The Hunters Box Set, page 35
part #1 of The Hunters Series
“Good evening, Mr. Cobb.” It was the concierge he had met earlier. “I trust you find the room to your liking?”
“It’s okay.”
“Excellent,” the concierge replied, picking up on Cobb’s sarcasm. “I am calling to remind you of your dinner reservation. Le Chat-Botté. Eight o’clock. Table for two.”
“Le Chat-Bo-what?” Cobb asked.
“Le Chat-Botté,” the concierge repeated. “It’s our restaurant, right here in the hotel. Five-stars, I assure you. Simply exquisite cuisine.”
“I’m sure it is,” Cobb agreed. He sat up in bed and rolled his neck, knowing that his nap would have to wait. “Listen, I assume I’m going to need a jacket, so I’m going to need a jacket.”
“One has already been arranged,” the concierge confirmed.
Of course it has, Cobb thought.
“A lovely, charcoal two-button from Yves Saint-Laurent. I shall have it sent to your room immediately.”
“As long as it looks good with jeans,” Cobb joked.
◊ ◊ ◊
At five minutes after eight, Cobb entered Le Chat-Botté and was directed to a table in the far corner of the restaurant. His dinner companion had already arrived.
Cobb was carrying a pistol at both his ankle and his waist.
He was prepared for anything.
However, the only weapon the man at the table looked like he knew how to wield was a fork. He was a round man, with a thick, brown beard that covered his multiple chins. He was impeccably dressed, with a silk handkerchief tucked into his collar to keep the oysters he was slurping from dripping onto his tailored suit. A fifteen-hundred-dollar bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti 1997 sat uncorked on the table. The first glass he had poured was now almost empty.
Still, Cobb approached the table with caution.
The round man put down his wine and stood to greet him.
“Mr. Cobb, I presume?”
Cobb was momentarily stunned.
Wait a second. He doesn’t know who I am.
How can that be?
But Cobb kept his composure. “And you are?”
“Petr Ulster, at your service,” the man replied. “Please, sit.”
As they took their seats across the table from one another, Cobb tried to make heads or tails of the situation.
“Petr Ulster,” Cobb repeated. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
The portly man grimaced with confusion. “Of the Ulster Archives…?”
“Keep going,” Cobb pressed.
Ulster sat back in his chair and smiled. “I am Petr Ulster, director of the Ulster Archives. It is the finest private collection of documents and antiquities in the world. Second to none.”
“Director, eh?” Cobb repeated. “I guess I have you to thank for the room.”
“I’m afraid not,” Ulster answered. “Though we do owe someone a huge debt of thanks. I have stayed here many times over the years, and I know how much the rooms and meals cost—especially when I’m eating. I will happily let someone else cover the expense this time.”
Cobb’s mind raced with possibilities. Although he was reluctant to admit his confusion, Cobb sensed the best way to get answers from Ulster was to ask him direct questions. “If you’re not paying for our rooms, who is? And what are we here to do?”
“As for who is ultimately responsible for our meeting, I, like you, have not been told.” Ulster’s chins jiggled as he smiled. “But I can help you with the rest.”
Ulster leaned forward and poured his new friend a glass of wine.
“Mr. Cobb, we’re here to discuss your next mission.”
The
Forbidden
Tomb
_____________________
Chris
Kuzneski
Acknowledgements
Here are some of the wonderful people I’d like to thank:
Ian Harper, my longtime friend/editor/consigliere. He reads my words before anyone else—and then he reads them again and again until they’re perfect. And if we ever disagree, he usually wins because he’s twice my size and kind of scary.
Scott Miller and the whole gang at Trident Media. They sold this project/series long before it was written, and they sold my next book, too. That means I get to eat for another year. Sweet!!!
All the fans, librarians, booksellers, and critics who have enjoyed my thrillers and have recommended them to others. If you keep reading, I’ll keep writing. And if you stop reading, buy my books anyway and give them to friends. They make awesome gifts.
Last but not least, I’d like to thank my family for their unwavering support. Then again, maybe they’re just too worried to say anything bad about me. Let’s be honest: I am kind of twisted, and I do love killing characters.
Speaking of killing, it’s finally time for the good stuff. Without further ado, please sit back, relax, and let me tell you a story….
Prologue
Tuesday, April 11
Bahariya Oasis, Egypt
(180 miles southwest of Cairo)
The desert didn’t scare him. He knew the dangers of hiking alone in the Sahara, but he had been doing it for so many years that he was prepared for anything.
At least, he thought he was.
A veteran explorer with more than two decades of experience, Dr. Cyril Manjani had taken all the necessary precautions before leaving camp. He had notified his team of his travel plans and told them when he would return. He had packed food, water, a GPS unit and a compass, and even some glow sticks in case his flashlight failed. They were the same essentials that he always packed before his nightly walks.
His hike had nothing to do with adventure.
He just needed some time to think.
An expert in Egyptology, Manjani had handpicked the members of his team. Though most were graduate students, they represented the cream of the academic crop from some of the world’s finest schools. Together, they covered a wide range of scholarly pursuits that might come in handy on his latest expedition.
