The Milestone Protocol Ernest Dempsey (best short novels of all time .txt) 📖

dignified English accent lost all decorum as her voice roiled with anger. “We are here on a peaceful, historical research project to find the lost city of Sarai. Whatever we find here is equally shared by the—"

A gunshot sounded over the plains and hills, silencing her thoughts in mid-sentence.

Her body fell to the ground at his feet. Screams from the picnic table swelled to a cacophony of panic. Susan’s team immediately stood from their seats on the benches, as if they could somehow protest what happened with nothing but their words.

The leader spoke into the radio attached to his shoulder. “Round them up.”

Instantly, the twelve invaders circled the picnic table, leaving their investigations to follow the command.

When his minions had enveloped the archaeology team in a tight circle, the blond man leading the group trudged over, casually ambling past Susan’s body with the same regard he might have given a squashed cockroach.

He stopped short of the circle and met the eyes of each researcher. Some brimmed with tears. A few of the women trembled, holding on to each other. He saw in their faces an expression he’d seen many times. They sensed death, and they were right to.

“You found an artifact on this site,” the blond man said. “I want to know where it is. Give it to me, and I will spare you. And only you. The rest will die.”

No one said anything, but he could see that one—the man with a thick beard and bulging gut—was considering the possibility.

“You,” the leader said, pointing at the pudgy researcher. “What’s your name?”

The archaeologist swallowed hard before answering. “Scott,” he muttered.

“Scott, you look like a reasonable person. Where is the artifact? Tell me where it is, and I will let you live.”

One of the women on the other side of the circle panicked. Sensing the truth was going to come out anyway, she blurted, “Kevin took it to Volgograd! Kevin Clark. He has it.” Her answer was met with rage from the others in the group, and she immediately burst into tears.

“Where did he take it?” the leader clarified.

“The university there. I swear.”

“Heather?” one of the other women sneered. “How could you?”

“Thank you, Heather,” the leader said, sincerely. He nodded to his second-in-command, a black man with a strong jaw and a shaved head. “Burn it.”

“Wait!” Heather yelled, still sobbing. “You said you would spare me!”

The leader regarded her with curiosity. “You shouldn’t believe everything you’re told.”

Then he turned and marched back to the convoy as a barrage of gunfire erupted from behind. He climbed into the SUV and waited while his team ransacked the tents and workstations, taking computers, external hard drives, and paperwork. When they’d collected enough, the team set fire to the camp and returned to the vehicles.

The blond leader watched the flames swell, growing to twice his height before everyone was back in the trucks. As they drove away, he watched the column of smoke spiraling into the sky.

Something over the dusty road ahead caught his attention. Another plume drifted into the air, swirling and twisting until it formed an indistinguishable haze.

The leader knew right away what it was. Someone else was there. And they were speeding away in the other direction.

“It seems we have a loose end,” he said coolly to the driver. “Catch them.”

3 Brown Mountain, North Carolina

Federal Agent Nicholas Sandstrom watched as the crew of government scientists exited the airlock connected to the cave on the mountain’s slope. He’d been assigned to this project for more than a month, and he was getting tired of being out in the mountains.

He’d grown up in New York, in the heart of the city. To say he was indoorsy was an understatement. Sandstrom loathed the great outdoors—never went camping once in his childhood or during high school. The one time he did, in college, was a decidedly unpleasant experience, and one he vowed to never try again.

Fortunately and unfortunately, he’d been put up in a local motel along with the rest of his team as the process of collecting evidence and artifacts stretched from days into weeks. The tiny motel room constantly smelled musty, like a leak filtered into the carpet somewhere from a pipe. Sandstrom couldn’t believe the place didn’t have black mold sprawling all over the ceiling, walls, and floor. At least, he hoped it didn’t.

When he joined the FBI, there’d been some tough assignments, but most of his career up to that point had been pushing paper or analyzing information on his computer. When he got the call for a field assignment, he’d protested, but with tensions rising on the political landscape both foreign and domestic, it was all hands on deck. Federal agents in every agency fanned out across the United States in an effort to stem all manner of problems, from immigration to civil unrest in some cities.

The pandemic hadn’t helped.

The virus had appeared out of nowhere, popping up all over the globe within the span of a month. It spread like wildfire, and despite a low mortality rate, the contagious nature of the bug pushed the healthcare systems of several nations to the point of collapse. Vaccines were still in the testing phases, with hopeful articles splattering the internet daily, all of which drove stock prices to dangerously inflated heights.

For a while, no one was certain if the national economy would simply bend, or if it would break. President Gwen McCarthy displayed strong leadership, but even she struggled with all of the problems coming to a head at one time.

Sandstrom tried to be glad he was out in the country and not in Washington. At least here he could keep his distance from people, and from the news that seemed to be perpetually bad. The only whiffs of it he got were by accident, when he pulled up the Google app on his phone to find a takeout place nearby or to order delivery.

There was plenty of fresh mountain air—with the exception of his motel room—and this part of