The Protocol (A James Acton Thriller, Book #1) Read online

  He reached out and pulled the photo closer as the tears poured down his cheeks, his breaths, ragged, now beginning to ease as he forced himself back under control.

  He pressed the button for the intercom.

  “Rita, please bring me the files on the students in Peru.”

  “Yes, sir,” came the voice, subdued from his outburst earlier.

  He turned his chair to face the window, clouds filling the sky as rain seemed to be on the horizon.

  Please, God, take care of my friend.

  “Is it done?” asked Jasper as they climbed into the back of their surveillance van.

  “Yes, while you were talking to him,” replied Lambert as he closed the doors. “We now have complete audio, video and electronic surveillance of his office. Any phone call, email, anything, and we’ll know it.”

  “Excellent. Now we wait,” said Jasper as he dropped into his seat and put his feet up on the console, closing his eyes and interlocking his fingers over his stomach as Lambert aped him.

  “You really think he’s going to be dumb enough to call?”

  Jasper opened his eyes. “Why wouldn’t he? This is his school, his best friend from all accounts, and if he’s innocent, he’s got nothing to hide.”

  “If he’s innocent,” emphasized Lambert. “Are we sure of that?”

  “I hardly think a university professor is going to kill his entire team with automatic weapons, leave dozens of different foot prints and steal his own vehicles,” said Jasper.

  “Maybe he was in on it, though?”

  Jasper realized his underling desperately wanted Acton to be involved in some way and that this conversation would never end unless he threw him a bone. “Perhaps.”

  Lambert smiled smugly and clasped his hands behind his head. “I thought so.”

  Jasper sighed and closed his eyes again.

  Rookies!

  Lima, Peru

  Acton peered around the corner of the dilapidated warehouse. The dock bustled with cranes loading massive containers onto even more massive ships, forklifts and transport trucks moved around in organized chaos, and crew chiefs yelled at their teams in their quest to keep the docked ships in port no longer than necessary. It had taken him hours to get here, his Peruvian driver having abandoned him on the road out of fear of the rebels Acton said had committed the massacre.

  On every dig he always placed his passport, credit cards and a stash of cash in a local safety deposit box for safekeeping. This time had been no different and he had retrieved his belongings only minutes ago from a local bank. He was now flush with cash and ID and fewer supplies than he’d like, there being no time to shop around after he found out the ship he now stared at was the only one going in the direction he needed for the rest of the day.

  Despite there being hundreds of people in sight, he figured none would notice him if he acted with purpose. He strode briskly toward the gangplank of the massive container ship he had confirmed was heading to Mexico, and with one final look around he raced up the stairs. He cringed with each step as the entire structure swayed and scraped against the hull, making a noise that, if it hadn’t been for the incredible din coming from the loading docks, would have been heard by everyone. Once at the top he again scanned the docks for anyone watching then sprinted between some containers. Just as he ducked between the containers two crewmen came around the corner, talking animatedly in a mix of English and what he recognized as Tagalog.

  He pressed himself into the rusted grooves, trying to disappear. They walked by his position, apparently only interested in their tall tales of the previous night’s activities, oblivious to his presence. When they were gone he breathed a sigh of relief and tried to relax. Only a few more hours until we leave harbor. Once at sea he would worry about how he was going to survive. For now, he knew he just needed to get out of Peru and back to where he had friends who could help him.

  He moved deeper into the maze of containers and sat on the deck where he was sure he couldn’t be seen. He gazed up at the stacks of containers towering above him, the sky barely visible above. Opening his gym bag, he surveyed his provisions. Half a dozen bottles of water and two PowerBars.

  Three days to Mexico with nothing but your nightmares to keep you company.

  Washington, DC

  “William Guthrie, this is Mr. Darbinger, the White House Chief of Staff,” said the orientation leader assigned to him, finally introducing him to his boss after two days of orientation.

  Billy gulped and extended his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

  “Likewise, Mr. Guthrie,” said Darbinger, as he shook Billy’s hand. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but I met you at your father’s house about three years ago for his retirement party.”

  “Of course, sir, I remember.” Billy flashed back to that night, desperately trying to remember Darbinger. It had been a whirlwind of disinterest for him, being paraded around as the brilliant son who would one day carry on the legacy. It had been the end to an illustrious career for his father, though, after having served in the Air Force for ten years then turning to politics, first as mayor, state assemblyman then congressman. His last five years he had been Speaker of the House and had retired when his wife had been diagnosed with cancer.

  “It was that night I asked your father to have you come work for me when you were old enough,” said Darbinger. He looked at Billy closely. “You don’t remember that at all do you?”

  Billy blushed and shook his head. “I’m really sorry, sir, but I met so many people that night.”

  Darbinger laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I was a teenager once too.” He turned back to the orientation leader. “Get William set up at a desk and make sure he’s well looked after.” He then turned back to Billy. “If you need anything, feel free to come see me. I told your father I’d look out for you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Billy, “I will.”

