, but didn’t remove anything else.

“What do you care, anyway?”

“We didn’t,” Leif replied. He placed his elbows on the table and looked directly at Keene. “Not until you and your friend burrowed up through the office floor thirty minutes ago. We barely had a clue who you were. Apparently one of our junior agents, Carmen Svetlana, crossed paths with you and your computer tech. A lot of this research is hers.”

“Carmen works for you?”

“Tracking down a lead on one of my father’s journals,” Agent Redbeard said. “Surely we thought it was a dead end, otherwise we would have sent someone...better. But apparently it worked out, seeing that you made it here with the prism.”

“I’m insulted you didn’t send your best guy,” Keene said. But really, he was more relieved. All this talk about paper trails and enough government agencies to make a hearty vegetable soup had him a little nervous. Whatever business he and Strike always seemed to find themselves in, it seemed best if they kept it to themselves.

With minimal heat.

“Take it as a compliment. Your friend—Mr. Linus, is it?—was very good at covering your tracks. But our proprietary supercomputers, alas, are better. Had we dug this deep before…I do say, I might have petitioned the Unidentified Crimes Division to drag you here myself.”

“Call it fate, then,” Keene said.

“Enough with the pleasantries,” Leif said. He reached down and picked up the prism, placing it on top of the folder. “We set up this facility almost fifteen years ago. Never got close to the portal key. You arrive, and within half a day...”

“Not sure if I want to throw in with you lot, then,” Keene said. He shifted in his chair. The cuffs were beginning to dig into his wrists, and his tailbone hurt from the lack of padding. “Look, as much as I want the entire history of your organization and this town, I really got somewhere to be.”

Leif titled his head. Then he smiled for the first time. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He stood and paced about the room. “I have been impressed with your exploits, Mr. Keene, as well as your modesty about them. I must admit, our threats were very real when you first emerged from the sewers. The UCD cannot be exposed.”

“So I guess I should thank you for not nerve gassing me. A gentlemanly move.”

“Your reluctance—indeed, outright defiance and insolence regarding the questions I have asked has assured me that you can be trusted.”

“Trusted with what?” Keene furrowed his eyebrows. The turn this was taking, it almost seemed like a job interview.

“This electromagnetic storm suggests that my father’s prophecy is indeed true,” Leif said. He walked behind Keene and leaned over. “The world will come to an end soon. And I now have little doubt that you can keep your mouth shut about our project.”

“What project is that?”

“Entering Shambhala, Mr. Keene,” Leif said. “And stopping whatever has gone wrong.”

“Do I get healthcare?”

“Excuse me?”

“Just kidding,” Keene said. “I’d love to be a part of it,” all while thinking
damnit, I’m gonna bolt from these kooks the first chance I get
, as Leif smiled and unlocked the cuffs.

“Welcome to the Unexplained Crimes Division of the FBI, Mr. Keene,” the slight man said in his mismatched voice. “We leave in one hour.”

Keene whispered to Strike as they wound their way through the water reservoirs and pipes. Despite its upscale appearance on the outside, the interior of the Tillus Waterworks was, in fact, quite similar to any other water treatment facility. With one major difference—it was all a front for the secret portal to Shambhala.

“You all right?”

“Where’d they put you,” Strike said.

“Janitor’s closet. You?”

“Redbeard’s office.”

“Damn,” Keene said. “I got shafted again.”

“Wasn’t that great. I mean, look around you. Not exactly the Ritz-Carlton.”

“Yeah, well, I thought they were gonna beat a confession out of me,” Keene said. “Not that I know anything.”

The guard behind them nudged Keene with his assault rifle. “Hey, whatcha talking about?”

“Nothing,” Strike said. “Football.”

“I bet you is,” the man said with a wild-eyed stare. “I’m watching ya.”

“I have no doubt about that,” Strike said.

The duo took the rest of the short walk in silence. Agent Leif Redbeard stopped before a large doorway, ten feet high by ten wide, shaped in a dramatic arch. He typed in a key code and held up his thumb to the biometric lock. Then a retinal scanner read his eyeball.

Three green lights flashed, and a robotic female voice said, “Welcome to The Shambhala Project.”

A strip of floor lights came on in succession, like a runway. Keene could hear a generator kicking on and breakers being tripped.

“I first read about this paradise in my father’s journal many years ago,” Leif announced. He reached beneath his gear, into one of the many pockets adorning the front, extracting a well-worn leather journal. “In fact, this is how the UCD first contacted me. They wanted to know more about these mysterious journals. Naturally, not having seen my father for almost a decade, since my teenage years, I agreed to take a look.”

“Heartwarming story,” Strike said. “You must be a lucky guy.”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Leif said, clearly unperturbed by her obvious sarcasm, “I pored over these pages, as a small child would a comic book, drawn in by the yarn. You see, I thought my father had abandoned me. My mother, too. But that wasn’t true. Not at all.”

Leif pressed his right hand against another lock, and a door opened. He stepped forward into a small room, lit only by patches of faint LED lights. Monitors adorned ever wall, tracking all sorts of physical fluctuations and readings.

Leif pulled out the prism, which glowed with a tremendous energy.

“We met your mother. Nice lady,” Strike said.

“Yes,” Leif said, with a furrowed brow. “Before they initiated her. She can no longer leave.”

“How do you know?”

“Trackers are inserted during the initiation. Stray too far and, well, it gets ugly.”

“You know this from experience?” Strike said.

Leif didn’t answer, just grimaced.

“I bet it was from experience,” Strike said, soft enough that only Keene could hear.

The prism began to shake and move within Leif’s palm as he brought it closer to the ground. He brushed aside some dirt, revealing a strange looking indentation, formed of rock. It looked like a perfect fit for the prism.

“It matches,” Agent Redbeard said.

“I thought this thing only worked at the clock tower,” Keene said.

“Apparently your beliefs were wrong, Mr. Keene.”

“Why haven’t the locals found this second portal?”

“They do not know it exists.” Agent Redbeard gestured for Keene to come closer. “Ready?”

Keene stepped forward, his curiosity overriding Strike’s warning tugs. A massive stream of light burst out from the prism in a triangular beam. The ground rattled as monitors fell over and workstations crashed to the earth. A great wind rushed through the tight space, like a flash tornado, sweeping dirt and broken plastic in the air.

Then the floor opened up into a black hole, endless and infinite. The wind rose to a deafening crescendo, howling and whipping at Keene’s face. He fell down and was quickly swept towards the chasm. Keene managed to snag hold of a small rock next to where the prism glowed.

“Is this what you expected?” Keene said, screaming to be heard over the maelstrom. Leif clung to a nearby corner of the wall, his feet dangling above the empty hole. Keene’s grip slipped further, sending him halfway into the abyss. He saw Strike clinging to a desk that was bolted to the ground—but only temporarily. Its bottom support gave way, sending her spiraling past, into the heart of the blackness.

“I’ll see you on the other side,” Leif said. Then he dropped into the hole, amidst the swirling debris.