Manjani didn’t want identical opinions on this project.
He needed unique perspectives in multiple fields.
They had been toiling in the desert for three long weeks before things started to get interesting. First they had discovered a stone wall around the perimeter of an ancient site. Then came a series of small huts that had been almost perfectly preserved under the sand. Eventually they had found a much larger structure housing the desiccated remains of several soldiers and a mishmash of objects from several ancient cultures.
That had been yesterday.
Today’s discovery was even more exciting—so much so that he had refused to leave it at camp.
Resting atop a towering dune, Manjani drank from his thermos before tightening the drawstrings around his neck. The April breeze was chilly, and he was grateful for the warmth of his tea and his jacket. Staring out across the vast emptiness of the Sahara, he felt a sense of wonder wash over him. Undulating waves of sand stretched out for miles in every direction. Most saw the bleak terrain as an adversary that must be overcome, but Manjani saw it as a place of opportunity. The landscape was literally filled with the answers to mysteries that had gone unsolved for centuries.
These were the moments he cherished most.
Nothing stirred his emotions in quite the same way.
Manjani checked his watch. He had planned to be gone for ninety minutes at most, and he was quickly running out of time. Before heading back, he turned his attention to the nighttime sky. He was always amazed by how much the city lights obscured his view of the heavens. But out here, in the heart of the desert, the celestial bodies glowed against the darkest black he had ever seen. The contrast was so great that he swore he could see stars he had never seen before.
Though he would have preferred to stay on the dune a little longer, gazing at the panorama above, he felt a sudden chill run up his spine. He pulled his drawstrings tighter and cursed under his breath. He knew a sudden drop in temperature often preceded drastic changes in the weather, and out here, in the middle of nowhere, those changes could be deadly.
Wasting no time, he started his journey back.
The closer he got to camp, the more the breeze picked up strength. He covered his eyes as sand pelted his face, stinging like hordes of microscopic insects. The wind whistled past his ears, drowning out all other sounds around him. Despite the clear sky, Manjani could sense that things were about to turn nasty. As he crested the final dune, he was glad his journey was nearly over.
Unfortunately, his nightmare had just begun.
As the camp came into view, so did the carnage. At first, Manjani assumed that his colleague’s excitement—and the case of brandy that they had insisted on bringing—had gotten the better of them. They appeared to be frolicking about the camp in a state of mass delirium, yelling and tripping over each other like teenagers on spring break. But looking closer, he suddenly realized his mistake. Their movement was an act of desperation, not celebration. Their screams were born of terror, not triumph.
All caused by the demons that swarmed the camp.
Everywhere he looked, cloaked men set upon the members of his team like bloodthirsty butchers. Manjani could not hear the cries of pain above the wailing gusts, but he didn’t have to. He could see the murderous rampage unfold in front of him. He watched in horror as his comrades were mercilessly dispatched, the assassins striking them down with methodical precision. Their deaths were slow and agonizing, inflicted with startling ease by the razor-sharp blades wielded by the intruders.
Familiar with the folklore of the region, Manjani had heard the stories of boogeymen that guarded the desert, but he had paid little attention to the tales. People had been disappearing in the Sahara since the beginning of time, and he had refused to believe that they had all suffered a violent death at the hands of monsters.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
In his heart he yearned to charge forward, to defend the men and women whom he had convinced to join him on his quest. But in his head he understood that it was a fool’s errand—one that would result in certain death. Without weapons or training, there was nothing he could do against these armed savages. Charging into camp would not save his friends; it would only ensure that he died with them. He realized the only people he could possibly save were those who might have fled before the slaughter.
Though he was ill-equipped to take on the approaching sandstorm, there was no way he could risk returning to the camp for additional supplies. He would have to face the elements with only what he carried on his back. It was a daunting proposition. Manjani knew that desert winds had killed fitter, more prepared men than he. Given the distance to the nearest settlement, he gave himself a ten percent chance of survival, at best.
But those odds were much better than the ones he faced in camp.
That was a war he couldn’t win, and Manjani knew it. He would rather die searching for others who might have escaped—colleagues who lacked his experience with desert survival or equipment of any kind. He owed his team that much. Their lives now rested on him, as did the legacy of those who had already perished.
Someone needed to tell the world what had happened here.
Someone needed to know what he had found.
Chapter One
Present Day
Tuesday, October 21
Fort Lauderdale, Florida
Few people knew of the private road through the swamps of south Florida, and fewer still had driven on it. Several harshly worded signs warned trespassers that they weren’t welcomed on the property and would be severely punished when caught. Not by the police or a court of law, but by the owners of the land itself.
In the glades, it was known as jungle justice.
And it was just how things got done.
The longhaired biker ignored the warning signs and turned off the dirt road, eager to take advantage of the smooth stretch of asphalt in front of him. The moment his back tire reached the pavement, he twisted the throttle on his customized Harley and held on tight. His engine roared its approval and he rocketed forward at a dizzying rate of speed, laughing as the trees whizzed past him. Mosquitoes (the size of birds) and lizards (the size of poodles) darted out of his way to avoid a messy death.