  Billy was led to a cubicle and shown the basics then handed a massive binder to read. “This should take you the rest of the day,” said the orientation leader. “It’s not to leave the building.”

  Billy nodded, eyeballing the massive tome, thinking it would easily last him a week or two. As he began to read through the orientation binder, his eyes glazed over and he found himself drifting as the boredom took over, life at the White House not as exciting as he had thought.

  This is definitely not like the movies.

  There was a knock at his cubicle “door” and he jumped in his chair, spinning to see who had interrupted his daydreaming. He immediately recognized the woman, but took a moment to place exactly who and what she was. Once he remembered, he straightened even more in his chair. It was the Chief of Staff’s secretary, Sheila Norton

  “William,” said Sheila, holding out a legal-size envelope, “I need you to take this to the President’s secretary. Hand it to her personally and have her sign the receipt.”

  “Yes, ma’am, right away!” Billy jumped out of his chair, taking the manila envelope, and rushed down the hallway. Turning a corner he ran headlong into Rachel, his fashion critic. He dropped the envelope and, much to his horror, the cup of Starbucks Café Latte with low-fat skim milk she was carrying landed right on top of it, spilling its contents.

  “You loser!” she yelled. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” She picked up the coffee cup and headed to the nearby bathroom to wash herself off. He picked up the envelope, his chest tightening at the unfolding disaster, then immediately beelined for the men’s room to try and dry it off. Many paper towels later and several minutes under the hand dryer were of no use. It was obvious something had spilled on the envelope.

  He had to do something, but what, he wasn’t sure.

  I can’t bring the file like this to the President’s office!

  Panic began to set in and his breathing increased rapidly. It was still his first week and he had already screwed up in a huge way. He was about to hide in a bathroom stall until he figured out
what to do when he suddenly remembered one of the stops on the intern tour.

  The supply room!

  He stuffed the file under his sport coat and headed to what he hoped would be his salvation. Finding a matching envelope and looking around, he untied the red string that held his now stained envelope. Inside was a document with several photos clipped to the front. He pulled it out and was about to put it in the new envelope when he stopped.

  “What the hell is this?” he asked aloud then quickly looked around to make sure no one had heard him. He flipped through the photographs, each of a different person. They’re dead! His stomach churned. He steadied himself and looked closer. Most had a bullet hole through the head and all had Terminated written across the bottom except the last photo. It showed a man with Target Status Unknown written on the bottom. He looked at the name. Professor James Acton. He hurriedly stuffed the photos in the new envelope, realizing he was probably not supposed to have seen them. His heart raced.

  God, please don’t let them find out I saw these!

  Lesley Darbinger ran his fingers through his hair, then massaged his temple with his thumb as he sat on a couch in the Oval Office, talking to his old friend sitting across from him. “It would be nice, though.”

  “What?” asked President Jackson.

  “To not have to be watching over our shoulders constantly.”

  Jackson nodded. “Yeah, ten years of hiding in the open. I’m afraid that if this doesn’t get resolved before my term is up, they won’t hesitate to remove us. They wouldn’t dare while I’m in office, though.”

  “No, you they wouldn’t,” agreed Darbinger. “Me on the other hand….”

  Jackson leaned toward his friend. “Don’t worry, your position protects you, as well. We’re too visible to eliminate. Besides, this will soon all be over.”

  Darbinger nodded. “You know, when you first approached me about stealing the Smithsonian skull I thought you were mad.”

  Jackson chuckled. “Yes, but you came around soon enough. You knew it was the right thing to do. The only way to accomplish our goal is to take control of at least three of the skulls.” He leaned back and stretched his arms across the back of the couch. “We know from our own history the power of the skulls when brought together. The fire of 1212 was a cleansing fire brought by God. He wants the skulls brought together, and he has chosen us to be his servants.”

  “Amen,” nodded Darbinger, hiding his discomfort at his friend’s increasingly fervent religious beliefs. They had both attended the same church for years, but over the past ten, his friend had let his religion intensely dominate his life. He had taken to praying for guidance on major issues, much to the annoyance of those around him. Darbinger flipped through the folders sitting beside him, looking for the mission report from Peru. It wasn’t there. “Shit, I must have left the report on my desk. I’ll go get it; you’ll want to read it.”

  “I’ll be here,” said Jackson as he rose and returned to his desk. Darbinger headed to his office and rifled through the stack of folders where he thought it should be but didn’t see it. His pulse ticked up a notch, knowing full well that if anyone got their hands on that file and leaked it, they would all be going to jail for a long time. He started to search his office with more fervor and came up empty.

  “Sheila!” he yelled. His assistant poked her head into his office. “There was a file on my desk, where did it go?”

  “I had it brought to the Oval Office just a couple of minutes ago,” she replied. “I figured you wanted it so I had Billy bring it.” Darbinger frowned. “You didn’t get it?”

  “No.”

  “That’s odd, he should have been there by now. Do you want me to find him?”

  Darbinger’s heart sank.

  Why did it have to be Billy?

  “No, I’ll take care of it.”