Not that he would have cared.
He had killed many things over the years, most of them quickly.
It was what he had been trained to do.
At the end of the road, he slowed to a halt as he approached the massive steel gate that protected the waterfront property beyond. He was familiar with the entrance, having passed through it several times before, but he suddenly realized that he had never actually opened the gate by himself. He had always been with someone who had done it for him. Intrigued, he parked his Harley in the middle of the road, dismounted, and stepped toward the odd-looking control panel.
Strangely, there were no buttons to push, numbers to tap, or switches to activate. All he could see was a flat rectangular touch screen mounted on a futuristic metal stand. At least that’s what it looked like to him. Given the sleek look of the device and what he didn’t know about technology, it might have been a biometric sensor capable of reading his thoughts.
Just like the genie that lived in his iPhone.
Unsure what to do, Josh McNutt swiped his hand above the surface, hoping it was a simple motion detector like one of those fancy faucets. Next, he pressed his fingertips on the screen itself, wondering if it would scan his prints and let him in like the armory at Fort Bragg. When that didn’t work, he tried both palms, one at a time.
But nothing happened.
McNutt stroked the three-day stubble on his cheeks, pondering his next move. “Hello,” he said to the device. “Anyone in there? Heeeelllloooooo.”
Eventually, he knocked on the unit as if it were the front door.
Still, no response.
“Stupid robot,” he mumbled under his breath.
Growing more and more frustrated, McNutt walked toward the steel gate and reached out to shake the grate. An instant before making contact, he snapped his arms back to his sides, as if the bars had suddenly transformed into venomous snakes. In truth, his reaction was caused by something more deadly. In the past, he had been told that the gate was only the first of the security measures surrounding the estate. The grounds were also encircled with highly electrified wire mesh that could deliver a lethal current. At the last second, he wondered if the gate was armed with the same type of charge.
A high-voltage ‘fuck-you’ to those who didn’t belong.
Ultimately, he decided not to find out.
◊ ◊ ◊
“Crap! I thought he was going to do it,” Hector Garcia blurted from behind his computer screen. He had been watching McNutt on a variety of closed-circuit security feeds ever since he had turned off the dirt road. A seismic trigger embedded under the pavement had set off an alarm, alerting those inside that someone was approaching.
“Thought who was going to do what?” asked Jack Cobb, a former major in the US Army. As the unquestioned leader of the team, he had more pressing concerns than watching surveillance video. That was Garcia’s responsibility. That, and notifying Cobb if someone was headed their way.
“McNutt,” Garcia answered. “He’s been trying to figure out how to get through the gate for the last few minutes. So far, he’s losing.”
“Can you put it up on the big screen?” Cobb asked.
“Sure.”
After a flourish of clicks and keystrokes, the entire collection of security footage was displayed in a grid on the ninety-inch television that hung above the fireplace. Cobb watched as McNutt stepped back to the gate’s control panel and lowered his face to the surface. Cobb pointed to feed number three—the view from the camera underneath the touch pad. A few clicks later, McNutt’s bloodshot eyes filled the entire screen.
“What’s the hillbilly doing now?” asked Sarah Ellis from a nearby couch. Trained by the CIA and a master of security systems, she could only shake her head in embarrassment as her colleague tried to open the gate. “What’s he looking at?”
“Nothing,” Garcia guessed. “I think he thinks the pad is a retina scan. He’s trying to press his eyeball on the glass.”
Sarah burst out laughing. “Oh…my…God. He’s dumber than I remember—and that’s saying something because I’ve had pet rocks smarter than him.”
“Than he,” Jasmine Park said as she entered the room. As the lone academic in the group, she was the only one who noticed Sarah’s improper grammar. “If you’re going to make fun of his intelligence, you should use proper English.”
“Says the chick from Korea.”
“Actually, I was born in America.”
“Then you should know that it’s rude to correct someone’s grammar—particularly someone with my skill set.”
Jasmine smiled and glanced at the video feed. McNutt had turned away from the screen and was walking back toward his bike. “Is he leaving?”
“I hope so,” Sarah said as she crossed her fingers. “I’ve been giving it some thought, and I have the perfect candidate to replace him. Not only is she great with guns and explosives, but she’s smart enough to make ice. And that isn’t an expression. McNutt once asked me if ice cubes came from Alaska.”
Garcia turned from his computer. “When did he do that?”
“When we were in Alaska. He wanted to bring some back as souvenirs. He was going to pack them in his suitcase.”
Garcia stared at her, unsure if she was joking. “Really?”
Sarah shrugged, her blank face revealing nothing.
Jasmine pointed at the television. “Seriously, is Josh leaving?”
Garcia looked up at the screen and realized that McNutt still wasn’t in view. He quickly tapped a button on his keyboard and switched to a wider angle, this one from a camera mounted on top of the gate. It showed McNutt returning to his motorcycle and unbuttoning the cover of a large golf bag that was strapped to the sissy bar of his bike.