  Somewhere on the Pacific

  James Acton awoke with a start. He glanced around, looking for what had woken him, but he was alone. It was dawn of the third day. The ship would be arriving in Mexico that afternoon if they were on schedule. He could see the ocean from his vantage point and could tell they were in a heavy fog, yet the Captain kept the engines at full steam, sounding the horn repeatedly.

  Moron.

  He checked his supplies only to reconfirm what he already knew. He was out of water and had been since early yesterday. The salt air was making him thirsty and he had finished his water in half the time he had expected. He knew he needed fresh water, especially since he would need to be at his peak when trying to get off the ship.

  Rising from where he had lain, he stretched the kinks out as best he could. He slung his bag containing the case with the skull over his shoulder and cautiously headed toward the crew tower at the stern of the ship. It took him quite some time, moving from container to container, being careful to not be seen. The chance of any crew being amongst the containers was slim, but he also had to make sure he wasn’t seen from above.

  Eventually he reached the final row of containers. He could see a tap against the wall he had seen men drink from earlier in the trip. It was tantalizingly close, but also completely in the open. Opening his bag, he removed two of the empty water bottles. He unscrewed their caps and shoved them into his pocket. With one last glance around he raced across the open space between the containers and the tap.

  He reached the wall without being seen and turned the tap on, placing the first bottle under the stream. The tap seemed impossibly slow, but it was probably just his imagination. His heart hammered in his chest as he swapped the second bottle for the first and started to drink down the filled bottle.

  His thirst quenched for the moment, he refilled the first bottle and turned to leave when a fist slammed him directly on the nose. His eyes watered from the searing pain. He tumbled backward, striking his head on the hard metal deck. Darkness overtook him.

  Someone yelled at him then smacked him across the cheek. Acton opened his eyes, the world a blur around him. He tried to touch the aching spot on his head, but discovered his hands bound to the arms of a flimsy chair.

  “You know what we do with stowaways?” yelled the man who had just hit him. Acton looked about as his vision cleared. It was a storage room. More like a garbage room. Some supplies were haphazardly stacked in one corner, but the rest of the room was littered with various pieces of wood and machine parts. It probably hadn’t been swept in years. Martha’d be pissed.

  He recognized his assailant as one of the Filipinos he’d seen earlier. His friend was in the corner staring at the skull. “What is that?” said the first one, pointing to the skull. “How much it worth?”

  “Nothing,” muttered Acton, reading the unmistakable greed in their eyes. “It’s just a trinket.”

  “He’s lying,” said the second. He placed the skull on a nearby table and pulled out a long machete. “Now I show him what we do with lying stowaways.” His partner laughed and turned his head to look at the skull. Acton knew he had to act fast. Raising his feet off the floor, he kicked the man in both knees, the kneecaps snapping with the blow. The man collapsed, screaming in agony. His partner looked in shock as Acton rose as far as he could in the chair and propelled himself backward. He smashed the wooden chair against the wall hard enough that it broke into several pieces, freeing his arms.

  Acton picked himself up off the floor just as the second man came at him with the machete. He ducked to avoid the first swing and punched the man in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. As he doubled over Acton kneed him in the face then pushed him to the ground. Grabbing him by the shirt, he punched the man in the nose several times.

  Acton swiftly bound the now unconscious man and stuffed a rag into his mouth. The other writhed on the floor. He tied his hands and gagged him as well before grabbing his case and placing the skull back inside. With the case back in his bag, he listened at the door. Hearing nothing, he cautiously opened it.

  He made his way along the dark hallway toward what looked like
natural light coming from a stairwell at the end. He reached the steps and looked up, seeing a door open to the outside and nobody around. As he reached the top of the stairs an announcement came over the PA system that they would be docking in half an hour. He gingerly touched his head and winced. He knew he would have to evade the crew as his assailants would surely be discovered soon. Racing across the deck, he again hid amongst the containers. He went as far into the maze as he could and sat down to rest.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, but fell asleep, exhaustion and the mild concussion taking over. He awoke to the sound of the ship’s horn as it was towed into dock by the relatively tiny tugboats. He looked around to make sure he was still alone, then took up a position where he could monitor the gangplank for a chance to escape unseen. It took almost half an hour to dock, but once the all-clear sounded, the crew departed quickly, probably heading directly to the nearest whorehouse to catch or spread some new disease. His two attackers were nowhere to be seen. They must still be tied up. He took one last look around then, as calmly as he could, walked off the boat with no one questioning him.

  17th Street, Washington, DC

  Billy had been trying to forget the events of earlier, but it was no use. His mind was consumed by what he had seen, the photos of the dead people, executed, and the knowledge that his own country was involved, his own president. He sat on his couch, staring at the television without really watching it, for hours, until he finally realized he had to eat. He ordered pizza and waited, his feet up on his table, a privilege his mother never allowed him at home, as he watched CNN, trying to distract himself with new horrors from around the world. Seeing the nightly news was a habit his father had drummed into him years ago that he hadn’t been able to break, and since he worked at the White House, he felt it his duty to keep up on world events.